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Em Aug 2014
They come in
Wearing their eating disorders like fashion
And men like purses.
They take their seats
And order a healthy, hefty meal.

Missus Stickin pulls back her shawl,
Exposing bony shoulders
And ribbed cleavage.
She takes a razor out of her clutch
And drags it over her lips
Imperial Pigeon Blood,
she says,
Emphasises the plumpness.

Miss Blanch takes her boyfriend by the arm
I got the latest model,
she brags,
Fifteen percent of ambiguous European descent.
they say,
But not too foreign!

Miss Grimace, admiring her manicure
And sporting an off-the-counter skin tone
I hear there's a sale today at [overpriced upper crust boutique]
5% off on endangered fur coats.

I'm a leather girl myself,
says Miss Blanch
Lifting up her never-worn, too-cropped
100% Indian cattle leather jacket.
Missus Stickin and her stick thin legs,
Like to be adorned with the scales of desert sliders.

They stand together
And leave arm-in-arm
Without touching their food
Or leaving a tip.
alternate (alliterative) title: Criminal Concepts of Cosmetics
Em MacKenzie Aug 2019
If live gives you lemons
just be thankful it’s not a lime,
and when squeezing it
avoid getting the juice in your eye this time.
jake aller Dec 2019
Snarling Cup of Coffee    

I like to start my day with a hot cup of coffee
I pound down the coffee
First thing I do every day
as the dawning sun
Lights up my lonesome room

Yeah, but not just a simple cup of java Joe, but a ******* snarling sarcastic smarmy cup of coffee

I mean, - we are talking about an alcoholic, all speed ahead, always hot, always fresh, always there when I need it, angry, attitude talk to the hand Ztude, bad, bad assed, beats breaking, beatnik, bluesy, bitter, ******, bombs away, capitalistic, caffeinated up the ***, cinematic, communistic, Colombian grown, Costa Rican inspired, Cowabunga to the max, crazy assed, devilishly angelic, divine, divinely inspired, dyslexic, epic, extreme vetting, evil eye, expensive, ****** vision inducing, Ethiopian coffee house brewed, euphoric, freaky, freazoid, foxy, Frenched kissed, French brewed, funkified, foxy lady, graphic, GOD in my coffee, with Allah, Ganesh, Jesus, Kali, Buddha, Christians, Durga, Hindus, Mohamed, Jesus and Mo and their friend, the cosmic bar maid, Sai Babai, Shiva, Taoists,

Zoroastrians, drinking my god ****** coffee in Hell;

growling, gnarly, happy, hard as ice, Hawaian blessed, high as a kite, hippie, hip, hipster, hip hoppy, hot as hell yet strangely sweet as heaven, jazzy, jealous, Kerouac approved, kick ***, kick my ******* *** to Tuesday, kick down the doors and take no prisoners, grown in the Vietnam highlands by exVietcong, Guatemalan grown, kiss ***, illegal in every state, imported from all over the ******* world,

insane, lovely, loony, lonely, lonesome, malodorous mean old rotten, *******, nasty, narcotic, never whatever, never meh, never cold, not approved by the CIA, not approved by DHS, not approved for human consumption by the FDA, not your daddy’s sissified corporate cup of coffee, NOT DECAFE coffee, not your Denny’s truck driver weak as brown water cup of fake coffee, not your establishment friendly cup of coffee, Not your FBI coffee, Not FAKE Herbal coffee substitute, but a real cup of coffee, not your farmer brothers dinner crap, not made in America for Americans, not safe for work, not your Starbucks average expensive overpriced ****** corporate chain cup of coffee, Not pretentious, Not White House approved, not State Department safe, nuclear, Not Patriotic, operatic, Peets’s coffee approved,

paranoid, pornographic, psychotic, pontific, politically aware, rapping, rhyming, right here, right now in River city, rock and roll up the Yazoo, sad, sadistic, sarcastic, sassy, satanic, schizoid, *******, silly, ****, smarmy, smelly, smooth, snarky, snarling, stupid, stinking, sweet as honey, sweat inducing, symphonic, Trump can’t handle this coffee, vengeful, Wagnerian, wicked, with nutmeg and cinnamon swirls, with a hint of stevia, with a hint of vanilla, with a hint of ***, with a hint of whisky, with a hint of cherry, with a hint of fruit overtones, with a hint of drugs spicing up the coffee, spendific, speeding, splendid, superior accept no substitutes, survived the Vietnam war, the Iraq war, the Afghan war, the first and Second Korean war, World War 11, the war on poverty, the war on drugs, the war on black people, the ****** revolution,

