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Gracie Harlow Mar 2014
If my life were a recipe
I feel like every ingredient would be followed
by the word "optional".

8 hours of sleep (optional)
Two to three meals a day (optional)
1 social life (optional)
1 job (optional)
A handful of friends (optional)
A pinch of creativity (optional)
One cup of laughter (optional)
Three heaped tablespoons of positivity (optional)

You get the idea.

But you're different.
You're the one ingredient I can't do without.
You're the one thing that matters
when I can't be bothered with the rest of it.
When all the chopping and sautéing and boiling
and grilling of everyday life
seems like too much hassle,
there's always enough time for you.
You're my quick-fix meal on a weekday evening.
You're a mid-morning snack
snatched between errands.
A quiet evening in on a Saturday
with a bottle of wine and Joni Mitchell playing
"I could drink a case of you".
I could cook you every night.
You're comfort food at its finest
unpretentious, convenient.
Never bland and never tiresome.
You're the one ingredient I'll always have in stock,
that one I'll never let myself run out of.
Because you cannot be substituted.
You, and only you, are not optional.
I wrote this purely because the box at the top said Title (optional) and I was all out of ideas.
Katie Nicole Jul 2014
college (optional)
working (optional)
family (determined)

friends (optional)
future (optional)
death (certain)
what are you going to do about it?
zebra Aug 2018
The new # 69 hoochi coochi smoochi
rubberized *** robot ****** sucker model 2.0
now available

feelin lonely
tired of spats
credit cards charged up from dates that don't put out
don't like the same restaurants
not ***** to your taste
cant stand the in-laws
you wana live costal, they like Kansas
tired of internet dating
and no time for a quickie

when the one you love tells you they aren't in the mood

well bunky
its a brave new world
take a spin in our new model
robot 69, 2.0
they talk
they walk
warm all ova inside and out
scented oiled perfumed *** optional
and flavored
to include
chocolate crunch, vanilla, strawberry
replete with an array of assorted interchangeable
*****, *****'s and butts
extra sturdy for ware and tear
and those little irresistible spankies and whoopins
you just cant live without
plus any colors, or rainbow rubber chasse
gay straight or mix it up how eva
trans trans gender

buy out right
or rent ala cart
deluxe or standard
voice activated

advanced multi lingual
baby talk and hits the high notes
talks back software program
NO always means YES
cu cu cu cu cu cummmmming
cooes I love you
**** me now *****
shred me you ****** ******
and many others
in over 50 languages

Other optional features include

age play
ethnic fetish
blow jobs
tipping the velvet
**** to mouth
salad tossing
spit roast
bare back
chicken head
death grip
mammary *******
Netflix and chill
brown bath
cream pie
motor boating

and the shocker  
two in the pink and one in the stink
adult ***
cheryl love Mar 2014
Whether you learn to keep your calm
or throw a wobbly type of panic
Where you choose to scream after
well that is optional.

Whether you choose to voice an opinion
or just to hold your tongue and stay silent.
But afterwards moan to yourself all day.
well that is optional.

Choosing your mid-week food shopping
whether it be best neck of lamb
or the most expensive cut of meat
well that is optional.

Being polite, knowing one's place in the room
Being nice and agreeable, the perfect host.
Being the nicest person in the world
That is important.
But for some optional.
jeffrey conyers Mar 2016
You said, it's optional if i want to say i love you.
But i can confirm i love you more.

You said, it's optional if i want to hold you close.
And while you kind to say that truthfully.
I seek your tender touch.

Whether it's  hug.
Whether it's a kiss.
Or just the touch of us holding hands.

But know this.?
The one thing not optional to you.
Is the honesty of my love.

It's not optional at all.
Cause it's all yours.
like know just time mind feel life world say people things lost we're does love think there's away long way thought night got words want better day human left right remember man dark end reality memory experience going make really eyes place 'cause good death tell great feeling soul home high consciousness live pain thoughts fear understand fall thing city sky believe god meaning thinking lose change oh felt hard ask heart times years shall need past light living existence choice use dreams power days cause poetry talking state we'll alive knowledge **** true moment little hope old wrong mental stars wave ago gone broken look brain dream far given truth feels head you'll best sensation baby try leave forget young sleep face stop escape blue dare drug lives wish doesn't drugs work earth new acid game nature bad sublime gods break beautiful ah writing hold born trying coming friends hold writing ah space daze burn body reason rain real moments wonder music memories exist psyche control waiting dawn future act philosophy word choose emotion lies deep one's difference self score truly perception actually finally what's story sure spent play happy greatest help start used lie took listen touch run belief fool glass hurt we've gaze goes cold set seek they're yes information anymore longing lonely qualia social land water afraid kind getting came dead hit present keeps gotta pleasure reflection free rave line held pray path sense art black half-light wake question quiet remain longer pill stay course open ego matter places worth lack horizon saw dusk beauty hand makes energy looking gonna data told seeking die **** seen subtle bit caught venturous means freedom yeah divine eternity empathy later rise perfect minds edge comprehend spiritual write couldn't evil care ashes summer knew turn content context accept existential white red sound chance who's consider hide judgement friend 'til realize dimension cast gave tripping praise health la enjoy search universe winter broke 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following quench hunger bent euphoric display interstellar vertigo influence waited sunlight explored paradise soaring faded sitting unafraid aqua tinted source itches optional differently stem rich greed forbidden negative privacy react earned ails charity gift couch courage endlessly fascinating boyfriend phrase movies hopelessly loud admission inherent hypocrites intoned devil laconic sinful vein surrounded movie contempla
Composed on 01:33, 27/02/2017 using Hello Poetry's 'Words' algorithm. We still don't assume this means something.

