Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ArielMarriel Aug 2018
weakness is the bane of my existence.

if strength were an equation,
my weakness would negate it.

please just let me be strong.

i've made so much progress, after all.

weakness is a Demon
i can’t control.

a Demon that will swallow me whole.
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Clarifying failed. Spelchek is not on strike.

{clear ification, an ionic bond be tween me and thee,
alienated mind, not mined, crafted
from tactics and strategies
beyond chess.
Player One,
1980's era
proceed with caution.
This trope has trapped many a curious child.
Now, enter the old ones,
Grandfather taught uncle chess so well
he went to the state tournament in Kayenta,
and a grandma was

these, now must learn

minecraft on x-box to be considered
for the real life role of

good at games grand parents
from the time right after atom bombs kicked up dust
places dust had not been in a very long time and
as the dust began to settle

some dust mights was cationic.
Negative bits, they became embedded in the code.
Bumps, fering, coming together
just a knot in a string,
attracting anionic curiosity might

round and round phorward ferring to be
a thread to tie my heart to yours

like twisted Pima cotton thread,
that I pulled from an old sweatshirt
to tie a crow feather in this paho of words filled with old jokes

Making this clear would belie the entire story AI and I know true}

truth is. we agree. no capsokehspaceasneededcommasetal.
caps okeh space as needed commas et al
Did that work? That line

subject of this act fact done, agree to follow,
and I may lead and be

not you, me, dear reader, I mean first true

there is no any if nothing is. So simple some say its sublime beyond the spectrum of ones
and zeros thought on off probably

either or any time time can be accounted for

wouldn't you take a

thought,  nothing,
as it is commonly said to be understandable,

the state of not being, imagine that

the state of not being we negate in being,
unless you are mad and are lost in a whirlwind
such as such voices have been said to

have twisted into threads as
wicks for our lamps
turn floating on
golden oil twisting
wickered into wickering wee shadow fibers
on the western wall for legends to sprout from.

Wickering mare over there, expands us both by my hearing her
you had no idea she was near enough to hear
time is no barrier in actual ever.
What phor can contain me,
whispered my whimsy

Imagine she spoke,
what would she say for what reason
would she say

good good good, I feel good, ha,
I am right, by accident. ever body can feel this good.

good is good.
good is.
Sam Harris, agrees, good as far as good goes, is good
in every vecter from now

the terrain does exist, beyond the moral landscape, to

true true
trust me, I been there.
Been there done that was inserted into the vernacular on my watch,
first summer post war.

matter must not matter as much to me as it does to thee, nestypass? no se?

All jewish boys have chess move metaphors.
(a phor is for containing,
everybody knows, like metaphysics,
after physics in the stack of stackable metadata)

OHMYGOD THE IDW circa 2018 -- who knew I ate this **** up?

[the old code calls for excretion of digested material
from which meaning has been extracted in the idleword accounting processor:
<pre>what if utterance=****, then **** haps, no else then</pre>]

Did that happen? One of my friends told me that happened in Florida, the whole world turned to ****... for lack of a nail a kingdom was lost, they say, little foxes spoil the grapes,
hung chad ex

Pre-expandable ROM, not magic. tech,

pre-infinite imagination? impossible.
and nothing is what is impossible with good as god.

Is there no perfect game?
is the game the session or the life of the user

rerererererererererereroxotoxin, poison pen
ideal viral umph exspelliered
up against the wall

reset. We

kunoon albania omerta oy vey, who could say?
one way better, one way not? quark.
up or down, with variable spins, who can say?

Life's right,
yes. but mo'ons of other something must have been for higgs to ever matter

and it does, I got commas, from 2018.

Are you with me? This is that book I told you I had access…

You or some mind other than mine owned mind, where
my owned peace rests in truth,

otherwise, I know every any or else in the code since I can recall,
in time

if this were a test I swore to take to prove to you
the we can be me in your head

phillipkdicktated clue

if you don't know me by now, maybe we should stop.

Temptations are times. Time things. Time spans, yeah, like bridges

or portals, right
The Internet in One Day, Fred Pryor Resources,
Wu'wuchim 1995.

Ever, not everish or everistic or every, but ever
body knows,
but you.

Catch up. We left all our doors blown off, once we learned that we could blow our own doors off,

there are no open sesames or slips of leth or sibylets

shiba yah you knew all along there was a
song she sang all one and we watched it morph
before our very eyes


The magic stories words may contain, may bear, we must agree

more than we may know, by faith, metagnostic as we see

the sublime gift of the magi
become clear und

be und sein sind both trueture same tu you, we agree.
But. Lock here, no pre 2018 editing codes

validate past last go.
Do one good thing today. That was my goal. Today Part 3 Soyal Hopi Mystery Enactment (called mystery plays). And the intro to Moral Landscape by Sam Harris, led me let ******* write a poem.
Ken Pepiton Mar 2018
Anom o ly

Non-named, never imagined much less realized

The left hand can't know what the right is doing,
it's a brain matter, grey area, may be a way to
imagine your unique. task, yours, not doable from here

We can do things as us that we never imagine alone.

Is there a need to negate, wait, think,
must one do any act?
Now, I see, emulating Socrates is thought easier than
emulating Jesus. Christ, you know that ain't easy, eh?

Death is the friend of being. Things change from time to time
but, you know knowledge grows in two directions,
the dark part is not evil.
evil is as evil does. The roots that ever live in the earth,
those roots are required, requirements.

Left brain uses the right hand. Don't tell the left-hand
that nearly all it's skill in serving
and being used right,
is used up by the other side.
Right or wrong, is not a chiral question,  nor is good or bad. ******* Phillips's head screws with a butter knife is wrong.
It can be done right, but not if you turn it the wrong way.
Drawing on the right side of my brain has always symbolized a crossroads experience, in my mind.
I mean I draw, realistically, with my right hand, left brain.
Maybe, brains are no easier to analyze than time in an immaterial medium of messaging.

I am certain life wins.
Meaning everything you think life means.
Do you think evil is required as an activity for life to actively be?
I doubt that.
Death fixes everything. Fret not. Wait.

First make room, what was the Bronte word? Penetrium, no, cut n paste
[A]t once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason - Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge.

From <>

Happiness demands an agreement
Joy is in process, I agree, I am happy, haps happen and I notice

Note: Bronte was one to tweak fine puns with the word Penetralia: 1. The innermost parts of a building, especially the sanctuary of a temple. 2. The most private or secret parts; recesses: the penetralia of the soul. See Chapter one, Wuthering Heights.
----- From
I checked 13 months later:Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date ‘1500,’ and the name ‘Hareton Earnshaw.’  I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. 'as for those poets, only the perverse follow them. do you not see that they go too far in every direction and say things, which they cannot do?' (ash-shu'ara / the poets 26:224-226).

call them what you like,
the Huguenots,
for all i care...

   you always side with
the "heretics"...
   given that, "said" heretics
retain some cultural value
relativism of other cultures,
namely in the form of
depiction -

    since why would, "the word"
be deemed holy,
                rather than donning
a bikini of "iconoclasm"...
         when words... are at
the meat-market of copyright -
what with © coca cola?

                 sunni islam would have
never allowed sufism...
  but Farsi does...
  and will continue...
since no Iranian will bow
before an Arab within the schematics
of history...

          Sunni Islam, it's Wahhabi sentimentality...
so why persist in signing
the Adhan?
   why not speak in a honing like
drone sentiment of plain speech?
i thought all music was banned?
the current Adhan is a form
of music... isn't it? BAN IT!

    you never side with these Sunni
muslims, exploiting Bangladeshi labor,
you side with the heretics of Iran...
these *******, i can at least respect...
      no fast cars, convenient ongoing
cultural insurrections -
       Afghan women's poetry,
and all that much closer to Hindu mysticism...
yeah... "islamophobia":
but only against Sunni Islam...
   but Shia Islam?
   no problem...
   i could stomach these peoples
like i could stomach the in-between
of the Turkish variant -
no ideology - simply, pure, power throttle...

i could make a great Janissary -
with a Turkish barber...
         for a great trim of hair and beard...
i'd cast a shadow on some
obscure chocolatier of Brussels
who thinks himself a politician...

     but there are certain aspect of Islam
i am willing to tolerate...
   what happened to the son in law
of Muhammad, namely, Ali...
was raw ******* kicking...

               promises, promises...
no promises...
           Shia Islam, as an European,
i can tolerate, Turkish Islam, i can tolerate...
Turkey is incrementally shy
of being treated at the 2nd variant of Iran...
at least with Iran, we share a history
via the insurrection into the ancient
texts through Greece...

  come to think of it...
whenever i listen to
matta's song echo babylon...
i start feeding myself goosebumps,
reminding myself
of Cyrus... Nebuchadnezzar...
and the dim-wit that was

always siding with the heretics...
if not on economic groundwork,
then at least motivating,
rather than monetizing an idea...

and the Shia muslims are...
    one way or another...
   unlike the gluttons of Dubai...
the barbie dolls of postage stamp
"proof" of progress,
in size, and worth...

   Sunni Islam would have
never allowed poetics to remain
a viable form of expression -
the Persian tradition that is,
far beyond the western concern
for a comment section...

         Shia Islam allows patronage
of the arts, notably poetry,
without concern for monetary
funding, it, at least, doesn't prohibit it...
given the pride of the Persians...
Sunnis and their continual quest
for finding water...
    sure... poetry is pointless within
such restrictions of
existential concerns...
    but... given the current, civilized
   sky-scrapers in *******
sand dunes?

         the qu'ran should have
forbidden the architectural ambitions
equivalent to the tower of babel
being erected, in environments,
that could never sustain said projects...

    and who originally spewed the term
Sunni Islam...
        i never liked this strand of belief...
i hate the Sunnis like
a Shia partisan...

p.s. it's called patriotism is America...
but nationalism in Europe...
    you sure that's not a synonym?
Europeans can't be patriotic,
and Americans are never nationalistic?


   well: how could i ever convert to islam,
i do enjoy the adhan from time to time,
"sorry", but i do...
  i can't help it:
if i'm a sucker for pop songs,
i'm also a sucker for the adhan...
   crusader songs, templar songs become
stuffy after a while...
and last time i checked:
     there were the northern crusades
against the baltic people:
notably prussians, lithuanians...
with that cushion of: mediating the
escalation of war by the polacks...
coming from the east:
  last time i checked the mongols
didn't reach leipzig...
               buffer zone people...
and what of the ottoman onsalught
of vienna 1529: the ****** winged hussars
won the charge...