Soulful as a summer’s night in MOTOWN- James Brown approved, TOP approved, Berkeley approved, the coffee that Jimmy Hendrix drank before he died, the coffee that Elvis drank on his last breakfast, the coffee that Barry White crooned as he drank his cup of coffee – and the coffee that made the white boy play stand up and play that funky music, the coffee that made Jonny B Goode play his guitar, and made Jonny bet the devil his soul after he drank his morning cup of righteous coffee and the coffee that make the Rolling Stones Rock and Roll, the coffee your mother warned you against drinking, the coffee that Napoleon drank when he became the Emperor of all Europe, the Coffee that Beethoven drank when he wrote the Ninth symphony, the coffee that Mozart drank as he wrote his last symphony, the coffee that Lincoln drank before he was killed, the Hemingway drank before he killed himself, the coffee that started the 60’s, and ended the 20th century,

the coffee that Lenin drank as he plotted revolution, the coffee that ****** and Stalin drank with FDR as they divided up the world after World War 11, the cup that JFK drank before he was blown away, the coffee Jerry drinks while driving in cars with random celebrities and political figures, the coffee that Jon Stewart drinks before he goes on an epic take down of some foolish politico, the cup of Arabic coffee that Sadaam drank the day he was executed, the coffee that GW and Cheney drank when they bombed Baghdad, the Indian cup of coffee that Bid Laden drank before 9-11 and just before the seals blew his *** to hell, the cup of coffee that Tiger Woods drank with his mistresses while playing a 3, 000 dollar round of golf at Sandy Lane golf course in Barbados, the last legal drug that does what drugs should do, the cup of coffee that Obama drank when he became President, Vietnamese, Vienna brew, wacky, whimsical,

Whisky Tango Foxtrot, wild, weird, wonderful, WOW, Yabba dabba doo! Yada Yada yada Zappa’s favorite cup of cosmic coffee, and Zorro’s last cup of coffee, Good to the last drop rolled into one simple cup of hot coffee   
As I pound down that first cup of coffee
And fire up my synaptic nerve endings with endless supplies
Of caffeine induced neuron enhancing chemicals

I face the dawning day with trepidation and mind-numbing fear
I turn on the TV and watch the smarmy newscasters in their perfect hair

Lying through their perfect blazing white teeth
about the great success the government is having
Following the great leader's latest pronouncements

I want to scream
and shoot the TV
and run out side

Stop the world!
I want to get
off this ******* crazy planet"

The earth does not care a whit
about my attitude problem

It merely shrugs
and moves around the Sun
In its appointed daily run

the universe whispers
in my ear
time to drink more coffee
for an attitude adjustment

And I sit down
The madness dissipating a bit
And enjoy my second cup
Of heaven and hell
In my morning cup of Joe

Coffee Revolutions

coffee cup
Coffee led to the American Revolution<span
As patriots drank coffee
To rebel against
the aristocratic English tea

Coffee started the London Stock Market
And started the gossip mills running
Every great invention
Was fed by coffee's sweet brew
sweet allure

All the great thinkers
All the great leaders
All were enslaved
to coffee's magic

I sing my praises
Of the great
glorious coffee lady

Long may she continue
To be my sweet companion

Long may coffee continue
To rule my heart
And set my heart
on fire

Ode to Coffee

Mistress of sacred love
Sacred lady of desire

You start my day
Setting my heart on fire
With your dark delicious brew 

And throughout the day
Whenever the mean old blues come by
You chase them away

With your bittersweet ambrosial brew
Every time I inhale your witch's brew

I am filled with power, light and love
And everything is al right Jack
If only for a few fleeting minutes

