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R W N-S Jan 2014
There are hardly any writers, freaks or conscious investigators for the living. Some one to shed light on the current affairs of  this nation, this Earth, this universe. Not these local heroes either, and not these reptiles behind computers. But some one who can bring us back to simpler modes of information distribution, like a news paper dropped off at every door step, run by revolutionaries and wonder fanatics who think and feel broadly, who don't give in completely to greed or materialism. Emotional wrecks who don't lead any one type of party, who are not interested in leading but, those of whom listen and replay. And, if they do or don't succeed in their studies so be it. We all have our duties in life, there will be another pack of poets right behind them, innovators. You gotta give something up some time, walk away a better individual for it, I think too.
A lot of deep sea divers out there, blind, not sure how to fallow the line back to the boat, scared they might run out of air soon, and they will. I've seen it happen to some good sailors.

How do we gauge freedom, what's right, who is right and why so many ******* questions...(?) At this moment in history we have a few choices and a few rules that must be risen high, on a flag post some where in the middle of this country, big enough so the whole world can see it up there, along with a new flag, too.
It reads, "Don't disrupt or hurt earthly habitats, inhabitants, or insult anyone because of their race, class, gender or religion.
Challenge, feud and collaborate. Don't freak out when ideas appose your own, letting your eyes become red and swollen.
Killing is out - unless it's killing yourself, or harming your own body. It's your body you don't want you want with it, (We just hope it doesn't come to such brutal measures).
Any harm done to another means that you will forced into rehabilitation - you will mediate, talk with counselors, learn to survive in nature, grow your own food, and if necessary be shown opportunity.
If you're a true ******* of ******, we don't have time for you, you are out of here." Some times some people can not be helped.

Is freedom something you would classify as having the ability to assemble your own conclusions? Does your reality in comparison to others appear stronger and less misguided because of the inherent morals, such as right and wrong? Is life a constant battle with others because of their ignorance, and can you find peace in your free-ness with out feeling like you've served justice upon them?

Next II

Some commonly ignored, also opposed at times, ancient mythologies like native american wisdom or south american indigenous ritual have been shattered by historians and scientists alike. Those who believe logic and reasoning are platters on a academic menu best served soon before they've assembled . All the while their dishes in abundance, rotten, sitting on the table surrounded by skeleton men, whose hearts where gray and dusty, dried up like prunes long before they had kicked the spit bucket. They wanted to build realities from recycled evangelical European patriarchal war mongers instead of clutching in the next hand research that exceeds simple Darwinian thought or archaeological speculation, to discover what lay behind our skin and deep within the hallows of consciousness.

"Let's reinvent the gods, all the myths
                        of the ages
Celebrate symbols from deep elder forests
[Have you forgotten the lessons
                        of the ancient war]

We need great golden compilations"

                                                             - J. Morrison

We do need great golden compilations. We've got to accrue volumes of books, music, obscurantist theory, and quantum exploration. We have to reflect, speculate and hover over the body in sagacious transcendentalism,  gag our selves until we feel unsettling and alive. Purge the mind of blackened clogs preventing a courtesy flush, headlong in a spiral, in the spirit of invention.

