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Julian Jun 2018
The ******* of embezzled glory staunchly defend their counterfeit stature by defalcating the public trust of industrious societies governed internally by compunction and sabotaged externally by the tempests of acerbic fate met with inclement aleatory convergence. To supply a society with ingenuity without being complaisant or officious with unctuous pleas to the overlords we must fashion a new vogue that taps the bustle of giants and aggrandizes the margins to oversee their own creative destinies with scaffolded arrangements of titanic promise and justifiable fluidity to conquer the blinkered dogmatism of a dissolute chastity to inveterate apocryphal tenets of factitious but unmerited perspectives. Democracy crumbles when the convenience of sensationalism supplants the resolve of those that fossick hidden wealth and promulgate validity instead of undergirding pomp with precarious prevarications of duplicitous omission guarded gingerly by the gatekeepers of a ****** sanity that whitewashes the discussion with invented hobgoblins and purblind catharsis. To defeat simplicity and enshrine byzantine elegance as the paragon for voguish commentary rather than abide by a bowdlerized decorum for appeasing simpletons with divisive balkanization through identity politics we can overcome the impediments to human progress that are engineered to persist because of the inertia of the listless and the stubbornness of doctrinaire politicization and invent vivacity and festivity anew. We need to divorce ourselves from pedestrian quibbles of hero-worship that endanger the vitality of the common discourse because of fastidious pedantic disempowerment that ravages us with debased dreams by underscoring nuisances and tolerable nightmares that emasculate the virulence of the liberated individual and subvert his ambitions to contend with a picaresque world of limitless promise and self-motivated internal wealth.
      The bane of modernity is how chary the world becomes because of fractured histories intersecting with controversial destinies and the antidote to that poisonous self-defeating self-censorship is the audacity of brazen challenges to expurgation through assiduous resourcefulness and delicate diplomacy in wrangling controversies with outspoken courage rather than whispered resentment. Temerity waged in inclement circumstance is justified and curiosity stoked by lambent flames of fulgurant individualism should be fortified to the extent necessary to conquer the feckless spoilsports of unctuous puritanism and institutional obedience. The quacksalvers that blather about inconsequence strand the imagination in a desiccated desert that is ostracized from the palettes of the artistic whim to wield efflorescence rather than squander life in pursuit of perfunctory lucre or tenuous solidarity around banal idealism promised by social justice warriors that forget the biggest war being waged on humanity is on the ingenuity of the common discourse and the liberty to opine about real issues rather than saccharine conventions of emasculation through linguistic imprisonment and epicurean slavery to fashimites who relish the buzzword but never the enlightened audience that scoffs at feeble attempts at cultural commentary like Childish Gambino’s “This is America” music video. This particular artifact is a demonstration of how childishly fickle the plebeian mentality really is, stitching together a bricolage of violence to engineer controversy and serenading it with the most banal music imaginable and exhorting people to herald it as a high artform while inundating the world with unimaginative comic book movies and Star Wars rip-offs because of the lucrative business of formulaic replication. “This is America” should be regarded as a parody of itself because of how hackneyed its design is and how cacophonous it sounds and mocks its audience with lowbrow tactics of adding tinsel to trash and marketing it as the glory of tatterdemalions rather than the refinement of true cinematic achievements that have been relegated because Warhol’s Campbells-Soup-consumerism trumps true belletrist in the public view.
        Cultural watersheds punctuate our history with salient achievements in experimentation, but the formulaic profiteering of buzzword sensationalism and yellow journalism and the ostentatious glorification of promiscuous boasting and fancy cars tantalize the mice to continue playing slot machines rather than penning a novel or doing something promethean. The world scoffs at Trump but ignores the bigger institutional caveats that endanger us much more than a pragmatic albeit unconventional pontificator who is complicit in constructing a false narrative to enslave mindless people to fret about eminence rather than delight themselves in the consequential nuances of established refinement that used to serenade the world with flourish and spectacle. The world kowtows to the crusade against flavor-of-the-week enemies of the liberal-conservative syncretism because it has been conditioned to believe that synthesis is the only logical solution for the polarized worldviews of churlish people that become parvenus not on their merits but on their marketable pitfalls and their public foibles. Peccadillos are more important to people than virtues and this makes society morally bankrupt if we loiter around Astroturf causes that have been infiltrated by corporatism and venal debauchery and acquiesce as disempowered gossip hounds that hunt in packs to find jest in aberration rather than achievement in self-created narratives that defy the stupid purblind boorishness of the mainstream media and its haughty liberalism or the persnickety condemnation of priggish conservative moralities that had an expiration date 50 years ago. Who the **** cares about transgender-touting-gender-fluidity quidnuncs and the snooty obsession with lurid personal endeavors of reputable people that made minor ****** transgressions in a world policed by wide-eyed feminazis that seek to ransack men of their vital virulence to spotlight their unjustifiable oppression. Women are oppressed but the carnal nature of their calumniation and their vindictive powers of persuasion are deployed with such vehement vigilance and such distaste for the majority that the world relegates itself to quibbles of celebrities rather than substantive issues. There is a systemic feminization of society occurring that seeks to demarcate despotic uxorious pleasantries as an incarceration of vocal dissent against supercilious women and their tamed men that slavishly grovel in repudiation of anything prickly.  