I love you oh coffee goddess
In all your magical forms

In the dark coffee of the dawning day
In the sizzling coffee in the mid morning break
In the afternoon siesta break
And in the post dinner desert drink

I love you my coffee mistress
You are my refuge
From this horrid world

And you are my secret lover
Never disappoint me, ever
I've never had a bad cup
Of that I can be sure

Even the dismal coffee
Served at Denny's at 3 am
Is still sweet loving coffee

Even the farmer brother's diner coffee
Excites me and gets me going
Asking for another cup of divine delight

Coffee always is there
It is always on and piping hot
With hidden dark secrets
Swirling in its liquid essence

Coffee is my last vice
My only legal vice left

Coffee does not cheat on me
It is always faithful, always true
It does not turn on its friends

And all it asks in return
Is that you come back
Cup after cup after cup

A good cup of coffee
Is a little bit of heaven
In a cup of dark liquid hell

Coffee is like a drug
But a good drug that does what is should
And never complains

It does not get grouchy
It does not hurt you

It does not make you crazy
But allows the muse to come out
And play with it

Coffee led to the American Revolution
As patriots drank coffee
To rebel against the aristocratic English tea

Coffee started the London Stock market
And started the gossips mills running

Every great invention
Was fed by coffee's sweet brew
sweet allure

All the great thinkers
All the great leaders
All were enslaved to coffee's magic

I sing my praises
Of the great glorious coffee lady

Long may she continue
To be my sweat companion

Long may coffee continue
To rule my heart
And set my heart on fire

I love thee
Mistress coffee
And sometimes I think
You love me too

No More Coffee Blues

I love coffee
Always have

And coffee has loved me back
But lately I have soured on her
Soured on the whole coffee scene

On the harshness
of the morning brew
And the promises it makes

As I sip of its nectar
Drawn into its lair

Drinking drop by drop
As the caffeine takes over

Rewriting my every nerve
Turning me into a slave
For its perverted pleasure

Yes I love coffee
But I am afraid

Coffee is a harsh mistress
Demanding so much of me

Promising the sun
And delivering the moon

As I drink her swill
Deepening under her influence

I have the coffee blues
Can’t live without her
Can’t live with her

I try
But tea does not cut it
Not really

***** does not do it
At least not in the morning

Yoga is not enough of a buzz
Nor is the runner’s high

And I am afraid deadly afraid of *******
And speed and drugs and energy drinks

And so I remain a slave to coffee
My only legal drug

As I sip another
and fall under
her seductive spread

Once more failing my resolve
To skip coffee for that day
That morning that moment

I shall never be free of her spell
Ever and she knows it
As she beckons me
Every morning with her intoxicating smell

And I come to her
and drink her brew

And become her slave
again and again

Coffee Ya Du

must drink coffee
have every day
the morning dawns
drinking my coffee as I yawn

Morning cup of coffee 

every morning
I drink my coffee
as I contemplate 
the dawning day

watching the news anchors
blather on and on
drinking my coffee
thinking of life

and my coffee
consumes me
overwhelms me
and at time controls me

after all coffee is a drug
and I am her slave
from time to time

Drinking Coffee in the Morning

in the morning
dangerous mood
felling deranged
watching the news

trigger warning
you are ******* dude
end of the world
the end times come

I drink coffee
in the morning

Coffee *** Killed

His wife has banned my use
by my owner
says he makes too much
of a mess when he uses me

it is not his fault
I want to say
but being a coffee ***
can not speak

and so I am abandoned
thrown out into the trash

and feel very sad
for my owner

who was my friend
he liked me

he keep me going
and I did my job

providing him
with fresh coffee

doing my coffee *** duty
and now it is over

Drinking My Coffee

drinking coffee

drinking my coffee
early in the cool morning
thinking life is fine

everything will be okay
after I drink my coffee

morning coffee

morning coffee

dawning sun 

coffee MGur Poem


I pray to the coffee gods
every cup of coffee
is like a sacrament to me

I pray as I drink my coffee
that it will fill me
with wisdom

and find peace
with my coffee

as I drink
my devotion

Hot coffee

cup of coffee

take coffee with you
Hot hot coffee, makes my day -

Must drink My daily coffee, as the morning dawns - 

With out my morning coffee

in me,  I feel nothing at all -

Electrified Hot Coffee

coffee is the drug of choice
nothing else will do it
as I drink coffee
Hot Coffee

