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Daniello Mar 2012
At a party [many people, dressed nice, cocktails
going round] someone I guess awoke to my presence
as if I’d just appeared out of nowhere or something
and asked me [totally circular eyes, spearing pupils]
like this: And what do you do? I looked at him, and I
don’t know what face I made, but what I wanted to
look like was something to this effect, matter-of-factly:
Well, what do you think I do? Obviously, I simply
try to avoid, day by day,
a wretchedly hopeless case of dismal ennui.
I try to endure, as stoically I can, the
inner doggerel convulsions
and mawkish throes educed by the
realization of transcendental insignificance
(or, otherwise: paradoxically substantial nothingness)
that imbues all hope of Elysian ecstasy and
reduces it to but the terrifyingly
ineluctable fact that we are essentially
impotent holograms functioning by the fixed fractal geometry
of a dynamic and chaotic, kaleidomosaic-like reality,
which, as eternally self-transforming and
forever utterly inconceivable,
is devoid of any certainty, absolute truth
and, most of all, compassion.
Furthermore, when I look at you, I see a deaf-mute
reflection of a reflection of myself, and
to be morbidly honest, I don’t
know what I can tell you that would
make any difference to the fact that, freely or
not, we are both, you and I, just passing
through our lonely, fathomless, patterned
deserts, blinded and lured by the Fata
Morgana of our sadly sublimated
consciousnesses, due to which, undulating up ahead
of us in a chimerical haze, we are
conditioned to think, fatuously, that we know,
or that it’s possible even to know, that
it means something to love or not to love, that it
matters at all whether we are alone or
not, and that, at the point of death, there will be
something, somewhere, that will condense
somehow out of this
nauseatingly numinous fog and, like a deserved,
blissful wash of our “souls”—like a salvation!—
will come to justify the inanities
and insanities of our mundane life as just the
confusing buildup to a final and triumphantly
epiphanic crystallization in which, at last,
we will truly understand, unquestionably, the meaning of I,
the meaning of you, the meaning of truth,
and the meaning of meaning—I mean, honestly sir.
What do you do?
That’s what I hope my face looked like, but I guess it
must’ve looked like something else, or maybe I said
something, because the man just raised both his brows
[his left one slightly more than his right] and stared
me down in mocked awe, on the verge of superciliousness.
His eyes slowly receded like a tide imperceptibly towards
the back of his skull, his lips pursed, parched, and pitying.
Then he nodded complaisantly, too energetically, saying:
Oh, how interesting! Did you always see yourself getting
into something like that? Mmhmm. Hmm! [and so forth]
And how do you like that? Mmhmm. [and so forth] And
the pay? Mmhmm [etcetera]. After I’d finished answering
some of his questions, I said: If you’ll excuse me, I just saw
a friend of mine, I really should go and say hi, but what a
pleasure it was to talk to you, sir. Take care!
And I excused myself.
EC Pollick Nov 2012
Everyone I’ve ever idolized dies tragically.

He said that Blues Run the Game and died still feeling that fire all over his body.
He sings about losing control again even though it’s he who was.
He taught his son about responsibility and fell to the wildebeest.

I used to think the monk who set himself on fire
was insane
but now I think
he was a product of sound rationale.

Ears are falling off in this starry night.
And I see nothing weird
If he told me to keep the object carefully
I would.
Madness is Genius.
And I’d rather be absolutely ridiculous
than nauseatingly normal.

No one tells you that the very best parts of love
are also its very worst.
Love torments the soul
Tragedy becomes a way of life
And suffering, a daily occurrence.
Such is the way of the mad artist.
Who after he paints Starry Night
Cuts off his ear.