Men historically have oppressed women but the solution to this quandary isn’t a reverse discrimination where the minority concern is spotlighted as a majoritarian issue that overshadows the disproportionate nature of our society where nominal accreditation is afforded in a non-meritocratic way to absolve people of their carnality and demote the vigorous defense of human liberty as secondary to compromise solutions that appease more people than they offend but simultaneously result in suboptimal conditions that reward arbitrarily coachable people while jettisoning anyone witty enough to be capable of insubordination of a hedonistic epicurean world obsessed with appearance and ravaged by the decadence of formulaic profiteering at the expense of originality and true promethean art that is herculean enough to defy hackneyed tropes and siphon the best elements from a piecemeal world variegated with complexity but stifled by fomented hatred.
The solutions to these problems is to create a watchdog group of artistic critics who become eminent and ubiquitously heard enough to offer creative consultation to the artistic endeavors that we consume and the music that is curated for fastidious ears that crave euphonic originality rather than the banality of easily dovetailed bass-heavy cookie-cutter garbage and the gaudy tactics of talentless rappers whose swagger derives from  the intersection of opportunism and the divestiture of an industry that rewards gloated supercilious epicureanism and meretricious marketability. Am I the only one jaded by second-rate superhero movies that infest the cinemas that borrow from Michael Bay while thrusting pulse-pounding but narratively bankrupt movies down the throats of consumers that might prize the cinematic originality of the heyday of filmmaking? Is it always high art to invent controversy that is witless or half-witted just because it will create buzz? Shouldn’t we condemn the laziness of society in acquiescing to the penury of the modern cultural narrative which belabors the dead horses of racism and sexism ad nauseum? Shouldn’t we fight the war of against inequity through legislation rather than hibernating about scandalous eminence and testy malfeasance?
          Liberty should be championed above all else and we are turning our backs on the future unless we muster the resolve to diminish the sway of the common narrative and aim our spotlight at consequential endeavors rather than the tropes of prosaic and pedestrian bastardization of art and culture. We need to fight artistic laziness which has ravaged our culture and castigate the tactics of wannabee celebrities that use lurid tactics to attract an audience by bedizening themselves with Pyrrhic ostentations and rampant fakery to create more melodrama in a world that needs to be less histrionic. YouTube celebrities swarm us as they get high on ******* and lean-- at our expense-- and vandalize property and convincing nine-year-old’s like Lil Tay to flex her money like it is infinitely renewable in a finite world where all our attention is wasted on artless artifice of less talented people that know how to engineer a ruckus by strutting themselves beyond all decency and selling out to a corporatist nightmare of enslaved convenience. We need to be more vocal about the dissolution of artistic merit and the formulaic repetition of successful formulas that jade us and make us yawn about another retread of a previously successful idea that is milked to the point of cruelty.                                                         ­                       
       Let’s change the narrative and focus on creating true art rather than reacting to the meretricious tinsel of the vogue consensus which is so impotent in its ability to rivet audiences because it has become so notoriously lazy. Fight laziness in art, dismiss your news feeds, be resourceful, seek true happiness rather than find yourself hoodwinked and duped by the idea that Trump is the most important issue or getting caught in thought loops and brooding about sexism and inequality. Let us strive to be egalitarian but within limits that would also appease hominists rather than just the hypertrophy of the leftist narrative that seeks to cage us with the doublespeak of complaisant conformity.  Reject the unctuous charlatans that pretend priggishness when their banausic purpose is barbaric but beguiling to be a lullaby for laggards. We need to fight for the future of civilization rather than hobnob with convenience and loiter around decrying false perpetrators rather than systemic injustices that could otherwise be rectified if enough people fought for it. We can invent a future that is a great festivity serenaded by cultivated artistic refinement and forget about the trifles that divide us. United in ambition and fueled by ingenuity we can defeat artistic laziness and be resourceful with how we decide what is newsworthy. Spurred by the argosy of proactive motivation we can change the world in a substantial way by deciphering the subtext that governs the world. The subtext is everything!
zebra Feb 2017
she said
being a feminist
i have forsaken the temples of normalcy
for dark gratifications and base seduction
and discovered that those who know the pleasures
of objectification
and frenzied ****** lucidity with strangers
are wiser then the children of  sweetness and light
as marriage betrays the need to satisfy
secret dark labyrinths desire
and in its place
repeats ad nauseum
blunt fortitudes
in dim sunless rooms
for fear of the transgressive