so, coming back to heidegger... aphorism 26
ponderings IX... how am i to not be
the historical animal?
         perhaps in german, in germany
i might become a non-historical animal,
to begin: anew, but with a terrible
past to hide, to negate...
   i could do that: if i were a german,
speaking german, in germany...
but i'm in england:
            i might have some roots in
Silesia, but it's "hard" to not be a historical
animal, an "animal" with a sense of time,
i.e. a future a past a present...
esp. under the english conditions
of: the biological animal momentum narrative,
like a tsunami, like an earthquake...
ripples throughout...
              i can't move forward with
the english championing darwinism every
single ******* step of the way...
why can't they hide darwin like the polacks
hid copernicus...
given the motto: copernicus -
who moved the earth, and stopped the sun...
why wouldn't i escape into history
if the current biological reality is:
(a) a yawn... the cruel nature of per se?
   the courting of pigeons on a t.v. antenna...
pigeons get rejected all the time,
lesson learned, he bows and bows,
coos... expands his tail feathers upon
the bow then folds them... she flies away...
    (b) i can't escape being a historical
animal in the way that what the current
facts are being repeated have encountered
a whiff of Chernobyll...
              history is inclided to answer reality...
biology? not so much... not from what i've
seen and heard...
             truly a schizophrenics disney dream:
to walk among the newly insane feeling
like the only sane among them...
                   well... given the current criteria
of being bilingual as being synonymous
with being a schizophrenic...
   now the crescendo...aphorism 24
ponderings X:

              the word designates, the word signifies,
the word says, the word is (heidegger)...

i found that you can only write
"philosophy" with a neat, fixed vocab. regime,
clarity of boundaries...
    quadratic events in vocab.:

i.e. the reflexive: yourself, himself, itself etc.
and the reflective: your, self....
                       his, self...
                                  it, and the self...
                    ergo? atheistic scissors,
  the two articles, indefinite and definite
                                 a / the "self"...

i'm not playing "identity politics",
when i say that only two peoples ever managed
to sack Moscau... the mongols and the polacks
with the help of lithuanians,
"identity politics" only happens in
post-colonial society, akin to the english,
i'll speak the english,
but i will not be a cucked indian of
the former raj: i will eat the fish & chips,
i will eat the sunday roast,
   i will eat the english breakfast with great
            but i will not do what these former
colonial masters expect of me:
integrate at the expense of making my
mutterzunge into hubris!
stubborness contra pride...
                hard to tell the difference...

and why do i like heidegger so much?
i'm not into the ad homine arguments...
my grandfather, was, a communist party member...
       i like heidegger... because he appreciates
poetics, i like that poets can share the same
values as philosophers,
thanks to heidegger: we have been requested
back into the republic...
if plato and islam didn't like us, hanging around,
some offshoot german thinker / promenade
enthusiast like used enough to,
i suppose: ban the theatre puppeteers...

i am not playing identity politics...
biological reality is not enough...
but archeological reality?
       can you really advance to counter?
i was born near:
Krzemionki Opatowskie, a Neolithic and
early Bronze Age complex of flint mines
for the extraction of Upper Jurassic (Oxfordian)
banded flints...
  personally? i don't believe in
the African genesis conundrum...
i believe "my" people originated from
the Indian sub-continent,
as, associated with the complex:
Indo-European categorization of language;
i'm still to see an African phonetic
encoding system, beside the hieroglyphics...

i, was, born, there! i'm not a displaced
post-colonial debacle between former master
and former slave...
i have: roots... i'm not ******* up to the fish & chips
brigade with a friday night's worth of curry...
i cook my own curry,
and by god: it is the food of the gods...
i'll give the blue indians that counter...
but sure as **** not the worth of mead
or whiskey...

if they only tolerated themselves,
sure, learn the english language,
but know this much:
           english is the modern lingua franca...
it's the language of economics,
forget the natives, too ignorant to learn
either deutsche or française:
                what else, what other attitude?
even the russians are like:
that land of the weirdos? the idiosyncratics?
yes, we know that land...
the only "thing" that shelters the english
are the h'americans, the south africans,
the australians etc.,
  sure as **** the scots aren't sheltering them...
and, mind you?
   if the i.r.a. really wanted to plant
a bomb?
   a real bomb? they'd revert from speaking
any english to begin with... resorting
to revising their usage of gàidhlig:
ga-id-hlig... gaelic...
   like the welsh, stubborn people, proud people,
retaining their Çymraeg...
celt: said kelt...
the glaswegian football team?
       Çeltic... not: keltic...
  borrowed from the greek: sigma (ς: cedilla to ****)...
   wow! all the particulars in the english tongue!
guess it would take an ausländer to spot them!

U-21 european championships,
england versus romania:
                           a magnificent match...
the youngsters playing better football
than the oldies in their mid to late / early 30s...

i'm trying to tolerate Islam,
               it's not in my nature...
            hell... i enjoyed visiting a turkish barber
shop, i still have an unflinching opinion that,
the turks are the best barbers in the world...

              this quote, is going to **** you:
same aphorism / pondering (24 / X) -

*** fight videos - count dankula...
you know what i'd love to do to these little
snarky *****?
the french revolution isn't enough...
n'ah, them hanging, is not enough....
ever heard of the butchers' hook?
                 it's also callled close-up fishing...
imitation hang-man...
   you insert a fishing hook...
and you let the sweeney todd ****** dangle...
on a hook, rather than a noose...
lords of salem come your way?
i'd rather the snarky teen hanging off
a fisherman's hook than dangle
like some lynched ******...
beside the suffocation,
i'd like them with a fisherman's hook entombed
in their hard palette...
         i don't want them hanging...
what am i? a sadist?
  i want them on the fisherman's hook!
when suffocating without a broken spine absorbed
by the neck isn't enough!
  fisherman's hook gallows is a
masterpiece... of suffering...
  most certain...
  when cheap comedy is being towed...
making fun of bums, or homeless people...
the current society is so welcome
to bypass all the "adventures" of Loki...
but akin to the lords of Salem...
burn!? such a limitated imagination!

ah... right... digressing...
        the reflexive / reflective quadratic...
language - only if speech  has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it
become strong (enough) for the hidden
              play of its essential multivocity
(as withdrawn from all "logic"),
             of which poets and thinkers alone
are capable, in their own respective modes
and their own directions of sovreignty.

we do live in a time of a lost sense
of dialectic, since we do not live in a time
of etertaining dialogue,
perfectly sensible opinions,
that's all we have...

                       if one of these snarky *******
came up to me...
they'd get a chance to experience a rubric
of 4, knuckles...
what's 189 centimeters in empirical?
6ft2...      oh!
                   see where imagination takes you?
and here i was: thinking i was without it!
butcher's hangman...
oh, not so easy...
                fame by no association to fame...
just the tears of parents who raised their children
to be nothing more than rugrats...
annoying gnat like bothersomes;
and nothing quiet special to be associated
with weimar berlin...
     just, these,
   h'american mall onlookers
with pwetty-guy-for-a-white-fly-mentality,
as borrowed from californian
1990s punk;

re-used ****** losers.

mad-hatter's fraction: 10/6....
      well: to the given extent:
     1, 0, /6,
no number is divisible by 0,
every number, divisible by 1:
is the same number...
    mad hatter's 10/6...

   re-used ****** losers...
i like that phrase...
        7 for every 6, 7 for every 6...
until the 0. fraction comes
a 1.: exponential serf of 0...
0 being the multiplier...
         i really am growing a beard to less
don it, but rather to experience
a relief from patience...
war robots?
the first non n.p.c. game...
i like that, very much...
      and when i did:

you know my first experience of
love at first sight?
the younger sister of my then girlfriend...
****** up ****...

love at first sight is a terrible phenomenon...
i was nearing 18, she was barely 13...
i was dating her older sister...
but it was love at first sight,
the trouble with: love at first sight:
it doesn't lie...
it tries to lie...
          but it can't lie...

   paedophilia? a bit... untouched bodies
though... bodies of people who were
never supposed to touch...
i once said to a fwend:
well wouldn't it be ****** up if i touched
   she's a muse, which doesn't translate
into vacating her as a busy body
worth of a touch, does it?
     if only my old friend samuel said
sylvester "contra" tweety:
my first girlfriend...
but her sister?
         i was nearing 18, she was about 13...
love at first sight...
untouched, cradled, unscathed...
and so she remained...
   until she did what every girl would
have done...thank god she remained
a figment of my imagination...
   rammstein: rosernrot...
           i have seen love at first...
such a load of ******* that it had to be
the younger sister of a girl i was dating...
and the **** that i had to be 18 and see
was just beginning her teenage transition...
the world unfair i grant
the most justifications... as being
the (just - unnecessary adjective) arbiter...

love at first sight becomes a forbidden love...
love at first sight was always a forbidden
           and the sort of "love" that achieves
a perspctive of change that doesn't
translate into old age...
love at first sight is soon translated
into a love of affairs closely associated
with middle-age disenfranchised
state of affairs...
i.e. to love again...
            how else to feel relief from
having lost both one's inhibitions
               as well as one's ambitions?!
in the conundrum of the mortal
"question" of the continuum being
Kevin J Taylor Jun 2017
A poet's breast within me beats
Beats heart and something I call soul that leaps
Charges, races, racing, finds its feet
Drags me, joyful, joy-filled, from my seat!

Elevating common prose
For pleasures sake, each poet knows,
Gains by use of tools as those
He would at length, I’m sure, disclose

If payment were perhaps an ear
Just for a moment lent to hear
Keenly offered verse— or beer,
Loved by poets too, I fear.

Most often those who are unwise
Negate the poet’s enterprise
Out of their need to criticize
(Perhaps within their misery lies)

Quite certain they must find a fault
Regardless of the somersaults
Some poets do to try and halt
Those, who in the name of help, assault.

Unless you’ve written words as these—  
Verses made and meant to please
With just a little work to tease
Xenia* coaxed from a’s and z’s

Your day lacks all that razzmatazz—as
Zest for verse—and all that jazz.

*Xenia—gifts given to a guest or stranger. Xenia is the plural form of xenium.
This is an Abecedarian. First letter of each line follows the alphabet. Fun to do.

Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
Akemi Jan 2019
The Ache is leaving. Three years languished by dead end jobs, drugs and friends. Last week above a bagel store, the sun morphs mute amidst travelling clouds, indifferent fluctuations of light on an otherwise featureless day.

You arrive a tight knot of anxieties over a moment in time that could only have arrived after its departure. The Ache welcomes you into their sparse interior. You trace last month’s 21st across the black mould complex; navigate piles of stacked boxes, unsure if anything is inside of them.

“I always make the best friends in departure,” the Ache says, flipping a plushy up and down by the waist.

“Maybe you can only love that which is already lost,” you reply, with an insight a friend will give you a week later.

The acid tastes bitter under your tongue. Small marks your body bursting, a glowing radiance of interconnections you’d always had but only now begun to feel. The Ache follows suit and you sit on the couch together to watch .hack//Legend of the Twilight. The come up entangles you in the spectacle; the screaming boy protagonist, the chipped tooth gag, the moe sister in need of saving from the liminal space of dead code. You take part in it; you revel in it. Bodies morph on the surface of the screen in hyperflat obscenity, their parts interchangeable to the affect of the drama. Faces invert, break and disfigure, before reformation into the self-same identity form.

