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Ashley Chapman Jul 2018
Pressesd tenderly,
your carnal flower opens,
its butterfly released,
hovers like a hummingbird
drinking from the bill.

Oh, I too would steal you away
and cage you happily,
to get under your black-fringed skirt; 
to see that pretty dress,
fly off once more,
and see you bare;
burned now forever in my banks,
a first sight,
of dark curls!

As I think of it,
my desire stirs,
but of us
I have already masturbated twice:
jammed,
hips pinned,
sliding over our wet perspiring bellies,
in our jungle heat:
'cause in the firmament of our embrace
- it's hot -
where glued we **** into each other,
stoking flames,
until sleep,
when we disappear from each other.
My mind crowds,
with niggling neurotic inanities;
yours with manic dreams where bed-wetting criminals in cages beg to be freed,
before better spaces overtake.

When I awake,
I am lying next to you,  
Gwen over the horizon of your fertile valley,
a mountain,
white and reposed.
You,
murmuring desire for me.
****!
I can't wait to answer.

It is late,
late morning,
and we are all half asleep.
You have your back to me,
as we lie,
rubbing feet,
stroking hands,
(the oiled bulb at the end of a finger),
your fine shoulders,
(that delicate but persistent bone in your wrist that stretches with pointed elegance);
as quietly inside,  
(warmly enveloped),
my couched *****,  
rocks us:
each diffusing into the other
like the early morning brew.

Lust and love,
closing-in,
which for a good while on edge had been:
the weeks,
days,
hours;
faint promises from afar;
sometimes a little closer,
our shadows in daylight cross,
as one over the other storms;
and once (or twice),
a sleeve brushes,
even better,
hair crackles,
as a speaking lip touches lobe,  
and for a moment,
taking in the other's scent,
a hint sublimely overpowers.

And these,
dearest of fancies,
are just some,
with which to penetrate your mind,
as you have mine:
the energy of my yielding tenderness,
inviting you to complete me,
as I spread for you with desire.

Much later,
those daring looks you have,
the way you walk our stage:
your beautiful elongated face,
those quick-fire arousing eyes,
your sultry self-assuredness,
your pre-possessing self.

I could talk about your couple,
of generosity,
reaching up,
beyond mere comprehension:
of the fact that I like Gwen
(his love gift for you, me);
but actually,
in truth,
I prefer to take this moment to make love to you;
to say how wrapped I am,
folded in your limbs,
in our mingling sweat;
how with your joy,
you touch my desires,
into yours,
so they flow,
run rather:
honeysuckle from your blessed nymphae.

You love my smell,
you say,
and I dream of gathering you in pheromones,
of drugging you,
of intoxicating you,
so once again you will find me,
take me,
have me.
Entice you once more like a creature from its shell:
Come!
where I can ravish you,
all of you,
lay naked to me,
flesh,
sinews,
everything,
your very bones;
those fine elbows,
those knees I would like to ******* over;
wash their smooth surfaces in my come:
from these cliff heights,
rain ***** on the rocks below.

To once more cast aside your socks and get at your toes,
to pour oil on 'em,
to rub and squeeze' em,
while in the moist cavern of your insides,
we ****,
half washed over by our own tide.
And as we do,
I quail,
speaking sweet nothings of appreciation;
from full lips,
your sounds return,
the hypnotic rhythm of your breath:
I engorge and in our labyrinth,
- the maiden and the bull -
we consume ourselves.

There,
Sweet Lentiform,
you did it,
you got me rolling in flesh,
lusting after your intimate parts,
wanting you in bed as I know you must have me:
pulling me on you,
kissing and biting;
my arousal in your palm,
pops,
as you run a curved finger over my nethers.

Lying,
lying,
side-by-side,
lying prone,
lying ******,
never unconsumed,
because,
please,
please  us,
with more;
so rarely,
unfucked even for a pause,
nothing doing more than sleeping and carousing;
our sustenance barely enough to keep us at it,
an occasional comic thrown in.
Oh,
God,
throw the ******* comic at me,
will you?
Beat my ******* flesh with it if you like.
Anything to see you standing in all your pearly naked glory!

And if you can,
keep texting me,
so I can hang on your every word like a ******* puppy!
Beautiful
long-haired,
skin tight,
upright,
wise,
gorgeously wild,
woman ...
Now pull me by my **** into your **** -
where I love it best.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
i can't stop feeling this pounce of melancholy,
and i mean: it's like a lynx pouncing on my chest,
i can't even claim a clinical dimension to it,
it's a sadness that comes on two fronts...
   it's a sadness that i left Poland when i was 8,
and the greater part of my life was spent
using the English language...
         and i find the Anglophone world so devoid
of consistency... all this post-truth
          labelling...
       this throwing of the cartesian maxim the other
way around, the "i am" really does
   predated the "i think" scenario on the hopes
of asking for a genesis, a (0, 0) / (ο, ω) coordinate
beginning... yes, i know more of a dougnut
   and less the orbit of a planet in the latter case...
     i can't believe i'm getting this technical -
but it sometimes happens, you know?
i don't really like it... i'd love to write about less
claustrophobic matters, less constrictive intellectual
matters... and before you shoot me down
by denouncing the crass lack of motivation -
                i am frail in undertaking another "poem",
and i mean that as a way of saying:
              terse narration and no claim to technique,
or at least that's what i know is modern...
           i watch the following list of videos
as a sort of freak-natured lullaby while drinking
Obey the Walrus         I FEEL FANTASTIC
Agamemnon Counterpart       Username 666
Cursed Kleenex Commercial      There is nothing
Performance Olivier de Sagazan 2008  
     The Wyoming Incident        My Dead Great
Grandma’s Coffin in My Own backyard!
K-Fee Car Commercial       Pretty Woman
Fatal Diving Accident        Girl Goes ****** During
Makeup Tutorial       Paris Catacombs Lost Footage
Shaye Saint John – Hand Thing (yes, copy & paste
given the uppercase lettering, i can be lazy
once in a while) -
                          so i do see a lot of potential in
these clips... if you can't dazzle them: might as well
scare them...
                      but i watch them and then write
a native-language poem while listening to
    music accompanying a zbigniew herbert poem
by tadeusz woźniak - and i get all nitty gritty
when using a language i should have forgotten
aged 8... and i type one out and i am brought
to tears with it... and then it vanishes from the html
blank...
             and then a deeper horror sets in,
which Ezra Pound would have liked
and it merely means: ten quotes by Horace,
a video, with only 230 views on youtube...
                    no one would dare say carpe diem
like a cliche after seeing this video...
             but still the sadness persists...
and i can't make it systematic, not systematic in
the sense that it might appeal to the zeitgeist of:
the January blues, or... i need the pharmacological
rainbow...
        i have a miniature vineyard... enough for
35 litres of wine... and i make the wine myself...
i pick the grapes...
i crush them, i buy the yeast, i melt the sugar until
i get runny sugar-thick water,
   and you know? out of the 5 litre holders for it...
i get about 10 pristine bottles of wine,
roughly in the range of 15% a pop...
                   from 35 litres i get about 10 pristine bottles
of wine... quality-wise: the stuff you'd expect to
buy in a shopping market...
       and that's the sad part...
it bothers me that i've waited for long for the wine,
i might have mentioned it a few months back that
i do actually make my own wine... but given the addiction
it's a product that could only last for something
worth celebrating...
                     these days people speak of a marathon's
worth of abstinance from the stuff for a month...
    which is a bit sad, given that if people ventured
into producing their own alcohol, they'd have
a Dionysian month of binging on it... and then having
11 months being sober... until the natural cycle comes
back, like the rare event of a comet...
    i'm sad i lost a few poems on the way...
but i'm also sad that the drinking should begin by spring
and that i'm ****** already...
                  that i'm still buying whiskey,
and when i do actually drink that one bottle of clouded
wine today, i'll feel a sense of the most minute accomplishment...
   i can't stop facing this industrialisation of
everything... whether it's alcohol, or art...
   or intellectual debate...
   sure, i'll listen to Breitbart for a bit...
then i'll listen in on how we've began mutilating
language... then i'll think of god, and recount
kant's concept: imagine the pangs of despair i felt
reading through the second volume of the critique -
if you do: you'd be surprised by what's involved
in transcendental methodology...
    what could possibly obstruct you in the existence
of: said word... not enlarged in religious practices?
   i am comforted by the fact that kant deals with
god on a non-religious basis...
    religious i mean: worthy of a reciting only one
book a thousand ******* times and building churches...
if god is merely lodged in your mind and allows
for a narrative, who is sane enough to take that
narrative initiative from you, considering the fact
that you're not bound to kneel and read only one
book a thousand times as if that one book held
the sole capacity for your vocab exfoliation and learning
of the alphabet?
     how can you ever be bound to a cognitive detestation
of god? that really must be painful...
considering that thought is so ****** whimsical, frail,
   picky, panicky... give it all you want...
you can't establish a cognitive detestation of god
  on the simple ground that thought is being bombarded
by a 5:1 ratio of the senses versus 1 non-sense -
    which god evidently is: given the numbers of
the good-church going folks... kneeling lunatics i call them...
but the simple fact that you want to do a lobotomy on
yourself with atheism, is a bit like saying
you'll censor the mathematical statement 1 + 1 = 2...
      at least the concept of god is: language exists...
and can i add to that? if a being as such exists:
he wouldn't consist of games... the verbal colliseum
of anagrams and crosswords... language you seize
to be entertaining... it would spell out a clear
format: a x, y, z      vector precision:
    starting from point (0, 0) moving to (1, 1),
  (2, 2)        to ( 5, 5) etc. you'd get a y = x graph...
   not a ******* parabola of nuance and political
chess... or nuanced ***...
                    and is that a.i.?
           well: the french question about man inventing
god because it would be useful is much better said
these days since we we have the capacity to create ourselves...
and given how it looks: i'm going to be a caveman
trapped in a two-dimensional world of the collective
consciousness by the time the true avant-garde in this
medium starts... creating a god became boring...
so many had to recreate himself in the robotic form...
    man is currently needing this exploration...
forget the space project... it's a case of definition...
but i'm still melancholic about the wine...
     i've been waiting to sniff it and feel the sharpness
of the alcohol for a good 3 months...
       and i really wish i could write in my native tongue
so easily as i do in my acquired tongue...
     i'm sad because i'm drinking the whiskey
prior, rather than getting completely sloshed on
what alcoholism looked prior:
    it's that curse of town insomnia and how we don't
celebrate enough of what comes with natural
cycles...
              which means that ontology is dead...
given we've managed to tame the seasons...
  means that any ontological question, based on
the cycle of wine-making, brings us to a more dreary
position than with nietzsche's god is dead...
look here: at least you have something tangible...
   you can't erase god from thinking...
it's the primost a priori essence of every, single man,
it's not an a posteriori fact,
god is there, in that a priori medium like space
and time...
                              and why do people never claim
that god can contain a dualism, primarily because
the herd is encapsulated by a monotheism?
              if god could ever be an a posteriori you'd
be forced to experience some sort of revelation,
and later encounter the evil contained within the concept's
dualism, so in actual sense: be considered mad:
for not making certain choices in life and wishing to
reach for the pulpit... mind you: i had such an experience...
and my life didn't become better for it...
     evidently i should have pressed harder for
the ontological argument of: marrying the girl...
but then the same ontological argument came back
to me when i started making wine...
                      meaning i could produce alcohol
on an industrial level... and forget any ritualism involved
in consuming it prior... since i would only be
left with an addictive socio-pathological use of the
once celebrated, collective engagement by waiting for
autumn to ferment and keep me warm through
the winter... which i suppose is when all the Greeks
were kept together... drinking and ******* rather
than bother to exploit natural resources like gas and oil...
but hey! that's just me...
         but there's a sadness behind this...
start making your own wine and you'll see it...
which is to say: i don't know whether i'd have lived
a happy life with my russian fiance...
             i have only a quantum idealism to mind
expressed by fanciying myself counter to the history
i'm writing right now...
    so why is god as a priori bound as time and space?
well... why would you otherwise get so many eager
atheist gobs to reach for an argument?
                  i find that the most authentic atheists are
murderers... why? they have transcended
    the cognitive debility of an atheistic argument...
      i'll prove god does not exist by "thinking" about it...
my my: what a lovely congregation you have there!
      i'm not even trying to be clever here...
  well... there's an antidote to this scenario...
               so he's permanently lodged in our a priori
  "consciousness" (might as well do away with psychiatry
******* about with its three-layer cake of
con- subcon- and uncon-) -
                   and he's not lodged in our a posteriori
"consciousness" - i hate becoming the fiddler on the roof -
because what then? experiencing the omniniscence
and the omnipotency and whatever other trait that ******
thing does, would translate as what?
     at best a monotheism... or a place where people concentrate
in numbers... not necessarily worths of being beyond
the estimates concerning their congregation...
            it's dangerous to claim a god in the a posteriori
realm...
                that's why the safest place to keep him is in
the a priori realm... where all the big things happen,
or don't happen, depending whether you're from New York
or Hiroshima...
                    and following from kant's distinction
in transcendental methodology concerning time and space...
and god...
                 it dawned on me that he did see a distinction
between mathematical language and the lingua of
  doodling and anagrams and all those poetic jives that
give no precision...
    if time... then space...
                    if god...            then nothing...
and how are dual in the a priori realm...
       only that with regards to time and space
i'm more likely to throw a 1, or a 2 into conceptualising
these things, than i am to throw an a, or a b into it...
    algebra is secondary in talking about these two mediums...
why? because i'll get a definite rationalisation of
time and space... if i tell you the fastest man on earth
can run 100m in under 10secs...
                       if i throw in x y z into this: i might as well
end this whole narrative with: oi! Zeno! give us
that Achilles joke!
                when i mean god i mean: medium of
communication... that's not necessarily a democratic
omni-versed plateau of sponging everything every human
has to say...
       but i primarily throw 1, 2, 3... 4, 5... 8, 9 and 0
into the a priori conceptualisation of time and space...
  but if i do the same when i throw in the other symbols
into the a priori conceptualisation of god and nothing -
sure, mathematical symbols can be phonetic encoding,
as one, two, three, four... five, six...
          but apply them as one two three four to time and space
and there's no way to rationalise time and space,
because time and space is met with a nonsense
in dealing with a phonetic encoding of 1 (as one) -
due to the vacuum of space... and the timelessness of
    time as a ref. point fixated upon... let's just leave
it with the vacuum of space... 2 overpowers two (because
of to and too), 3 overpowers three (because of free)...
4 overpowers four (because of for)... not only that:
but they're more about photographic memory
and visual conceptualisation ease - no one really bothers
   a - z to be anything more than: what they actually
are as phonetically: awaiting pronunciation.
sure... letter can become mystical in a sense of:
   y looks like a tree (other than pine),
           H is a rugby goal...
                               w is a cosine graph...
                    y is a serpent's tongue...
              but that's mysticism and that's also: fair enough!
what bugs me is the opposite of the a priori
magnetism... as opposed to space and time...
god and nothing...
     well... if i throw 1 and 0 into a priori thinking
about working time and space...
  i'll get, say: 365 days in a calendar year...
               or that the acceleration of earth if 9.8 metres
per seconds squared... (cubic gravity evidently
becomes a bit pointless -
                                        imagine it:
   9.8m/s(superscript)3...   or 9.8m(superscript)2/s...
or whatever variation...
no wonder the chemists got the ****-end of the stick
when they were told they weren't allowed into
the heaven of superscript... but sent to the subscript hell
of writing dwom oxygen... ah shame: Faust! i'm coming!)...
yes... but throw 1 - 0 into the a priori
"conceptualisation" opposite of time and space,
i.e. god and nothing... the best answer you can get
is matthew chapter 1 verse 8... or SIX SIX SIX!  boogie man!
well... not... you throw in the symbols α - ω
into the a priori "conceptualisation" of god & nothing
and you get, e.g.: δατυμ -
which basically means: it can't be meaningless -
       otherwise we'd be stuck with animalistic intuition
and intelligence, overloaded with sensual intelligence
and not marred by the murk of thought...
  how this devolution happened is beyond me...
  no amount of wit makes up for the sensual sharpness of
a monkey shouting at a congregation: spy! snake!
and all with the bare minumum of phonetic distinction...
    thus α - ω are slightly meaningless when it comes
to time and space, i know these symbols to enter
this a priori venture, but we're still primarily talking
about using 1 - 0 symbols to get at the knitting-work...
just like in verse, i say of a crossword
    sound of Valhalla (4),
                 and you say: 1 across... horn!
                              and then we get the pretty picture.
3a.m.
       and the wine ritual is about to begin...
      