satans *** nail

is conventions essential creed
exhaustions hand maid
rendered imagine-less
bereft of the new
until a mere stand in
for true desire is left
like a starved ghost
on a dead moon
a desiccated morsel
left for a hungry mouse

is romantic marriage a poetic conception
by love starved victorian imbeciles
vanquished in increments
by petty spats of blood and thunder
who know not the joys of the whips blood toothed kisses
purgation's brutal sensuality
and a creel
of ramming butter **** gang bangs
in secret fetish gardens
of cries and coos
that leave the *** wilted
and the soul lite
like a butterfly in heaven

slave girl asks
as hips sway
to sacred dionysian storms
in the smoldering pangs
of the heart
as backs writhe and arch
flex and sweat rhapsodic
and viscera panic with desire

are not such delicious degradations
pleasures ravage despicable
cause for an ecstatic celebration
kindling
fiery vapors incense
en-flamed dragons blood
for drooling kisses
that talk in tongues
in a language that everyone understands
infinitly preferred
over  the rolling eyes of disapproval
in the tepid marriage bed
Mike Jewett Feb 2015
This poem is a Google Adwords ad,
Intruding into the sidebar of your heart.

It’s a 1-800-LAWYERS commercial
Making you money off your personal injury.

It’s a brutal, ****** UFC bout,
Weak in its ground game but knows its Jiu-Jitsu
And it’s got you on the mat, begging you to tap out.

This poem is *****,
a SNAFU waiting to happen.

It’s the sarin gas Syria used against its own
And it’s the attack America will be responding with,
Using ****** to punish murderers.

This poem is a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken
Getting your finger-lickin’-good fingers nice and greasy.

This poem is yet another poet writing yet another poem about poems,
With the word poem repeated ad nauseum.

This poem is a bunch of awful band names,
Like Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Tapes ‘n Tapes, and Chunk! No, Captain Chunk!.

It’s a summer blockbuster and a teen dystopian trilogy.

It’s riding *****
In your ex’s car.

This poem is anthropogenic global warming
Whose CO2 emissions are dangerously high and climbing
While its polar bears are stranded on the broken ice floes of its verses.

It’s a baseball crowd speaking the words “no hitter”
In the midst of a no-no
Which itself is a no-no.

Its bad grammar, who’s comma’s are all, out of place
And its’ apostrophe’s, are meaningless.

This poem is Zooey Deschanel,
Who will not marry me some day, any day, in the future.
In fact, it doesn’t even know I exist.
martin Aug 2014
They wanted a curriculum vitae
In absentia
I decided to ad lib
Ad nauseum
Ipso facto, lie and deceive
Exaggerate, mislead et cetera

Hardly a bona fide
Modus operandi
They caught me in flagrante delicto

Requiescat in pace, (RIP) my chances
Now I'm persona non grata
Mea culpa
So many latin phrases are in common use, e.g. (that's one too) status quo, terra firma, ad hoc, compos mentis, in memorandum, in situ, ex gratia, the list goes on and on, almost ad infinitum.
I never studied latin but the school-yard rhyme goes
Latin is a dead language, as dead as dead can be
First it killed the Romans and now it's killing me
Not quite true.
The title translates  " We're always in the ****, it's just the depth that varies a bit."
Lucrezia M N Apr 2016
Even this latter
lingering emotionality
will vanish somehow,
masked behind an affable reflection,
but already collapsed
into a black hole.


Bigger and bigger.