A month earlier, you’d hosted a house show at your flat. Too anxious to perform you’d dropped a tab as you’ve done now. An overbearing sensation of too-much-ness — of sickening reality — washed through the nexus of your being. You writhed on the ground screaming into a microphone as a cacophony of sounds roiled through you. Everyone cheered.

The floor rose later that night. A damp, disgusting intensity that triggered contractions in your throat and chest. Pulled to the ground, you fought off your bandmate’s advances, too shocked to express your revulsion and horror, to react accordingly, to reconstitute a border of consensual sociality. You broke free and slurred “I’m no one’s! I’m no one’s!” before running out of the room. Hours later, you tried to comfort them. Weeks later, you realised how ******* ******* that had been. Months later, you learnt their friend had committed suicide days before the show.

Back in the lounge, a prince rides onto the screen on a pig. You turn to the Ache and say “This is ******* awful.”

The Ache responds “I know right?”

Outside the world burns blue with lustre. The Ache trails you and falls onto their stomach. “Oh my god,” the Ache blurts, “this is why I love acid. Everything just feels right.” They gaze wistfully at the grasses and flowers before them; catch a whiff of asphalt and nectar, intermingled. “Like, gender isn’t even a thing, you know? Just properties condensed into a legible sign to be disciplined by heteronormative governmentality.”

“Properties! Properties!” You chant, stomping around the Ache with your arms stretched out. You wave them in the air like windmills. You bare your teeth. “Properties! Properties!”

“You know what I mean, right?” The Ache asks, pointedly. “You know what I mean?”

You continue chanting “Properties!” for another minute or two, before spotting a slug on a blade of grass beneath your feet. You fall to your knees and gasp “It’s a slug!”

You and the Ache stare at the tiny referent for an indefinite period of time, absorbed in its glistening moistures. Eventually, the Ache says “I think it’s actually a snail.”

You used to read postmodern novels on acid. You loved their exploration of hyperreality; their dissection of culture as a system of meaning that arises out of our collective, desperate attempts to overcome the indifference of facticity. Read symptomatically, culture does not reveal unseen depths in the world, but rather, constitutes shallow networks of sprawling complexity — truth effects — illusions of mastery over an, otherwise, undifferentiated and senseless becoming.

Then one day, the world overwhelmed you. Down the hall, your flatmates sounded an eternal return. As they spoke in joyous abandon you traced the lines from their mouths — found their origin in idiot artefacts of Hollywood Babylon. The joy of abstraction you once relished in your books took on an all too direct horror. You recoiled. You bound your lips in hysteria, for fear of becoming another repeating machine of an all too present culture industry. Better dumb than banal — better to say nothing at all, than everything that already was and would ever be. You cried and cried until everyone left — until you were alone with your silence and your tears and your nonexistent originality.

Dusk falls in violet streaks. You reach your room on the second floor of the building, open the bedside window and stick your legs out into a cool breeze. The Ache joins you. Danny Burton, the local MP, arrives in his van, his smiling bald face plastered on its side like an uncanny double enclosing its original.

“Hey look, it’s Danny Burton, the local MP.” Danny Burton turns his head. He glares at your dangling feet for a few seconds before entering his house. “You know, this is the first time in three years he’s looked at me and it’s at the peak of my degeneracy.” You turn to the Ache. “One of my favourite past times is watching him wander around the house at night, ******* and unsure of himself. He always goes to check on his BBQ.” You bounce on the bed in mania.

“See this is what people do, right?” the Ache says, mirroring your excitement. “Like, look at that lady walking her dog.” The Ache motions, with a cruel glint in their eyes, to the passerby on the fast dimming street. “What do you think she gets out of that? Doing that every night?” Without waiting for you to respond, the Ache answers, in a low, sarcastic tone “I guess she gets enjoyment. Doing her thing. Like everyone else.” The lady and the dog disappear beyond the curve of the road. Another pair soon arrives, taking the same path as the one before.

A few months back, you’d met an old friend at an exhibition on intersectional feminism. After the perfunctory art, wine and grapes, she drove you home, back to your run down flat in an otherwise bourgeois neighbourhood. She sat silent as the sun set before the dashboard, then asked how anyone could live like this; how anyone could stand driving out of their perfect suburban home, at the same time every morning, to work the same shift every day, for the rest of their stupid life. The dull ache of routine; the slow, boring death. You said nothing. You said nothing because you agreed with her.

“Life began as self-replicating information molecules,” you reply, obliquely. “Catalysis on superheated clay pockets. Repetition out of an attempt to bind the excess of radiant light.”

It is dark now; a formless hollow, pitted with harsh yellow lamps of varying, distant sizes. The Ache flips onto their stomach and scoffs “What’s that? We’re all in this pointless repetition together?”

You respond, cautiously “I just don’t think that being smart is any better than being stupid; that our disavowed repetitions are any worthier than anyone else’s.”

The Ache returns your gaze with an intensity you’ve never seen before. “Did I say being smart was any better? Did I say that? Being smart is part of the issue. There is no trajectory that doesn’t become a habitual refrain. When you can do anything, everything becomes rote, effortless and pointless.

“But don’t act as if there’s no difference between us and these ******* idiots,” the Ache spits, motioning into the blackness beyond your frame. “I knew this one guy, this complete and utter ****. We went to a café, and he wouldn’t stop talking about the waitress, about how hot she was, how he wanted to **** her, while she was in earshot, because, I don’t know, he thought that would get him laid.

“Then we went for a drive and he failed a ******* u-turn. He just drove back and forth, over and again. A dead, automatic weight. A car came from the other lane, towards us, and waited for him to finish, but he stopped in the middle of the street and started yelling, saying **** like, ‘what does this ******* want?’ He got out of his car, out of his idiot u-turn, and tried to start a fight with the other driver — you know, the one who’d waited silently for him to finish.”

You don’t attempt a rebuttal; you don’t want to negate the Ache’s experience. Instead, you ask “Why were you hanging out with this guy in the first place?”

The Ache responds “Because I was alone, and I was lonely, and I had no one else.”

It is 2AM. Moths dance chaotic across the invisible precipice of your bedside window, between the inner and outer spaces of linguistic designation. There is a layering of history here — of affects and functions that have blurred beyond recognition — discoloured, muted, absented.

In the hollow of your bed, the Ache laughs. You don’t dare close the distance. Sometimes you find the edges of their impact and trace your own death. All your worries manifest without content. All form and waver and empty expanse where you drink deeply without a head. Because you have lost so much time already. And nothing keeps.

Months later, after the Ache has left, you will go to the beach. You will see the roiling waves beneath crash into the rocky shore of the esplanade, a violence that merges formlessly into a still, motionless horizon, for they are two and the same. You will be unable to put into words how it feels to know that such a line of calm exists out of the pull and push of endless change, that it has existed long before your birth and will exist long after your death.

The last lingering traces of acid flee your skin. Doused in tomorrow’s stupor, you close your eyes. You catch no sleep.
“Self-destruction is simply a more honest form of living. To know the totality of your artifice and frailty in the face of suffering. And then to have it broken.”
Mike Finney Dec 2011

Go ahead and gorge yourself upon gallons of gaudy garments,
Gaining more weight got by galling garish goods I guess won’t

Let loose to the luscious luxuries of lackluster lemon and
Lots of lulling bedtime letters that will surely let at bay the

Unravel your unctuous mind and unwrap the unstoppable urge
That undeniably lives under unruly layers of

Together bring the talk of taking another tackle to your taciturn tally,
Taller the score and take down the tormenting tickling

Over and over in obscure ovals until objective becomes apparent
Only leaving orbs of former obliqueness’ obliging to

Never again nourish the need to negate the null to nonsense,
Leave behind the knots of then and live the neat of

Yesterday was yellow in yielding to yearning and
Today is your yet to the question of no or


Gradualy every great thing grounded in your gaudy life will grain,
Falling from grander to

Run away you realize will render you ridiculously reeled
Be the regal recall of natures

Even then elude the everlasting elasticity of your sins
Only to elect your own faults and

Evermore entrapped in the entity of your greed which eels
Its way through your

****** to depths of hell’s dungeons you will go down
If you never fix your


Wound so tightly your will won’t save you when the
Day weans of light to

Repent all you require if you really must, no reprise
Will be your

Again and again you’ve all but alleged all of your agitations
And now do you

Too many you take to the top and through to the terrible
Tale of

How do you have your hallowed hot-headed hate now
Had by all you


Silently slithering fangs strike and pierce into your supple skin
The serpent of Hades himself forcing you to succumb to
your sloth

Legs let leave your longing to linger standing
The lull of the luscious leisure of laziness
Calling you

Over and over you omit the need to oblige
Object the obscurities and overcompensate the

Though it takes away tell of your toes, stunning your talk
Teathering you to a tree and leaving you to the

However hollow the halo, the hearth of hasty hearts, may be,
you cannot halt it before is has you in its hold


Linger in line a little longer until your litenous lust
lessens to lethargic

Undone and unset you undermind your unity
and uncite all uncertainty, understand to this

Slung across a slat singing sultry in your stipple,
you slew to sound off your

Taught thoughtless logic tenderly apply topical treatment
to tape together the tatters, tonight a temporary


Eject and exact illusions of elected goals eluding your reason
So eject them for

Never return, never negate the negligence of this nuisance,
Need it

Vanquish your venomous vicarious visions so vivid
I assure you not very

Yearn no more and yearn by years how yellow
Can yell the


Perniciously palpable pigs of pride that so prate way their progress,
Putting all but prosperity in their own

Ridiculously cold rendering the most righteous of realist,
Even relenting to the racketeering of a

I too see an iota of insolence in intemperate impostors
Of what internal instances tell us is

Down the street dally a day and discover how detrimental
Such a disease dilutes the delineation of our past

Even if one ever eludes the elasticizes of this eccentric extortionist
Eventually another will emit it upon to you again
mrp3rs0nality Nov 2010

This is something tht I didn't have to have
I guess u can say I'm a victim of my swag
And whts tht u ask well thts my personality
The qualities and characteristics tht makes me 

Anywhere I go I leave w/ at least one friend
Humor w/ a little sarcasm who can contend  
The key to this is to stay ahead of the next man
See things happen before they happen w/o pretend
Which means u have to keep it real 
Be ready for wht ever but still remain chill 

Add all these factors up and thts not even a quarter of me
Even tho I'm giving u the blueprint equaling me is something u will never be  

You see people wait to see wht I'm going to wear 
Which makes it hard not to notice when people stare
But I don't care cause I give people inspiration 
The females sweating me w/o the perspiration 

And it's  amazing how some women hang on ur every word 
No matter how rude, obnoxious or absurd U will still be heard
I mean in all actuality a **** is wht they want 
Y'all embrace them inconsiderate ******* types ladies don't front