There are answers and then, there are replies. How do we reply to our own answers
Connor Reid Apr 2014
echoplex
once obscurantist
now scrutinised in headlines
i'm beginning to feel ok
chaser after chaser to wash down sour sentiment
eviscerate the taste
turncoat
is there an origin?
split your infinities
shed your non-essential claws
embedded deep
broken umbrellas
my eyes look different
atlas falls in amongst the spectrum
lack of character
efavirenz, whitewater in apex
prophetic undertones
cold diffusables
soda left to evaporate
poured over CMYK
through tabloid idiocy
nonsense on stilts
into wormwoods faded muse
yellow collapse
there is a feeling
living game theory
a thought of paranoia
god send the dream
anechoic
salivate the ebb
neo-conservative laden draped production
phenobarbital
can't stretch for a smile
temporal need
bizarre cognition
i feel sorry for me
suffrage, occam's swollen belly
polish fear with a sum
the way of all flesh
shadowed contents entitled: from a to b
from point to point
you want to shift the position of power
there's no one there in the morning
at the foot of the bed
or in the mirror
believe your own fabrications
dial in doubt, dial out everything
we're exactly where we want to be
moulded in consumption
ivory and elephants
the right place
stark lines
compass to televise
triangulate our complacency
shower heads dripping with aspirin
floating corpse
burning ruins, stretched moans
agony suffice, burned out
stick to the skin
all i see is rebus
face bursts with allusion
ear full of maggots
a better tomorrow is a better today
talcum meditation
underhand rhetoric
you are an idiom to fundamentalist greed
partial differential
ignorant and flabby
you can catch me headfirst over a toilet seat
working for kowloon
red ties
men of lethargy, motivated voices
islet of langerhans, shock therapy
anosmia
niche downfall
an arc structure, waste product
halftone mnemonic
lick up my words
capsule, strict reflux
wretching on disappointment
i feel faded
my skin buzzes
tonguing a molar
push it apart
flashes of light
cramps
vestige of fragility
welcoming boredom with open forceps
i don't recognise myself
sponge fed schism
sleeping pills and ***** bath water
cotton tongued peristalsis
egg shells, nodding and a pint of clotted spit
verbal copulation
sprouting flowers from my dead body
feeling like a frayed knot
desolate compendium
shooting pains in my arms
no foresight
i can't get up
i'm busy
i just won't
RJ Days May 2015
I like to believe
that nobody understands me
and I'm one of a kind
lost to obscurity
but hinting of mysterious
significance

And I feel sorry for
my uncle's three-legged dog
and the malignancy
of fear in rural America
and the failed successes
of the Bolsheviks

I wonder about the air
in Saõ Paolo in January
and the muskuloskelatal
infirmities that creep in
and make the aged
into churlish curmudgeons

There is no way I could
hunt truffles or find a fresh
Morel in the woods when
I didn't even realize until
my grandmother died that
we own a creek

Uttering vespers in moonlight
yields some sanguine lucidity
like contemplating the nuanced
differences between polenta
and cornmeal mush

It's like I'll never write a poem
in time or finish a marathon
or kiss a stranger deeply
through the crisp ventillation
of nevermore.

We might daydream the bombastic
colors of Cezanne but all
we'll ever be is some nondescript
platinum ischemic flash,
a slimy buffet consisting in
all-is-lost

An apocryphal journey
to the center of the city
faces our insubordination to plastic
with the harshness of a dictionary
in the face of the illiterate

But in the end, apoplectically
forgotten, I come to the
unintelligent conclusion,
mathematically speaking,
that there is nothing singular

nor more available
than the finite banality
of my empty, insufficiently
obscurantist words which
flow and choke and all can know
and see clearly through

though I insist that none
of this pretence is born
of any maleveloence, and I chide
"How very meta of me indeed"

to have thought of another witty
and most cleverest retort
the day after the insult
was first delivered

But I used my last gift card
to purchase this still life
to pierce the hollow
cerulean satisfaction
otherwise known as tears

Barring diastolic ******
I'll stick around to see
how this all turns out
and hope that one day I can stop
being so completely understood

And then I can hide in the lonely
and find refuge in the cave
as a single meaningless scrawl
buried in the last pages
at the end of the world.
Yue Wang Yitkbel Oct 2019
Verse:

Lofty darkness
Specks of obscured suns
Drooping light
Columns of lucid stars

Desert waves
I cannot tell if they are mountains
Or oceans
Desolate woodlands
We suffocate in the verdant and then
We’re forgotten

Chorus:

The desperation of the lost
Is not the emptiness of the barren
But unable to be found among the crowd
Obscurantist songs are rarely fully sung
For it may be above all, but none can reach
And none can teach
An incomprehensible truth
Is shapelessly hopeless
Is shapelessly hopeless  
Is shapelessly hopeless  