Mastery of nothingness
in satisfying myself
as mute, stripped leaves
observing their art
of turning into glow of warmth.


Autumn’s heredity.


Fierce hyperbole is Melancholy,
remote and severe sixth sense,
obsidian monolith
in this too mild dimension.


Melodrama of light
is the vacuum of such empirism
saturated ad nauseum
by the ceaseless delay
of the most natural
and contemptuous ease.
... Yes, I'm an autumn child ...
John F McCullagh Nov 2013
It’s that time of the year
When commercials appear
to implore us to buy this or that.

For the shopkeepers fear
that without Christmas cheer
They will never get into the black!

Some Fraud in a red suit,
Quite obese and hirsute,
will be called on to hawk toys to tots.

Johnny Mathis and Bing,
Ad nauseum, will sing
old chestnuts of holidays past.

So we wish you Merry Christmas
Now that Halloween has past.
Here’s hoping, too, perhaps that you
might spend as you did in the past.

Let the registers ring
It’s a wonderful thing
To see all the rich spend their cash.
Maddie Fay May 2013
And I don't dream about you anymore,
But I still get scared when someone pretends to hit me,
And I can still feel that empty ache in my chest
In the middle of the night.
And I talked ad nauseum about the things you did to me,
But only once about losing you.
How do I explain the secret beautiful parts
Of the boy with the scars?
How do I explain the difference between
The boy with the lovely words and utopian dreams
And the one who put my head through the drywall?
How the pain of having you
Will never come close
To the exquisite agony of knowing I will never see you again?
I loved you, at least a little bit,
And that matters,
Too.
Lia Feb 2015
nausea ad nauseum
my guts twist & burn
just cut them out & let them steam on the floor
i don't have time for this
Paul Glottaman Mar 2013
Eat your fill from
the fat of my land.
Shackle my bone
break my hand.
Leave this place to me,
when you go.
You weren't there,
but I don't know.

In a forest
we two meet.
Stars ad nauseum,
but no sleep.
And here and there
go our feet.
No words
compromise this greet.

Lose yourself
in the music of now.
Pull on the ribbons,
make me bow.
But don't forget me
when you leave.
Broken man,
his heart on his sleeve.

Could you catch
a wild thing?
Could you tug
it's heart string?
Could you keep
a wild queen or king?
On our fingers,
bound by this ring.

Goose bump flesh
will be our warning.
Keep my soul
trapped in this morning.
And find me waiting
as I always do,
hoping the next person
to come along is you.

Reach for me
when I'm not there.
Feel my fingers
in you hair.
Step by step,
side by side we ascend a stair.
All these things, and more,
I cannot bear.
Josh Taylor Feb 2013
I dissect people
not with a knife
but
with my eyes
with my ears
with the words that spill
from my tongue, probing
without trying,
judging responses

poking around their
insides, noting
this thought goes
here
and this
is connected to
that
ad nauseum
until I have memorized
every nook and
cranny

I learn people
much better than
they realize
I mostly
keep it to
myself,
afraid to
nick an artery
while I'm examining
and cause our friendship to
bleed out
from wounds
inflicted
by pointed-out flaws
and questions best
left
unanswered
I never trusted gravity enough.
Not enough to fall
In love.
Truth is,
I never trusted.
Anyone.

But that's not entirely true.
See, for awhile I trusted.
Even love I trusted.
For awhile I invested in others.
For awhile I let people let me down easily.
"I'm not ready for a relationship right now"
"I think we'll be better off as friends"
"You aren't ready to be a good boyfriend."
"I'm looking for someone different. Like your friend"
I still can recall them ad nauseum.
Line after line of why I wasn't their
Right guy.
Right shape.
Right plan for their perfect wedding 10 years in the future.
And so I lost trust.
I lost trust in them.
I lost trust in love.
I lost trust in me.

So I ignored gravity too,
The gravity that could bring me closer.
To someone
To anyone
To love.
The gravity that could sink me to solid ground
And allow me to walk toward a future
In love.
I ignored it.
And floated.
Drifted really.
Inside myself.

Inside myself
Where I stocked up on bulk buy cans of
Self-loathing
And self-pity
Unloading them in my bunker to stack them neatly next to my canned jars of
Selfishness and anger
Behind bags of jealousy and loneliness.
And with the cupboard full I packed it in.
Gave up.

