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Joseph S C Pope Mar 2013
I

Crested by the infamous gown
during a tribute                            to all digestible,
                                                     ­  sentient,
                                           grown strips of light
            playing splatter off the sockets
                                                         ­      of fishermen birds,
                                     who can no longer ignore all
                                     the puppy dogs and kitty cats canned
                                                          ­               in squeeze tubes.

Now every corner of this landscape--a puzzle-piece room
                                           designed to think in shades
                                           and seasonal plume dances.

The usual beautiful* late evening
has become clotted with hip hop Down's Syndrome
mixed with jazz Dual-Personality Disorder.

                                                   Vampire Hades' skull evacuated of ****** power,
                                                          ­      a scene of literal watercolor
                                                    wh­ere moods collage with paper rings

                   on their stubby tongues. An unfixed saturation,
                                                     ­         clean oils
                                                            ­   split
                                                           ­    like the parting of hair

                        Alice's pirate boy, her beauty is parched of tomorrow,
                                                       ­ a wolf for a blood-red moon
                 that works like a farmer
                          to      
                                                              th­e                       water.

                            Let us all that are wild
              quote the stormy truth that                          shifts the particles in space
                                             "It is all in the direction a flower grows,
                     educating a sea of doubtful faces--to the cruelty of nature
                                      Close the brutal mind,
                                                           ­       unless your eyes are flame-proof, Alice."

--It is yours to consume
but it is relatively us that belongs to the consequences--

                                                 ­  Churning coffee water,
                                            reenacting romantic bloodshed
                                    to addicts in attics
                                                          ­  --jostling war heroes
                                               back to this side of the looking glass.
--coming back to their tempest
                          of cremated breaths--a den with no one
                                                             ­   to sing with.
        Sad Alice,
   always sad Alice--mud on her face from             the Dead Sea's end
      of immortality           because Death is albino.


II

  
The top of the day,
                                                            ­              negative space
  has a dying voice        as it lies under the boot
                                       of the night sky  
                                                           ­      watching stars.
                                              "Simply tomorrow is right there
                                                above the mortals," Sweet Alice
                                                speaks, "To the many heavens
                                                      its­ overpopulating the fields."

       The earth needs its cotton blankets.
   Fresh air accents symptoms --dancing on slick gravel
  at 10:18 at night with a pale, pompous view of someone else's Paris.

Crocodile roads spit up by patterned archipelago drags,
updating the scream, "think more about going off the edge of hair and the last number
after twenty shots                         of anesthesia." The culture of Spanish sun denial devolves
         the fig tree
     novel delights.
99% of the fear that saturates the throats of people is a blonde tumor.
1% of the love is too passionate to contain the fires of field cotton.


III

         end of immortality
accepts her                 trying to escape her pirate boy
              but tones of nostalgia prevents the revival--a war with God, herself,

                                                       ­                 trying to escape looping Paradiso,
factory vents malfunctioning forth
                   the guts of Inferno.                     Purgartorio  plots on
                                                              ­          erased continents
                                                      ­   rolled down lamp shades/ everything is useful,
             waste nothing.

Republics spawned in damp pits stamp bargains on trust
     ringing each solo anthem as one: I saved you,
                                                            ­  feeble beast.
                                                          ­    I saved you,
                                                            ­  dear lonely and you didn't care.
                                                           ­    I reserved us both
                                                            ­  and you cast me back
                                                            ­  into Dante's imagination.
                                                    ­          I saved you,
                                                            ­  you feeble child
                                                           ­   and you burned
                                                              me­ with your
                                                              wo­rld.

     Weaving Alice, calm Alice lies in a dingy on the river Styx,
                                  cobwebs fit to her feet like rank shoes
           she gave her children when they were born malnourished
                                        ---starved of insurance money, mouths agape
for the silk heart of their father--an image of a moth in the shape of a human pelvis
                                                      with­ alligator mouths on the wing tips. They shared
                                      --Alice and him--those wings like scribbles tied together on chalkboards
                                                     ­                                 
                               ­                                       --places to venture--

Your Wonderlandia, she spells, a wasp's nest
                                  of combs
                                          in a hive locked
                              in with the others--concave atlas skies.

            Alice smiles with inebriated
   country boys
                          tossing comrades in the natural flow.
             Richly blonde Alice, admires the impression
                        of the night
                  once charred dreams,
                                               now volcanic forests.
              She glides on a dingy
              across the luscious joy
                             --lubricated veins in atheist's beliefs
                                 don't get lost here, just new places to venture.

Beneath malicious eternity, on the River Styx
                                                            ­        
               the boy she adores
                                    all of a sudden, she steals his hat,
looks into his double-barrel eyes,
                                       sees how sad
             she makes herself                  --like a mother tired of brushing
                                                                ­ her daughter's hair, looming tears
                                                           ­                                         extend beyond widows
                                                          ­                                          to the water.