Bridge:

Like a pied enchanter, veiled and barely seen
With confidence unchallenged, he gestures deceit
As if waving alms of miracles so easily gained
Under dark carnival tents, quietly anticipating
The wonder of dazzling illusion, so fearfully arcane
The spectators kneel and bow to the ‘forged’ king

Verse:

Field of barley
Glares with gold utilitarianly  
River of humility
Ever ready to fulfill all thirst and needs

Stars faint and hazy
Only the clearest is used for guiding
Sunlight warm and cozy
Never bares itself for the elite only

Chorus:

The desperation of the lost
Is not the emptiness of the barren
But unable to be found among the crowd
Obscurantist songs are rarely fully sung
For it may be above all, but none can reach
And none can teach
And incomprehensible truth
Is shapelessly hopeless
Is shapelessly hopeless  
Is shapelessly hopeless  

Bridge:

Like a pied enchanter, veiled and barely seen
With confidence unchallenged, he gestures deceit
As if waving alms of miracles so easily gained
Under dark carnival tents, quietly anticipating
The wonder of dazzling illusion, so fearfully arcane
The spectators kneel and bow to the ‘forged’ king

CODA:

I’d rather be the ragged elder of solitary certainty
With sifts of wisdom and time, real grains filtering
Under the pure blue sky, the orange field gleaming
Watch over these substances over form fermenting
Would you rather have too much sugar till aching
Or let spirits pure send you to more pleasant dreams
Long version of:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3381369/obscurantism/
By: Yitkbel Yue Xing ****
Original in Chinese written: Wednesday, October 30, 2019, 1:46 PM
Original English translated on:
Wednesday, October 30, 2019 9:44 PM
---
Keith W Fletcher Nov 2016
Have we become
So OBdurate
As to believe
Only by OBedience
Can we create
A future

Therefore all must be
OBedient servants ?
Encouraged
To OBey
Those visionaries
Who show
Through
An OBsfugated vision
Fraudulant validation
By an
OBiterdictum decree

"The OBjective
tolerates no OBjections !"

OBjugation
By those convinced
OBliging ...
Is an OBligation
Without any thought
To the OBlique they seek
To completely
OBliterate

Somehow convinced
OBlivion....
Complete OBliteration
Will heal this nation
OBlivious
To the fact
That this
OBlong view of history
And how often
We've seen this OBloquy
Cast it's shadow across nations
When OBnoxious
And OBscene inhuman beings
OBscurantist regimes
Lead their people
From OBscure into OBscurity

Wherein massive OBsequies
Are ever present
As are the OBsequious
Willing patrons
OBservable by
The  nature of their ignorance

As they believe OBservance
And being an OBservant
Faithful Compatriot
Is equivalent to OBservation

Where in reality
Their darkness... so complete
They could no longer
See...the light and glory
Of the stars
From an OBservatory

Following the OBsessions
Of the exaulted Leader
They come to OBsess
Compelled
To seek and destroy
Dissenters and freethinkers
Who are to be made OBsolete

By their very existance
They are  
Considered OBstacles
OBstinate non- conformists
With OBstreperous
OBstructionist agendas
Seeking to reverse course
By their Obtuse views ...
And philosophies
Believing that the Obverse
Must be seen

Or a time will come
When total OBviation
To save this nation
Becomes....
...all too...
.....OBVIOUS !!
Johnfrancis Apr 2020
Life is poetic in nature
Each generation is an embodiment of poetry
To the extent that her actions, words and manners of living are artistic revelation of the mystery of poetry
Through the careful crafting of words and weaving of human emotions using human language.
That may sound sweeping,
It is true that this generation has produced quite a lot of poetry
A generation that is controversially regarded as the third generation of poets.
In this generation, poetry is no longer regarded as an exclusive reserve of a coterie of experts as it was in the days of #soyinka and early #okigbo,
When poetry was meant only for fellow poet.
Studying poetry in school then,
Gave them the impression that poetry was a difficult #Genre.
This generation in contrast to the obscurantist and hermetic brand of poetry,
Had taken the language of poetry, the diction of figurative expression,
To the market-place, to the popular daily press even,
To use the words of#Biodun jeyifo.
This is evidently a response as it addresses the socio-political pressure of the society.
Poetry is life
Thru emerging adulthood awareness awoke
within noggin of average baby boomer bloke
catastrophization toward risk taking I evoke
positive growth experiences throughout vast
number of orbitz around sun never kickstarted
nor linkedin with potential livingsocial folk.