A person learns not to trust.
And it's a hard lesson to learn.
It takes time.
It takes years.
It takes enough rejection to make a person.
Whose heart is open.
Whose heart is pure.
Whose heart is true.
To harden.
To protect itself.
From being repeatedly kicked down life's stairs,
As gravity aids the fall.
from nothing we came and to nothing we will return ad nauseum

i become who i want to be

a stone moves no water and feels no wind, it displaces the air but it takes nothing away, leaves a small footprint, just a trace in the sand

look for the path and tread lightly there, feet make no marks, and lungs long to breathe no air, eyes focused on both the east and the west, all the fires that you’ve made, and all the bridges yet to burn

and if you think you have a right to ask the question is always the same we must tread lightly and if you think you have a right to take in trust just think of all the people that came before

form is emptiness and emptiness is form
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2015
hard poetry
is the best,
for the work of you,
it does request,
works your hardest best,
needing you to lilt each chosen letter
with a slow cooked, thoughtful tenderness

the writer wrote but a single draft,
but lifetime in the making,
it took,
as each word was,
both chewed and vine tasted,
over and over,
avoiding the arrogance of hasty egotism

hard poetry when read
reveals the authored heart
between each word space,
marks of the beats of a thundering mountain,
that upon it's peak,
lives and dies a temple's altar for sacrifice,
from where the odor of burnt,
parse rises and colors each verse
to heaven ascending,
not once,
but thrice
and long long after it is consumed,
its scented smoke returns,
wafted from nostrils as a hit
upon the brain

hard  to write,
hard to read,
more than concentration requisite,
an open mind that mines the text,
laboriously hard,
as was such intended

cheap are the easy-quick rhymes,
that fall like flakes,
an endless sky
that rains upon us like a
plague of "made in" knockoff fakes

looks good, goes down easy,
but gone tasteless like sugared icing on a stale cake,
but
hard poetry lingers for days
or forever,
and it asks you back,
without ever asking

write hard,
read the hard,
for these poems are the real shards
of human hands that sweated while love making,
serving you their best works from deepest within,
torn out and then smooth potter-sculpted

hard poetry
hard to find,
veins in the deep earth
that you, they do not find,
you must drill core shafts to
ascertain their existence

packaged not in gift wrapped clothing,
that is torn off fast,
over the cheap plastic gift it covers,
that the promise of forever disappoints
and does not garner any interest
as fast as the day after Christmas arrives

hard poetry,
rewarded to the seekers
who read it with self same love and care,
the poet employed,
to wrench it from his soul,
it's elimination,
the pains of a labored. childbirth

do not depreciate what you appreciate
by giving up your honor easy,
love only the one you are with,
the you will keep
ever

like what you love,
like but the ones
you must addictively return to,
wait for them with patience eager,
lament but do not tarry over the
discarded chaff,
while you wait for the
hard poetry's loving grasp

roses are violet,
violets are rose,
don't care if you live in states red or blue,
but you drown discouraged
from such nursery poems
proposed and tendered
with a " look at me" gloss
ad nauseum

effort to find the hard ones,
the ones you wish to emulate,
the ones that will justify you
as they grow you up into
being better than your dreams
-~~~
Oct 11, 2015
4:23 am
really sick and very tired of.cheap writes that are pedestal  hailed
by those who revel in simplicity,
hide behind  easy rhymes and
nonsensical metaphors
that sound so good
and taste so bad,
even if they last for but seconds on our tongues