Kingafroninjaa May 2012
Can I drown in the sweet sorrow of your passion?
Bask in the drips of your essence and savor your liquid ecstasy.
Stare in awe at the contours of your body as it bends to my very will.
Making you feel as real as this fantasy world we have thrusted ourselves into.
Your soft whimpers caresses my ears as our spirits are driven by their own Heaven and Hell.
The rapid movements of your ribcage soothes my ravenous soul as our bodies intertwine with each other.
The aroma of our mixture captivates my subconscience as we're climbing towards your highest peak.
Your petite thighs clenching onto my physique build as the wave of nirvana overpowers your psyche.
She slowly drifts away from our fantasy world, leaving me here to dwell on her forsaken sorrow.
My body yearns to hear your voice in the endless darkness as it awaits for your return.
Can I cross the threshold into your garden of Eden one last time?
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
anyone can be a dritte ***** fetishist... anyone! say one word in german, and the left will deem you adequate for a fist, rather than a lip... or at least that's how speaking german words, with their compound-anti-hyphen "getting together" looks like... the French utilise diacritical marks intended as syllable incissors: but frequently utilise them, unless you're Lacan and say: transcend them... i.e. move them to the side... ensuring that a monopoly on literacy is kept... the only remnants of Saxon in Anglo-Saxon is enclosed in chemical nouns.... the rarity of actually using a hyphen, you literally over-use in everyday sprechen... talk a word of deutsche and you're 1 centimetre away from saluting and to a hymn stating a sieg heil! Germany is originally community building, English, for all it's **** antics, isn't... Germany can have the concept of a zeitgeist tomorrow... German society is as thick as *****... Germans best represent *****... i never lived there, but i have enough instruments to see it... they have a tendency to disregard the individual when the mass is threatened... the Englsih? they don't have that tendecy... they are more into einsgeist than anything else... they are the single ethnic group that cherishes iconoclasm above anything else... i spent 3 weeks in Poland: how many times did i hear the word selfie used? not once, zilch... 0. i know that English is a lingua franca of modern times, but it's so easy to speak, given the fact that so many people speak, that i feel horrid using it... i want it to remain small, the tinniest of tiny in its post-imperial structure... comedy-hysterics prone... debating the question: why are Scots in the Houses of Westminster? making adequate demands? the English will never experience a zeitgiest... they're living in one at the moment, but given the disparity of accents: they''ll never accept it... which is why, whenever i travel to Poland, i have a luxury suite in how i deciphered diacritcal marks... i can't be recognised as a foreigner... but of course the gnat questions in Essex (England) given my Germanic physiogomy... it's self-evident... but why didn't god die in Auschwitz? i believe it to be akin to Jesus having no inkling into the struggle contesting the need to build pyramids... unlike the need for what later became a misinterpretations of Conquistadors seeing the Aztec similitude of Egypt... i.e. the scaffolds... capital punishment... ******* didn't get it... now the entire continent is overrun with them asking for the some obscure demand for a Juan buying them the next round of drinks... the English will never create a zeitgeist... my fascination with the dritte ***** is simply that: to see a zeitgeist... a complete and utter obedient ethnicity... a singular testmanet of a volk... Jews i too could praise, but they're too scattered, too "english" i.e. too individualistic, too disguised... i see them re-owning Israel a bit like some fetish ***** with latex and gimp... what i want to see is the volk, from the mistakes sentenced in Versailles... i want to simply see the volk... well... no can do... i can't see it, history says... it's a natural fetish of history students... American protests don't really do it for me... there's no omni-cohesion akin to a *****-like appropriation of the leader *****... that's the closest i'll ever get with getting to see a theocracy, minus the idiosyncratic psychosis... clear geometry! lines! shapes! regiments! i'm so tempted by it that i can't but lead my narrative with it! the English will never understand this concept... they're too idiosyncratic in their approach... they all think they're unique... or as that motto in school hanged over me echoed, it hanged there in the air like a guillotine, some anonymous dictator spoke to us: you're different... just like everybody else! it was never a concern for keeping a place of origin as ostriches might... ther was always that moral "obligation" surfacing from Hong Kong and king kong... and Timbuktu... which is why i said ω = oo and a pair of ****, or a bottom... and o = +h... or a breath central yielding to an islam of yhwh... versus the need for a macron over the omicron... and indeed the umlaut above the o merely invoked the siamese cut-off of e, so a tongue-curler... but the seeing the volk! we all go mad after a while... i can't see the years according to Adoolf as something worth a romance... it has all the traits of a noumenon about it... but you know why i write this? my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men kleiden im schwarz in my home-town, just before the Russian army came with their youths who preferred to sleep with the animals in equivalent of Bethlehem grottos... he remembered the ᛋᛋ-men, not as kleiden im schwarz: but as.... herrbittebonbon... or should i punctuate that: herr! bitte bonbon! some have a fancy on remembering the romance of the Warsaw Uprising of '44... my only clue into the reality of world war ii was once said by my grandfather... and they gave him sweets... so that he ran home and had to put his hands under the tap, because the sweets were so glue-like, that only water could tear them apart in order that he might clasp something else... it's sad in a way: i ahve no memorial to go to... no need to express a pride... merely fragrant my vocab with a german word or two... to indeed see: that there must have been something human in that ******* embryo at some point... something counter Versailles... i can't feel being touchy about these neurotic spreading their opinions as if their opinions are above the facts that history dictates... and personal memories, however many generations apart... but at least kept... if my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men being herrbittebonbon... i can only wish to have an unlimited amount of ****... given my libido... and the complexity of modern women demanding as they demand: the restrained man, the man not willing to explore easing ******* by having *** while she's in the cyclone... oh well.... thumbs up!

well... looking at it now, i can only see left-politics
without an economic model... or what happened when
communsim was undermined: my grandfather,
a communist party member has a state pension....
so it's not like he's on a 0-hour contract...
   what's missing with the current left-leaning
politics? an economic model...
the left has no economic policy in the west...
it was been weeded out, what with the original
model asserting Marx and Dickens' Oliver Twist
tragedy... the left has absolutely no
economic model, which makes for crude politics:
   once upon a time the workers
in eastern europe celebrated workers
day... and you had absolutely
no protest: i.e. not engagement in
Hegelian dialectics...
    minus: is there really a theological
dialectic? i'm not so sure
given that atheism is populist
in motto, and anti-centrist
and giving up the individual so easily...
i don't trust it...
       so i don't really
respect it, however many intellectuals
take to the pulpit...
   i too ordain myself with a strict rigour
of "religious" akin dynamics:
i drink to excess, daily...
   well... wouldn't you:
given too many wanted you dead...
you'd start to imitate them
and take gambles at your own life,
finally! **** me! they suddenly disappear,
those same people who wanted you dead!
****! gone... blah blah and pa pa much
later...
                i still think i'm more useful
rhyming snipptes i call poetry
and necessarily not rhyme: because i don't
like orthodoxy, whether church or
poetry bound... because it just seems
too much like ping-pong after a while...
   i never knew why rhyme needed rubric, strict,
only identifiable by rhyme...
  never knew why that was the case...
i always thought: impromptu against rhyme...
                  but i'll give Islam
one thing that overpowers the rest...
the fact that "saints'" heads are on fire...
rather than encapsulated in halos...
       i see the item: halo like
the fact that left politics is needy in a care for
anything but a rebellion against an economy...
left-wing politics have no economy to support...
you can't teach people communism
     without being left out in the cold
without Marshall Plan antics of benefits
and left with an idea of Marx...
            the shadow of Hegel looms too heavily
over the attempts...
  the shadow of Hegel is too thick
and coercing... to do otherwise...
                 leftist politics is without an economy:
therefore they have to imitate
  far-right tendencies...
  they have to employ damage...
well: this is coming from someone who's grandfather
was a communist party member...
                        i can't see the left....
i can't see a purpose: an economy as a wanking
hippy commune? really? is that all?
                     smashed windows, is that all?
i always liked the fact that Islamic saints
had their heads set alight... on fire my son,
on fire...
   no halo, akin to the current leftist attempt
at dialectics: by halo i mean: membrane,
i mean: the untouchables... meaning pristine ego...
if only the Sunnis allowed the artists of Persia
to come to their calling, to ease the strain
imposed by Muhammad...
but now... well: if writing is supposedly "holy"
what will the Sunnis ever make
of the iconoclasm of words in adverts?
nothing... are we being temped with a warring spirit,
are we? aren't we?!
   who's waking up the populists?!
you really want germans on the warring path?
of course... let me tell you how *william burroughs