Courtesy solitude yours truly
proffers poetic obscurantist blatherskite
discombobulated clishmaclaver will delight
expressing how me courage doth take fright
puncturing since boyhood head to toe height
housing crotchety, fidgety, impiety bent knight
impossible mission to summon bravado might
thus, I figuratively slink within analogous shell
avoiding testing comfortable autozone outright
trumpeting unconvincing lame excuse quite -
begetting, drafting, fielding, heralding, jump-
starting, loosing, notching another
psychological another mischievous sprite.

I submissively succumb opportunistically,
meekly, heroically, and dutifully attest
to surrender once plagued narcissistic self
to beastly merciless beck and call behest
all the while actualizing, envisioning,
and imagining outlook as if afflicted
with dissociative identity disorder,
whereby manifested spirit housed in my chest
spontaneously showing up as unwanted guest.

Twas deadly scourge
of one obsessive/compulsive disorder
anorexia nervosa absent bulimia - nadir
of onset sans quasi schizoid behavior,
which agonizingly slow suicide
by self starvation
mailer daemon maelstrom
within mine psyche
when yours truly prepubescent lad
(particularly devastating

to immediate family members)
as emaciation pitted existential revulsion
from unseen wuthering heights
nearly wrung death knell
annihilating me fragile entity
with peremptory imprimatur
yielding covalent bond to death
readily obvious to kith and kin
via zorro like signature per profound
perilous depressive psychological state.

Now - at about two score plus eighteen years
from attaining rank of centenarian
perfect 20/20 hindsight
offers supreme advantage
from said aforementioned psychological crisis
within mind of yours truly
middle aged progeny and sole sol
(of Boyce and Harriet Harris
mine father and mother respectively)
hypothesizing numerous educated guesses
why he willfully hurtled his flesh at light speed
down the abyss toward his demise.

Literal and physical lightness of being
manifested within nooks and crannies
prior to full blown symptoms
to eliminate sustenance
drawing the curtain on brief residence
way before high noon of life.
metamorphosis from boyhood into man
found solace in attempting to keep at bay

natural cycle which transformation grieved me
to pine for nostalgic childhood’s end,
(albeit one fraught with romanticism)
vengefully interpreted attempt
to halt dead in the tracks intervention of mother
whose nursing experience
helped fend off passive attempt
to promulgate passive silent plan to fruition.

She whipped various
nutritious concoctions in the blender
to ensure minimal essentials to this
(I readily admit) famished body
in conjunction with applying vital supplements into
one or the other bony gluteus maximus
thru fuel injection
which submissiveness to acquiesce
and bare my buttocks
did absolutely nothing to squelch death wish.