Hot Coffee and Cake

coffee is the drug of choice
electrified circuits
as I drink coffee
coffee and cake

Coffee Patina

hot coffee
hot Hellish Heaven
Essence of coffee
the rest of the coffee poems can be found at
Dorothy A Apr 2012
The first time that Evan laid eyes on her, he told himself that he was going to marry her. Embarrassed by his own fantasy, he quickly dismissed that thought as fast as it came to mind, telling himself what an idiot he was. Yet, from time to time, in spite of his reasoning, the thought would invade his skull.

What a dumb idea anyhow! It was just lame, teenage fantasyland! Girls did that kind of junk all the time, saying they were going to be Mrs. So-and-so, and thank God nobody could read his mind to know what he was dreaming up! Like she would marry him! He felt like a dumb ****, great in athletics, but far out of her league. Not even having the courage yet to ask a girl out on a date, and now he was already thinking of marriage! Pathetic! Really! Only a freshman in high school, he felt he should know better, lacking the good common sense his dad always tried to drive into him and had himself.

Ginny Delgado belonged with the smart kids, the brains of the school, although she seemed to stick more by herself, away from any stereotypical clique. Evan had first seen her in his biology class, and he remembered when other students wanted to copy off of her test papers. She never allowed any of that to happen, though, even if it would gain her popularity, false popularity but attention just the same.

It was a surprise to him that Ginny seemed to have few friends. Mostly, girls who were nerdy and smart did not seem very attractive or put together. Ginny seemed to have it all. She was smart and pretty, but she never identified with any of the girls who thought they were hot—and all other girls were not—and so she stood apart as one who shrouded herself in guarded aloofness.

And now here he was at his 20th high school reunion, one he really did not want to attend, but talked himself into going anyway. Perhaps, he could shoot the breeze and run into a few old buddies, his basketball friends. He didn't think that much of Ginny since he graduated from Fillmore, much less anybody from all those years ago. There really wasn’t any reason to reminisce once high school was behind him. School was not misery for Evan Stewart, but it wasn’t a time where everything seemed magical and carefree, not like for some students who looked upon those days as some of the fondest memories of their lives.

It was the class of ’92, and a huge banner displayed across one of the walls read, “Welcome back, class of 1992! Fillmore High School rules!” There was a good turnout, and Evan recognized a lot of people, although there were fewer that he knew by name.  

Sitting under dimly light lights, around a bunch of round tables, Evan now sat with the other alumni, stuck in a crowded hall with music blaring away from the early nineties. He had his overpriced meal. He had his few beers.

But what now?

He was almost bored to death. He was beginning to watch the clock more and more, scanning the room to see if he could possibly find reason to stay longer.  But then something happened that he never expected to happen, never even would have imagined it.

And, suddenly, his heart started to pick up its pace.

Was that her?

Evan thought he had made out the vague shape of a possibly familiar figure, an amazing and sudden surprise. Was that Ginny Delgado?

He wondered if he was seeing things as he intently stared across the room at the shadowy prospective of Ginger Delgado. But with the low amount of lighting, it just might not be her but someone he never even met before. How awkward would what be?

If it was Ginny, she was sitting next to a guy who seemed obnoxious and full of himself. Even from afar, he appeared to be a guy who would be in everyone’s face, with wild hand gestures, talking away and giving nobody else a chance for a word in edgewise.  If that really was Ginny, was that her husband? What a trip that would be! All the sense he once attributed to her would have to have gone out the window, if that were the case.