I am afraid to own a Body—
I am afraid to own a Soul—
Profound—precarious Property—
Possession, not optional—

Double Estate—entailed at pleasure
Upon an unsuspecting Heir—
Duke in a moment of Deathlessness
And God, for a Frontier.
Shrek Ogre Sep 2014
This title was optional
but i couldn't resist
Paulina S Apr 2014
To decide or not if I will talk to you
If you are willing to take the one, the awaited first step
Because every time I get close to you
I can't pass by to stare and desire
And I wouldn't waste anymore space
That we could take advantage of
Still my pride is a barrier between you and I
It is optional for you to tear it down
And it is optional for me to fend off from your path.
kylie formella Sep 2014
i bet you wish that i was optional;
i bet you wish i was never born
or that we never crossed paths
well, everything is optional.
life is optional.
pain is, too.
i don't have to feel this way,
i can end it.
maybe i will.
Shannon Jun 2014
Optional is not an option anymore.
I will roam
and I will writhe.
I will rally, rebuild.
I will pave a road,
I'll launch a ship.
I'll race a train, I'll run like hell.
I'll **** the marrow from my spine.
I'll hold my head above the moon.
I'll dive in the deep, I'll chase a bullet.
I'll wander out,
I'll slide away.
I'll lead an army and bomb the past.
Declare unrest and start new rule.
Crown a new king,
I'll carve a new stone.
I'll turn a new leaf and I'll sing a new song.
I'll make a new wish
And I'll burn a new bush.
I'll write a new page
And jump in with both feet.
I'll love a new lover
And befriend whom you hate.
I'll start a campaign.
I'll torch down our home.
Then move heaven and earth one inch to the left.
I'll shake. I'll regroup.
I'll push and I'll ****.
I'll weave... I will tide.
I'll bend, and I'll bob, and I'll steal,
Because optional's not an option...

Sahn   6/8/14
tweaked this a bit, it's a meant to be read in a quickening way, like a drum that gets faster and louder but continues the rhythm. I really appreciate your time to read this.
pookie Mar 2016
Life isn't optional,
We are all born,
We all take our fist steps and say our first words,
We all take those steps and we laugh at the joy of the freedom of movement,
We all say our fist words and smile and laugh at the freedom of being understood.

But then we grow older and see these actions in a different light,
our steps controlled and manipulated,
our words changed and banned,
our freedoms gone,
its chained to reason and the higher ups.

so we make bricks of reason, bricks of passion and we fight back how ever we know how as it is said:

“A concept is a brick. It can be used to build a courthouse of reason. Or it can be thrown through the window.”

so what will your choice be to build a house of law like those of past and achieve what so many others have failed,
or do you fight with your bricks and succeed we all others have failed.

Or do we change the course of history!

Take a chance, start the movement, take the first step and speak of freedom.

Not the childish whims of no law and no consequences but the freedom to live.

throw off the chains of technology and social media,
throw off the chains of theology and religion that bind us to war,
throw off the megalomanic controllers of our world and take a stand.

life isn't optional but Freedom is!

break those chains and life for freedom.
live for life its self.

we are all intertwined by the decisions that we make.
so lets choose together.
Lets make Freedom possible.
sick of the chians that drown us and tie us down.
17th Aug 2014
don't you always think what it's optional
and what isn't?
I don't want to sit here
and watch you leave

I wrote a list of reasons
of why you left this morning
while I was preparing your morning coffee

number one
I wasn't the one
you decided to go
so then you went away
so then I went away
not away from you
away from these feelings
away from these thoughts

number two
you just got bored
of my french music
the way I always wanted to **** you
**** you with kisses

number three
the fact that you're not here
makes me want to leave
I don't even want to breathe
I can't even eat