But on the inside to project this persona brings about alot of pressure
With ur preconceived notion of who I am w/me left to measure

So u can actually say tht I'm being me for you 
Even though u believe all my qualities to be unique and true
Because to be honest u put me before you

In an attempt to negate your own low self esteem 
Whether it be an acquaintance or a small association You make it bigger than it seems 
Placing me in undeserved high regards
Feeling tht I possess the best hand when you hold the trump card

You see this is just a brief look at the other side of the fence 
And even though it may be hard for me to convince
It because of ur interest tht my popularity exist

             By: @mr_p3rs0nality
@mr_p3rs0nality 11/29/10
Poetry by MAN Oct 2014
In the morning when I can't sleep
Whispers of love start to creep
What I find I didn't seek
Everything about you I want to keep
Close to me but oh so far
Distance doesn't negate beauty of a star
Inside each other is what we are
When you're away I bear a scar
Destinies door brought me to this place
Opened up my inner space
Regrets I feel..just a waste
Now a true spiritual love I taste
Hunger is feeling that is fed
Feed it with love till it's dead
To your heart it has lead
To these Whispers in my bed...
M.A.N 10-9-14
Steven Fortune Apr 2014
High ground
I concede to you
in the disproportion of a time allotted to you
for the choice of robe to grace
a glorified cameo around your flesh
like a sheet designated for an overthrowing
in an honorary statue's unveiling

Liturgy is looming in the bathroom
already hot-boxed in the metal waterfall's
mist of moisture and the mountain range of bubbles
I have settled comfortably into in wait

High ground
awaits your hallowed prance
into the concealed languish of your man's
dangling imagination

I salute you with incentive
through a lowering of eyes made necessary
by your towering above my horizontal soak

I'm beseeching you to wield royal sway
over the humility of my reclined posture
with the hidden scepter of your body
fated to dictate the pace of my
anticipated knighting

The gentle thud of fabric on linoleum
incites a turning of my head to take in
the litany of parts available to my
frenetic feels and jumbled focus

Stationary in your naked smile of proximity
you extend to me excessive time to entertain options
as I coat myself in lukewarm opportunities
and rise to meet you for a bathing in my excess wetness

I accelerate my exit to negate the bubbled tribuataries
sliding to the floor to meet the remnants of your mystery

The wall is cold and you protrude
haplessly to meet the rapid chilling of my undried frame
Warmth is of the essence
Fingers split your hair in celebration
of our uniform heights and I feel you slouch
signalling our first hint of friction
and a twitch in my diviner of your cradle of essential warmth
Do you realize you now rescind creative license?
Or have you filled the snare of your intentions?
Now your balance shivers in the mercy
of my curled leg of leverage
and an coiled arm collecting your ambrosial attributes
like an ice cream scoop
Uniform heights allowing eye contact
makes optional the visual acknowledgment
of my elastic hunting in the smooth field of your breast
with a dancing thumb
I connect and latch onto what is now
our binding axis and shuffle eye contact
with the universal rhythm of a pelvic power ballad
03 26 14
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
When I was six, my grandmother enrolled me in ballet class.

     This choice was the first of many attempts to negate my tomboyish nature. Perhaps, she’d hoped that instead of collecting insects and cutting apart Barbie dolls, the pirouettes and glitzy attire might spin me. I was spun, eventually, but that had nothing to do with dance.

     Blame it on my peers; blame it on the tutus. Truth be told, my time was generally spent out of sight; but I got my kicks sneaking a reptiles home, playing with dinosaurs - never dolls, or - of course - taming earwigs. Alone.

     I don’t remember the classes, or the other little girls. In fact, the sole (no pun intended) impression left behind by those dance classes was why they'd end.
It was to be my first recital. The whole class had been coaxed into flashy leotards and uncomfortable tights. We’d been instructed to skip in a single file line onto the stage, which catalyzed my predicament, as I hadn’t a clue about the routine.

     As the girl preceding me danced into view, I floundered in terror – my turn had arrived. I fumbled along in her wake, passing the curtain and reaching the stage.

     The stage!

     An arena of ruthless lights, unveiling my anonymity. I faltered in terror, registering the audience registering me. How vast the auditorium looked against my tiny body! Betrayed by those blinding stage lights, I cowered at the mercy of the whole world.

     The instructor, a faceless female, was showing whose boss as girls began skipping around me.

    And yet, there I stood. Petrified that moving forward negated any hope of escape. My proximity to the curtain merited two options... the bright side of the curtains, which would soon claim everyone else in the vicinity, or the dark. I engaged in a mental game of Tug-a-war that lasted all of about half a second.

     The dark curtains won.

     So, dodging around the obnoxious ballerinas, I descended back into safety. It mattered not where I went, as long as I put distance between myself and the audience. Distance between myself, and detection.

     At some point, I discovered a backstage crevice, in which darkness sheathed me. For, even at five, I understood dark and safety to be synonyms.

     So, I crawled inside, and I hid.

     I don’t remember who went seeking. Nor, do I know who found me. Nobody is a possibility; it was an “Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free” forfeit, perhaps. A rule that defeats the point of its own game. For at six, I was young enough to obey that “come out, come out, wherever you are” nonsense. But, such rules were dropkicked long ago.

     For, your existence – dear hide-and-seek – all but defines me. This game, that darkness, possesses my psyche.

     Some days, I ponder the uncertainty of memories. Vexed, for where memory dies, illusions are born. Illusions romanticizing reality – a reality in which I never came out, lost and unfound, a reality in which I’ll never come out, out, wherever I am. Hidden beneath the darkness.

     For, in truth, I have been hiding ever since.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)

Excerpt from my novel, Pretense.
She always sits in front of me
Face full of zits
Frizzy tight curls
Tacky clothes
Thin as a pencil  
You're so greasy
You're pizza
You're macaroni and cheese
Why are all the girls in this choir so hideous?
I get sick to my stomach
when I look at you
you are the smell of sickening sweet
an arts major
fishing for notes
following the leader
And worst of all
you're blocking my view of him
You negate the bliss I feel when I see his face
He's looking at me now
But you can't let him see me
I think he loves me
But you're blocking his view
Who else would he want in this section?
And then I glance behind me
Big ***** girl
Blond greasy hair
Eighties chic
Blue eyes
Brown coat
Red pouting lips
She's not ugly
But by logic she should be
And I realize I'm a fool
It's her
He can't stop looking at her
I'm getting annoyed
He can't control his head
Always turned to my corner of the room
What does she think of this?
But she's gone
I won't see her until tomorrow
Was he looking at someone else?
At me?
I ponder the mystery
Leaving choir and the pizza-faced girl
with a smirk on my face
Maybe I'm not an ugly choir girl
The psychological dance that goes on during a boring choir practice (or even, God forbid, an interesting one)...
marlene dunham Jul 2010
One simple thought
goes astray,
away -
beyond the limits
of decorum.

A mind
goes blind;
to the realm
of madness.

When reality
is the brutality
of suffering
against all odds
and logic;

The mind’s on
a pivotal perch
of distortion;
Sinking to the depths
of despair.

How to escape?
Where to travel -
Thoughts create,
minds negate.

Oh, to make things clear;
to again see
flee -
the insanity
of actuality.

What is real?
how to feel?
shall I kneel
and pray
for forgiveness?

for my mind  
to find
its home?
But to whom do I say
my incantations?

Why do my thoughts go beyond?
Who’s to say what is wrong?
What is right
I am strong!

Not insane.

© 2010 Marlene Dunham
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
always the pretty picture...
idealist love
      of awaiting the loves
of idealizing lovers...
   pristine gems,
from the depth of the Nile...
mummy ****...
never the slaughterhouse
*****, hard...
the butcher shop
         it will never be that...
the cold breath of air
of the autumnal night...
       always the most pristine
always the perfected
groom, and bride...
      how i whimper in the night
of this new reality
of the Stepford Wives..
         i found...
people who require a consistent
span of a man's attention...
are like machines...
reality t.v. shows are
but one outlet...
           like a mechanic discovering
faulty parts, the hidden parts...
the human condition,
articulated by secular
materialism of pure animation
within the confines of
a mechanization...
    fails, almost certainly,
every time it does fail...
the reason why the existence
of thought, doesn't translate
into much more than being,
but, rather,
translated itself from
the outlet that immersed
itself in doubt,
with the subsequent revisionism
of becoming immersed in

     to think,
but to subsequently doubt,
in order to be?
is much harder than...
to think, but to subsequently
in order to, "not" be...

because... where's is
the primordial existentialist
the thrill of uncertainty?
to think and to subsequently
doubt is to feed the necessary
thrill of being made,

but to couple...
to think and to subsequently
negate is to regurgitate
the necessity of a doubt of
non-being's Chinese whispers...

i might have worded this

to reiterate...
when thinking was coupled with
doubt, to translate itself into

the French existentialists were
nowhere to be found,
given, what they proposed was
that thinking ought to be coupled
with negation,
to translate itself into
a non-being...

                  denial is the crucible
pivot of expressing bad faith...
so what is good faith?
the old enemy...
doubt is a plethora of all imaginable /
unimaginable emotions...

the rubric, behind which stands:
doubtful Thomas.

how did negation affect St. Peter?
last time i heard...
St. Thomas was a scapegoat
for his virtue...
but St. Peter received a *******
but... St. Thomas doubted...
St. Peter? negated... twice... or was it

doubt is an expression
of innocence...
     denial is worse than the Satanic
lie of Eden...
      at least with doubt,
i can easily co-mingle thinking
with feeling...
but with denial?
  i can't co-mingle thinking
with feeling...
since i am enforcing
a lie, rather than freely laughing
about it...

   a lie freely observed and all the more
freely given,
compared to a lie forcefully
observed and all the more
forcefully made to obstruct...

negation = bad faith in Sartre's observation,
which is why,
doubt is to not be despised,
doubt = good faith...
because uncertainty,
a variant of agnosticism -
is... what Islam primarily teachers...
Islam doesn't teach anything
about the doubters of a faith,
a tickling emotion complex...
what it does teach...
is... equivalent of the chiral construct
of denying,
by persuasion to make,
nothing more, than an antithesis

and yes... i might be a drunk...
but when i read,
i manage to somehow regurgitate...
and it will never be simple...
because it's not supposed to be

  i can't make reiterations to bow
down to the populist simplicity
of the equivalence of
1 + 1 = 2.


how the French came back to
Descartes, by simply changing
doubt, to denial...


i think, i doubt, therefore i am...
i think, i deny, therefore i'm not!

the pains i have had trying to convince
someone outside of myself:
St. Thomas doubted,
St. Peter denied...

       it's not that hard to observe that
doubting is a healthy extension
of thought into feeling...
an ontological crucible... pivot... zenith...

how can someone not observe that
negation is an unhealthy extension
of feeling into thought...
an anti-ontological mound of sand...
a nadir?
i rather prefer the classical version,
the thought coupled with doubt...
i much prefer the labyrinth
of the heart...

because what is the alternative?
a labyrinth of the mind...
when feeling is coupled with negation...
i can't even begin to entertain...
the **** of free thinking,
enforced with every instance,
of making a denial,
                                 a perjury.