cheap writing cheapens the writer and discourages the.reader.
~~~
poems are work; it takes work to like them or dislike them. Put the work in, demonstrate the care, and we will be more than friends, becoming caring~poets~in~arms.

a flawless poem
if such there were,
will always be,
the next one

my poor soul,
my rag tag heart
has no censor,
so careless, reckless,
as if words were but
frivolous treasures,
easy spent, easy get

if only, how I wish
could harvest my best,
with golden cutlery knife excise
the single flawless poem,
that I know in my possess

then only,
to lay down this hand so weary
from cupping tears,
satisfied at long last,
so much so,
that as my casket lowered,
my hands in repose companioned,
clutching his best, easing the rest,
a paper record placed in his primary
to join his ash,,
keep his faith companioned,
his flawless poem,
at long last
Poetry
We constantly deal with poetry which puts us in a soporific state,
we sit here apathetic to the cause of studying this beautiful art-
but Poetry’s breath Ad Nauseum about love and laments is bad for a date,
oblivious to the images, while attempting to turn the key we begin to depart.

Yet the door haunts us, novels, plays, yet poetry is the apex,
of this ethereal mystery within the maelstrom that is our mind,
alas this frustration is focused upon the conundrum of poetry being complex,
is it just a condensed novel, this Herculean Task of understanding the undefined.

There are many who deem poetry obsolete but tis rather far from its nadir,
now begins the unequivocally splendid power of the imagination-
hidden by poetry from the vituperative invader,
who’ve made an egregious mistake in deeming poetry a partial differential equation.

Imagination, oh what a beauty long forgotten in the age of reason-
we’ve been given Hobson’s choice, force fed Occam’s razor, given epitome-
yet good ol’ imagination persist like an excretion,
from the eyes of the true daughter of Time, Science’s proficiency.

People assume poetry is the modern day Gordian’s Knot-
well- let us assume this is Utopia, were Imagination runs wild-
as she watches her forest, a black cat surreptitiously passes a man in thought,
startled because it is Friday the thirteenth his Triskaidekaphobia acts up- this is all rather mild-

Just the tip of the iceberg was touched upon, just the tip-
Poetry and humanity is an oleaginous affair we mix but do not blend,
Or should we, poems are nothing more than what we put in, as if to dip-
just our toes, before we plunge head first into poems so as to apprehend.

Poetry is the Sun, as you are the flowers shined upon,
given warmth of knowledge and power if you are to just reach.
Not to let Poetry in as if to catch on-
give it back in your own form of speech.

Through your own imagination feed poetry,
It hungers for your reality, though not reality-
procrastinate not- hopefully,
for your conceptions are your sanity.

Or rather is fancy your faculty- decide,
it will affect your observation of poetry forevermore.
It will excite-
whether you believe it to or not- you will love or abhor.

Poetry is not arduous -
just do not assume there is a secret door.
In fact poetry is quite virtuous-
Seek only what you can give poetry, I do implore.
A poetry that required certain vocab words, had some fun with it.
Mark Toney Oct 2019
(Dedicated to my Father, who was totally paralyzed
for 7 years before he died.)

I awake in the early morning darkness
Frozen, motionless, immobilized.
My eyes straining to see into the black void
Looking for any sign of my keepers
Listening for any kind of movement
Phantom images dart around me slowly at first,
Then multiple images spring from every direction
My heart racing, my breathing rapid and shallow,
Byproducts of fear and imagination
Running amok in the dark

My eyes focus on tiny lights incessantly blinking,
Reassuring my heart as the phantoms vanish
My ears register the intermittent beeps
And steady, determined droning
Of contraptions that populate my space,
Their sole purpose to prevent the outcome I crave

My nose catches whiffs of iodoform odor,
Penetrating, pungent, overpowering my sense of smell.
A cruel replacement for what once was
A weekly parade of fragrant flowers
That excited what few senses remain
The brightly colored blossoms
The sweet, fragrant smells
The delightful sizes and shapes
But the beautiful flowers have withered,
As concern for my plight has waned

I watch as the determined, dynamic sun
Deliberately dilutes the darkness,
Revealing the magical birth of a new day.
Is that delightful birdsong I hear?
The beeping and droning are maddening,
But I know there’s birdsong outside my window
I can’t wait until the moment arrives!

As if on cue my keeper appears
Busily going about her assigned tasks
My eyes following her every move
“And how are you doing today?” she asks,
Staring at me as if I could answer.
But I lie frozen, motionless, immobilized
In my mind I replay my daily reply:

"My existence is a never-ending cycle of
Penetrating. . . pungent. . . whiffs
Beep. . . blink. . . drone. . . beep