noted the creation of the schutzstaffel
as over-heard:
pet a kitten for month... then gauge its eyes out.
oh i have no care for a romance:
i'm seeing Paris contained in an envelope
citing the address: Hades... arise!
it's not the same Paris i remember, not the Paris
of 2004 or 2005...
       it's really a case of playing with
    an elastic band.... you pull it, stretch it...
but finally it snaps! and yes...
we'll be drinking schnapps in Libya at some point...
i'm thinking: what will ever make a man
relieve himself of using a hammer and a nail
as a carpenter, and take to a machine gun?
there must be an enzyme-point that just festers
in its ability to give momentum...
there must be... perhaps when being global merchants
leaves people too ordained to wait for death
that they start seeking it in the ***** of Mars?
   when utopia nears and merely breathes into
man's ear, and says no word, unlike a god:
that the fatality dynamo begins...
    akin to the fateful comparison of Damocles -
dangling, but at the same time: tickling... teasing...
isn't the Islamic world merely agitating?
  trying to move the Christian world from
fully engrossing the "protestant"-liberal
easy adaptation working from unearthing
the nag hammadi library?
              well... the left is without an economic
model... so it's politics is what it is:
    the original intention of Hegel:
        outlines of the philosophy of right -
what's the genesis of Marx... funny enough
the book is merely a collection of notes on lectures...
      there no thesis involved...
nothing as grand as what could stand alone
akin to the phenomenology of spirit -
they're just notes... just like i'm reading heidegger's
ponderings ii - vi... notes... half-baked scripts...
   so my post-communist inheritence...
just when inflation gripped Polish economy...
and we had the Kantian idea reaching pulpit
1000000zł, i.e. so many denials of a stable 1...
    thus the inner working of modern capitalism...
how certain things are really worth
nothing, as such: £0.000001 -
i can only guess to state, the only class of people
able to experience this counter-inflation    
in western societies are "artists"...
    or artists, in the context of a harold norse
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel;
i.e. getting published, giving ****...      
   it would have been easier under Stalin or ******...
at least the chance of martydom
and the holy ghost of censorship...
  at least it would have made sense then...
but the concept of counter-inflation isn't that alien...
it exists for a reason to suggest:
we really don't need so many contestants
in an x-factor show... we don't need so many
artists... counter-inflation is at work already...
   the same sort of inflation that worked its way
to ensure plumbers and carpenters, roofers
from eastern europe at the end of communism
were necessarily exported into western europe...
given the communist work ethic...
    hence the power of money, so inhuman and
akin to an elemental force that man
can contain with pocket-money as a child,
but as a man, can't contain neither forest fire
or tsunami, so too money: with the economic crisis...
money overpowers man, akin to the elements...
the same inflation in poland at work
to shift people is apparent now, but as counter-inflation...
because England can't be known as a nation
of singers... but of nurses and carpenters and
   shopkeepers, hence the counter-inflation:
when a song on Spotify is worth £0.000001 per streaming...
an immigrant plumber from eastern europe is
worth 1000000zł... or how the coordinate (0, 0)
cancels out... and we're left with what's later just
a pedantic fact stated by someone like me: a zzzzzzzz
coordinate...
            we can't control money no more than
we can control seas...
   could we ever not dream of being given enough
money to then not waste them on pointless urges
akin to a lottery win and the easy way, via no
business or syndicate?
   really? there's a reason we live in a time
that's necessarily soulless...
   i can't give it a piquant phrase (only a phrase
as germans put it, chemically, hydrocarbon spelling
akin to zeitgeist - spirit of the times,
and there's nothing holy about it...
   it just moves to the next generation,
and the next poker hand... so **** that trinity
um... person?) - it gets ***** with fashion...
   or as i see it: cannibalism of 20th century trends
as the neo-original basis of fashion in the 21st beginning...
this is the one time i'll get to coin a phrase,
i.e. pick up a penny from the street pavement...
   counter-inflation brought it about...
rather than a zeitgeist where we can share afflictions
and, perhaps succumb to empathy early on...
nein... none of that... let's see what we really see it as:
ebenegeist - or? the levelling spirit...
         ebene-    (level)... ah... even better!
   stufegeist... you hear it all the time!
                         buying a house and getting onto
the property ladder!
                                    stufegeist -
           always that tease, always that ******* carrot
and that donkey... well... that's one way to get
motivational... invert the inflation of Zimbabwe...
  ensure people stop dreaming,
   make a plumber worth £0.000001 in Zimbabwe
and £1000000 in England...
      likewise make an "artist" worth
   £0.000001 per poem / song / painting...
  and likewise make him worth £1000000
in Zimbabwe as a "good" person...
  well... by now completely mentally ill...
   but hey! it's money! look at money like you might
look at water or fire or earth... and it's not
exactly a Monday's edition of the Financial Times...
mind you: given that we're so "advanced",
and given how old the concept of money is...
   is it really not as primitive as it really is
in what it makes people do?
   oh sure, because i'm so not used to it:
i'd rather be paid with the currency of peanuts!
                but then my love for the art is greater
than my ability to buy a brand new kettle...
or a doormat... so... what's the word... m'eh?
Danielle Shorr Oct 2014
I will regret this in the morning
but I will do it anyway
my impulsivity often overpowers my conscience
yet I am almost always fully aware
of the decisions I make
and their consequences
I am not exactly mentally stable
but I am sane enough
to know right from wrong
yesterday from today
love from lust
although sometimes I mix them up
I have a tendency to lunge at any pair of arms that open for me
my mind and body often disagree
my body saying yes to eager hands
my mind saying no
constantly looking towards my heart
thinking how stupid one must be
to fall repeatedly
get hurt every single time
and still manage to do the same
over
and over
again
I wonder
how many times I will have to hit the ground
in order to learn to stop falling face first?
I often say things
that should be left unsaid
I often do things
that should not be done
sleep in beds unfamiliar
make believe love to strangers
get to know people who will not remember me tomorrow
I am gone as quickly as the hangover
I can be washed off the tongue
just as quickly as the liquor
I often believe I am capable of inciting change
I kiss temporary lips with permanence
hoping that I can train them to stay
I love temporary people with permanence
hoping that I can train them not to leave
and when they do
I claim to have seen it coming
I am incapable of forgetting
a scrapbook memory of skin and heartbeat
of touch and moments
I know not to look directly into eyes
for they can be blinding
and I still
do it anyway
I know of the risks that shouldn't be taken
well aware of their consequences
and I still
take them anyway
you could say
it is my own fault
for the way that things continue to turn out
but I can make no promise of apology
instead
I will live momentarily
**** up intentionally
love recklessly
fall unguarded
break enough times to learn how to put myself back together
crash into concrete enough times to learn how to shift a crooked smile
into something worth seeing
I have been told that a life lived in fear
is hardly a life lived at all
so I intend to live every second
like it is the last one I will have
I will write each night as it happens
narrate my own stories
and hope they turn out okay
I will regret this in the morning
but I will do it anyway.
Jacob Traver Dec 2013
Stress overpowers
My everyday thinking.
I appear to be afloat
But secretly, I'm sinking.
Jordan May 2013
Radness

The Philosopher’s Stone is not just a spiritual metaphor but an actual substance that can transmute lead or mercury into gold. The Stone is a product of Alchemy. Unlike chemistry, which only deals with physical matter and energy, Alchemy makes use of etheric and astral energies to reconfigure matter at the quantum level. Alchemy is to chemistry what a cube is to the square; it is a superset of chemistry and is capable of so much more.

How Etheric Energy Overrides Physical Laws

Alchemical achievements require successfully gathering, concentrating, and multiplying etheric energy. When this energy reaches a critical threshold, it overpowers the normal laws of physics and allows seemingly miraculous processes to take place. I believe it does this by biasing probability. By amplifying the probability of minor quantum effects, which are normally limited to the subatomic scale, they manifest on the larger atomic scale. In this way, one element spontaneously transforms into another.

The world around us is made of subatomic particles that regularly undergo unpredictable jumps, teleportation, bilocation, superposition, and other strange quantum behaviors. Why don’t everyday solid objects do likewise? Because the random quantum jittering of their subatomic particles collectively average out to zero. Think of a large crowd of people; seen from the air, the crowd as a whole is stationary, even though individuals within the crowd move in seemingly random directions. It’s because their movements are random and uncoordinated that they average to zero net movement on the whole.

The world we see around us is merely a crowd of subatomic particles whose individual quantum jumps aren’t apparent because they average to collective stillness. Physical laws that govern our everyday world, known as the deterministic laws of classical physics, are merely the laws of the crowd. These laws are what’s left of quantum physics after the unpredictability is removed through statistical averaging. They are not absolute laws; they are just the most probable manner in which matter and energy behave.

Physical laws can be bent. While the probability is incredibly low that enough coordination and coherence develops among the quantum jitters to manifest on a collective scale, that is exactly what etheric energy does. It alters probability and thereby skews the laws of thermodynamics, gravity, electromagnetism, and chemistry.

Alchemy does not violate the laws of physics, nor does it always follow them, rather it bends them as needed. It operates upon the quantum foundation from which these laws arise in the first place, via etheric energy affecting the probability of quantum events.
http://montalk.net/gnosis/174/the-philosopher-s-stone
Aseh Sep 2018
I was never looking into you
I was only pouring an image of myself onto your canvas
Of course I didn’t know
it was me looking into me
this was the mirage of my desire
always in the shape of a question mark
and you
a sweeping mystery
oozing something toeing the peculiar line between *** and titanium (cold, edgy, sharp - trembling
between pain and principle
like blazer and tie
or more like halfway-unbuttoned-shirt-and-slacks on-with-no-tie
(it was like you were making an effort!))

It was ***
but it also wasn’t ***
(I am empty
I am full)

I keep building up and up and up
all these images in my Mind
(which never shuts up)
(a never-ending narrative
She spins and spins and succumbs
only in those rare and passing circumstances)
constructing people like buildings
only the scaffolding is imaginary and when
the architecture folds in on itself
soulless
and my beloved figurines come toppling down on me
why do I still get so surprised
so stung
so lonely in that
hollow and distant way
(like your Mind is echoing
in on
Itself)?

My Mind is like quicksand
devouring streams of memory with ease
forever unsatisfied and craving more of the same
sharp edges and all
praying for a satiation in some distant future
She knows will never come

Only here
in this tiny universe
can I spell out anything resembling rationality
from the mess and junk and tangled tendrils of my Mind
Only here
can I extract bits and pieces of thoughts
and try to puzzle them together
until they make sense
until I can separate “Me” from “Reality"

And what doesn’t make sense
what I need to understand
is why I feel so beset
with this heavy magnetism that
overpowers me to the point of
paralysis
(with little to no room for breathing)
and why it was you
who pushed me into this feeling
and you
who is still pulling me along
far past the threshold of my resistance
and I am done
and it stings
Big Virge Mar 2018
Ya Know ....
  
I'm Beginning To Think The Truth Is ...
A LOT of Folks Are ... STUPID ... !!!  
    
You Can Tell By The Way They're Moving ...  
And Who They Choose To ... Move With ...  
    
It's CLEAR Some NEED Improvements ...  
Because They Deal In Looseness .............................. !!!!!  
    
Like CLAIMING Their ... " Religion " ...  
DEFINES How They Be Living ... ?  
    
Here's What I Mean You DON'T EAT PIG ...
Because It's UNCLEAN Is Your Religions' Theme ...  
    
BUT One Night You're At Home ...  
And Your Hunger Says ...  
    
"Yo it's time for some food !"  
    
So Do You Start To Cook ... ???  
NO You Go To The Phonebook ...  
INSTEAD And Have A Look ...  
For Something You Can Order ...  
    
An Option CLEARLY shorter ... !!!  
Than Cooking For ... Yourself ...  
    
So You Then GET A FEVER ...    
To Order Up ... Some Pizza ... !!!  
    
Ya' Hunger Says ... " Oh well " ...  
    
You Order Up ... " A VEGGIE " ...  
I Guess Cos' That Is ... " Healthy " ... ?!?  
    
ONLY To FIND Later ... That Night ...  
That Something MEATY Was Inside ... !!!  
    
Because THAT Night You Spent The Time ...  
With The Toilet By Your Side ... !!!!!!!  
    
It Now Becomes CLEAR ...  
STUPIDITY Steered Your *** To A Place ...  
Where It Had To ................................ DISPLACE ...... !!!!!!!!!!  
    
WHATEVER You Ate From That .... " Takeaway " .... ?!?  
    
Next Day When You Check ...  
The Pizza Then Said .... !!!?!!!
    
"If you didn't want meat,  
why did you eat me, without double checking !  
Why now are you stressing ?  
You were stupid to believe that you'd really receive,  
what we say we'll provide. The sales what rules our vibe !  
If you truly were, all that concerned about swine being a part  
of food you ingest, that makes you **** !  
You'd of got off your ****, and cooked at home,  
so that you'd of known, what it was you had,  
and wouldn't of eaten, a piece of ham !"  
    
You'd of Marked Your Own Card ...    
And Then Wouldn't Try To BLAME ... ?!?  
To .... "Cover Up Your SHAME" ... !!!  
    
It Seems Your Brain Is ... LAME ... !!!  
Cos' STUPIDITY Holds It's REINS ... !!!  
    
Your ANGER Is A FARCE ... !!!!!  
You People Make Me Laugh ...    
    
Actually ... YOU DON'T ... !!!!!!!  
Cos' STUPIDITY ROAMS ...................................
RIGHT THROUGH Your Bones ...  
And Into Zones Where It SHOULD NOT GO ... !!!!!  
    
It Seems That ALL YOUR Bleating ....    
DEFINES Much Like Your ... Leanings ...  
    
Your Faith To Be A SHAM ...    
And Quite Stupid At That ... !!!  

Just Like Wearing ... " LIONS " ... ?!?  
As If They Are ... YOUR TRIDENT ... !?!  
When NOT ONE Lion Roams ?  
In The Place That You Call ... " Home " ... !!!
    
Isn't That Something You STOLE .... ?!?  
From AFRICAN ... Time Zones ... !?!  
    
Somebody's CLEARLY LYING ... !!!!!  
And DOESN'T Come From ZION ... !!!  
    
I Clearly Am STUPID ...
To See THAT As FOOLISH ... !!!  
And PROOF of POOR Schooling ...
That Is Mind POLLUTING ... !!!  
    
Who'd They Think They're ...
..... " Fooling " ...... ???  

A GREAT MANY People ...
Like Those Under Steeples ... !!!  
CONFESSING Their SINS ... !!!  
Because of BAD THINGS ...  
That They Have Been Doing ...  
    
It's Church They Are USING ....    
To ACT As Their CLEANSER ...  
These STUPID PRETENDERS ... !!!!!  
    
USING Religion ...
To Give Themselves Visions ...  
of AGAIN Being ... PURE ... ?!!!!!?  
    
That's STUPID ... Fa' SURE ... !!!!!!  
    
A Leopard DOES NOT Change His Spots ... !!!  
    
He's A LEOPARD ... FOREVER ... !!!!!  
YES Humans Can BETTER ...    
Themselves ... YES IT's True ...    

But NOT In A Morning ... !!!  
That's STUPIDITY ... Calling ... !!!!!  
    
Is It Stupid To Say These Things Nowadays ... ?!?  
NOT IN My View But MANY Would Choose ...  
    
To Say .....  
    
" It is true, cos expression moves, and causes issues,  
and if you're not careful, may turn and bite you !"    
    
Man ... FEAR of YOUR TRUTH ...  
Seems Like ... FEARING YOU ... ?!!!?  
    
Something I View ...  
As YES A ... STUPID MOVE ... !!!!!  
    
Stupidity REIGNS ...  
When FEAR Takes The Strain ... !!!!!  