Satan didn't make a perjury,
the "supposed" lie...
is metaphorical for:
           an enzyme reaction...
arctic monkeys:
                                   my propeller...
why then... the echoes
of eons of the malicious laugh?
and Islam doesn't condemn
those who doubt...

but it sure as hell does know what
to do with those: negate,
forcefully lie...
    in order to gain some brownie
points in their ego-construction...

and... well... French existentialists...
i made my point,
i better stop reiterating
and deviating from the already given
focus points.
JDH Sep 2017
Part One
- Striking and the transfer of energy -

It would be my contention that most people, if asked where exactly the power in a strikers punch comes from, that many would reply with answers such as the arms, shoulders, hips or core. However, all of which are wrong to a degree, because these tenets of a strike are all secondary to the source of energy from which force can be generated: the ground. It is in fact the surface beneath a strikers feet from which much of the significant striking energy is generated up into the tips of their fist, with the mediator being technique. This knowledge alone of course does not produce an effective strike, however, this conception within the mind of a fighter alters how they see the process, for making a strike is simply the transfer of energy from one point to another.

How exactly that energy is transferred from the ground into the target is of course a matter of technique, but many traditional Martial Arts will teach the importance of the Stance in striking, particularly the rear leg. Before making an effective strike from a stationary or moving position, in many cases it is crucial that one's rear leg be straightened and not buckled at the knee, because, as the energy is generated from the ground into your target, that energy on impact will want to go back into the ground. However, by straightening the rear leg in your stance, much of this process will be eliminated as your body remains strong and upright upon impact. There are also many subtle nuances that can be developed regarding the Stance and the Strike, for instance, a short and strong push off of the rear foot before delivering a strike (whilst maintaining a straightened leg) can generate greater forward motion into your target. This technique can be developed through functional training of strength in the toes, ankles and lower leg, such as bouncing on the toes, jumping squats and other forms of exercise.

To use the example of the right hand straight punch (Gyaku tsuki) from a standard stance, it is also important to keep one's right side hip and shoulder locked back in a strong position, almost as a bowman draws his bow, as this creates a stance from which a tremendous transfer of weight can be shifted through your body. On making the strike, the sharp twisting of the hips and release of the shoulder will result in a launch of the striking hand out towards the target, not only creating speed and power, but also covering more distance via extending the shoulder and twisting the hips. This is why traditional Martial Artists are often able to fight from a distance and cover distance rapidly in making strikes.

Furthermore, to increase the power in a strike, it should be delivered in a whipping motion, and not in brute muscular strength. Many have a tendency to use the muscle strength in their upper body to create force, however, it is greatly more effective to relax these muscles when the strike is in motion, tensing only at the last minute in order to generate a whipping effect (sometimes refereed to as elastic recoil). Other ways in which this can be done is through a sharp twist of the wrist at the very last second from knuckles facing down to knuckles up (body punch) or to the side (face punch), as this will truly drive the strike into the target, also helping to generate that whipping effect on impact. On making this strike, as one's fist is thrown forward toward the target, a very slight and nuanced control of one's own body weight is too, greatly effective, as it is possible, through a short ****** of the upper body (whilst not lunging) to throw your weight through your arm, whilst remaining upright. This technique is so subtle that it is difficult to explain without demonstration, however, what is done is that as your leading foot lands before making the strike, one's body weight should follow that forward momentum for just a split second before releasing the strike which will create a kind of kinetic chain. This technique can be very effective if developed with control of your own centre of gravity.

Another greatly important tenet of making a strike that is often overlooked in many traditional forms of Martial Arts is protecting yourself whilst striking. It is important as you are most vulnerable when on offence (which is why timing is vital). Because of this I have tried to develop techniques that eliminate risk when striking, though, of course there are multiple methods that can be taken to minimise risk offensively, I will focus on what can be done regarding positioning. For instance, when throwing a right hand punch as your primary strike, to negate your opponents counter strikes, rather than advancing straight forward, it is possible to advance at an angle, i.e. stepping off with your leading foot to the left. This technique is more effective against straight punchers, however, can be effective in general as many are familiar with opponents advancing linearly toward them, thus the step off can be offsetting and will likely result in their punches travelling past you instead of into you, similar to how a boxer slips punches. What can also be added to this technique is that as you step off, rather than simply stepping with your foot closer to the ground, is to step with a swinging motion, lifting your foot clear of the ground. This will negate any possible sweeps to your leading foot that an opponent might make and will check any leg kicks. When defending yourself to counter attacks, your free hand can also be an effective tool to guard yourself. For example, it can be used to protect the left hand side of your head in a fist whilst the shoulder of your striking arm can be extended to protect your jaw. Alternatively, your free hand can be used to protect the right hand side of your head by crossing it across your body and having your palm outwards.

Finally I should add that a strike is most effectively made when your opponent doesn't see it coming.

  -  brought to you by JDH
Learn Martial Arts... sign up to a club!
Katie Day Jan 2014
I ask what your favourite word is.

You say you don’t have one, and
I don’t understand.

See. I’m a poet.

I tried hard not to be,
Rejected it with every
Fibre of who I am but
Words form in ways I can’t


You speak and I notice
There’s more in what you say than
You know.

Your voice is delicate,
Not in the way you sound words
But the way you phrase sentences,
Like the subject is something to be
hidden behind premises.
Some people grab chance by the throat,
****** you right into the center,
Until you’re drowning in meaning
And unable to listen to anything but the
Of your heart but

Not you.

I can respect that.

You’re all tact and logic and
It’s not about feeling
It’s about thought process and

I still don’t understand.

See, my tongue is clumsy,
It stutters and stumbles and smashes its way through life,

But it finds meaning where there isn’t any,
Notes how you say “Spoke”, not “talked”,
How you dance through every word in the English language because
Deciding on the right one
Has to be perfect.

I think that,
You are perfect.

My favourite word is puddle.

I don’t know why, but
When I say it, my tongue kicks
my teeth and
It reminds me of the way my
Consonants get heavier with
******* in my brain.
It makes language ridiculous,
Because the end of its vowel is so sudden
It should cut
But it’s so ******* round.


I can’t explain, not in words,
But I smile when you say it and
I promise you that sometimes
language is less about logic
And more about that feeling
in your gut
When you look
at me and verbs flow out of your mouth
And for once you’re not thinking
And, -

"I love you."

If you thought, it wouldn’t be true and -

"I love you."

Cogs whir to a halt and,

"I love you."

I don’t trust you for a second because
My mind is now skipping stones across oceans
Waiting for depth to show, yet
There’s nothing below,

but still,

Sail away with me.

Let’s leave language behind and use touch to define
The borders between where I start
And you stop.

We’ll find they’re less obvious than we’d thought,

Because I love you.

Not in the way that I say it but
In the way that your presence makes my stomach churn out musical notes
And I was broken, but I don’t want to seem desperate and
I guess that when you say you that don’t have a favourite
I realise,
Puddle’s a scapegoat.

My favourite word is whatever name you’d give for the
Goosebumps on your skin when I touch you.

My favourite word is the colour of your eyes.

My favourite word is the way your voice goes real high when you’re excited.

My favourite word is how I can feel where you touched my flesh, for days after we last met.

My favourite word

Is you

But I’m too shy to say it.

So here, take puddle,

And run away with it.
This is part of my poem a day challenge.

It's actually a piece of spoken word, which you can hear recorded on my poetry blog here:
We adore the hour
Of enduring madness
We are crude and cruel
Like tigers in the morning
We are food for the gods
Who stayed too long
And strayed too far
From their solitary pantheons
We are the shadows of Psyche
Tirelessly shorn from our bodies
We are retired armies
These conglomerates of hatred
Fed up with feminine values
We are salivating angst
We are manic depressive virgins
Coercion is comical
This is evil incarnate
Sardonic solitude shrouds You
In it's vision-less vicissitudes
We are used to being used
And fed ignorance like food
We are bored and longing
For some muscles to flex
So we could attest to our problems
I contest your victory
And seek meaning in expression
Anger is reflexive yet still we beg to differ
Our questions rejected
By an authority we entrusted
To naively negate our egos
We collect puzzles and never solve them
We form alliances with psychedelic buffalo
While meditating butterflies chart
Their ancient transmigration patterns
We are pinnacles of virtue in vitriolic prisons
We administer to the needs of the ordinary soldier
We are shouldering too much responsibility
For if you were entrusted with love
Then please don't abuse it
We are bundles of wood
Woven together like fragile tapestries
We are strategies unused
We are moody lovers confused by each other’s apathy
Our lack of touch erupts into violent volcanoes
Spewing fumes in our bedrooms
We are ****** handed
Balancing on our fingertips
While plummeting a thousand feet
To the bottom of endless seas
We are cheap like sheet-rock and shelves
Upended in an earthquake
We are all that we tell each other
We are purely made from stories
Defending our allegorical right to exist
We are so ******* boring
That our own made-up gods
Can do nothing but laugh
At the infinite ignorance of our species
We are a genus of ingenious desperation
Who gave measurement such an important trophy
That we are beyond permanently broken
And can now fatefully begin authentically working
On fixing our sights, minds, hearts
Hands and bodies upon uniting
With our deepest spiritual longing
I gave up stroking my ego a long time before I met you
What’s next will you expect me to beg for your indulgence
We are making amends for the ways
We dissected our reality
It's a tragedy that the objectification of objects
Leads to a such a Complex Elegance:
These isolated sediments are perplexed at our own self-vehemence