Sitting at Evan’s table were several of the other guys that were also heavy into high school basketball. Most were married and came with their wives—nobody was alone as Evan was—and now they all tried to act like they were thrilled to be all gathered together to show off their accomplishments. They were all passing around stories of life after high school, after basketball—some with talk of their college days, their wives, their kids, their jobs and careers—plenty of drinks to go around, and some toasting to the good, old days and to even brighter futures ahead. Evan was never married and did not have any children, so he felt he had much less to say. Most of those guys were not even very interesting, even though they tried to make it out that they had achieved so much in their lives. They may have been out of shape and past their prime, but all of them tried to act like they were the same as they were twenty years ago. None of what they all said impressed Evan at all, even though he tried to be interested.

He kept looking at the woman across the room, and the more he looked at her, the more he was convinced he was spot on about her. She had to be Ginny! He should just get up now and have the guts to ask her! But what would she say? Yes, I am Ginny Delgado, and this pushy **** next to me is my husband?

Though he was twenty years older, Evan felt just as awkward and as scared as he did in his freshman Biology class. It was better to just let the issue be. He’d rather save face than look like a total fool.

Suddenly, the unexpected occurred, something that gave Evan’s heart even more of a stir than he initially had when he spied her presence. Was it possible? Ginny now looked like she was starring back at him, as if they had somehow miraculously locked eyes and she had an uncanny ability to notice him back, from that afar off, now being transfixed onto him!  

You’ve really lost it now. What do you think, that she really notices you and remembers you?

Ginny stopped paying attention to the obnoxious man beside her and kept looking in Evan’s direction. She even reached her hand up and gave a little wave out his way.

Timidly, Evan waved back.

Standing up, Ginny started to make her way across the room. The obnoxious guy next to her looked on after her, like he could not believe she had wanted to part company with him. Evan guessed she was not his wife—thank God for that!

No, there is just no way she is coming over to talk to you. Alright, maybe she is. Get a hold of yourself now! Stop acting like a teenager and act like you actually know something about women. Come on, Evan! Get it together! She is coming.

Evan was right. It was Ginny Delgado! But she stopped short of his table to sit a down at the table in front of him, next to another fellow classmate of theirs, a female student that he vaguely remembered, though he did not know her name.

It was almost a relief she did not come to sit with him! Yet the disappointment was equally there. Seeing her more up close, Evan knew for sure it was Ginny. She was still quite pretty, perhaps even more so now, her medium brown hair and her dark purple dress complimenting each other. Not wanting to stare, Evan couldn’t help but to shoot many glances her way, without trying to be too obvious.
She smiled a lot, glad to talk to another person that she knew, and probably glad to be away from the guy she was stuck with before. Her eyes sparkled, and Evan never remembered ever seeing her so unguarded. In biology class, she was quiet, like he tended to be. Now she seemed so different, seemingly freer to be herself. Evan rarely saw her smile in high school, but thought she was very serious and sophisticated.

Before long, the DJ was now playing Eric Clapton’s Tears in Heaven. Couples at all tables were making their way to the dance floor. Soon, Ginny was approached by some guy who asked her to join him for a dance. She shook her head, no. Nonchalantly, the man turned to the woman that Ginny knew and asked her. She gladly accepted, said something to Ginny as if to have her permission and understanding, and then took the man’s hand to go to the dance floor. Ginny remained at the table by herself, looking on at the dancers with seemingly little regret that she declined an offer.

This might be your only chance, idiot. Are you going to blow it and be a wuss? Go up to her and tell her that you remember her. Go on! It is your perfect chance. What do you have to lose? If she isn’t interested, just go then. You’ve spent enough time here anyway!

“Hi…Ginny Delgado isn’t it?”

Evan asked as he approached her from behind. He cleared his throat. His voice had sounded so gravelly, as if he hadn’t uttered a single word all night. And his heart was beating a mile a minute, and he swore it must have been pulsating through his shirt. He was glad he put his suit jacket back on, for he was probably sweating like crazy.  

Ginny looked up, seemed to look puzzled, but then smiled a little. “I remember you!” she said with growing enthusiasm on her face. “Oh, but I’m sorry. You are going to have to tell me your name again”.

“Evan Stewart”, he replied. “We were in biology class together Remember? We were sophomores.”