                      The pirate boy says
            his friend isn't far up the river--she cries through her hand.

                               Hopeful Alice prays, smiling, hoping everyone goes to Wonderlandia.
                                             The pirate boy never finds his friend
                                              but keeps his promise
             and takes her away from Euphoria
                                                        ­       --the cranium loss still fresh.
A Jan 2011
Did you ever
Want to do something extraordinary?
Did you ever
Think your future was amazing?
Have you ever
Realized that's impossible?
Have you ever
Accepted the truth?

Because all I see
in my future is
an office.  If I'm lucky.
Hopefully not a cubicle.
I thought I'd do something amazing
I thought I'd make the world better
At least I thought I'd travel.
But when will I be able
to do that while I'm
paying a mortgage
buying a car
overpopulating the world.

I should be happy!  I mean,
look at my future.
A college education,
A nice house,
A car, and
2.1 children.

It may be the American Dream
But it isn't mine.
Written January 24, 2011
Drifton A Way Sep 2014
The concept of legacy distracts thee
As I ironically set my thoughts free
The question is ...
Are we blessed with the ability
To achieve success and virility
Or is it that
We"re obsessed with a conquest
Of overcoming our sterility

As religion tries it's very best to **** off the human race
We try and finish off the rest, abusing our only living place
Overpopulating the nest, as we stare the sun directly in it's face
Until the final test, lets reserve front row seats in outer space

I hope we"re seated comfortably atop a Martian rafter
Witnesses of an absolutely beautiful disaster
Ghosts of dinosaurs let out Collective belly laughter
As the earth swallows a pill the very morning after
Collaborative suicide, if we could all only work together
No time to bide as our global warning comes from weather
I truly would pray, if it's not too late
For humans race to live and propogate
Spread peace and love try and **** hate
And Let us grasp our destiny and fate

The boiling Sun is shining at high noon
Time to act now, not a minute too soon
Grab an instrument, let"s all get in tune
So we can say cheers on Jupiter"s moon.
Walking the earth is not enough, you are born w a responsibility.. It's your job to discover passion along the way
Styles Apr 2015
They say time heals everything. I guess that applies to anything.
but since love is just not anything, I struggle with these thoughts. I don't know where to begin. It's like this game of life, so we all start all in. Mostly in for our-self, life by our-self with no one else around you. Mind of matter, let me remind you. That love is a pain, gifted to all of us. Unfortunate for some, life's not fair to all of us. All created equal, and by mistake, nurtured by hate, left on our own to find  love. And while we wait, we learn to hate - that which is not us. Even though, no such thing is such. It pains my heart, bothers me so much. So all of this hate, overpopulating love. If had one wish, it wouldn't be enough. But all my fate, in the God above; I wouldn't blame him, for blaming us. People killing people, in lands created for us. The commandments, broken if commanded, then judged by You-Mons - aliens looking down on us, like we are monstrous. Unidentified flying objects, staying away from us. They way we label each other is so unrighteous. Somehow our own poison is too good for us. If any of this makes any sense, then they then pay attention. to all of those around you, or then your just a king- dumb.
Daniel Berg Oct 2013
Some days your right, some days your wrong,

Some days seem to last way to long.

Some days you gotta rip the ****,

Some days the current seems far too strong.

Life can be a crazy place,

Billions of people face to face,

Different people, different dreams,

Overpopulating streams.

Trudging forward through the spawn,

Endless trudging till the dawn.

Take a breath hit the ****,

Some days the current seems far to strong.

Night will fall and days go on,

Swim until the pain is gone,

Salvation soon to come upon,

Some days the current seems far too strong.
Vivienne Luong Sep 2013
Barely anyone is happy anymore.
It's like smiles and laughters don't exist,
they have become extinct.
And this loneliness and unhappiness is overpopulating.
Jamison Bell Jun 2017
There are conversations of great importance taking place above my head.
The branches house the senate and there's great debates taking place upon high.
The robins are vehement in their allegations against the sparrows.
The finches support the sparrows but are apprehensive over their trade alliance with the cardinals.
The cardinals insist the robins be compensated for their worm losses due to the finches overpopulating.
It's quite fascinating.
Teemers Oct 2019
There is this part of me that will always remain hidden,
And that’s the world, the evolving of beautiful chaos, intertwined in beauty
Have you appreciated sympathy before appealing for an applaud?
What is reward without tears?
What are fears without goals?
Viewing things from my heart benefits the truth
Viewing things from my mind understands the truth
Running from the lack of freedom, why do we feel trapped in our own beings?
**** just got real, **** just got deep, and I just needed to stop and just feel.
I got this part of me that makes me go crazy
Smart people seem like crazy people to dumb people.
Hypocrites are overpopulating our world
Stop bashing on what you hate, yet promote what you love
I don’t want to compare your story to anyone else’s.
It was unique , I separated it from the rest.

— The End —