Blink. . . drone. . . beep, . . . blink
Drone. . . beep. . . blink. . . drone
Penetrating. . . pungent. . . whiffs
Dawn. . . daylight. . . twilight. . . night
Daylight. . . twilight. . . night. . . dawn
Twilight. . . night. . . dawn. . . daylight
Night. . . dawn. . . daylight. . .twilight
Penetrating. . . pungent. . . whiffs
Each boring minute an hour.
Each hateful hour a day.
Each wretched day a year.
Each torturous year a lifetime.
Ad nauseum. . .ad infinitum. . .ad mortem?"

Offering no response to my unspoken thoughts,
My keeper dutifully takes my vital signs,
Temperature, pulse, respiration, blood pressure,
Records the results, then walks to the window
My favorite time of day has arrived!
“We must open the window to freshen up your room.”
As the window opens my spirit soars, and my ears capture
The lovely birdsong, as well as other living sounds,
Along with a veritable potpourri of smells.
I can only imagine what is happening outside,
And I do imagine it as best I can

I close my eyes and try to make out each note,
Visualizing the source of each incredible sound,
Be it bird, animal, human, or otherwise
Who they are, what they look like,
What they’re doing, what they’re thinking,
The blinking, beeping, droning is finally drowned out!
With every breath, I savor each smell
And, with eyes closed, as I visualize
What’s happening in my mind’s eye,
A wonderful peace envelops me. . . comforts me

But, alas, this day will be crueler than most
Another keeper, a newer keeper, enters my room
“Oh, she’s fallen asleep” he whispers,
He closes the window, shuts the shades,
Then quietly leaves, shutting the door
I SCREAM A LOUD, LONG, PRIMAL SCREAM!
... in my mind
As I lie frozen, motionless, immobilized—   
Paralyzed
5/15/2018 - Poetry form: Free Verse - Dedicated to my Father, who was totally paralyzed for 7 years before he died in 1985. - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018
Nothing quite like
breaking my A string on stage and then ripping it off the guitar (so as to get it out of the way)
and then continuing to play the set with, essentially, an overdriven electric ukelele
(among my band's other technical difficulties!)
followed immediately by food poisoning courtesy of Subway
(Eat fresh!)
followed immediately by an hour and a half ride
in the back of a car driven by a fool
who swerves and brake-checks often as a ******* joke
(at least he stopped so I could consult the side of the road ad nauseum)
to finally get home at 2:30am.

Last night left me worshiping the porcelain goddess
begging for mercy;
none was to be found.

Nine full hours later,
I still can hardly keep water down.
I'm only awake in hopes that I can.

To surmise:
Last night was the most fun I've had in a long time
immediately followed by the most sick I've felt in a long time.
topaz oreilly Jan 2013
Ad nauseum, a kick to the head.
Cydney Something Sep 2020
Love
And pain
And pain
And pain

Over
And over
And over
And over

No one
Ever
Means
To hurt me

So don't worry.
You're fine.
I'm fine.
It's fine.

It's fine
It's fine
It's fine
And I'm fine.
I'm not fine
PMc Apr 2019
Those who study deep human relationships
understand that therapists - Buscaglia and the like,
have advice that,
when heeded
can ease the pain of our life’s loves.

They are apt to tout the benefits of
“writing down the top ten reasons why you love that person”
“and when the going gets rough, read the list”
yadda – yadda
More stuff like
“you can’t love people the same - all the time, people change”
blah – blah -blah
“Remember to laugh and enjoy each other”
and so on and so on
ad nauseum

Rules were made to be broken
so when the going gets tough, pull out
“the twenty reasons why you should get the hell out of the relationship”
Then when the going gets tough
you can retreat gracefully
knowing you “did the right thing”

It is because you cannont love people the same way – all the time
due to the complexities of human nature
and for when they turn their back on you,
you get stood up and they
tear-away the tears from your eyes,
swill their double scotch and
walk away

Somehow, a prescription for laughter’s medicine
doesn’t quite cut it.

So re-read your happy list when your together to remind yourself
of all you’ll miss when you’re alone
on New Years Eve
or spending another Birthday quietly celebrating by yourself

When tending to your garden with your own tears
     you can shred that happy list
     then use it for compost
Ouch - an admittedly angry phase from decades ago when all there was left to say was - well - whatever.  I don't recall it being a happy time.
Bob B Jan 2018
Obstructing an investigation
Is really easier than one thinks.
Surround yourself with fawning fans
To help you work out all the kinks.

It helps if you can early on
Fire the head of the whole shebang,
And then sully his reputation
With every subsequent harangue.

Build distrust in the FBI
So when the people hear those initials,
They'll remember how you impugned
The credibility of law officials.

Spread the fear that a secret society,
Cleverly organized and malicious,