That's Now What's IMPRINTED .....  
And Runs Through My Veins ... !!!!!!!  
    
I Try To Use THINKING ...  
To Avoid ... STUPID TRAINS ... !!!  
    
Cos' Thought OVERPOWERS STUPIDITY's Power ... !!!  
    
As Does DISCIPLINE ...
Which Is Where I Begin ...  
    
NO RELIGION ... Within ... !!!  
    
Just Faith In Reflection ...  
And Thought FILLED Selections ... !!!  
On Life And It's LESSONS ... !!!  
To Give Me ... "PROTECTION" ...  
Against The INFECTIONS ... !!!!!  
    
STUPIDITY Spreads In UNDISCIPLINED Heads ...  
It's CLEAR TO ME Now That FOOLS Run Most Towns ... !!!!!  
    
And My Thinking That THOUGHT ...  
In People ... Runs FLUID ... !!!!!!  
    
Gives Me LIVING PROOF ...  
That I'm Being ........  
    
..... " STUPID " .....
Nowadays, people expose things about themselves on social media, without truly realising the extent of what they are showing sometimes ....
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.how did the political "debate" ever become surmount to include musicians? from what i've seen? of the KEXP radio session...  Ashish Vyas had the most fun from the session... i always admired the bass players more than those ****-offs running out of rhythm guitar sessions... bass, a tier above the drums... masturbator-grand-master-soloist... i guess this is one of those nights where i drink more than i write... elephant's ******* choking me to come... oh well... not even a Decalogue will save me... the political art is no art to begin with, curtains... all i'm seeing if curtains... and households filled with retired personel... and curtains... curtains but not blinds... it's abhorrent to have to listen to music with hushed bass guitar... notably metallica... apart from devil's dance and... where's the bass guitar? the rhythm guitar section overpowers the music... fine fine, have your solo *******, but don't silence the bass guitar with the rhythm guitar, i need to hear the drums translated via the bass guitar into the rhythm guitar... solo guitar and vocals all you want... it's like... the lessons to be learned from jazz, when all the fire prime instruments are allowed to solo... went, "missing"... i need the bass, man... frantic bass & drum genre type of music will not do lollipops for me... what was the alternative? dub-step? well... vex'd & distance... burial... who were the others? i don't remember... don't make me cite skrillex: white privelege man! yeah... at least with rabbit teeth missing, doing that well known party trick! i don't like bands that have a knack at an over-emphasis of the rhythm guitar, who neglect the bass guitar... it's so counter the jazz-inheritance... tool: grand bass, red hot chilli peppers, silverchair... i need that smoothing out layer of sound that manifests itself in a bass... a layer of sound just below the rhythm guitar and a tier above the base (not bass) of the african drum borrow... bāß... base (not bass)... yes, it's not supposed to look pretty: a phonetic antithesis... as most "things" in english...

             mind you... did i mention how heidegger
has a foot in the door?
       oh... i didn't? did i?
     the reflexive and the reflective quadratic...
the reflex of conscience "vs."
the reflectiveness of consciousness...
       heidegger:
                  language - only if speech has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it become
strong 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 sovereignty.

  of the few lyrics i've entertained these passing
"days"?
             the black keys: lonely boy -
              i got a love that keeps me waiting...
borrowing from Kafka i guess:
      in that case, i’ll miss the thing by waiting for it.
   no?
   guess there's no "oops" where these words
come from...
              
    with the "passive" circumstance of the faculty
of memory...
                two tiers of memory:
the reflexive memory type,
the scholastic rubric type...
  1 x 4 = 4, a + b + a +c + u + s = instrument =
counting... etc.,
            that's the reflexive memory type...
a scholastic rubric...
      dyktando...
but memory also occupies
the reflective parameters...
          which involve personality...
a sort of memory dissociated from schooling,
and more, associated with:
disinhibiting any chances of succumbing
to dementia's grinding machine
of the mortal circus...

  the reflexive memory storage bank is
the buffer...
the "placebo": nay... the safety mechanism...
but... too much education,
too much pointless education,
and the erosion of the reflective memory
storage bank: this is not a buffer,
this is not a something equipped with
a "safety mechanism"...
        given that a self is perpetuated
within the confines of
a constant conflict with the "self"...
   a and italics / the and "ambiguity commas"...

well, there's always a place to start...
i find of like philosophy as being
a rigour associated with a satisfactory
form of vocab.,
       namely?
i can use the associated words bound
to a sentence with confidance...
unlike a ****** fiction writer,
sometimes dabbling into loan words
from a thesaurus, to, invoke:
an intelligence superiority...
  don't worry...
  when people lend themselves
to use a thesaurus, having exhausted
their adjective knowledge... it shows...

come on... a background in chemistry nouns?
3,5-methylhexane... you think?
that's the remains of a saxon past in english...
in chemistry...
germans spell like dr. faustus to begin with,
they, compound...
        the remains of a germanic past in
the current state of english shrapnel still
lives... in chemistry...
        hydrocarbons...
                  usually met with a hypen:
hydro-carbons...
       siebentausendzweihundertvierundfünfzig
(7,254)...
well, very german: what a waste of not employing
punctuation marks (', -) when it came
to the caterpillar 189, 819:
methionylthreonylthreonylglutaminylarginyl...isoleucine,

Me­thionylthreonylthreonylglutaminylarginyltyrosylglutamylserylleucy­lphenylalanylalanylglutaminylleucyllysylglutamylarginyllysylgluta­mylglycylalanylphenylalanylvalylprolylphenylalanylvalylthreonylle­ucylglycylaspartylprolylglycylisoleucylglutamylglutaminylserylleu­cyllysylisoleucylaspartylthreonylleucylisoleucylglutamylalanylgly­cylalanylaspartylalanylleucylglutamylleucylglycylisoleucylprolylp­henylalanylserylaspartylprolylleucylalanylaspartylglycylprolylthr­eonylisoleucylglutaminylasparaginylalanylthreonylleucyl arginylalanylphenylalanylalanylalanylglycylvalylthreonylprolylala­nylglutaminylcysteinylphenylalanylglutamylmethionylleucylalanylle­ucylisoleucylarginylglutaminyllysylhistidylprolylthreonylisoleucy­lprolylisoleucylglycylleucylleucylmethionyltyrosylalanylasparagin­ylleucylvalylphenylalanylasparaginyllysylglycylisoleucylaspartylg­lutamylphenylalanyltyrosylalanylglutaminylcysteinylglutamyllysylv­alylglycylvalylaspartylserylvalylleucylvalylalanylaspartylvalylpr­olylvalylglutaminylglutamylserylalanylprolylphenylalanylarg inylglutaminylalanylalanylleucylarginylhistidylasparaginylvalylal­anylprolylisoleucylphenylalanylisoleuc…

or just read the end of james joyce's ulysses
or jean-paul sarte's iron in the soul...
you do have to insert shrapenl punctuation
into this word...

but these are the last remains of the english language
being associated with a germanic origin:
compounding words...
             esp. in chemistry...
                

as any drunk would state,
to suffice...

    what was it that the luftwaffe
prescribed for the night raids
on London?

   and what did isis fighters
be prescribed?

    amphetamines?
n'oh!
   (minus the extended omega:
oooooo enough time
for a katy perry song,
an afternoon shower,
a slap in the face,
and then a few punches,
hey, jerking off became
boring)...

   so the british,
and a few polacks doing their
r.a.f. bit beat the germans
because?
   oh... **** no...
they were ingesting
an impediment factor,
durg, ****,
drunk, numb-skulled...

    we're talking counter
measure to the "enchanced"
mensch...
    high on amphetamines...
insomniac, but still going...
i guess the loci of
the amphetamine adventure
had to relocate to the anti-ego
focus of the phallus
in the variation of viagara...

****...
i care more for my giggles
and a friar tuck physiognomy...
seriously...
   it's more important than mere
gymnastics of
a freudian "metaphor"...
  ha ha...
   i guess conversation is
also allowed...
   try keeping that up...
given that most men are
******* into a solipsism...

     date nights... m'ah ah ha ha ha...
i figured that i don't
need french intellectuals to
redefine absurdity,
or german philosophers
to "redefine" existentialism,
i just needed to leech
off an nativistic english
"public"...

                      what the ruling
class spews:
   i reinterpret...
                  simple, 1 + 1 = 2...
crux, numbers,
   bounce back...
echo...
     compliment to the language...
as i stood in the shower thinking...
well isn't modern gaming
slightly "ingenious"...
money piggy...

or... reversed...
    provided the unlimited time
of experience...
no constraints,
just a game within a game,
like sims 3: making a sim
play a video game...
wormhole paradox
      and a brain shattering moment,
a jolt,

         these modern "free" games?
well... at least if you
do not invest in them,
are... games mostly associated with
time...
time is the game...

   whoever gets ****** into
the money laundering schemes
of these games,
forgot to read the cheat walkthroughs
akin to final fantasy VII,
because of homework,
and... Saturday mornings.

   **** air guitar:
here's to air drumming to posit
a point...

          the allies drunk their pint
of whiskey, slightly debilitated,
without the circumstance of feeding
a feeling of superiority,
the germans over-inflated
their superiority complex with
amphetamines...

         ergo?
    i'm either proper drunk, or just plain dumb,
or... it's related to listen, repeat,
listen, repeat: katy perry
  (sucker for POP!)....

      never mind...

games used to be fun,
games used to lead to a completion,
tenchu, that was fun,
final fantasy VII...
but this current,
money-sucker of an experience?
well... sure...
now games have reached
an anti checkmate conundrum
which it is...
because, the games are "free"...

           apparently time,
is perceived as a non-commodity...
tell that to someone stuck
in traffic...
      time: the "elder" flimsy
              construct of relativism...

try not giggling
while exchanging whislting to
either the british grenadier march song,
and the french la marseillaise...

   it's like eating pork liver with onions
fry funny...
    or at least a stew of chicken
hearts... tight tender little *******...

but modern gaming is just that...
ingenious counter measure
to the old school variation
of gaming,
    games... without fiction,
games, without script...
    continued perpetuation
of engagement "syndrome"...

     thank god,
i'm pretty sure that if i went beyond
owning a PS1,
i wouldn't have spotted this,
and have a narrative subsequently,
for the worth any sort
of compromise...

ergo? i drink...
   eh... i need to dumb down...
it wouldn't be fair otherwise...
it's not so easy,
to acquire a culture,
a psychology,
a mentality,
   and then...
     to ****... (grimmace, burp,
         snigger) it all away...

**** me, the flute always
gets me...
          i mean...
every time i hear that flute...
my feet at rambling,
itching to tap along...

   well of course it wasn't
the ******* jazzy clarinet,
was it?!
  tell that to the broad
who perfect a *******...
see if she comes back
as smart,
as smart to comply with
the intricacies
of playing, the ******* clarinet.

p.s.
aud lang syne: the only song,
of all time...
shakespeare seems
pale by comparison,
"side-note"...

          broad vs. brode,
******* giggles in the afternoon.
Poetictunes Mar 2016
I love the darkness about me, I just hate that it overpowers my light
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
i like looking up these shadow-people, the labourers
away from the spotlight, away from easy reference conclusions,
Ludovico Arrighi is among them, as is
the high jumper **** Fosbury - no belly-flop in
the competition after... after 1968 the road signs
told every jumper to expose the back and ***
when overpowering the heights -
Philippe Petit is outside the world, the ultimate
expression of solipsism, what grandeur (previous
attempts, the dyslexic source: the graphemes, æ,
previously i wrote grandeur as: grandeaur,
grandaeur, etc., somehow the syllables of only
vowels can leave you momentarily dyslexic,
when we're talking pure consonant graphemes
we have an aesthetic performed,
sheering can become šeering, whereby the diacritical
input overpowers excess spelling of graphemes,
such examples arise from what became the silent H...
or the surd H... ping-pong with the tetragrammaton...
e.g. dhal - which is said with a macron over the a:
dāl... but the trinity of spelled words gives rise
of neurosis... unless it's a word as conjunction,
the tribunal of aesthetic in keeping language beautiful
will prefer the spelling dhal or even daal rather than
what i proposed). concerning Ludovico Arrighi's
italics type... the skewed rhombus alignment /    /
is prescribed for emphasis... i need something to introduce
something that doesn't stress emphasis, but
sarcasm / ridicule... when i write something,
as i did in Christianity 2.0 (two point oh),
i'd change the direction of the ~wind, i.e. instead of
/    /    for emphasis, i'd like to stress ridicule in the
following direction:    \     .
but that's beside the point, it's like a western with
English not applying noticeable stresses...
for example the English trill, or the French hark...
they should be equipped with diacritical marks
of distinction... some sort of uniformity
of suggestion... the northerners trill (roll)
their R, the French used to, now anything but
a puddle of phlegm... but indeed, easy dyslexia from
pure vowel graphemes... cutting up graphemes
with diacritical incisions (safety, in a persistent vocabulary,
following the method of philosophical methodology -
hence my casual use of diacritics and graφemes -
i.e. when graphemes can't be constructed due
to a lacking of grapheme intention - unlike θ and φ -
supported by their alignment of a twin sound,
the Greeks would never consider applying diacritical
marks on p, t, h - unlike in Polish, where the h
is distinguished into a ch for aesthetic purposes -
e.g. chleb - bread and huj - **** -
but overpowering the vowel graphemes produced
their disappearance and the emergence of diacritical
vowels, e.g. the acute o (ó), which is a U, i treat
the diacritical mark as an incision point for the parabola,
cutting up the omicron, and that seems natural
given that the Greeks already did it without the acute
sign, i.e. the omega (the double u) - ω - again,
aesthetic reasons, the forgotten gallery of words
is there, you just have to forget Chomsky for a while.
but indeed, breaking up graphemes provides us
the necessity for diacritical marks,
the ancient Roman graphemes might have disappeared,
but they're still digitally present: mostly concerning
major words, like onomatopoeia - or encyclopaedia -
graphemes behave differently with the barbarians,
the latter encyclo- example is obviously nostalgic,
the ono- example does a reverse grapheme variation
of oe... but modernity expresses these couples
with individual distinctions - i.e. encyclopaedia
could be written utilising... well not a caron - not quiet
***, and more p'eh - the resurrection of the tetragrammaton
is necessary, i'd have inserted the variation without
minding French, i.e. grave accent on e eating away
the last vowel... or vowels... i.e. encyclopaèdia -
so avoiding the French usage that would cut off the -ia,
i'd insert it for reasons of interacting with a h, p'eh.
Joyce's Finnegan's Wake should have been written like this...
instead, it was written without noticing the diacritical
marks, and therefore made it's pompousness known
by omitting diacritical marks, therefore succumbing to
excessive spelling... or the ruin of Delmore Schwarzt -
nurse! scalpel: sch(sh /sz / š)- -wä(łä)- r(z)'t - drum-kit
wet snare tss't like in jazz.
still i need to define the R being trilled (rolling ball)
akin to the å - but of course the umlaut would do the job
likewise - but it's the aesthetic purpose that's necessary,
i guess umlaut designates an eased concept of
arithmetic included above the sound: i.e. prolonged,
count +2.