I loved you
so much
so farewell

*and goodnight
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
the maxim? well, if you don't like my game, i'll just take my bucket and spades and go to another sandpit to play my game... oh don't worry, you're famous and necessary and acknowledged and c.c.t.v shy. known by the tax office and the home office... sure, you're famous there, and necessary there... with me? something grey, something resembling a square... i'm not even going to **** and **** on you to get to fame, too much dignifying things came my way to wonder about that; i'd love your job as a bus-driver though, i'd love any job to be honest, but every single job just reminds me of school, and none are on offer to remind me of university - better faux pas and loose it all, than gain something belittling and a statistician's daydream of getting to be aged 80: as was the day than the concern for being mortal, was acknowledged by seeing fame revealed that those administering mortality were interpreted as apathetic wrongly: no: got nothing to lose.*

it sometimes happens, you walk into the toilet,
lift the toilet seat up, and just sit on it...
you're simulating the idea that you'll never **** or
take a **** in heaven, a moth flies in, a cat sniffs your head,
the people on television look oh so nice and pampered,
but there you are, sitting on a toilet with no **** to **** out...
so the admiring you comes out... this is the room where
a tapeworm (had i one) wrote my biography? well, it
must be! the common concern for relief on the toilet is
like the unlikely catacombs relief of "great" men...
me on Napoleon's throne, Napoleon of my toilet...
the same **** came out... some alcoholic looked into a mirror
while lifting a glass: bad results,
a few days of nightmare ensued (he never expected
the image to say: i need company) - drink and talk
is fatal - but of all the addictions, alcohol feeds you
enough calories to become super active.                
as i once said: the toilet seat the only throne there is...
you imagine ******* out a million dead, when,
actually, the supposedly million dead
are stuck to the television... but still there you are,
sitting on the toilet, downing a whiskey,
admiring the surroundings: why, a mighty reinterpretation
of the Niagara Falls... as some hate the Marquis,
i read a de Sade book on the tube and find
a bunch of girls giggling...
     encore! papa don't preach! papa don't
                       so you're just sitting in
the toilet, there's a horde of dead people
titled: your ****...
                                and oh god it looks oh so
******* pretty!
                               you can just shove a hectare
of daffodils into the image, and drink enough
for your liver to feel the rib-cage and make you
gambling nonetheless: well, either that
or the brain is gone.
   and there were times when we enjoyed pain,
   and there were times when we celebrated it...
   a rare fetish, it was once the rave's dynamo startup!
marvellous, the Prince of Wales just walked
past, and people started shouting: shoot the
quasi Henry! shoot the quasi Henry the eighth dead!
n'ah, that never took off...
                                             appear and be believed,
           disappear and be relieved.
madison Aug 2014
Some things in life are optional.
Like this title for example.
Or the notes below this poem.
Or how I say, "I (almost) cut myself."
The almost is optional.
I could leave that out if I were telling the truth.
And when I tell people, "I did(n't) stop myself."
Again, the n't is something optional.
Maybe some lives are too...
kyle Shirley Feb 2015
Lies *** drugs life woman ***** respect dying love lost trouble *** smoking drunk bang theories hate cant wont music cold sweat wilpower slower apologize blonde.

Words are optional.

Love ***** with the wrong person who cant use words, But you cant blame them.

Words are optional.

Good luck and take what you will.
It's optional
Like the fading of skies
Early, wild, or remorseful.
All the impalpable space in the lights
Scaled in weighty gilt and curls
The locks and gold of sun,
early as it sets on a moiety of moor grey
Brushed by shadows of agonised poplars
on a spiral land of sheer pistachio blanket.

Muffled by lyres played from the trumpets of
convolvuluses, behind spears of the brain-
an imagery commence to carouse
into planet deep.

A promenade atop the tulle of skies,
an optional way to live.
Saunter and fall onto slopes, shudder, meditate
and hit a bee coffin pebble on the temple
Where there are options to live, to bleed.
Like the lurid sunrise sifting on
yellow-green nuts, and dandruffs combed
like granulated sugar
Oh the taste of chemistry
on the shea butter candles.