Is out to get you, even though
In reality, it's fictitious.

Let your "friends" in Congress create
Alternate scandals that detract
From your investigation, even
Though they are not based on fact.

A news station that has the least
Credibility helps a great deal--
One that pedals conspiracy theories
With unabashed passion and zeal.

Undermine investigative
Efforts by frequently causing confusion,
And then repeat ad nauseum
"No collusion! No collusion!"

Using some Stalinesque techniques
Helps your cause, and once you've begun,
The people, too, will call the media
Public enemy number one.

Having power will make you feel
That you possess unlimited choices.
If democracy gets in the way,
Keep on trying to quiet voices.

All of the strategies listed above--
If they're mercilessly applied--
Will come in handy, especially
If you have something to hide.

-by Bob B (1-25-18)
Jack P Apr 2018
\put your feet on the land/

His name, according to the scrawl on the cover of his journal, was Viele. His build, according to everyone he'd ever met, was a lazy mosaic of withered limbs; veins snaking like cracks in pavement.

His intentions, according to hindsight, were regrettable.

\and see/

It is the gospel truth that man is the expert of denial.
As sure as the dead stay dead,
The Graverobber will prefer the term 'opportunist'.
Viele was a "professional",
took pride in his "art".
He dug, dug, dug,
'til the wood did part.

Stripped the cemetery to its bones (or, if you please, of its bones).

\ain't no grave/

Then Viele snags his shovel, about three feet deep.
Somehow the handle asphyxiated by the stalk
Of a Morning Glory, which flowers a defiant blue -
swallowing whole, the rusting *****, as its spiral buds take
their first breaths - against, of course, the tarred lung
of their rawboned abuser.

And lo!
(the image befits the phrase, as does the Earth "empty of form")*
the deadyard stood guard,
erupting
like it was suddenly attacked
by an impressionist's paintbrush.

The deadyard, and Viele
Van Goghing, Goghing, Gone.

\gonna hold my body down/

In Lieu, In Bloom:
Baby's Breath and Bells of Ireland and Daisies and Hydrangeas and Lace of Queen Anne and Sunflowers and
God, ad nauseum they arose,
arching upwards from graves.
Leaving no gravestone unturned,
in the pursuit of the place
where footnotes become headlines
and headlines turn to deadlines
and deadlines turn to soil.

For in the morning,
when Viele returns
and Glory, ironically, stands down
(slash-stands-us-up)
we will know to wait.
Tucked away behind our rejected Heaven's gate,
for the show to return.

Where there's Life in the urn.
leave the poetry to the prose (of which i am neither)
What an Auspicious night my friends,
    What a day in fact,
What a life
What a reflecting Knife,
What with it’s ticker-tack bindings taught with rife,
Yes with the moon’s self served cursed light
That’s right down into my very soul
The pull of which yearns evermore for yet
Another empty ***** and tet-tet
It gets what it rents, it bleeds what it brecks,
It feeds what it mets, is leads where it regrets
Oh yes my friends
Oh yes
What an auspicious night
What a day in fact
What a death


And you wake up alone
In the village you built years ago
Not as you as you are
But you as as you were
Or some oft changed memory of, like soft spun tar
Molded shaped and bent,
Broken in fact by the ravages and scars,
Of nothing, of no one, of nobody,
Of everything, of everyone, of ever body,
All humans, all animals, all life
No people, no beasts, no strife
The cold carcass of the molten sun
The future the past of another man’s son,
What does it mean, what does it mean,
You turn your head in the village
But every stone is me


The night ends to the rise
Of not a start but a doom

Luck is gone Love was a chemistry
Engineered and now revereried
Lipple lap the gods they laugh
As the dice has been cast low and strung
Aye further now you’ve fallen but higher you have come
You split yourself in pieces unbeknownst to anyone
Even your own mind unwitting to the deception
As the chortles bortle onwards ad nauseum
This prophecy disintegrating as it goes on
What is left what is left
You sat there alone for years stuck
This is just the price to pay
For the dam of time to unbrook
What an auspicious night my friends
    In fact
What a day
In fact
Reverend Dubya May 2015
The end is nigh
Just around the bend
Just like always
For ever and ever, amen

Reality spirals out
Or is it in
Each point a turning point
Each turn a twin

The Lady or the Tiger
Repeated ad nauseum
Game Over or Continue
For a day or a millenium

But the end is nigh
Make no mistake
One false step
Is the last step we take
wordvango Sep 2016
numbers already proven to be
larger than the smallest infinity
a set ( of things, people, possibly
perhaps chances too)
more than one point is always
one
an innate expectation (probability
deducted to be seventy percent)
part of evolution
part of the stream that flows from
(the sun, star births, carried into)
infinity with smaller bursts
childbirth,
death,
ad nauseum

— The End —