I inexorably overcame eating disorder
to cease going on deadly hunger strike,
which essentially constitutes
a declaration of independent control
despite horrendous deprivation
regarding voracious craving for food
stuffing innards like a pike
bifurcated psychic division to live
ousted coeval death wish sans goal
seize yore per reminiscence of blissful
childhood over-flooded self made ****
engendering propensity to catapult
over abysmal emotional hole
and way before the invention of facebook,
I mentally clicked like mental health
to fight the mailer daemons
that part of me healthy development stole.
Thru emerging adulthood awareness awoke
within noggin of average baby boomer bloke
catastrophization toward risk taking I evoke
positive growth experiences throughout vast
number of orbitz around sun never kickstarted,
nor linkedin with potential livingsocial folk,
thus omniscient cosmic consciousness I invoke
diametrically contradicting atheism
haint no (Sikh, sick nor sic) joke,
where self important
fulsome mortals indistinguishable
among bobbing flotsam and jetsam
squarely sponging precious resources
off the pants courtesy Mother Earth
heartily rooted in narcissistic strength,
whenever necessary razing mighty oak
destroying other flora
unwittingly insidious effects
industrial revolutions triggered global warming
and abomination, brutalization, cannibalization
demolition, eradication, ruination...
on the upside twenty first century
environmental activism did provoke
circa 1979, a geography course
I enrolled in at Temple University
taught courtesy John Western,
whose exceptionally adroit calligraphy
attentiveness drawn towards
chicken scratch of mine woke.
Courtesy solitude yours truly
proffers poetic obscurantist blatherskite
discombobulated clishmaclaver will delight
expressing how me courage didst take fright
puncturing since boyhood head to toe height
housing crotchety, fidgety, impiety bent knight
impossible mission to summon bravado might
thus, I figuratively slunk within analogous shell
(think “Peter Peter
Pumpkin Eater nursery rhyme”)
avoiding testing comfortable autozone outright
trumpeting unconvincing lame duck excuse quite -
begetting, drafting, fielding, heralding, jump-
starting, loosing, notching another
psychological mischievous sprite.
I submissively succumbed opportunistically,
meekly, heroically, and dutifully attest
to surrender once plagued narcissistic self
to beastly merciless beck and call behest
all the while actualizing, envisioning,
and imagining outlook as if afflicted
with dissociative identity disorder,
whereby manifested spirit housed in my chest
spontaneously showing up as unwanted guest.
Twas deadly scourge
of one obsessive/compulsive disorder
anorexia nervosa absent bulimia - nadir
of onset sans quasi schizoid behavior,
which agonizingly slow suicide
by self starvation
mailer daemon maelstrom
within mine psyche,
when yours truly prepubescent lad
(particularly devastating
to immediate family members)
as emaciation pitted existential revulsion
from unseen wuthering heights
nearly wrung death knell
annihilating me fragile entity
with peremptory imprimatur
yielding covalent bond to death
readily obvious to kith and kin
via zorro like signature per profound
perilous depressive psychological state.
Now - at about one score
plus seventeen years
from attaining rank of centenarian
perfect 20/20 hindsight
offers supreme advantage
from said aforementioned psychological crisis
within mind of yours truly
middle aged progeny and sole sol
mine father and mother respectively
hypothesizing numerous educated guesses
why he willfully
hurtled his flesh at light speed
down the abyss toward his demise.
Literal and physical lightness of being
manifested within nooks and crannies
prior to full blown symptoms
to eliminate sustenance
drawing the curtain on brief residence
way before high noon of life
metamorphosis from boyhood into man
found solace in attempting
to keep derrière at half moon bay
natural cycle which transformation grieved me
to pine for nostalgic childhood’s end,
(albeit one fraught with romanticism)
vengefully interpreted attempt
to halt dead in the tracks
intervention of mother,
whose nursing experience
helped fend off passive attempt
to promulgate passive silent plan to fruition.
She whipped various
nutritious concoctions in the blender
to ensure minimal essentials to this
(I readily admit) famished body
in conjunction with applying
vital supplements into
one or the other bony gluteus maximus
thru fuel injection,
which submissiveness to acquiesce
and bare my buttocks
did absolute zero banishment
to squelch death wish.
I inexorably overcame eating disorder
to cease going on deadly hunger strike,
which essentially constituted
a declaration of independent control
despite horrendous deprivation
regarding voracious craving for food
stuffing innards like a pike
bifurcated psychic division to live
ousted coeval death wish sans goal
seize yore per reminiscence of blissful
childhood over-flooded self made ****
engendering propensity to catapult
over abysmal emotional hole
and way before the invention of facebook,
I mentally clicked like mental health
to fight the mailer daemons
that part of me healthy development stole.

— The End —