It's sanguine and optional,
your farewells on laden calendars of poems
A promenade- back into sea of spears and flames
A cadaver veined in pink,
bearing plethora of methanol
down pulverising bone.
Love Nov 2013
If you think that this is optional,
Then you are very mistaken my friend.
This is not optional.
I wish it was.
I wish I was normal.
I wish I didn't feel this way.
But I do.
And its not a disease.
There's nothing wrong with me.
Its just how I am.
I didn't choose to be this way,
But I'm working on it.
I'm working on accepting it.
And you telling me that its optional,
That isn't helping.
It makes me feel bad.
That maybe I'm the only one who has no choice.
No voice in the matter.
It makes me feel alone all over again.
For those of you who don't know, being gay, or bi, or whatever---having feelings for the same ***, its not optional. Some would rather end their lives then come to terms with who they are. Don't say its their choice and that they're choosing to be gay. There are plenty of bi and homosexuals who dont have pride.
Godlink Dec 2014
Why live a life if we all die?
Why not just curl up in a ball,
and cry.
For yes, a life as pointless as is.
Is a journey
of learning,
with family,
and kins.
Life is an option,
and an option as is,
is a path
of exploration,
So don't give in.
Third Eye Candy Apr 2013
Days are optional. Nights are mandatory
you can eat your fun and spin puns in the doldrums of your fondest plunge
into naked earth. your cackling wheel, spinning geek in the first sun
of a night kingdom. a purged baguette.
a sprig of blunder
where the fumes are nimble
and the heart a lost cause
just because.
Dylan crafton Dec 2014
Whether I cry or not is optional
Either I see or close my eyes is optional
How I choose my own path is optional
But when it comes to love
I can't choose who that is
No matter how much I try
mannley collins Jul 2014
Hypocracy Mandatory.
Gullibility Mandatory.
Insensitivity Mandatory.
Obesity Mandatory.
Immaturity Mandatory.
Childishness Mandatory.
Monarchy Mandatory.
Capitalism Mandatory.
Conservatism Mandatory.
Terrorism Mandatory.
Corruption Mandatory.
Incompetence Mandatory.
Socialism Mandatory.
Dictatorship Mandatory.
Militarism Mandatory.
Liberalism Mandatory.
Bhuddism Mandatory.
Islam Mandatory.
Christianity Mandatory.
Judaism Mandatory.
Hinduism Mandatory.
Vedism Mandatory.
Hatred Mandatory.
Anarchy Mandatory.
Jealousy Mandatory.
Nationalism Mandatory.
Fascism Mandatory.
Racism Mandatory.
Lies Mandatory.
Hypocracy Mandatory.
Obesity Mandatory.
Heart Disease Mandatory.
Cancer Mandatory.
Idiocy Mandatory.
Eco-****** Mandatory.
All of us Humans.
Of all Five Colours.
Wherever we be.
Whatever we do.
However we "see" ourselves.
What do we call ourselves now?.
How about shallow nitpickers?.
Or celebrity obsessed morons?.
Or religious hypocrits?.
Or Democrats?.
Or Socialists?.
Or Revolutionaries.
Or just plain "nice folks"?.
Or supporters of oligarchy  policies?.
Or immature backpackers?.
Or government assassins of integrity?.
Or juicy *******?.
Or swift tongued ******* ticklers?.
no matter how many lie dead or injured as a result
of our obfuscation and avoidance.
As if poets have the explanation to life
except in strings of meaningless associated
but fine sounding words.
When "poets" are the voluntary slaves of Mind
and Conditioned Identity..
As if poets had the ***** to go beyond all these things.
As if .
Scrape the Moons suface and you will find a delicate Castello Blue Cream Cheese.
softcomponent Feb 2014
There is the latent hum of some probably-industrial sumthin-or-another in the distance. Sounds like a ferry at dock, or the Townsite mills characteristic hum of eternity as it once acted as the forever-whitenoise of my past life in Powell River.

Sasha has gone to see her friend a floor down. I sit candidly at her desk typing these words on her MacBook Pro.. her dorm is an ambient water of a place, but with every passing night I spend in it, it becomes harder and harder to fall asleep. The bed feels like wood board or padded cement now. Sasha rolls around in her sleep, occasionally choking on her tonsils and gagging a prolonged operatic note of snores. It's not like she can help it.. often, she talks about removing her tonsils as if it's something she can do with a spare moment between classes.

The dorm was easier for me to inhabit when I imagined her living quaintly and quietly without my constant everywhereness.. on her first night alone in bed, she slept like a baby and the overheating, I'm sure, was less to bear in my absence as there wasn't a ******* furnace spurning mammalian blood to every antipode of my body for the sake of staying alive.. just her capillaries attending to the night-shift and leaving no feedback loop between our ***-drenched thermostats. There was a feeling of otherness to it that I could warm my soul with as if I were people-watching at a mall filled with everyone I've ever encountered in the matrix.

She's beautiful. Sasha, I mean. Superstitious despite her attempts to claim otherwise, but of a massive intelligence often unspoken and endowed with a linguistic nature that can speak regardless of words. Highly suspicious of some perceived bond between Anya and I that can't seem to be severed, and playfully dousing suspicions of general infidelity into many of our brink-night conversations.. I can't say I do much to remedy her paranoia as I always kick it back with consistent jokes of having '30 girlfriends' or 'that was what the girl I ****** the other night said as well! Trippy.'

These are obvious jokes. I would never cheat on her and it's a pain to have her imagine I would.