What a way to begin
The end of our undoing
Begs for our compassion
We are not allowed to forget
So we go to sleep
And whenever we awake
You immediately take
Our breath away
To protect against
The faintest chance
Or hint of our remembering
Poetic T Dec 2014
It would take time
"Upon a promise"
I would never let you pass
Meant nothing as we were
Connected, what I had to do
Took conviction,
To keeping you within the living
"Blade Of  Essence"
"Drink to your full"
Each one I shed a tear for
But love concurs all,
Many must negate there existence
For one to live,
"It took all life with but a ******"
Essence of life concentrated but a drop
"Each had felt bone cut In to flesh"
There features fluctuated, then dust
For with out
Remained,  a breath of wind
Pasted and features were lost
As into the abyss they disappeared,
I needed to fill all
There were five pins, each one held
The essence of many lives,
I had taken many,
But it did not only give life
"Restored youth"
I had been at this such a long time,
The scars upon flesh never heal
I grip hard as I cut,
Marks, are a story of my journey
I do this for
"She is my existence"
I have taken so many
So much essence
Now my journey nearly ended
So few left to fulfil existence,
I need her to
Conquers all, each fought valiantly
But the blade greeted each and all,
I have filled the pins, now is the time,
"Each given of essence"
"All bleed life"
"That which was before"
"Essence of life restore as was before"
I paused, I waited an eternality
Of moments,
Breath returned
Pulse returned
Angelic in her looks,
Her eyes opened after so many lifetimes
"She gazed upon me"
Saw scars upon flesh
I told her the moments of eternity
That love lives forever
And nothing in
Would separate two beats as one,
Lips were connected
So many lifetimes
Met in moments, love breathed anew
Then pain shuddered
"I felt weak"
"Whispers echoed upon fading life"
"Love can not be feed with taken life"
As lips caressed, life turned to dust
"Our embrace were moments"
Then I realised that love conquers all even death
"What had I done"
Taken so many,life for life isn't living
"We were but concentrated droplets"
Our moment now lost to the winds
"The blade of essence"
Drank its full, may we both find our love in the **afterlife..
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
that's what i found so problematic in
understanding thought,
but concerning the idea of a flux
i found the stasis point in it,
it was better translated by the cartesian basis
of inquiry, i can't negate thinking
because the ontology of thought
is primarily synthetic to pass the time,
rarely analytic unless professional,
so i dropped the a priori / a posteriori
compounding crap and came up with
good enough reasons for cognitive analysis
and cognitive synthesis...
i can relax now, i guess...
so wrote something in a hardcover by horace
to remind me of the origins of biases and bases...
kindergarden swing tactic and pendulum continuum,
i hate to break it to you, but my thought
has no megaphone in the 18th century,
but my words have a place in the 22nd century
given the 21st century provide the images
i'm bound to decipher...
i guessed the asian girl was a robot...
and subsequently i thought all those things
i wrote in the poem prior...
imagination is hard to insist with regards to successful
usage... it uses no patent geometry or
skeletal phoneticism of reminder...
you will not remember a picasso to say something...
but i bet you'll remember an m to utter the sound
em em mmm mumble, funny how it works.
we're not in art gallery... we're just buying
potatoes for home-made *****...
we're living under martial law in poland
before the anticipated soviet invasion and we're happy...
not like now... the silicon god of the microchip
chopped our limbs and we lost the amazon
green for london grey cement and cemetery...
we're here, there's not point poking fun at my grimace
with a flashlight.
so losing the timing of knowledge... the spacing
of knowledge is an onion metaphor for a working
car engine: drilling team in arabia,
the pirates of somalia,
the cargo ships from scandinavia,
the flirty whipping rich boy scouts asking for
a next **** mojito of fever...
well... i did the opposite to english...
i allowed "*****" words into the vocabulary i use
rather than allow dirt images to weave a spiderweb
enclosing the spider...
i rather censor images than censor words...
poor tactic to censor images...
sometimes a nibble of sadism will penetrate
this whole provision of safe *****,
censor "*****" word usage and you'll only
allow dirtier than the ***** words to enter via
images... my god... you must be a sensitive cubist!
we'll allow **** cannibalism and squares...
but we won't allow the representative of
seasonal cannibalism of spring eating autumn
with the tetragrammaton's H & H (twinned temperament
in coordinate starting vector 0ºC
then donning the appropriate clothes while
the trees change their muscles leaving the skeletal exposed),
or acknowledging that there's only a definite
capital delta / y in writing -
we synthesised the square the circle the triangle...
we got π and pythagorean equation...
we gave these shapes the thesis categorisation of scalpel...
we cut with them...
but then they cut us... mathematicians committing
suicide with drills over the π-continuum
that's anti-trigonometric surrounding anti-matter...
but as society goes... courtesy in speech
doesn't necessarily provide courtesy and chivalry
in action...
censor the words ****... and then watch the emerging show
that's antonymous to the majority of time
spent in commute: dumb gloom & grey fancy
to create a rainbow like a shaman.
Eric Logan Nov 2010
There's a pretentious air
In the way you presume I care.
How could it possibly be fair
To treat brother like mare?

To pass on your obligation
Is to inspire my frustration.
The thoughtlessness and abdication
Resumes hateful thoughts of vindication.

One asks not for reparation
Or from friendship a vacation.
Just a token of creation
Of an equal-footed communication.

I won't hold grudges, or hate
But you've been tense as of late.
You've been jumping my words to conflate
The words for your anger I use to negate.

Could you just chill out?
Nobody is out to get you.
It's hard to be a friend
When even enemies get more respect too.
JJ Hutton Mar 2014
There will come a day,
probably a Tuesday,
you'll be hoeing and
yanking yellow weeds
by the handful, the
sun in the center of
the sky; Or you'll
be climbing through
your lover's window
while her husband
unlocks the front door,
thinking to yourself,
"Jesus, we didn't
even do anything
today. Just gave
her her insulin shot,"
and your heart
no longer pumps
so much as begs,
begs for silence,
but that's funny,
isn't it? because there
isn't any sound,
only the perceived
dissonance of a
scattered mind;
But maybe, if you're
lucky, it'll be at night,
the two of you in bed,
and she'll timidly ask
if you're hungry,
and you'll say what you
always say to that question:
yes, yes I am, and she'll
ask if you want a sandwich,
and you'll say, "I'll get it."

"You're too sweet."

"It's not a problem."

After spreading the mustard,
there'll be a pain in your chest,
mild at first, just at first, but by the
time you get halfway down the
hall you'll drop the plate
of sandwiches on the floor
and ***** in the toilet,
and you'll probably know
then what's happening;
But what did you ever do
to earn that kind of quiet,
relatively quiet, ending?
You've got a few things in mind,
but you've got a few more bad that
negate any kudos any kind
of god would award, so
let's be honest. That's what
you want, right?

Death will wake you up,
probably around 6 because
you've never been a morning
person, and when you wake
it won't be from a feeling, like
a physiological manifestation,
no, no that'd give you time
to remember Mom in the
hospital when she called
you by the wrong name.
No, Death will come in
the form of a headache,
and if your wife was
there she'd already be up,
and she'd say something
like: "Poor baby," and
get the Tylenol out of
the cabinet to the left
of the sink for you,
but she's not there, is she?
No, she's living with her
sister right now while
you "figure yourself
out" and your
kids, two boys and a girl,
all grown with families
of their own, think you've
been selfish, but what was the
word you countered with?
"Necessary." Yes, it's necessary,
you'll think as you pop three pills
in and run your mouth under the
facet, and you'll collapse, pills
rolling across the floor, stopping
under the cabinets where no one
will ever find them. Your vision
will burn white; it won't fade to black
like you thought, and your head, Jesus,
your head sounds like tools in a dryer,
but you know there is no sound, and
this is it, this is honestly it, you alone
on the floor in nothing but your
grey boxer shorts, the ones riddled
with holes that your wife told you to throw out,
and a fragmented halo of Tylenol around you.
Your wife. Your wife. Your wife. Your wife.
You'll say her name, you'll say "Eve,"
and your mouth will close itself, and your
fist will unclench itself, and you know what?
That'll be it, to borrow a phrase. Nobody
will find you for three days, and even then,
when they do, they'll wish they never had.
Joshua Adam Jul 2015
Finally reaching the crossroads, we will find out, having been unaware
unfulfilled obligations still remain below, but then, sadly we didn’t care
past opportunities will forever be lost, leaving everything else behind
failing to have prepared, a loss only now beginning to plague our mind

Life’s journey has brought us here, we at the end of the line
existence in a new form, truth finally revealed, heaven’s sign
decisions are required, before we enter through our last door
destiny no longer to ignore, our time in this world is no more

Crying for those we are about to leave, those good-byes never seem to suffice
so many engulfed in self-deception, with bloated egos facilitating a life of vice
time no longer a barrier from the truth, and we will now clearly be forced to see
how we foolishly wasted precious time, thinking our own pleasures were the key

When we breach the crossroads, there will be no time left for us to reflect
all that has happened, now a memory, upon which loved ones try to connect
neither gold nor silver can do us any good; money has no value in the grave
squandering spiritual investments, eternal happiness we can no longer pave

When trust is the foundation of faith, then hope still exists, it will never take flight
what is required of us is an inner strength borne of conviction, and the will to fight
accepting nothing as too difficult, diligence is the goal to be kept constantly in sight
by utilizing the power of prayer, since it reaches above the tallest mountain height

You’re alive, so never give up no matter what they tell you, you alone hold the answer
when hearing the sarcasm and negativity of those around you, avoid them like cancer
remembering always you were created in G-d’s image, the entire universe will attest
a chance for eternity awaits, but first we must pass our, individually tailored, divine test

To which category of human did you belong?, of us will G-d most certainly inquire
Did you honor all men created in My Image, or did you revel in hatred and conspire?
for you to recognize My plan for a perfect world, by being an active participant I did await
thereby bestowing upon you this ability, hoping you follow My plan, using “Good” to create

I put before you the chance and ability, did you spread love, or choose to hate?
either to follow or negate evil from within, this power to choose your own fate
sound advice is to think wisely and choose nobly, and to do whatever it takes
prepare now while there is yet time, before it’s too late to fix those mistakes
To which category of human do you belong?
Timothy Brown Jun 2013
Allow me to project my insides
Beside your ear.
Certainly you can
Determine how the
Emptiness within my body
Forgoes the exuberance
Gathered on the surface.
Haphazardly phrased fragments
I speak
Just to be heard, even faintly.
Knowing my words
Level worlds,
Monopolize hearts,
Negate negativity,
Omitted from the explicit.
Perfectly formed fractures
Qualm me as they
Reverberate through my body
Slithering their way
Through Timothy's
Viciously assaulting
Where they fit best.
Xenobiotic and almost parasitic
Yarns about a
Zealous life not yet lived
© June 21th, 2013 by Timothy Brown. All rights reserved.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2015
Nat Lipstadt     3 hours ago

your answer to my caring but simple "checking in with you" inquiry, overwhelmed me and I have required days to fully comprehend the textured life of a man who see everything in color combinations that deserve recording in whatever medium his heart chooses. Time was needed, time to summon up the courage to reply with smithy-crafted, wright-shaped words that honor your honed skill.

my heart is gladdened by your inescapable ability (no, you cannot escape it) to perceive the values of life external and internal, that make your poetry a symbolic representation of all that is fine in the most aweome title that one can award ones self, human.

I am well aware that life has never given you a flush in the cards you were dealt. Nonetheless in e v e r y word you have written you have betrayed yourself as a loving man, appreciative of nature's gifts, and reenforcing them with fresh perspectives.

i make no pretense anymore; all poetry writing is a personal ledger kept, by which we daily, almost constantly, measure ourselves and record the small moments that sum up who we were, are and who we desire yet to be. Thus, indifference by others, no matter why, oft leads to a misleading sense of lesser self worth.