but these are but minor points of consideration,
obviously it would take decades to implement, and knowing
human endeavours in this realm, once fixed, once
fixated, nothing will hardly change - due to the already
existing utilisation, whereby it works perfectly to segregate
people... and the fact that there's no linguistic bible to
mind... but talking about orthodoxy and meddling with
dogma, i'm still bothered about the Malachi heresy,
how could it have been implemented?
i mean, a polytheistic concept of reincarnation is the oldest
form of identity theft, isn't it?
monotheism is incompatible with the concept of reincarnation,
this is the weakest spot / the blemish in Judaism...
Malachi is the actual inventor of Christianity and Islam,
he introduced the concept of reincarnation with
the return of Elijah, as mentioned in the New Testament
where Jesus is compared with Elijah...
it's a monotheistic heresy... reincarnation has no place
in monotheism, yet there it is, glaring at everyone from
the page... it was Malachi's error that gave rise to
schism... the litmus test of a monotheism is it's inability to
succumb to schism... well, Christianity is poly-schismatic,
Islam suffered an infection of schism early on...
Jewish schism?  you either practice or don't...
you either don the full attire of a Hasidic jews or you simply
turn your opinions toward earthly matters...
and so much rigour just because they didn't care to
roll the ******* back during ***, all that much work
from snipping the *******... early intervention did the job,
snip the skin off and we have the most ridiculously
funny god in the thought of man, an entire Mongolian
horde of intellectuals have been spawned from his existence...
imagine if god intervened when plastic surgery came around...
wouldn't be so ******* funny by my count.
****! listening to the radio and standing up between sentences
then realising there's no go-back button... it's live...
sometimes the oddities of not being your own d.j. can be
petrifying, when you're working against the river-current
like a Salmon of rhythm.

lastly... i guess this is a major point, in a magazine article
some dung-heap of opinion wrote something
about poetry, in ditto:
a policeman shoots dead Michael Brown in Ferguson,
Missouri in August 2014, Maggie Smith's poem
Good Bones goes viral, it wasn't about Ferguson,
it was about life being short and often terrible -
continues with: poetry is the language of crisis, of
profound thought and deep emotion, it may not be
much read these days, but it is certainly felt...

is that all true? is poetry the language of crisis?
i think that assertion is a load of *******...
it's a bit like using a hammer to paint the civil room's
walls (living room, i call it the civil room) -
if i'm reading poetry i'm not commuting or lying in bed,
i'm perched on the windowsill in a quasi-akimbo pose,
sipping a glass of bourbon with coca-cola and
smoking a cigarette, mindful of never wanting to
wear contact lenses or eyeglasses,
poetry is more than this idealism about it,
that you read poetry to savour the moment of critical needs,
i read poetry because newspaper articles **** me off...
poetry is like newspaper articles when those monstrous
literary ****** get going for months of necessary
attention to finish them... poetry, when drinking
bourbon, smoking a cigarette, quasi-akimbo on the windowsill,
perfect use of spacing, i bet most people who stick
to poetry will have better eyesight when they grow older.
Traveler Jul 2013
One moment we laugh, the next we cry
Invigorating this emotional rollercoaster ride
So slow going up, so fast coming down
Young hearts breaking at the speed of sound

Slapped in the face by the experience of life
Unwarranted emotions of hatred and strife
Roundabout the station we begin to ascend
Straight down then curve as our minds warp and bend

Terror overpowers and tortures our souls
As we reach our ****** of out of control
Attached to life’s rails we’re moving so fast
How long can we expect this passion to last
But nobody wants this ride to be over
It’s all so intoxicatingly sober
Traveler Tim
Re to 11-17
The Calm Aug 2016
Beware the wolf
He Hunts, at night
On top the mountain he howls
His eyes aglow under the moonlight

Beware the wolf, his teeth red with blood
The taste of flesh, the smell of fear
He preys, he overpowers like a flood

Beware the great grey wolf,
All Hail the King of the Pack
The leader, the destroyer
He is the one leading the attack
The amateur poet Jan 2013
Weeks past
Having no motivation to pick myself up
The universe smiled upon me
And sent a boy with his head in the stars.

Blank
My mind draws a blank.
Having burnt my past I'm speechless
My heart races and I can feel my face flush
An unexplainable sensation overpowers my body.
Starting over.

Its almost as if the frozen winter forged a blank slate
And the affections from this boy melted away everything...
The rush, the butterflies, it all feels new again.
Like I have never fallen in love before


My new sensations are accompanied by a changed mindset
I was truly a new person.
Memories from past loves
Cannot compare to my heart's newest obsession
Such sweet words...
Sugar coated but genuine.
Everything...
His gaze, his walk, his talk
It all makes my heartache
My tongue is tied as he showers me in compliments

Oh his eyes
The way he looks at me and tells me I'm beautiful
I feel as if im drowning
But why?
I'm an experienced lover and swimmer.
But the fog caused by his intoxicating scent makes my past seem ages ago.
Why is this all so fresh...

My thoughts are spinning
And before I can even ask my mind for advice
We're dating.
I was following my heart entirely.

I'm so stunned
It's as if I was wiped clean of my past (and confidence)
Starting over.....again.
Never thought it would feel so
Natural

And so the winter trudges on
His arms around me keeping the fire alive
Snuggling while watching Star Wars
Fueling each other's passions.
I would have never guessed my fate just a month earlier.
Thanks universe.
.....I'm in love. how?...
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
you know what i find funny? the phrase: i could eat you. juxtaposing vide cor meum against... this is the part where punctuation marks are never collision prone diacritical marks... but then again, there's that dietary joke... i could eat you... dependence on your bones not being properly disavowed within a langoustine broth... and there you are: a grey area mindful of Stalin... *****! i'm trying to humanise ******, stop interrupting! where once a moths' flutter, later a rainbow in the nacht! mind that niqab... nicht would mean nothing. some insinuated cappuchino, some cackles... some said cutie-pies invoking rouge cheeks... every time i watch these culinary shows i get thinking about cannibalism to counter veganism... and then i laugh... i don't want to find stinking socks and political correctness as "my way, did it to suit Lascaux cavern graffiti"... i preferred wanking than keeping up with women... it's the song i heard before lambs stiffened and muslims became muslims, and falafel was mince... ******, get under the hosepipe and you're there, all freely gagging for the fizz... a touch of tinsel... vide cor meum... return of policy... as half-heartfelt kaleidoscope returning to define a rainbow... i love that phrase given the palette opportunity... i could eat you. it's the demonic encouragement that solidifies the stench into what's to be seasoned properly... i don't know.. the phrasing: i could eat you sounds more formidable in delayed practice than: i can **** you... plus the gazpacho... which means: Batman ate cold cauliflower soup and slurred to slurp the question: but it's cold? Baldwin replied: it's supposed to be! they said orthography as a rigidness of aesthetic, i said... that's questionable whether any is applicable, given we're talking about graffiti.

i got tired of sensing other people's jealousy,
and tried to love them,
which ended up to be as much as a matrimony
toward one woman, ambition-bound
to incarnate the matrimony of swans...
  and the poor old ******, left to fantasy in
his days as a widower...
   every time i look at a lonely swans
i try to duck-quack the thing into existence...
            but there are variation of marriage...
a west london accountant can speak terrible
crap against an ethnicity i try to not identify with...
but i am courageously borne from,
    and therefore have to express some affiliation...
as a matter of principle...
  i rather not, but iu must, even though i sprechen
a host tongue... and am, therefore,
embedded with claims of socialite elitism...
                 but then i compare...
and these these comparisons are the due phrase...
Marilyn Manson's *a minute of decay

is a chance to hear the bass guitar overpower
           the drums... a bit like a culinary pistachio
moment in a risotto...
   i want room to breathe in!
     i want vaughan williams' fantasia on a theme
by thomas tallis... i sanctify the need
   for prokofiev's lieutenant kíjé's suite...
(dots are optional, the syllables aren't,
a classical dot above the iota might revel in
being the defining moment of tonguing /
dissecting a word... but it doesn't have to be so)
i need air to breath in, a moment to whimper...
why do the **** love Chopin and not Liszt?
   a bid ******* odd... i don't like either Chopin
or Liszt... because as Kaiser Yoseph said
in amadeus... to many notes...
and i agree... vivaldi made violins into cherub
       pumpernickle sparrows -
you danced, you joyed, you came across St. Vitus' dance...
   you were doing arithmetic as concord speed
within a framework of even (white) and odd (black)
numbers... once you played the nocturnal Fabergé -
someone suggested you move the ******
  goose to the Hermitage, and frame it!
why are the Japanese are the only Europeans in Asia...
      never mind, they just are,
hence they compete for playing Chopin like they consider
sushi to be a culinary exception of the tartar -
minus the influence, obviously, hence the stress to
impose Chopin... but never Liszt... odd...
          template virtuoso and you think of Liszt
than you might conjure Chopin...
           better than that... conjure champagne
bottles blundering to the volcano's worth of fizz...
still... the Japanese are a curiosity...
first of all: they abide by Chopin and chopsticks
not being utilised when gobbling sushi...
   they have the ambassadors of kimono,
samurai, origami, karaoke, bonßai (zye, rye),
          Fukushima... Hiroshima... yep, that place
were stanley lee derived the concept of x-men...
          still, they have permanent ambassadors in
opur midsts... words that can't be "translated" due
to etymological puritanism...
       finally the Portuguese sailed away, and founded
Brazil on the promise of an infinite supply of toothpicks
from the Amazon -
or? hai sensei!           hatch that with the catchphrase:
     kajagoogoo: shy-shy, hush-hush, eye-to-eye.
          we're storming the labyrinth right not,
and i still can't believe that poetry revolves around
the rhythm of rhyme... play any ping-pong, lately?
     no wonder poetry is a peacocking dollop
of clogged-up cow dung... it's just asking
for a *****-slap in a playground.
           but why Chopin and not Liszt?
the **** are what Napoleon was to the Duchy of
Warsaw... they love that arithmetic of
a pebble-dasher's *******...
       wet dreams... some authentic curiosities of
civilisation still have them... i wouldn't recommend
listening to them recounting the fables, personally...
i'd listen in on the succubus jerking them off...
  and just recently i was walking the deaf streets at
night with a bottle of beer and felt the bottle
of beer almost being tugged from my hand...
  and some say that eating a woman's umbilical-chord
is what's necessary to live as a man to later
sing some aria; or like drinking a pregnant woman's
**** will ensure you don't become myopic...
             i don't like Chopin,
i don't like Liszt either... i want a room, and a chance
to breathe... at the end of the classical expression
summarising the wind, we had a return
to the rooting in Africa... earthly delights
and a grumbling stomach in need of feeding,
  jazz did the work for us, jazz still had
an orchestral element to add a Lacan of all things
worthy of deconstruction...
       but then the French came along and shoved
fondue into our ears... and we said
alight with an eureka moment... pop!
             n'ah... the moment when the bass overpowers
the drums... i really have this wild fascination
with the bass guitar...
                 because i don't get Mozart,
and i do think that Handel did much more than
even the sacrificial lamb that Beethoven is...
                  listen... poetry doesn't have to be
music... rhyming is ping-pong anyway...
but as long as you feel in debt concerning music,
the music will come on its own accord...
today i was rattled by a mix of dub (without a step)
and beck's odelay... cruise-missile dylan...
give or take...
      well, given the italicised pr.s. (pre scriptum) -
much later an aged blonde boasted about snorkeling
******* and young ****... and missing out
when she teased me coming back to her abode...
           moth steals from a butterfly,
butterfly never turns into a daisy...
                       you're still a **** and i'm about
half of the total worth of being a ****...
which makes as equal... or queue more.
           variably condoned to be synonym with
mosque...  but i said mannequin...
     it's this **** with the five a day....
Christendom mentioned fruit & veg...
Islam mentioned variations of a murmur...
   is prayer classified as fruit, or vegetable?
you're as bewildered as i am...
   i too thought tomato is a fruit...
turns out it's a vegetable...
primarily due to basil, feta, and the mediterranean.
               herring belong in the baltic,
******* attempting that sort of ballistics...
ask about the relationship between
              a. yan sobieski
         b. ******
                    c. window on arabia (vienna,
counter st. petersburg) -
     oh you'll get many thanks...
sure... you'll end up becoming assured
that dogs don't need petting, but training,
and that you have to make all friends bound
to be kenneled, because they won't learn otherwise;
it's a bit sad...
          for about a minute...
                   you tried being peace-abiding,
peace-mindful...
   you wanted to state compassion...
  in the end people need a slap... or as 2000 years of
history proved... a crucifix.
Reece Dec 2013
hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay

That interim between dreams and consciousness, that momentary lapse of reality
When slave children don't howl and the wild animals lay tamed in sun traps, weary

Your scattered thoughts betray reality
and you
question everything - now waking
Smiling chief, chirping loud
Your body gathered and prepared
under torchlight in dusty tents
Ingesting iboga and that old familiar numbness overpowers
You've been here for a life now, looking back on your life now
hatasha hullah - dey
vey, okay, huttah, ulay

Witch doctor, tribal medicine, fanning smoke from a wild fire
flashing imagery akin to memories of when life was decadent
you remember the taste of stray rain drops on your upper lip on muggy British summer days
and waking on a beach, bloodied as the sand at your feet is the next recollection, how powerful
the act of reflection, as you recall the mirrors of the sea and your torn body weakened and inept
The gathered village chant in unison and splinter groups fall off beat only to rejoin intermittently

Remember the Burmese boy far from home on the Gabon shoreline
and he informs you of your own death,
and asks you why do you breathe still?

hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
Oh laa, ley ley lahh ley lah
ley hatasha hullah - dey

On some beaten path lost in Angola you carried two packs, food for the world
but you fell starving and spluttered on the rock that looked like your home
Rebels run wild in jeeps black as night, your supplies strewn on rubble grounds
- hatasha hullah - dey
Taken in a flurry, twittering birds in far off trees betray your trust and fly away
in the opposite direction, and the juggernaut jeep catches air over uneven tracks
You were scared and crying under blindfolded eyes and captors jeered, captivated
- parablah nuh parrah
An orchestrated mass of military garbed children with rifles gather you abruptly
when the car stopped with a rumble
And tied to rusted rigs you're gagged and stripped, bloodied your face now
as they beat you and laugh
- vey, okay, huttah, ulay
Congolese giant man, sword in hand and grimacing through bared teeth
Making bold gestures and speaking some inscrutable language
You cannot answer and fear is now in control, you shiver in the ghastly draft
On failure to answer you must be beaten, your back is lashed, repeatedly
- narralah, narrah, nutay
You remain silent but cry in disparity, after shrieks of horror finally escape your barren lips
Through stinging eyes you assess the surroundings after hours of torture when they retire
to their leather beds of shame and innocence faltered, try and remember how to live
- Oh laa, ley ley lahh ley lah
Months must have passed, survive off insects and morning dew on the muddy floor
This African wasteland, time forgotten, child soldiers and lack of humanity is trivial
Always scheming, recollect the armament and through door-way shack trapped light
you see a clear path, and it is good
- ley hatasha hullah - dey
The pinnacle nightfall anticipated arrives, and your skinny wrists released now easily
(their faltering lack of knowledge and abundant braggadocio betray them)
AK laying in moonlight illumination, a sign of God perhaps, but experience proves otherwise
(How cruel the dreams you had of such a gift)
When they spot you leaving, the night lights up, wild crackle of gunfire, heart beats, tribal drums
(To massacre children, such proficiency, the dreams were mindful)
No lapse in concentration, you may ruminate on objective morality in due time
(Crawling through blood and bodies of children, so pure, cadavers tell lies)
The clearing ahead in giant trees, you run and don't look back, praying for no pursuit
(Another genocide committed by a white man, justified perhaps this once)
Weeks pass and you falter only to slurp rain water from Congolese sipping cups the leaves
(Blacking out somewhere in the Republic, or on a border or who cares, as you died long ago)
- vey, okay, huttah, ulay
  ley hatasha hullah - dey

To awake from hallucinogen dreams, and cruel memories linger, it's painful you agree
Witch doctor still sings, lonesome now as the tribe apply ointments and silently pray
The fire still dances to some incredible song and your scars redacted, physical and other
How incredible the mind feeling fuzzy and that insane dream is just that - a dream
You black out again, a common occurrence but upon waking you're free, no tribe exists
With a sheepskin rucksack full of cassava, plantains and sugarcane and cocoa beans
Months pass and you make it to the North, when you leave Africa your body is new
and your mind is stable, no lingering cognizance or frightful thoughts of a forgotten ordeal

You arrive in Turkey, to partake in ***** with nimble girls
and I see you floundering on silken sheets,
My memories were fresh as the nymph on your lap
I write to you a note, and you turn alabaster, moon faced being
I was there always and saw every moment
Your ideals on morality are hazy at best, and to your behest I detest all that you stand for
Is your afterlife so pure, now that bodies litter the forest floor
and do you believe that I am not (a) God
and is this mere poetry, or an indictment of your folly and a warning to all whom engage
but do you not also see that every reaction was an action taken to your original action
and when all is said and done, do you no realise that from the day you were born
you were born a God and that God was born dead
and this is just that interim between expiration and consciousness, that momentary lapse of reality
when slave children don't howl and the wild animals lay tamed in sun traps, weary

hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
hatasha hullah - dey
parablah nuh parrah
vey, okay, huttah, ulay
narralah, narrah, nutay
Oh laa, ley ley lahh ley lah
ley hatasha hullah - dey
Daylight 4U2C Feb 2014
Sleep.
Sleep child,
til' the light overpowers the darkness inside,
where I secretly cried.
I secretly tried,
but no one would guess,
and I never put my cards face up.
It's only ketchup.
Used to patch up,
the cut and scratch ups,
caused by the dull
of my pencil,
and my soul.
I fell,
but I dragged myself up again,
back into my daily skin,
and I'm that burden.
That one whose not fully there,
told by everyone, "you just don't care",
with a random shudder scare.
The words I despise you all think,
even the shrink,
and it drowns me to the sink.
I'm that disaster,
everyone's after,
maniacal laughter.
"Am I losing my mind?"
"Is this mind really mine?"
"Would dying be fine?"
I'm not so refined :)
I can see the things in perfect imagery,
things I don't want to see,
always worried everyone hates me.
I can't see,
I'm not me,
I'm not even a somebody.
Maybe inside is some other ghost,
I'm the host,
at my death let's just have a toast.
Til' death do we part,
take it as a new start,
buy the roses to my grave from walmart.
I didn't think I mattered anyways,
sleeping through these pass-me-by days,
my mind playing simon says.
I always secretly try,
but I am still I,
and now simon says ".....goodbye."
please comment
berry Nov 2013
words. offered last-minute from thin-air and handed off heavy-hearted. words. nights spent sleepless and throats filled with sand & secrets and fingernails blackened by scratching away at the excess and unnecessary. words. all they do is **** me off because i can't use them right and i find myself drowning in recycled metaphors and romanticized abstract thoughts that have been regurgitated from a hundred different mouths and audaciously labeled as poetry. but i am not a poet, at least not a good one, in fact i can't stand most of my writing but i still try. because words, are the only way i can get the myriad of ideas inside my head to make some kind of sense but they're hardly worth a dollar so that's probably why i'm always broke. words. i learned to read them at five and i thought that was impressive but nowadays children half that age are already doing that, so i guess i'm not that special. but words, at times my only friend and often my greatest enemy, have the power to reduce crowds of thousands to tears and according to the book on my father's bedside table they once parted a sea. words can change a world. but they can be weapons of unfathomable destruction. it was words, that made me think i was ugly. words i longed to hear but never did drove me to starve for affirmation from the opposite ***. words on magazines told me what i needed to be and told me nobody would want me if i didn't comply. so it was words that made me stop eating, but not for long, because i am lucky enough that my love of food overpowers the hatred i have for my body. words made me tear my skin to shreds in the still of the night because they somehow managed to crawl beneath it without ever having actually entered in through my ears. words can either give life or they can take it. words are sticks and heavy stones and swords and we're taught that they can't break your bones but tell that to the first generation to have anti-bullying laws enacted because of nooses around necks and bullets through brains and blades on wrists all caused by words. so i urge you to craft your words with care and let them be like summer breezes upon the ears you speak them to. let your words be bandaids and hot air balloons instead of daggers and eulogies. speak like honeysuckle not wisteria. words are vines that wrap themselves around and consume whomever they have been said to. people can have memories shockingly resemblant to pachyderms so be aware that your words can live on like ghosts long after you thought they would have died. words are oceans upon which people can either float or sink below, and you are the decider.

- m.f.
Omar Kawash Aug 2014
In a hammock
On the eve of final exams
There is a scent of caffeine coursed bodies pacing
the distances of Starbucks and the library,
an unusual sight at eleven at night

There is peace
In the fraternity- I think begins with a Sigma-
running around playing a vicious thirty person game of tag
Yeah, I witnessed that wipeout and it was hilarious

There is heat condensed around the height of brains
Struggling to realize dreams that require
Busy work man! It's just like six hours of nonstop busy work
The guy on the bench behind me whined out cooling breath of brown leaves

There is energy in the fractal jungle above
The towering umbrellas of Palm trees which grant me the magic of hovering
I see through waving leaves Orion's Belt.
The light pollution overpowers his body but
he reminds me that there is more in the astral world

Ibis scour the ground
Some would read the tea leaves
that bravest of birds has crossed my path
And I will survive the tests that I allow to define possibilities in life

There is closure to my left
Two girls in a hammock, bodies combined like a turtle in a shell
Only they know what goes on inside,
and all I witness is the harmony that the trials that students go through that unites
I wrote this last final exam season (Spring 2014). I decided it's worthy time to post it as my last day as an undergrad with my last final today. Cheers to the best years of my life. May you see the beauty in challenges too.
EDIT: Spring 2015 finals are upon students. And UM had the audacity to remove the hammocks that were so representative of finals season. Now, they have bean bags. This now feels more like an elegy for a time that once was. Ending my possible rant here.
Keenan Akeem Jun 2013
Occasionally, I look into the sky.
Searching for answers that I’ll probably never find.
But the feeling of wishing and wanting overpowers my body.
The spirit, that lives inside my soul suddenly reflects an aura glow.
It shows, that I have determination, an eager will to never let go.
It lets people know, that I am strong, and I will not walk away.

Go ahead, judge me from my past.
But who’s to say, that one day.
One day I will be able to give my mom that dream house she always wanted.
Give her those designer purses, so she can go ahead and flaunt it.

I want so much for my future, that I am impatient.
I want success now, but I don’t have the resources to obtain it.
Lord give me a sign, that I’m going in the right direction
For my biggest fear is to fail, in which would lead me to destruction.

Hard-work, dedication, and persistence.
Stop me now if there’s something that I’m missing.
My dream work will work, just wait and listen.
For the sound of success is breaking out of my prison.
"Quote unquote, Keenan Akeem"
Charlie Chirico Oct 2012
“After hours of evaluations, our doctors came to the conclusion that he was paranoid, but speaking with family and friends, they stated that there were no obvious signs of mental distress. No one expected him to go through with the ******. He had a lot of faults, but most were thought to be harmless. His idiosyncrasies were overlaid with a well thought out patience and understanding. During the evaluation he spoke of compartmentalization, and his lack of emotional comprehension, which he explained should not be misconstrued as “apathetic behavior.”  His words were inveigled, and when he wasn’t applying his charming disposition, he was implementing a passive aggressiveness. This was a man who did not hide in the shadows, but he knew them very well. Darkness was shown through his eyes the longer we spoke, as his pupils grew larger, and his determined stare, a menacing stare, pierced people’s souls.” – Dr. Rebecca Altwater

Thursday

On the train. Not awake. It's not too crowded, around me at least. There is a group of black students, yes, I said black, because that is the color of their skin, and, well, I’m white, and I’m fine with being described as white. This is all factual. So the black, students, high school students, are creating a commotion. (I have always hated using the term “African American” because it has always made me feel prejudice. When I say it, I think of it as a label, and I’d rather not go further into what I mean by *labels
). The train smells like ****. The smell overpowers my coffee. The coffee is weak. My body is aching. I’m starting to develop a headache. (The students are now beat boxing). My head is mutating. Temples pulsating. Veins exposed. Eyes closed. The beat boxing continues.

I reach into my leather shoulder bag. I’m not looking for anything in particular, more or less trying to look busy. A woman three seats down is watching me intently. My eyes are fixated on my bag. I can feel her eyes examining me. It’s hard to rule out the theory of having a sixth sense, especially in situations as these. My fingers delicately brush over a novel, the novel I decided to read during the train ride for this work week, to which I haven’t started reading, and completely forgot I placed in my bag — (It was an impulsive purchase) it was now another item that would solidify the self-realization that I am a procrastinator, and considering that this novel was for the work week, and it is now Thursday, just proves my point further. The novel will be shelved, and another novel will take its place in my leather shoulder bag. Although I may not follow through with my intentions I am still a person who stays very consistent. I will swap novels. After work I will stop at Borders books. I’ll need a new novel for work week number thirty out of fifty-two. After a week it will be shelved, and I will start again: buy another novel, and continue to not read it. I’m a very consistent person.

Saturday

My alarm went off for thirty minutes this morning.