I’m starting to think
I’ll live longer
If I stop being an artist.
The best artists are the best thieves. However, this thief wants to give credit where it's due. See Nate Evans' "untitled" --> http://hellopoetry.com/poem/untitled-5279/
Blake Bourland Oct 2013
like benny profane
@ the sailors' grave
boot heels etch
Hieroglyphic cuneiform
on saw dusted floors,
while blobs of mercury
nailed to the bar
drip
down
nauseatingly poetic
accomplishing nothing
proving even less.
Jane Smith May 2021
The smell of cherries,
Rich, tangy, sweet,
Like syrup dripping down through my water,
Leaving my lungs filled with nauseatingly, gorgeous pink,
Outside the window’s damp metallic screen.
It pulls my eyes out,
Leaving across the city,
Dark and screaming as it is.
Screaming to be worth something,
To be known,
And all we are is above, in the clouds.
Pink, suffocatingly high,
All around us the air sings,
And I am choking,
Colliding with the atmosphere,
The heart envelops the mind,
I am here again,
All metal.
Waking nightmare,
The smell of cherries.
Natalie Apr 2016
Sickly sweet; so nauseatingly gross:
Overly sappy idealism.
I call it saccharine, Splenda, Sucralose,
Though some call it "sentimentalism".
What's in a name? That which we call naive?
Rose-colored glasses by any other name would still be fake sweet.
I believe there is no dignity in dogmatism,
Nor valor in virginity; call me a believer in realism,
Or call me a cynic--whichever you prefer.
Does childlike innocent crust and sugar over, like a dream deferred?
The bitterness and sharpness of life's lemons,
Can't be sweetened by a sugarcoating.
And aspartame and nostalgia
Can't help you swallow your pride.
Mikaila Apr 2017
We need to talk about how we treat one another like trash in this generation. Because it's toxic.
There's this pattern, and I've talked about it before. We treat one another like objects. Like people are disposible. It's absolutely revolting, and the thing is, ALMOST EVERYBODY DOES IT. Even people who are kind, even people with decent intentions. Why? Because it's easy. We grow up in a society of instant gratification and endless options. And we've begun to SHOP for people. It's sickening. The other side of this is that our generation has romanticized being emotionless SO much that we've forgotten how to forge real connections.
Put simply, we are cowardly.
I see it time and again. I try never to imitate it. It BAFFLES me that we can see each other the way we do- we search for a partner, but we dehumanize them before we even truly connect with them. Because it's easy. I don't understand how you can look at someone and not remember they're a person, but people do it. Behind that text you didn't answer because you are bored, is A WHOLE PERSON. Behind the screens, THERE ARE PEOPLE. How did we get to a point where we could look into another person's eyes and FORGET that they are a miracle? If you feel something for someone, here's a revolutionary concept: why don't you try recalling that there has never been and will never be another being like them. Ever. Try counting how many different events had to spontaneously align just for them to even exist, never mind for you to have met and spoken to and started to connect with them. Try looking at their messages and understanding, for once, that behind that screen of generic emojis there are eyes full of fear and doubt and joy and humanity, and that behind those eyes there is a soul, putting itself on the line to try and reach you. How have we gotten to a point where we just use each other and then let the connection we both worked on slip through our fingers like a bottle into a trashcan? I've been treated like this a hundred times, and I've never gotten used to it. It became hard, at the worst of times, to avoid treating MYSELF like this. But the thing is, whether or not you take this nauseatingly pragmatic and sterilized view of other people, someday you will all be deeply hurting, and deeply alone, and you will reach for someone and pray to find a connection. And it's up to you whether you create a world in which those connections are even possible, whether they're valued, whether at that moment you will be able to expect to find comfort, or expect to be ignored like the annoying text tone they have unwittingly replaced your name with in their heads. ******* shape up. I'm serious. I refuse to live and love in a world where Instagram is more important than me, where showing the world you're doing great outweighs finding happiness, where relationships are played like candy crush games with Russian roulette stakes. I'm not doing it. And you shouldn't either. You exist. You're a human being. You deserve to be acknowledged, not put back on a shelf like a defective box of coffee filters. And so does every other ******* person you know. I don't even mean just the people you love. I mean people. Because they're PEOPLE. If you can't handle the pressure of having someone care about you and talk to you, then grow some ******* ***** and tell them. Make it clear that you will not be giving them your full attention, or any, if that's your choice. Make it clear that you are incapable of connecting on a deep level, so that people who are not yet damaged beyond the point of no return won't have you to thank for their suffering. Nowadays we end relationships over text. And that's if they MATTER. If they don't, we just fall off the face of the earth and leave the other person, whose name we have replaced with an annoying text tone and a flashing light on our phone, to stew in their uncertainty. Sometimes for years. I'll tell you right now, if you think that's somehow "kinder" you are as stupid as you are cruel. Our generation has cultivated, between this attitude of blasé apathy and the idea that people are just products, a kind of casual cruelty. And I don't know about anyone else, but I believe that casually cruel is about the worst thing someone can be. It gives no responsibility, you never have to look at what you've done, and you walk around in a sociopathic haze, leaving the broken hearts of the people you have destroyed inside in your wake. Let me tell you, **** our attitude, **** our casual dismissal of other human beings. I swear to god, scream at me, make me cry, be ******* honest about who you are and what you want, but strap me to a chair and peel off my fingernails before you ignore my humanity like that.
Neha Singh Sep 2013
you are