Christ be honest, I can never find the time to write anymore because I keep pretending I'm busy. I keep glassing my eyes apart with coffee and **** and feeling the inner sting to write and write and write until my fingers are bruised and my entire demeanour is nothing more than an existence in pure, floating consciousness of sleet-covered panic attack self-immoliating itself in a Wal-Mart parking lot just to say hiya, Good God, how's the cloud of idolatry today? Fleeting? Empty? Shat? I'm starting to think you have the shorter end of the stick cuz I'm pretty sure I've found the Kingdom of Heaven and it's all a bunch of beautiful panic remedy exacterbated by SSRI psychedelic depersonalization with a life-wish disguised as a death-wish to push the envelope for mails sake, cuz I've got a message for the human race and all it says is 'humanity is not a RACE chill the **** OUT and become the human pace for the sake of nil planet without a plan you aren't a ******* poster-boy you're a poser' all very stone-cold thoughts in a volcano.. all very valid but pointless semantic gestures towards Finnegans Wake and the sequel I'd like to write called Finnegans Nap.

The other day, I stole a book from the university library.

I had a freelance article I had to start and preferably finish that same day, and Sasha had decided to skip psychology for Charles Bukowski so we scouted a quiet space on the windowsill overlooking the perpetual busk of student body.. I plugged my laptop in and sourly gazed at the flakey subjects I had to choose from until I noticed we were right next to a giant section entirely dedicated to the study of the Beat Generation. I picked out the closest book, and dove up on some academic diatribe about the implementation of Timex making watches an affordable commodity during the post-war boom, causing economy to become totalitarian in its accuracy and thus mental hegemony. It worked its way into stating that Jack Kerouac's On the Road was a blatant and concise rebellion against this form of timekeeping in its hedonic, careless flow that was not marked by 6 o'clock or on-the-dot redundancy.. the subject matter being so dense and alluring, I turned to Sasha and said, 'I have to steal this book.'

She chuckled a little, being a chronic kleptomaniac herself, and retorted, 'are you sure you can do that? They have these sensor things that go off when you leave.. they'd catch you probably.' In my mind, I was needing to exorcise myself of Judaeo-Christian morality so as to guarantee a survival and thriving intellectual feed regardless of red-tape or monetary symbolism.. I saw myself adapting to a hedonic habit of robbery for the sake of food and freedom or some such half-witted excuse like that, and took Sasha's warning as a challenge to transcend my typical moral comfort zone.

Glassy-eyed, I asked Google how I'd go about bypassing the security scanners and, lo and behold, within 5 minutes I had my answer and was already digging through the books binding with my house-key to remove the magnetic strip hidden in the spine. After 10 minutes of exhilaration and anxiety at potentially being caught, the strip was out and jammed between two loose wood-boards in the window sill. I told Sasha we should try to leave.

As I neared the scanner, I let go of consequence in remembrance of my mortality, the blank expressions on our faces probably hinting at some form of degenerate nervousness had someone decided to analyze us aaaaaand yet.. we made it through as safe as a bird through an open window then out the other side.
excerpt: "the mystic hat of esquimalt"
JayceeJellies Jul 2015
I hate my brain,
For not knowing what to say.
There are so many words,
Just waiting to be shared.
Yet my thoughts remain blurred.
I know that he cares.
Thinking of You Jan 2013
I remember your laugh and all the good times we shared. I remember when we were a big part of each others lives. How I could depend on you, I was sure of you. And as I now see your life through pictures and captured moments that I'm not a part of I can't help think to myself, why did I ever think I didn't want to be a part of it? Why did I make you optional?
Lawrence Hall Jul 2018
A Straw Man Accessorized with Exclamation Marks from the Eighth Grade (Rainbow Brite™ © Glitter Optional)

I heard it, dude; it’s part of the nexus!
A floating island as big as Texas!
All made of straws, there in the Pacific!
It’s on the ‘Net, dude, it’s there, specific!

It’s a Russian plot, sponsored by Putin!
It’s on the ‘Net, dude, sure as shootin’!
Them plastic straws will soon bring down the grid!
They **** the whales; they even got a squid!

The science is settled; let’s make some laws:
The source of all evil is them plastic straws!!!!!!!
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
jeffrey conyers Jul 2014
Mine is firm.
Has been confirmed.
And you have made the choice that my love isn't optional.

Designed and reassigned directly to you.
I'm like that song Ray Charles sung.
I'm a fool for you