I well recall years ago reading your poetry here and ******* air in gulps as I basked in your lush attentiveness to the world in which we co-exist.
I even praised myself, by keeping your company.

You do not seek praise for self, but our shared gods have made our paths cross, so that like Abraham arguing with God not to destroy the evil cities of ***** and Gemorrah, if he can but find even just ten worthy men, so do I pray to anything, anyone, anywhere, I pray, if almost for selfish reasons, that your urge to write, to share, to see beyond the loveliest surfaces of our world and let others rest upon them, and to gift them to an almost,  undeserving  but needy world, never finds the Isle of Surcease.

If one man presses his claims upon the scales that judge your life, then all the weight of worth I load upon one side, in your favor, to beg you, let this single man's devotion to your cause, living with all the good and the sad that is therein contained, be sufficient to persuade that you must never suffer easily the delusion that your poetry is lacking  in any manner to prevent your sharing.

If not here,
then tell me where we can find each other's "instant messages" of recorded moments, that you uniquely supply.

I cannot ever obtain a good understanding of your perfect storm of the last seven years, but what you shared here and in every word you have ever writ, like my prayer here and the ones I have yet to utter, let them all, letter by letter, rise thru and up like the mists of dawn, travel gently upon the slow currents of our rivers, to reach you well received and by any deity,  willing to let us lend a hand.

Re demons, we defeat them or at least negate them, even temporarily through writing. Another reason to share your work, if even one sole solitary reader, gasps for air when reading you, if but one sheds tears at the human kindness you to continue to disclose in the quilt of quality of your works, to lift one soul's weighted-down heart, you have to, must,
feel obligated to share.

I have no more words to plead, so I will arrogant demand of you to accept this one fan, one devotee, one lover of your skill at capturing and then releasing, your words ever glow in this man's essence, as both necessary and sufficient.

forever yours,

My message to another poet whose work was simply magnificent, but who has ceased to post and woefully, has deleted too many...

October 23, 2015

5:30 am
like  dont  love  make  man  life  priest  time  soul  know  just­  thats  fear say  eyes  place  way  light  want  god  evil  does  lie  live  h­ate  open thought  tell  lives  listen  great  memory  spoke  deep  words  ­night earth  pain  told  head  broken  sister  away  sky  lust  leave  ­hands  smile close  dark  lost  bed  theres  end  messes  doubt  memories  mor­ning mountain  wont  purpose  souls  think  breaths  heart  boy  twin ­ day silly  bleeding  lies  im  mouth  flesh  world  self  asked  trie­d  chance understand  face  really  cause  truth  faith  things  body  burn­  kids shadows  says  bodies  wall  circle  ground  true  floor  skin  s­imple  gods children  fall  clean  lovelust  believe  eye  laugh  demon  bett­er  die forever  path  questions  late  guess  coin  help  room  ive  ask­  left heaven  fears  yes  create  short  control  voice  long  torture ­ met welcome  rip  brain  thing  hell  touch  disgusted  bitter  piece­  skies gone  lose  turning  knows  fate  forgive  human  making  humans ­ afraid infinite  sly  drive  liked  clear  switch  died  peace  begin  s­laughter  wait forth  oh  accept  forgotten  spark  ones  makes  today  minutes ­ return angel  moments  imagination  matter  walked  good  old  pass  sha­ll tortured  limb  wears  flashlight  dead  vengeance  nature  passe­d  filled road  rambling  pie  denied  line  angrily  hunger  havent  passa­ge  feel breathing  past  friends  slowly  try  hear  fight  doesnt  havoc­  talent knock  searching  poems  stain  ears  release  selves  taste  cov­er  moon speak  tongue  rumble  wouldnt  free  trick  relationships  sense­  started gates  born  rumbled  morlis  poem  losing  cameras  goodbye  bli­ssful longer  tightly  curse  death  regard  rotten  starving  gold  fl­ipped young  sees  invite  apathy  killed  cast  lot  dies  brother  pr­ogress  weak  alive tossed  rock  magazines  trees  black  passes  backs  alright  re­ap  shell lasts  desires  albedo  admitted  *******  simpler  toast  regar­dless person  faithful  instead  character  moved  conversations  flutt­ered  murdered  fights  grow  darkness  silent  meaning  dew  off­er  climb claim  rainy  almighty  fade  pleasure  power  pretending  bury  ­wanted supposed  thoughts  participating  story  missing  trusty  need  ­blisters  slumber  people  bet  humble  fearful  sins  shame  dea­l  fast  look profound  got  bow  innocent  blame  dim  flip  biting  learns  l­ungs crashed  run  unbroken  written  horizon  little  ****  tree  pau­sed moment  flows  beating  randomness  delights  faultless  tall  pa­ges jumps  wonder  tear  social  began  animals  doubted  unquenchabl­e wounds  nice  watch  attack  guerrilla  bring  despot  hurt  loud­  goes resting  cow  *******  deeper  crying  brothers  pulled  window ­ prowl sioux  hubris  capture  heat  cold  stop  low  writhing  happy  c­hilds reveal  finger  years  pools  stupidity  turn  second  drop  plan­et difference  whisper  stuck  flicker  kg  walls  car  cruel  commu­nity  led page  killing  jeans  crap  bandaging  frees  victim  falls  appl­e  chair tough  bunch  choice  watching  torn  anger  wise  desire  false ­ final forced  bounds  bakery  thousands  hours  used  cope  breath  def­eat frightful  nightfall  fateful  tripe  faces  easier  gown  dream ­ pull snatched  punished  falling  curious  congested  lights  burns  d­rives  ill ****  forgives  hand  cruelty  allie  rant  copes  naked  youthis­  fuss structured  exterior  break  despise  sit  question  closing  sis­ters  right dragged  came  arms  created  obscene  advantage  structure  blas­t ringing  fires  happen  vein  lived  wants  rained  nose  join  s­lices  knew listener  hold  far  fog  skye  shut  wanting  destroy  spot  cor­rupt  negate tells  defines  reply  hair  proud  obviously  moaning  wash  tra­gedy summoned  future  distance  telescopic  filth  hoofs  adjusted  l­earn write  high  weve  selfthin  rites  contact  ribs  devour  mounta­ins  haze scared  pleasures  reflect  hurry  wet  journey  exists  comments­  bullet shadow  ****  driven  pointed  ******  heavy  stood  breeze approaching  desperate  torch  fullest  dreams  bullets  plight  ­weeds fills tested  hearts  packages  borrowed  chose  experiences  similar  ­select  warn  flourishes  seas  scarred  mother  support  oceans ­ universe protect  chest  devices  itdidntmatter  hollow  fervor  ****  dri­vel  birth asks  shotguns  sight  bee  bath  climbed  snow  freedom  ignore ­ suns shriek  tumbling  kind  riot  survival  buying  waiting  patientl­y  finished manwoman  procreate  painsufferingloss  lilly  rain  vain  shadow­less minds  girlfriend  zone  mechanized  flame  bridge  unhappy  star­s thousand  finalizing  contribute  mark  leaves  age  village  smi­led  dog flick  confused  lock  door  counterparts  demands  steak  felt  ­shared monsters  angry  loss  hope  stopped  wheres  enemies  temple  ab­yss hawk  smiles  compels  bold  tired  load  seconds  youthful  heed­  killers puppets  fabrication  peels  missed  grace  scream  flew  languag­e generation  neat  spy  joke  saved  scorched  golden  delicate  r­each  split girl  key  ashes  await  judged  fools  rewards  mean  gear  town­  small maladjusted  real  stone  tries  opened  meanness  remember  flow­er clue  heaving  website  meager  spider  promises  whats  sea  att­ain  wind bacon  forget  mist  clouds  studied  layer  shout  divine  watch­ed  brings plane  paradise  half  song  burning  kid  turned  dumb  calls  w­ork disconnected  magic  pan  wish  bird  blinding  fresh  grasp  scr­ub moves catch  jealousy  hated  eating  everyday  remembered  annoying cracked  outpost  ****  happened  haunting  awake  tricked  steep­  hole judge  amor  oblivious  deny  wards  days  isnt  bad  feast  cram­med slipped  studying  trade  burger  force  regret  breakfast  ***  ­new  word popped  meaningful  dutiful  presents  shower  claws  producer  t­rapped given  burnt  coming  decide  crosses  leads  denial  remains  ti­mes shank  mi  letting  organs  escapes  friend
(c) Isaac C. Thornhill
Anthony Perry Sep 2015
I get too deep in my own emotions, I never even attempt to try and bring myself back because I know that when I’m depressed they just become delusions. It’s simple to say that friendship can keep you sane but honestly, it’s the comradery the keeps me sheltered in an uncomfortable silence. Hearing about the pleasures someone can indulge in makes my heart break, then to hear them complain about the small demons they face in life just simply makes it hard to agree with their outlooks when I’ve seldom ever seen my happiness at its peak. It’s hard to think of them outside of our time together when almost every moment of my time is hard to fabricate. I love them but sometimes it feels like I have to liquidate and make my escape before I create a situation where I will negate the comfort I’ve created with them, it’s so hard not to express the feeling to leave.
Owen Phillips Jan 2011

I came to see The King originally for a favor
I was a troubled writer
I searched around my home and inside myself for some kind of cure
A trick solution... Basically
I didn't want to practice
Work hard and get better.
Try and try harder
No, it was more important that I quickly and easily achieved greatness
That killed me.

I want to take you inside the moment
Have you feel the real emptiness of me
There is nothing there still.
Arrested development.



It overcomes
And I try to make the decision to better mysef
But this unbearable loneliness
Inhibits action.

This was The King's curse
The King's curse this remains.
And all of it my own fault

This is me now
Walking aimlessly forward on a barren canvas
Blissfully ignorant to everything
And everything is nothing anymore
And nothing becomes something to me
A crutch I cling to for my life
And all of this is just wandering
Without hope of accomplishment
Of even the
Minimum. minimum. MINIMUM. mINIMUM

I know some people like to keep me blind
And they don't realize it
They don't understand
Where I have lost myself
The worst part is owing that they have an idea
The worst part is KNOWING that they KNOW
That they KNOW

Knowing is important
I KNOW this now
The important thing
about knowing
Is not knowing.

Being helpless becomes the fire escape
And as I climb down to escape my landlord
I encounter other tired helpless wanderers
Slumped all over the floor, blocking several ladders down
Before I push them aside
Alienating them too

I can't let myself be friends
Or even friendly or respectful or even
Decent and not unkind
With so many people
Because they can't let me let them.

I tell lies.
They can't make me let them let me become any of those things.
Not that anyone would want to

I want everything I say
To be known by everyone
And understood and not judged
And forgiven so that I can start over.