maddeningly sweet
infinitely kind
shockingly ****
nauseatingly cute
surprisingly stylish

and i am
hopelessly romantic
for you
Zulu Samperfas Sep 2012
All our eyes politely averted, twitching around we inspect each other
Women's locker room, women's body

Endless variations but I'm always struck
by our vulnerability
Our body carries us, our consciousness
but is clearly designed for the use of another
Nothing much to protect it
Endlessly prepared for the act of making another
Soft and swinging, nauseatingly available

And I understand
how for centuries we have been merely chattel
with great potentials
because our body is so overwhelming
so obviously important
for survival and therefore valuable and coveted
and our own will
so easily suppressed
by a chance encounter
desired or not

Bleeding every month on it's own timeline
never very strong
An agenda of it's own
that easily co-operates with an enemy
A walking science experiment

And yet
It is ours
We put up with it
it belongs to us

If we can protect it
We can do as we like
sam i yam not,
     nor will this 'lo bot go away
cuz, every coordinate in cyber space allows,
     enables and provides
     an opportunity to bray,

and thence get access
     to each excel lent power full point
     one among the beguiling bajillion,
thus this ming boggling concept proffers

     (even the generic mom and pop hacker
     tubby in her/his element field gloating
     as if they won
     the Irish Sweepstakes that day

despite neither could claim
     direct lineage, sans Emerald Eire
  analogous to Celtic temptress,
     whose grand geography

     beckons toward entranceway,
where sensory, levity,
     and ecstasy punctuate foray
boot that diverges one hundred

      and eighty degrees asper gateway
onrush of spam enters electronic hatchway
spilling forth like
     offal horrific bilge interlay

sloshing violently, revoltingly,
     and nauseatingly, witnessing a jay
bird donning mask (yule hating)
     beak coming contrivance fashioned keyway.

force full brainstorm to firewall
     to place on indefinite layaway
inundation of spam midway
between now and eternity,

     essentially noway
no more, and if necessary
     hermetically seal myself
     stationing a pal in drone willingly overpay!
J 6d
I find your arms wrapped around mine tightly,
Suffocating my will nauseatingly
The rest of my life, I'm burning away in your presence.
While sinking deeper into the abyss,
I am enamored with your sugary-sweet lies
Promising this time I have left to you.

As much it aches my fragile heart,
I love you.

Won't you give me a final chance?
To live with you breathing down my neck
I need to be with you forever.
With the hope that feels so far away,
And all the things that mean something-
Just forget it ever existed.
fleabag Apr 2021
Thorns were thrown at her shoes
Whispering like needles
And she, a nimble listener
Bleeds while picking it up

Eyes of ripe pineapples
Gaze upon her entity nauseatingly
The pain of flaws she used to deny
Complete the puzzles of her self

Once scattered as the leaves of narra
Unwary like a child in the street
Lost in the breeze of own doubts
Yet she chose to dance with the stars at night

Now, she is blissed-out with full of blemish
Like the monthly curtains in the kitchen sink
Luster of the northern lights at dusk
Rare sheen just like a meteor shower
#selflove
Tree mend us sappy weird
human interest stories rarely appeared
back in the day online, whereas
    at present (the toasted,
digitally papered, and lacquered
drab heron nah owl pablum),
     not spared, but repeated,
     a bajillion times showcased

finds me clicking past beard
did and bared naked ladies
     (and/or men), paired
with nauseatingly, predictably,
     and repeatedly, those
     bland posts, veered
as popular cult
     chore, which someone

     deemed apropos as
     pulp yule har audience -
this main poetic thread spun
     repeatedly woven into infrared
weave as the warp and weave,
     (these vapid) re:hash tagged,
      intruded, interfered,
     and invaded celebrities,