And love to hear you say,my love isn't optional.
No choice need to be made.
You sealed the deal with just that phase.
Aaron McDaniel Oct 2012
I have an army at my sides
Teenage soldiers marching along side making no commotion
Ready to shoot cartridges of heavy emotion
and landmines of loud music
Marines scream their motto ‘Semper Fi’
We reply with an attitude as if we’ll never die
Everyday, unknown soldiers
Our brothers and sisters are dying
in drama filled warfare
Someone tell me these crosses on
Highway sides are okay because
too many populate the green surface they’re held by
I can’t stand hearing how a
14 year old gets shot by a
15 year old now locked up for
16 years all for
17 oz of ****** so now a cop can tell
18 family member some ******* about how kids make ******* decisions because
“We don’t know any better?”
From swing sets and sand boxes to
Slick rides and ****** tension
We’ve been changed from overalls to overrated double standards
As a whole we’ve lost out innocence
We’ve been termed as the lost youth
So let’s get maps to find out way back
3 paces east and 4 to the north
We will end where it all began
Chances are that 90% of people won’t get
our fascination with funny pictures of
Cats on the internet, but that’s because they don’t
understand the generation the 90’s gave birth to
I’m only 16 and growing up scares the **** out of me
I don’t know what one person can do to
stop every disease and flu from passing
through and staying true to humanity
Tom Wargo was quoted as saying;
“Growing old is mandatory;
Growing up is optional”
If this is true then I want to stay
17 on the inside, I’ll be
82 on the swing sets laughing away.
Other parents will whisper and wonder
But I won’t care.
As long as I can stretch my toes
to touch the sky and grab it’s mysteries
I guess that’s why they say plant your foot firmly
in the front door because my toes can’t latch onto nebula's.
So when I fall I’m going to need a platform to land on
If we rely on one another to thrive, strive and survive
Then where will i fall to if my generation single-handedly kills one another till nobody is left?
We live in the moment but the moment has passed
So seize the next moment and live for tomorrow
So when tomorrow becomes today
You’ll be ready.
Will be ready
We won’t be killing
We won’t be stealing
We won’t be lying
and most importantly
We won’t
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
i did one stint from one "village" to another,
Ostrowiec was the reds' heartbeat
of communist innovation, steelworks you name it,
army contracts,
that was sodomised in the tipping submergence
of Titanic... i did a stint in a capital,
most of my contemporaries didn't venture
as far, closer to home, closer to the bread
and the washing-machine -
now they're living prolonged middle-class
lives (apologies for the Marxist
auxiliary vocabulary - i see a future in you
in the orbit of canonised journalism
worthy of a Hendrix comet - gush gone
the next type) - of course the first Gurkha sentiments
are the ones teaching us that Europe is
the holy grail - it's actually a ****-hole with
quiet a few people actually insane...
who are given representative power
via democracy, with democracy constituents
aimed at 30% representation,
a third! a third! imagine chimpanzees voting
as if they were getting arrested:
micro the universe with ink blotches on
the thumbs and the question:
'who bent the bananas?! who bent the bananas?!
we had a joke you ruined it
a banana in the pocket... who bent the bananas
from Pythagoras to Euclid? who?!'
30% turnout when once 100% fought,
whether stonemason or farmer -
if this is democracy i'm not really pessimistically
pensive over an attack on autocracy by it,
but still warring in places like Vietnam will
not make democracy the conqueror,
sometimes natural communism works
if it's structured on a tribal level, i.e.
'you scratch my back i'll scratch yours',
tribal levelling is a case for a dishonesty concerning
money, nails can't be hammers with money present,
the time it takes is the economic prowess of
the elitist democratic function,
quasi-religious meaning
why would nihilism's testimony first craft moral
questions rather than economic questions
to gain approval and the audience of artists' revenue
for even asking?
hey headlines! everything else is optional!
as i said, from one village to another,
a momentary stint in capital Edinburgh and London,
in London i was asked to be crucified -
21st century England, one student said i should
be crucified because i was not supporting Palestine
while enjoying some student theatre...
in Edinburgh i don't know...
i asked for the position of the film society's vice
president role and never made it to the platform
of speaking to intro a film...
but a student telling a student he'd be crucified,
in england, war of the roses rekindled?,
it was too much much for me...
education can grow goosebumps and comb-overs
should i care... idiots educate themselves
these days, Birmingham nearby (no river, no flow),
crucify all you want -
          this is England, half-way house of Syria...
the famous 21st century not so famous now -
Zionist plots to submerge - what the **** can be
deemed as political and correct? Henry the 8th?
Eriko Aug 2015
Title (optional)
could it really be that simple
to wake up one spring morning
with streaming golden sunlight
through a window pane

or to open our eyes
to a shower of cascading snowflakes
twinkling with delicacies
authentic like temperamental daises
the waft of lavender laughter
sweeping through the crack of a door

can we really decide one day
at a five o'clock traffic jam
or a forty five minute tram
even while listening to the pound of our hearts
as we jog along a stand of trees
or the comfort of one's warmth
have our breaths' taken away
at the sight of the mahogany sunlit
settling time of treacherous days

could it really be that easy
to decide what we would want to be
to entitle our own rightful marrow
and to know that even
as the second ticks on now
that there is that optional

and for one's life to be like a poem
there does not always have to be a title
there is no one else more qualified to give it
but by the heart of the individual

so give it second
or a day
or a lifetime
there doesn't have to be a label
one can have one
only if one wants to