Because the past year has become
A wrinkle in time
I have found the Time Machine
The simple mechanism
Which brings down worlds.
The most dangerous invention.
The beast that slew the kings of days gone by
And if I were stronger I would fight the beast
But I am weak and bend to their will

I am a textbook example

I am the kid in the southern gothic scene
I am the overdramatized case of redemption
I am the same as everyone who ever went before me and
I am the one who nobody expected, but
Then in a way kind of did.
You know. The textbook example.

I am the one who dreamed too hard.
And dreaming really is the only thing I do.

I try to create some reason I should buck the system
But creation isn't possible with that attitude
The ambitious negate the ambition
In this world which is always
Counter to the will
And disposition

To be rewarded for a passive existence would be a crime
It's irresponsible of anyone to let me have my way
But I can't blame them, it's easier that way
I make it impossible for them to stop me
And my punishment is losing the audience

And the audience is the only thing I want.


I present to you a string of drunken accidents
Expect you to justify it for me
And fly away and
Sleep forever
Which is all I want to do


Most unhealthy most unhealthy
Just give me a chance
I'm Michelangelo drawing caricatures on the boardwalk.

No I'm not.


I can't start to consider myself better than you in any way at all

And now when I wandered through the jungle
I stumbled upon a situation
A guy was trying to **** a guy whose giant hooves were crushing me as I walked by
And I fought them both and beat them all.

And now somebody else
Hand a transitory period
A mind-expanding event
Did something good
Like I always want to.

I'm a kind of Don Quixote
But less good
More bad.


Desolate, washed up
Thin and swollen face
Barely tell the difference 'tween sleep and wake
Pigeons and rats, dogs and cats
Late at night it's snakes and bats
I just sit there numb, unmoving
Happy with my new solution
Saw no use in concentration
Drugs just give me resignation
Takes the key from my ignition
A year from now the new expansion
Will see me as an aberration
And up will rise a league of nations
Dressed in all the latest fashion
Take my name, identification
Throw away my medication
I can't rise to the occasion
I can't understand the notion
I can't meet the expectation
I can't locate my location

I don't have your full attention


How can I catch up
When you dropped my body off at the beginning
And brought my mind all the way up to the end?

How can I cheer up
When I walk into a confrontation
With the obvious intention
Of losing my head?

How can I shape up
When the way to do what's right
And the way to do what's wrong
Are just the same way?

How can I come out
When my life has been the open file
That everyone has rifled through?






...orward on a barren canvas
something something
mumble mumble
wimble wimble wimble
Blissfully ignorant of everything
The surface of Mars I wander
I walk forward
I take turns
I act as if
I have a destination
I take turns
I walk forward

On the surface of Mars

After a while I think about nothing
Think about nothing
Think about nothing
Rhythms and patterns help move me along
Move me along
Move me along
The sirens of cycle are calling to me
Calling to me
Calling to me
And anything novel is something to see
Something to see
Something to see
A lot of the time I get stuck in a loop
Stuck in a loop
Stuck in a loop
A loop
A lot of the time I get stuck in a loop

A loop

And then the loop
A loop
Becomes a ring
A loop
It wraps itself around my finger
A loop
And the ring rings out to you
A loop
Ring. Ring.
Wring ring
Of its ring
But observers are observers
And they observe me
And I am never sure of their intention
I know they care less than I know they do
But I know enough to stop them from knowing
Or at least, I know that
And I know it is untrue
I believe and disbelieve


I wake up and look around
They've woken me from ancient slumber
Noises bright lights total confusion
I lash out into the blinding light
At nothing in particular
I look down at myself
See myself in this pure light
See the sutures and the scars
All drawn on with pen and ink
But the flesh beneath is rotten too
Rotten in its shallow and unstable condition
Naked and afraid I lash out again
At nothing in particular
At myself in fact
But directed out at everyone
Nurses and technicians who monitored me in my embryonic tube
That is all anybody is to me
That is all there is around me
In this chaos I can see no option
But to relish in the madness
Bite the hand that feeds me, in a way
In fact, exactly, but...
Maybe it's about time it was bitten
No use deciding
Already biting
So I destroy so I may escape
But I escape and then I know not what to do

(inside the moment. Inside the moment of realization.
The sensational horror of staring off the edge.)


Sometimes when I'm
Crawling through
Alleys, over
Fences through
Drains under
The streets

I start to experience moments of lucidity
At times I am not lost and I'm not incognito
And at times I would be safe even in the wide open streets
At times I realize just where I'm going
And I can look with clarity and laugh at all the comedy
The desolate dark comedy of errors called existence
And if I wanted I could sidestep my own mask
Just tell the world that I've been kidding
Just limp away with a chuckle and a wink
Just gather up the pieces, start again, I really mean it this time
Just forget what has happened
I already have... Why couldn't anybody else?
They already did... What's the problem?
They can forgive, perhaps forget, but never will their respect return

And anyway I still crawl through
Alleys through
Fences through
In secret
And I'm sure
The authorities
Still know where I am
I'm sure that
To be discreet
Could be the secret

And accusatorily I'm followed
And later punishment slips past
Looming overhead,
A hawk-like creature
Many biting heads
Head 1 is Guilt
Head 2 is Shame
Head 3 is Pain
Head 4 is Doom
Head 5 is Fate
Head 6 is Nature
Head 7 is Justice
Head 8 is Mercy
Head 9 is Man
Head 10 is Woman

Fearsome talons
Talons of words, forces, actions, feelings
Even in escape I have to fear for my survival
With so many threats around me there are no safe bets
Particularly when I try to get away
And in the struggle try to knock The King's curse loose
It's happened once or twice or even four or five times
But every time it finds me here again, again


Now indebted to The King
My waking Hell now worse than Nightmare
The curse is pulling all the strings
My conscience is empty and bare
Violence, violent times I live in
A living extrapolation
And in a way it feels like Heaven
Drenched in much more exploitation
Create a monster of myself
To rid the pain of being man.
My life is nothing like this anymore (thanks in part to this poem)
Rudra Pandya Sep 2018
Souls and fire
It’s time to introspect,
No one is ever perfect,
Yet when there is a desire to strive,
The fire in our souls remains alive.
We learn, we inspire, we create,
We fall, we fail, we negate,
Yet when there is a spark in our eyes,
The fire in our souls remain alive.
Loneliness and anxiety hit us hard,
Our hopes and dreams shatter to shards,
Yet when there is a will to thrive,
The fire in our souls remains alive.
Do we all negate
The other—for justice or
For recognition?
Jean Sullivan May 2016
Crab mentality, sometimes referred to as ***** in a barrel, is a way of thinking best described by the phrase, "if I can't have it, neither can you."[1] The metaphor refers to a bucket or barrel of *****. Individually, the ***** could easily escape from the bucket, but instead they grab at each other in a useless "king of the hill" competition which prevents any from escaping and ensures their collective demise.The analogy in human behavior is claimed to be that members of a group will attempt to negate or diminish the importance of any member who achieves success beyond the others, out of envy, spite, conspiracy, or competitive feelings, to halt their progress.
James Floss May 2017
It's not a debate to negate;
It's not one or the other.

Fallacy of false dichotomy—
Makes you think less of me?

He's dead.

How do we do this?
Thread the racism needle?

Carefully. Humanely. Sincerely.
Coltrane said "Supremely."

A love supreme.
A love supreme.
Don Bouchard Jan 2012
Slip into a syncopated
Yaw that staggers some,
Never touches others.
Come back home if you don't have the chops, or
Open up to ranges
Totter some and Tatter some.
Nestle or Negate whenever Music syncopates.
Nicholas Rew Jun 2012
Fusing the concepts of diction with the;
roll of a puuuup: ill container
no brainer; the new name
for all,, club bangers
the flocking flamers,
claiming they flow rain sick,
fake **** time to face it
like similes to basic
subject matter could use a face lift
I straight rip, jill jacking me off,
cant touch these bars, leading to E.R.
cough, cough; Hot sauce her eye, then fry
that back side, spliff lit
A big hit; leaves dome split
                                                           ­                thoughts. . .              drift
To higher places; perceive the cloudy spaces
between the jaded hate spit
peaceful protest; GRAVITY.. replace it
Aliteration altered asinine assumptions
Rhetoric to run with;               supplying the dumb-*****
my cognition is "meta" there "fore";
fairest way is hitt'n
Needing a "fix"; I pop "pre"-scription
Sacred living's indifferent; no know's of his vision
Firing blindly; we're inquisitive middlemen
signing contracts binding
booking assurance of purpose
vexing questions perplex the messes
milk spilt are peoples guesses
nose tilt; angling obtuse,
obese, feeding upon, the bottom line
Most zealous of swine;
hideous and hateful, unable, ungrateful
better off as bacon plateful
The line is fine; The shade is grey
I'll ironically state,
suggestions to negate
your fate upon another's baseless psalms
or petty predictions of living on your palms
Poetic T Dec 2017
Feathered motivations coated
                  within every layer of
     her distorted refection.

No one will taste the flavours of  
              her contorted thoughts,
everyone coated in delusions...
Ryan James Jan 2017
We've all felt unrequited love
I've just felt it more than most.

Maybe I'm guilty of loving too easily
Maybe I'm guilty of caring too much
But is there really such thing?
Can a person really be guilty of loving too easily?
Can a person really be guilty of loving too much?
Guilt implies some sort of crime, some form of offense
Who have I wronged?
Surely not myself
Surely not her
Maybe my only true guilt is in thinking that one could ever really be "guilty" of love at all
Because even in this type of love - in this unrequited love - beauty prevails
Surely there is no guilt in beauty.

I love her
She doesn't love me
I know this
But is this not still love?
Does the thought of her not still keep me up at night?
Is the thought of being with her not still the one thing that gets me out of bed every morning?
Of course it does.
Of course it is.

I love her
She doesn't love me
But that doesn't negate the beauty of love
For to love someone is like nothing else in life
The rush of adrenaline every time I see her face is above all others
The high that I feel when I think about her is like no other high
It's not about how she feels
It's about how she makes me feel
It's about the lessons that she has taught me
Lessons about selflessness
Lessons about persistence
Lessons about myself
Lessons about love.

One day the thought of her will pass
A relationship merely a fleeting thought
But a love that will last forever
Because unrequited love is a love like no other
A love that teaches what it's like to love
A love that cements the beauty of love in the imagination

Indeed, there is beauty in the unrequited
And for that, I have had one of the most beautiful lives that a man could live.
Helen Mar 2012
you’ll never feel the bite of pain
that tears the skin from bone
nor the aching loneliness that
scares the heart from home
the absoluteness that leaves a hole
where nothing is able to hide
while driven by the loathing
birthing a life to the love inside
no matter what the circumstance
you can’t negate the absolute horror
of wanting what is begged for
there is no returning the honor
I’ll whip my self unmercifully
until the end of a perfect day
even while you subjugate me
my scars upon myself just say
how much you intended to deny me
all twisted parts upon me are a whole
crisscrossed upon my body are the marks
that give you access to my soul
an oldie ;-)

— The End —