     and/or ordinary folks privacy
     yawping (usually bacon
     stripped clean away
     with specific prime information
     such as dates, names, and
     times of tragicomic event),
     which dramatic mysteries,
     finds me laughably,

     insignificantly, and feebly scared
to the bones with suspense,
     at present, these
     days of our lives
     showering unthinking viewers
     (watching "FAKE" dark shadows
     from the edge of night
     as the world turns) with

     exposes (x pose hays),
     where particularly young kids
     get reared, nursed, and juiced
with whodunit crime
     (candle lee boxed and beribboned
     just in tim bur for the holidays)
     staid insipid blurbs get overly aired
at least on America Online,

this above contrasted and compared
to he/she whomever chaired
helm at formerly mentioned
     once upon a time (wonderful
     Internet Service Provider
     exceptionally renown -
     me own acronym
     WHISPER down the ally

     long ague mooch mo' CRISPR)
     cyber sea internet
     provider years ago,
     than many similar competing
     companies to access
     electronic details, cuz
     (I subscribed to AOL for
     many years), thence declared

tummy, (yours truly i.e. me)
     ranked as topnotch significant
     venerated news coverage geared
to concerned citizens such
     as this scribe, (many years ago),
     at present receive less high marks
     given so these days,
     despite decades long patronage

     (from this long gush haired
poor lee aging leaden
     pencil necked geek),
     who vaguely recalls
     greater in depth coverage
     concerning vital headlines
     well prepared on the homepage,
     which whomever (at that time)

     selected "stories" dared
to acknowledge a gamut of
     critical global events
     incorporating controversial
     themes paired
with lighter fare (for web surfers
     less interested in socio-
     political, national, environmental,

     et cetera coverage),
     said Internet Provider
     broadcast more roundly squared
information versus, the present

     eagle lit tarry rhea
     hen superficial twittering,
     which electronic webpage
designers believe more important.
'Course as a grim teller of tall tales,
(albeit poetic) reasonable rhyming
quasi roundelay I readily admitted to feign
cuz, stringing words together with
pride and prejudice plus
sense and sensibility, jocularity,
and conformity I dissed deign
(spoiler alert) iamb, trochaic,

dactylic, and anapestic metrical reign
jest your ordinary garden variety
dollar short day late dime a dozen
penniless citizen banker Abel and Cain,
yet mine mean mien blithely, daringly,
fatuously, ludicrously, nauseatingly,
pretentiously playfully urbane

many (if not all readers)
will **** sitter
yours truly harmlessly insane,
whose feeble attempts
to wax and wane
oft times falls flat (splat goes Matt)
as if dropped out plane,
without a parachute

instantly recuperating while lain
supine (winded, but...
none the worse) asthma brain
suffers concussion, confusion, contusion
actually, immediately, and unexpectedly
knocked fluent German speaking ability
within germane guy verständlich?

If ye really comprehend
trademark non Turkish gobbledygook
then explain (using
language of least familiarity),
but best to commence
with eye catching hook
impossible mission
apt lit pupils (mine)

to evade even momentarily
riveting, spellbinding,
and transfixing look
courtesy ingenious way
with word ye snook
cored me and took
wind out my sails.

Nor could I breakaway courtesy automobile,
cuz 2009 Hyundai Sonata
would not start... yea for real,
thus finding me ready to yoke
neck (think gibbet) each heel
dangling as body goes limp
blessedly, finally, happily
ridding me of any/all hangups,
one less goo goo gaga born this way
poker face cards for him to deal.

UNGABLUZUM describes this schlemiel!
lj brooks Feb 3
i always had a feeling something was there-- not like a tumor, more like a devilish little bird, who refrains from my reach-- something so invisible yet so nauseatingly glaring red, strobing at times like that annoying light on those fire alarms that alert, "fire! fire!" and you run.

sometimes i think we're friends. yet when i, in and out of sleep, turn to embrace this Thing, i am reminded of how sinister it can be. and perhaps my shame comes from the people instead, but how could i not want to catch it, and gnaw at its bones the way it has mine?

when i ask them if it's there, they scurry off like a scolded dog. this shame, it's contagious. and this ******* Bird is like a pair of shoes that somehow gets less broken in over time. when i address it, it echoes back. it mocks me and asks me if i would even know who i am without it. what a cruel thing, and even worse is that it wins with my answer!

— The End —