it is not bad
nor is it good
it is what it truly is
wrought by simplicity and virtue
people do have chances
and people are not
categorized into laminated labels
we all think to be true
like the glossy illustrations
of pop magazines
contaminated by the idea
that people are
or aren't

people are, in fact
they want to be
and they can write their own poem
how ever they wish
help to ease
into modern hostility

just wait for their fingers
to reach for the pen
and to touch the precious ink
they have all been waiting
to see what they have
always known to be
Pain is inevitable,
Suffering is optional.
Change is great,
But growth is awesome.
Crying means cleansing,
Believing is your decision.
We are all spiritual beings,
Having a human experience.
You can have fun in society,
just focus on what you need to do.
We all came here in great numbers
but when you leave it'll just be you.
So Remember PAIN is INEVITABLE and
© 2013
Tab Dec 2015
was it optional for you to do that?
for you to pretend to care
care about the stars
the moon
the milky way
was it optional for you to just pick what time was best
to tear me to shreds

was it an option
or did you plan this
I'm not thinking clearly right now so I'm just typing
Hark! Take heed, for this cake be both mighty and magnificent!

1.75 cups flour
2 cups white sugar
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. baking powder
0.75 cups unsweetened cocoa powder
1 tsp. salt
2 eggs
1 cup (as in 8 fl.oz/250mL.) strongly brewed coffee (make more and drink it!)
1 cup buttermilk (or 1 tbs. white vinegar+1 cup milk mixed well, blah blah)
0.5 cups cocoanut oil (or 0.33 cups basicallywhatever oil), a little less if ***
1 tsp. vanilla extract
2-3 shots (60-90mL; 0.2-0.33 cups) black spiced *** (Kraken, if at all possible)
I also want to experiment with whiskey/burbon.. if you try it, let me know!

--Flour, sugar cocoa powder, baking soda+powder, salt mixed in one bowl
-- eggs, coffee, ***, buttermilk, oil, vanilla in another

Slowly mix the dry into the wet until as homogenous as possible.
I use an 8"x8" (20cmx20cm) pan @350F (175 C) for about 40 minutes, but I check on it at round 30 minutes because some variance may well apply. If you use olive oil, or avocado oil, or whatever other more fluid oil, I find a slightly hotter oven (375 F/190 C) can be advisable, but pay attention to your specific scenario! The worst that's happened for me is the top gets a bit crusty, but that pleasantly works with the overall moisture of the cake, especially with olive oil and the *** addition.
Do the toothpick test to see if it's ready!