Sunday

Glenn, my brother, calls me early in the afternoon to invite me to dinner. A family dinner. And he informs me that our mother will be there. He graciously asks me if I can attend, but I know he only invites me because he is dreading our mother’s visit. Very seldom do I see or hear from my brother and his family, but when our immediate family is added to the equation I am the first person he calls. I am (and this is how he put it) his “emotional confidant” when he becomes too overwhelmed. The reason this is, is because it has always been a one way street. His perception of me is not the most desirable, but he trusts my word. The term that comes to mind, when him and I converse, is that I am self-destructive. It must be easy for him to give insight to this speculation when he is just as irrational as I am. Our only difference is that I have embraced the idea of negative and positive spontaneity, whereas his neurosis comes from self-induced pressure and stress. When I die, it would not be in vain if it happened without warning. I am reckless. If he died unexpectedly, it would be of great shock, but it will most likely be the cause of a brain aneurysm.  It’s funny how irony works. You know, us being brothers, and him seeing us as total opposites, when in reality our similarities outweigh the obtuse differentials.

Wednesday

It’s the halfway point of the work week. I have my new novel, untouched, in my leather shoulder bag. For the last three days (including today) I have arrived at the train station an hour earlier than usual. I made this decision Monday, and have found that it is a more logical time. Although I have an hour to **** before work, I avoid my headache (the black students) before sitting at my office desk. Thankfully, there weren't too many pros and cons that came with this decision. It was fairly easy. I could have continued to deal with an excruciating head pain, one that would stick with me throughout the day, or sacrifice an hour of sleep. The latter was the correct choice. When I came to this conclusion on Sunday I could not rest my brain. My mind was at ease, I felt relieved and content, but I was apprehensive nevertheless. Monday came and went, (slowly, because of minor sleep deprivation) along with all of my anxieties from the past week.

I never thought I’d say this, but seeing a therapist helps. There hasn't been much to articulate yet, concerning my listlessness, but my insomnia was discussed, and I was optimistic. My problems could be far worse, and when they are, maybe leaving an hour early is the answer. My next appointment is in two hours, at four, and I’m going to leave shortly. I don’t know what I will do for the extra hour I have allotted myself, but I do have a novel I won’t read and a newspaper that was left on my desk, with the headline reading, “Crime Rates Rise: How To Maintain Your Sanity During The Recession.”
Ian Cairns Dec 2013
I'm speechless
That's my approach as you approach me
And usually I'm too focused on finding the perfect words
To penetrate the simple space I provide
So when beautiful girls intentionally invade my atmosphere
My need for speech is satisfied
Your beauty speaks sufficiently for two
So while I'm struggling for oxygen, I hope you recognize
Your presence is all I've ever needed to breathe easily

I'm stuck
Between unexpressed elegance
And helplessness
My mouth is screaming out
But frozen completely shut
I'm worried my compliments
May be complications
That my suggestions
Might suppress my objective here

We typically rely on our words
To settle the score
As if you and I are in overtime
Of a tie ballgame
Looking for phrases to frame the scoreboard
With an absolute victor
But I was hoping that you'd be willing to join forces
To break through the proverbial force field
That prohibits rivals from overthrowing obstacles
Because I've always believed the input overpowers the outcome

What if it were possible
To eliminate our speech
So our ears could erase the need to draw conclusions
We don't etch our words in pencil
Our words are enunciated in permanent marker
Brutally beating through our eardrums
Rhythmically reminding us
That silence can be more sweet sounding than any set of syllables

All I know is I'm hell-bent on remaining a straight shooter
My arrows will always be designed for the bulls-eye
But lately I've been questioning my targets
They haven't been painted red and white for all the world to see
They've been camouflaged by constricted communication
Secretly searching for statements that haven't met the airwaves yet
So I'd much rather absorb your definite thoughts
Than accept your remarks as absolute
  
The truth is
I'm not sure
What needs to be said.
The syllables I've learned to form
Don't apply to situations where
Words remain inherently absent.
And too often we force our hand
To make phrases appear
Where they don't belong.

But something about
Silent speeches is appealing to me.
Because the power in your eyes reduce
The need for any type of sound.
And the shock waves your steps make
As you inch closer to mine
Create the sweetest melodies.
So all I will tell you is this:
Let's leave words out of this.
Jonathan Nunez Mar 2018
An evil monster blocks my path.
It looks at me while giving a sinister grin.
With fear in my heart, I try to fight it.
My efforts are in vain.
The monster overpowers me.

The monster leaves me defeated.
Laughing, the monster rushes to attack my friends.
One by one the monster hurts them.
All just to torture me.

Tears run across my face.
For, I am helpless to stop the monster.
All I could do was watch the horror,
Unable to fight anymore.

I recall all the times
That I needed to be strong,
But failed to achieve victory.

A friend reaches out to me.
His last words begin to spark something in me.
The monster sees this and kills him.

Something awakens in me.
Out of rage, I transform.
Pain causing me to go beyond my limits.
Latent power that I never knew I had explodes.

The monster looks back at me.
The monster is speechless,
And begins to shake.

With sharp eyes,
I challenge the monster again.
The battle is once again one-sided.
However, this time,
I overpower the monster.

The monster is unable to keep up anymore.
The pain the monster had dealt,
Was paid back.
The monster gets desperate,
But the monster’s efforts are in vain.

With borrowed strength,
plus the rage and sorrow burning in my heart,
I slay the monster for good.

Exhausted and the battle over,
I smile while shedding one last tear.
Ayelle Garcia Jun 2015
Each day, my thoughts speak of you,
And even in my replies, you are there.
What of your enchantment have to do
With speaking of your name not to spare?

It's but you --
Making me sing without contrite,
Never the fire for few;
Always a part of my source of light.

More and more to do,
Fatigue makes me carry the world;
But more and more my love for you
Overpowers my strength and worth.
wrote it during our Philippine literature class cause I was bored and, yeah.. pondered on all of my first day of third term speeches. Kek.
Sofia Emma Jan 2013
Written August 31, 2012 (the day after my birthday!)

It actually baffles me, how the human heart works. As a species, us humans enjoy believing we're the best species, we're far more advanced than any other animal, we're so much smarter, we have technology... and opposable thumbs! But in reality, though our inventions and creations are the most advanced, really we're just like animals in the wild. In the end, it all comes down to instinct. Recently, I found this fact in myself to be remarkably true. We have someone in our lives we care about, for example. Instinctually, we want to protect them, so when they do something bad, naturally we want to defend them, especially after seeing them going through hard times. Your defensive instinct skyrockets and you make excuses for them and defend their right to make mistakes after what they've been through but there comes a point when your instinct to protect yourself overpowers your instinct to protect someone else separate from yourself. Especially after finding out you had been defending them for nothing and all this changes in a couple days.
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Let me go.  Set me free to be all that I can be.
Let me rise up against this blackness that encompasses me.
I have worked in this stone box for too long,
without looking at the world outside.

I cannot recall the freedom that was once mine
as I’ve become so accustomed to this prison that I’ve made.
What I could do, what I should do, these elude me,
leaving me lost, without a map to follow.

How do I find my own path?  It continues to find me.
Desire overpowers me to forge my own,
to create new life and freedom for the person I’ve become;  
freedom from the struggles weighing me down
that have kept me from the life I could live.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Makenzie Marie Jan 2015
PSA
I said no.
I know I said stop.
But I haven’t met a guy yet who understood that.

Yes
and No
are not interchangeable
And stop
never means go.

And it’s not her fault
for looking like that
And it’s not her fault
that all he wants is some ***.

But he won’t stop,
and his weight is crushing her
He won’t stop
and he’s forcing her.

The feeling of a man pulling at the back of your hair
isn't a great feeling ever
after you've been there
in her position
unable to control any of it
Unable to push him off
or away
because he’s holding your hands with a wild grip
and with a force that overpowers every ounce of your strength.
After that, the touch of a man will rarely make you swoon or sway.

And you won’t understand
the feeling of guilt that never quite goes away
That feeling that you are weak
and worthless
because all you could do was pray and take it.

Because society has taught her she did something wrong:
That she asked for it
that she invited it.
And maybe she was asking for something,
but that sure as hell wasn't it.
She didn't ask to be treated like she was worthless.

And PSA:
no woman is.
PSA: no woman or girl deserves to be taught by an experience that she is worth nothing. No woman or girl deserves to be taught that she never will be worth anything than what you did to her. No person deserves to be ignored. No person deserves blame for situations out of their control. No human being deserves to be treated or handled like dirt.
We are all human together, so for the love of God can we please stop pushing each other to the ground
Turoa Nov 2018
I hear a whistle blaring
It's a sound like no other
Three tones perfectly out of sync
Terrifying yet familiar
The roar of fire within the belly of some prehistoric metal beast
As the steam screams through rusted pipes
And somewhere between the two
Is the bellow of an unseen engineer
A madman slave to his furnace
Ripping away at the chord
The sound wakes me from my slumber
All thoughts are gone and for one blissful moment
All that exists is that three toned symphony
I recall a younger boy as trees and shadows flick by the glass
It's unusually cold on board tonight
The little boy shivers as the cold creeps
The window is the only portal
Through which one can see the beauty
Of the night outside
Trees flick by like memories, lost and blended by shadows
I remember the imaginary trees
Whizzing past
And the roar of the wood catching
As the pipe climbing from the stove whistles
It's dark and seeping from the window
Come the creeping fingers of cold gripping at me
The fire is blistering hot, but at my back
All I need to do is turn and the comforting winter embrace
Is always right there waiting
My chubby little fingers aren't hard and calloused yet
The cold dry.. It hurts
And my nose bleeds
It'll be fine
It always is
I was never afraid of a little hurt
It makes boys men
But for now my train is unstoppable
Tearing across an endless track
The colorful carved blocks
Magnets holding the links together
Iron filings
Grit between each faded joint
The segmented spine
Of a wood and metal
Twisting and undulating
Rattling it's little caboose
In anticipation
Of an unknown destination
As it burns through
Stained brown carpet
As the fire casts shadows stretch along the floor
One could imagine
It is a real train
The tracks are real now
It's a real train that tears across them
Like veins of a sleeping giant
Powerless to stop the iron bullets
In succession tearing through him
Those tracks are beneath me now
Endless
Cold steel
Cold and heartless
But savagely effective
In conjunction with the hissing pistons
The metal serpent hurdles forward
I can't remember where I was heading
Nor where I boarded
Come to think of it
All lost to that whistle
A cigarette burns steadily
A single ember in this segmented metal tomb
It overpowers my sense of smell and brings a seeming sense of clarity
I remember that little boy had a similar whistle
Or was it a sound he used to make with his mouth
I see a triangular prism
Wood with holes cut into it's three sides
Yes that's the whistle
The sound
The sound of power
The unstoppable rushing onward
Wheels pulse beneath me
Maybe it was gentle once, but now
It's a violent shudder
The metal reverberates every concussive strike
Like the hammer reverberated
Vicariously
Against every felled spike
A younger man laid these rails
A younger man drove these spikes
His hands are worn and calloused now
Blood and sweat flow freely
Salt stings only his indifference
This track is endless and finally as the sun drips low
The peaceful embrace of that ever present dark
Playfully marching across the sky
The cigarette flares with each drag
The comforting reminder that each breath is numbered
These tracks are endless
And were placed by a much younger man remember
But with that last drag
Everything
Even this almighty train
Must have a final stop
I make my way along the cars
Empty and cold
But there is a heat in front of me
Steadily building
There is an old familiarity about the sensation
Steady searing heat paralleled
Like this track
The driving inferno forward
That creeping cold at my back
A younger man formed these rails
Put down every length of track
The timber he cut to form the pilings
Spikes driven
Hammered
By his ****** fists
Rails carried and placed
Like a profane cross
Upon a sinners back
He is tired
Like I am tired
He walks into the sunset
Along the path he carved for himself
The silence is so peaceful
Step after solitary step
He looks out at the beautiful
Masterpiece only he could create
Never mind the soot and dust  
Mixed in sweat  
The stains that cover his aching body
Never mind the staccato drip
The pulse and fatigue ringing through depleted limbs
A steady drip
As his ****** fists
Paint little red drops, like shattering stars
With every click worn boots
On the fresh wood and steel
Every step
Along this path,
Is the solemn advance of a condemned monster,
And on this path,
Every step,
Is the wretched creep of a glistening black god.
I'm tired when I reach the engine room.
Involuntarily I open the door.
Somewhere in a dark room,
A boy innocently plays with his multi-coloured desert viper Coiled deceitfully on the floor.
It's burning,
My lungs grasp hopelessly
At the chance for brisk night air.
One of my hands is chained to the lever
The other to the chord.  
I remember walking in here once,
But I can't remember any more.  
The familiar sound surprises me
As it has every time before.  
A younger man
With the last ash of a cigarette
Stares transfixed
Paralyzed stepping through the door.  
...The sun on his track sets,
Between his rails his feet are sure.  
The trees are quiet and calm.
..Still..
Peaceful in the darkness
No pistons scream
Or monsters roar.  
..and then..
Is it behind
Or within me
..I hear a whistle.
Josie Patterson Nov 2014
I will wear the cotton in your voice
Like a satin waistcoat
Hearing you call through splintered walls
And the wind blows as easily as the rain falls
Slowly
I feel as though I am a drop
Hurtling through the sky
Towards the moss covered earth at a shattering pace
Barely making a dent
On the sliver of the place you are
The other side of the door
Just a track away
And though I do not see you I hear your sway
Creating balance in the things you say
And we will walk forever
Though we do not move from the warmth
Of your iron cage
With boiling over foreigners begging for attention
My eyes cannot be drawn away
And ill stand in a field
And the corn will have no names and you will be
Flying like a bird without a cage
A slave without binding
A stitch without thread
And we will sprint like two parallel lines
Always similar but never touching
Infinite in ourselves
But finite with each other
Our paths never cross
Though we move side by side
Lost in the people we want to be with
balancing on a fence post we dont know is stable
With chipping paint
And white lines
Moving forever through a blind eye
You’ve found the pair to your pair of die
But where were you when I hadn’t
When my tissue box was a house for elves
And my sandbox was not a place for creation
Where memories went to sleep
And marbles were lost
I slipped in the downpour
And my shirt ripped
And my shorts tore
And I am sobbing alone
Optical spillage with small oceans removing themselves
Left drowning on my own
But though your seams are now sewn
Mine remain alone
And I stand now
Like a house without a home
Im sitting like a rock at the bottom of the sea
And I feel the pressure though it has never touched me
Fizzling inside my ears like static during a phone call
With you on the other line
Your hearing fine
Mine not at all
Your white noise is blinding but you never hear it
Sending me message after message
But my ears refuse to be near it
Like a microphone and a speaker
Your feedback is heavy
and when you are with her
Your white noise goes away
Your equally quiet souls both speak loud
And neither one overpowers the other
And I know you will not have me
For I am a force of nature
I swing like the light on the top of a lighthouse
And warn sailors of the danger on my shores
Because though you do not want me when I am yours I am yours
I am in the world for a long haul
And I hope your course changes
I hope your white noise dulls
I hope she can hear you when you whisper like sirens
And I hope if your voice reaches
Or hers falls
I hope you find comfort in the ***** of her sanity
because every other set of lines, meet once
and then drift apart forever
parallel lines are infinitely similar
but will never meet
E Apr 2013
All of my nights were spent submerged in cool bliss
Anticipating the mornings waking up to you
Eyes as leaves opening towards gleaming rays
Entangled vines in white sheets
Feeling the rise and fall of your chest on my back
As gentle wind would sway pastel grass
Basking in the light filtering through the blinds of your window
Knowing you are the essence of summer
Basking in your glory and blinded by perfection
Knowing you are the essence of my being
Feigned attempts of sleep only to be awakened by the
Sweet serendipity of lips that cannot compare to
Velveteen petals immersed in the succulent taste of nectar
The brush of your lips on mine awakens an
Eternal seed that has blossomed
As the petals unfurl, I find myself becoming whole again
In the crevices of my shattered heart, flora grows
As do dandelions in the cracks of sidewalks
Fauna overpowers my concrete heart and the
Hollow core transforms into a bountiful garden
Evident to even the blind but it was the beholder,
Possessing eyes that reflected like polished silverware,
Who lacked the true vision to see the wonder
Unfolding before her shining dimes
asija Apr 2015
The Ocean
The sun goes up,
It overpowers the dark.
It makes the world shine bright.
The ocean says, I need the sun,
Or people wont come.

The sand is warm.
Cotton soft,
It keeps me company,
the ocean coughed.

The water is cold
and sometimes, people
dont treat it like gold.
Who cares!?
The ocean flares.
All the garbage drifts away!

The wind is cold,
It doesn't keep objects ahold.
They fly around.
Never touching the ground.
As you can see,
the ocean says,
This is our little town.
The Ocean
This is supposed to be a personification poem ♥
Dark polished stones line the divine walk of power
Demanding fresh blood from diplomatic feet
Where haughty arrogance meets unpretentious humility
Introduced by an arbitrating street

The loftiest of fences steadily lines the walk of power
Dishonorably straddled by a shameful few
Who never make any honest attempt to choose a side
Or contemplate existing truths

Comfort reigns securely in their warlike peace
Balancing upon those fences
Until humility overpowers and demands a stand
Leaving arrogance with no defenses

Balance fails eventually atop the fences of the walk
A diplomat’s feet must make a stand
  Straddling the fence will never polish power’s stones
Come down and walk and take command
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
www.changefulstorm.blogspot.com
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Changefulstorm
Lamb Sep 2013
Romance, for he is the one who seemed to be trapped
A sea of melancholy
Oh, the beauty
Quite unbearable
How he hides what is deep inside
Having no patience nor the time for idle cares

Little by little he loses his way
This is what I call an unhidden heart
You can see it
But the thought isn't really there
Appearances at first glance
With any pair of human eyes
Are what seems to be love

Little by little he loses his way
A deeper dig you find that what you thought
Was a heart
Is an empty abyss
Little by little he loses his way
Without knowing
His personality is switching

Little by little he loses his way
Meek and darkness overpowers
This was fact
Till the day he met
Emotion
She was stirring, dancing
Throughout the clouds



Feelings bursting without warning
She was everything
That Romance was not

Automatically,
Almost robotically,
Semi-impossibly
They fell in love
Without a care

Emotion was unafraid
Unafraid to unveil her heart
Slowly but surely
Romance learned
His shell was wrapped airtight

Unfolding, slow
Layer by layer.
This took time, no rush
He became free
Time and patience
Letting go of the past

Automatically
Almost robotically
Semi-impossibly
They fell in love
Without a care


Ready to move on
Letting Emotion show him, her ways
To live
Not only to live,
But to thrive in happiness

Carefree
Their love
A melody
Priceless, a gold you could never purchase
A light, blazing rays, a golden star



Who could not hear the beating of their hearts?
Rich and pure
Together they were a spirit, complete
Hidden in each and every one of us

We are all individual
Yet we share their story
Fate takes its course

Little by little you lose your way
Yet automatically,
Almost robotically,
Semi-impossibly,
They fell in love without a care

Fate once again brought two strangers in love
No questions
No ponders
Unexplainable

Love does not need an explanation
Self explanatory
This is your story
Find your Romance and Emotion
But first
Little by little you will lose your way
Micah Alex Jan 2013
Small* eyes that slowly grow,
See beautiful worlds turn ******,
Sense that arrogance in people,
Sensuality turning minds lonely.

But, unspared this onslaught,
I hear thoughts within the dark recesses of my mind,
That shame and shock me,
Fearing to dig further, afraid of what I’ll find.

Chasing love into barren deserts,
Mirages and illusions leave me thirsty,
In the race to fill up the hole in your heart,
I am begging for love, where could it be?

Turn slowly to the lies we’re fed,
Inside and over time, we change our sights,
Till the point that rational belief is lost,
My disbelief with blind faith would fight.

One day I stood on the precipice of truth,
And love that overwhelms, I found it,
Hopelessness wasn’t my life anymore,
Because rags do not a prince befit.

Finally when his love overpowers my every doubt,
And we surrender to the flood of heaven,
That void inside is at last, filled,
With forgiveness, seven times seventy seven.

So if you struggle to believe in a god,
Who loves, lives and sets you free,
Get down on your knees and say,
“God if you are there, Show yourself to me”
JLB Jan 2015
Hard squirming in my stomach
overpowers.
Missed a pill by a few
hours.
Hope it doesn't seed,
hope it starts to bleed,
shrivels up and sours.
How can I explain
The impossibility of your complaint
The way it feels you pray to feel
Yet I pray you never feel this way
But to understand my pain
You would have to become
The thing that I am
You completely despise
My manipulation
And constant lies
I feel so powerless
So weak over drugs
One quick thought
Overpowers your love
With only thoughts of using
Urges that can't be tamed
But your not to blame
Powerless a feeling u pray to know
So u may know my pain
But no man should feel
Such pain that I do
Unless life's path
Has told u too
Out of love
U believe my lies
As bad as I want to be clean
I can't stop getting high
JM McCann Mar 2015
The carpet all around me
my little island lonely to no one.
Little flourishes in the carpet  twisting back on each other
and back again,
rolling endlessly this way then having a change of heart
and bending back the other way.
Flowing freely on its canvas.
The stunning flowers, looking surprised as
I focus on it.


I sit, a lethargic tiger, my picture of myself.
The television perched ready
for the next greatest thing.
My head, static on my shoulder,
a boulder resting on itself.
The gentle hum of air conditioner.
With great effort
I gaze slowly out the window,
up past the air conditioner,  
past the base of the metal frame
where the tree idly stands.  
My eyes lift past them, to the heavens
The clouds content where they are, slowly pulled along.
A greater force heaving, making gentle progress.

The edges of my chair start to form.
My arm resting on the soft fuzzy border,
my stomach hazy in deep territory,
my toes out beyond the border.
In a disjointed synchrony I make my way to
the fridge. The blank door swung open
rotting milk, and a once great fish.

The milk fading, a gentle
fade, not hurrying, but the milk, not taking its time.
A  tad yellowish but still white.

The milk a long fierce journey,
perhaps having bounced around the world,
for it to be as is now.
Perhaps
through turbulent oceans, did it see the endlessly taunting
of the ocean? What did I miss?! Did it see the gentle waves
thrash mercilessly? Did it see the infinities of life?
Did it see the octopi dying for the young ones?
Did it see storm clouds change course for their safe passage?
Did it see nature play its hand?
Even if it saw nothing at all,
I envy the milk with the hint of yellow!
Doorways without doors the milks unknown voyage.
It of course could have easily just came from
a farm down the road in a truck with a billion
other containers of milk, on a well traveled path,
the only question, why?

I sigh knowing, the best I’ll get is “an answer” trying
to sell me some more milk. Though the best questions
should never be properly answered.

No answers in the fridge, and I’m still hungry.

The smell of the fish overpowers me.
The smell of the ocean, of the seas of
what we did to them!
Of how the same fish, epitomizing
turned noses, once part of something grander than us.
We have seen the tops of the world,
flew down rivers and
cut through the skies,
held enough power to send a man
to the moon and back in the palm of our hands,
yet never been to the places that the fish has been.
We have clear lines and boundaries, yet
No walls separate what we haven’t seen.
No limits.

A  school flows by,
barrel rolls and flips, each individual
showing off amiable bubbles.
A collective direction, no agreements
just space, the sandy floor free of motion.
The floor free quiet, a gentle bed.
Taking their time, a place
to be but never of the essence.
A lump in the distance,
a dip behind them. Slowly becoming
something more, something grander.
A mast starts to form a gift from above
no gentle giveaway.
A hellish panic.
The alarms bell ringing panicked
sailors, a vault flows by. Nobody looks twice. The
earth slowly swallowing the meal, as
if to enjoy each taste and make it last.
The fish intrigued.
Ignorant of the history. Wooden ruins, choral
the dead ship alive!

A shadow crosses the sun.
A sleek shark shows its hand.
The school flees the table.
The shark chases demanding to be payed.
Flying towards the old gift they dive into
the maze.
Only coral in the doorway to the left.
He keeps pursuing.
The group scatters.
Pretenses over
some failing.
Sharp teeth cut indifferently.
New respect for the fragility of water.
Not just joy when they swim now, but a heartbroken celebration
flying along the streams with a learnt respect.
Celebrating each other.

My shadow, catches me off guard, flees up
the wall and up past the celling.
I watch it go and
stumble and look down to see what caused me
to see only my feet and the floor. Oak wood strips
make the floor solid. Endless minuscule canyons
carved below me. Wavy sand dunes and craters sit atop the canyons.  
Rivers flowing separating sides.
Rocks calaborating, blocking paths,
creating treasures.  
everywhere.

Surely somewhere down there a couple holding hands,
a dingo eyeing its next meal watching intently,
solely focused on the ****.  
Perhaps a number of tourists, impressed with the landscape,
snapping pictures of the stone valley.
All wondering at the rocks, meticulously placed.
Tourists cooling off in the rivers.
  Maybe just maybe though
a pair of strangers bump into each other on a
narrow trail, and instead of passing by,
both of them will leave all the better for it.
To defy nature and prove to the landscape, that
people can exist in your world and respect
your customs but play by different rules.
That we have made progress! Not just in phones
but in the barren glory of canyons.
Maybe then the stranger will bump into
the tourists and offer out a hand.

Then the couple will make love,
the tourists will take more photos,
the dingo will eye more food,
the drumbeat will likely stay the same
but maybe just maybe though
the stranger will start something
and help out another stranger,
New music to all who will listen.
Lost completely but with no need to be found.
Any feed back is always welcome! Hope this does something.
Phil Lindsey Apr 2015
If someone says, “And time stood still,”
Consider him an imbecile.
Time creeps, it flies, it disappears,
It changes seconds into years,
Consumes our life,
Each passing day,
And woe the soul
That’s in its way.

Time marches on, as if to war
Countless battles fought before
Why do we refuse to yield?
Lay down our helmet, sword, and shield
Is it so hard
For us to see
That time will claim
The victory?

Time overpowers the strongest men,
And laughs at those who try in vain,
To conquer time, for they will die
Not knowing when, or how, or why
Yes, we will die
While time endures
Time mourns no life
Not mine, not yours.

Time humbles strong, and kills the weak,
It laughs at those who dare to speak,
As if they understand its goal,
Time will extract its rightful toll.
No money spent
Can slow time down.
Time will have
The rich King’s crown.
Phil Lindsey 4/23/15
Daniel Regan Sep 2013
I fear the light with the sun and the dew. I fear my echoes that they might wake you.

I fear last night and I fear today. I fear the word that my motivations make us say.

I fear my regrets and I fear their truth. I fear that your maturity overpowers my youth.

I fear your thoughts and I fear your mind. I fear my willingness to be unapologetically kind.

I fear the silence that always rings through. I fear the awkward smiles they force out of you.

I fear my affections and how I react. I fear that my actions wont leave me intact.

I fear the road and I fear its end. I fear the message my silence will send.

I fear your love and I fear my pain. I fear the stillness that comes with the rain.

I fear my inaction and I fear my lingering hand. I fear where my emotions force me to stand.

I fear your smile and I fear his too. I fear the backstabbing that I just went through.

I fear my relations and their impact on me. I fear their power to bring me to my knee.

I fear the future and I fear my heart. I fear not returning from what was my start.

I fear my life and the time on my clock. I fear there is no one who can listen to me talk.

I fear my words and I fear yours too. I fear I have lost all trust in me and you.

— The End —