Frosting is applicable, as well, because this Magical Cake is not horribly sweet for how horribly sweet it sure is. I usually just sprinkle some confectioner's sugar on it to make it look all fancy for my classy friends and band-mates.
Bake responsibly, but have some fun.
Also, suffer the decimals!
This cake made my night, so I wanted to share what I can. The recipe!
Bet you didn't see that **** comin'! Hah!
Chemistry! Delicious chemistry!
mark john junor Jul 2014
faintly sinister smiles
twitch their way across her acrobat face
and as her rolling and tumbling expressions
make their way through all manner of devious delight
your hearts hungry eye fixes on her
come hither and lets make whoopee nasty girl dress
her favors are optional
and she will tease but never share
the ever present dangling carrot
like a perfume
fills the air with delights but its just air
shes a happiness monger
so its best if you don't displease
its always a bitter mote neath the plastic vibe
might as well be a rocky mountain monument
little miss twisted in a little patchwork dress
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
and would i ever get embroil myself in a morning of: coffee,
croissant and a newspaper? i find it strange how newspapers
are printed for workers - sold in the morning,
and read in the hazy hours before the mind
catches up with the body at noon
lead to nothing but village sentimentalism -
and dupe sensationalism -
they really know when to baptise them:
a few weeks into their lives (most never
object to confirmation, i, for one, started inquiring
about the Gnostic cults, and said: nah, you'll
alright without me) -
baptism is a bit like newspapers:
i really didn't ask for it... sorry, i was in diapers,
i knew that i'd be wearing diapers
if i went to my confirmation by the Bishop
of Chelmsford - imagine what a cardinal
could do to me... but that's what newspapers
are, they are written in reasonable comfort,
i don't mean the sort of journalism
akin to all the president's men -
that's valiant... i mean the opinions sections,
i read a newspaper and think of only one thing:
****! i threw away something i actually
need in the recycling pile of garbage...
so you go back to the bag and sift through it...
which is what it's all about:
newspapers pulverise the half-awake readers
on the tube... making newspapers free is also
a tactic... i read newspapers, about this time,
nearing midnight... i've spent the entire day
occupying myself with colours, squares and clouds,
i leave my desire to see phonetic encoding a - z
till last, when i can relax, and actually recycle
all the opinions of the day...
shamefully, others pick up a newspaper,
early in the morning, and just nod, agree, nod, agree,
pigeon on parade... makes it easier to earn
a few more disciples when half of them (if not all)
are still trying to remember a dream at 7 a.m.,
all the opinions sections are fabulous!
mental health matters... like **** it does:
you're saying a box inside that storage room that's
your brain aches like broken arm...
you go to a doctor, and he replies: it's all in your head...
well, d'uh, metaphysical health was always clumsy
with what became spaghetti entanglement
for philosophers - the one never translates into
another as honing in on, and synonymous -
but that's life... but the two were never supposed to
be at odd, or, quiet simply: parallel -
after all, thinking, if a limb or an *****,
is more than what the automation of the brain is:
receptor to nervous stimuli - if there's an *****
such as a mind, and it's verb optimum is sick...
it's like seeing the desperation of someone doing
cartwheels on a tightrope, while deciding a next
chess move playing someone down below,
and smoking a pipe - thought, in the end,
is a dilemma where to many verbs are associated with it:
it's so spatial in that it tries to encompass a near
exponential number of ? / hmm hiccups -
                              as it does encompassing a near exponential
number of ! / eureka hiccups -
the German Chancellor and the fourth cottage -
and the opinion: nacktarschuzdeckenwunsch
(the desire to cover their own naked backsides) -
ah, newspapers and the morning,
whoever reads a newspaper in the morning is a sheep...
who doesn't even thinks that comics didn't slowly evolve
to be comics? they are pristine Geminis -
i wouldn't read a newspaper in the morning,
because i know most of these articles are written in
the afternoon, notably the opinion sections,
by people donning kimonos, drinking wine
and smoking Magritte's phrasing of: not a pipe.
i can't treat them as trash either... i call them
midnight literature... after i've spent the day not
looking at phonetic encoding symbols,
i finally zoom in, revise my eyes and ease into a crescendo
of appreciating newspapers, for whatever they're worth,
which, according to the Thursday's edition of the times:
£1.40 - but reading newspapers in the morning
is horrid - too much world, too much care,
too much moral acting - too much conversation...
the world is too big, and i'm too small...
so i do what the writers of these articles read:
although i have a stronger solvent to read their preaching
parody of Mt. Sinai - but what i found, apart from that,
well... couldn't poetry steal something from
the journalistic medium? in the way art is appreciated
without critics? shouldn't poetry be the only medium
of art where other art mediums are appreciated?
for example, i find that when i'm hearing the clicking
of the keyboard, and there's a record in the background
i have a full meal in front of me,
i forgot how good tubeway army's album replicas
is... as a second course meal... nothing of the top 30
canape charts of nibbles of artistic output...
poetry can congratulate over mediums of art,
it can steal from what journalism encompasses -
namely the critical pieces of the journalistic anatomy -
art, doesn't necessarily have to be a matthew arnold
moment of as soon as i returned home, i pulled off
my coat, flung myself on the sofa, and wept the
bitterest, sweetest tears
: after coming back from
a Liszt concert... really?
i think that ballet is supreme sadism and Bach
had wax in his ears... fame and the adoration of women?
too lazy... like drinking too much, and listening
to what i like: without adverts selling me car insurance
and German shampoo.
yes, i am bothered, i'm seeing something in England
that's worrying, something akin to a Marx & Engels'
study of Victorian England - only this time it's
existentially tinged - not economically -
and yes, reading a newspaper at any "sensible" hour
of the day is rather pointless...
you can get very impressionable in the morning,
at around midnight, with a whiskey and a cigarette...
while everyone is already nodding off in Luna's
embrace - never understood reading newspapers
in the morning... or in the early afternoon -
it's better to digest the **** of the individual by the world
while everyone is asleep... less democratic constipation
of everyone having a go... or as Auden said:
all the ****** of the world write at night...
well, during the night: everything is apparently black
& white... the vacuum of the space, and the punctuation
of Zodiac are what this sort of writing best describes,
given that, we are the mediators of two opposing
chasms... to be honest... poets hate colour,
the whole spectrum of colour, from
red (λ nanometres 760 etc. and Herr Hertz, whatever)
to violet (λ nanometres 424 - 380) -
    so tiny, this puncture... equatable with
the size of the universe and that spec that's called earth -
to me? all of this is a massive accident -
as the gambling king said (god): oops... dunno.
but from what i can see... poets have colour -
hence the white page where all colours are entombed,
and better than scattering the white into the visible
spectrum, beginning as Newton with a needle hole
and a prism... no... we're probing it with something else,
intent on it being given to us in total,
a sum of all parts... or as they say: shying away from
the people in grey suits... virtually taking risks on meeting
the people in white coats - and how to slur and
window-lick our way into confined spaces
perfecting our skills in Paper Mâchés and Matisse-like

— The End —