A succession of slow songs was now being played, and Ginny’s friend was enjoying the time with her new dance partner. She certainly was in no hurry to make her way back to the table to rejoin sitting and talking with Ginny.

“Oh, sure! I remember now!” Ginny exclaimed. “Evan Stewart. Of course! You were the tall, shy guy that everyone liked because you knew how to win one for us. You were big into baseball, weren’t you?”

“Well, basketball was my best sport. I liked baseball, too, and track”, he replied humbly. It was amazing! She actually remembered more him than he thought she would!  “

Can I sit down and join you?” he asked, his courage and confidence growing.

“Oh, do!” Ginny replied, eagerly.

He felt like he was in seventh heaven. How cool was this? Sitting with Ginny Delgado? It was a bonus to a fairly descent reunion.

“So what have you been up to for the last twenty years?” Evan asked. His face was flush with embarrassment, as if he was just a guy who happened to luck out, but had no real skill in socializing with a woman he once fantasized about.

Ginny laughed a little, putting her hand up to her mouth as if her response was inappropriate. She responded, “You want a few hours? Or should I just give you a one word response?”

Evan smiled, blushing, as he tried to appear smooth and confident. “A one word response?” he asked.

“Yes. I can say it in one word—roller coaster….oops, that is two words”.

They both just sat there as I Can’t Make You Love Me, by Bonnie Raitt, played on.  

“Yeah…I guess I could say that about my life”, Evan agreed. “Would you like me to get you something from the bar?” he offered. “A coke or a beer?”

Ginny stared out onto the floor, as if she never heard him. “Isn’t it amazing how everyone comes to see the same people they always used to hang out with and still intend to hang out with to this day?” she asked. “How boring and predictable!”

Evan looked at her, puzzled, “What do you mean?”

Ginny continued to look out onto the floor, the music now upbeat dance music, and said, “Well, I mean you see all the football heroes all hanging out with each other. The members of the debate team are all huddled together as if they are preparing for the next debate. The cheerleaders, the drama club, the science club geeks…nothing has changed has it?”  

Evan shrugged his shoulders. “I guess that is typical. But that isn’t me. Sure, I saw some of the guys I played ball with, basketball, but the truth is I am not really that interested in hanging out with them.”

Ginny turned to look at him, her hazel eyes intent and solemn. Evan added, “I don’t have any contact with any of them. Nothing against them. I just don’t”.

They looked at each other in the eyes for a while. The silence was awkward. It was as Evan’s watching and waiting for her reply was the cue for Ginny to open up, and open up she did.

“I went to UCLA on a scholarship. I became a history major, world history, American history, women’s history. I never intended to teach, not at first. But it just seemed a good fit for me, and I have had plenty of teaching jobs, junior high school, high school. I moved to Sacramento.  I was briefly married after I got my first real teaching job there.”

Ginny’s eyes glistened. There was a pain in them that seemed locked in deep, not really wanting to expose itself too much, but coming out nonetheless.

Evan listened on, eagerly, so she went on, her gaze towards the dance floor “It did not work out. He cheated. He did it more than once and with more than one woman.  And now that I look back, I can see how wrong it all was, especially after my miscarriage. At first, I was so crushed, and I wanted to try again, for another baby, to try to please him, Jim, my husband. Thank God, I didn’t go on and on with him. I am glad I came back here…..back to Springdale.”

She looked back at Evan. He quickly looked away from her glance, his eyes downcast to the table. She wasn’t kidding. Her life was a roller coaster. He did not know what to say, felt so inadequate.

He decided to just share, in return.

”I was engaged once. It was a long engagement. She was a friend of a friend. Lana was her name. She told me she wanted to be with me, but she just wasn’t ready to make the big leap just right away. Actually, I am kind of glad now that I look back. We both owned our own shops. She was a hair stylist and I owned my own car repair shop, but that was about all we really had in common. I mean not really, even though we both liked sports a lot. We never seemed to agree on anything.”

Like he did, Ginny just listened intently, not attempting to make any reply. Evan added, “She was willing to cut me down in a second. I see that now”.

“Well how do you like that?!”

Evan and Ginny looked up as the woman that Ginny came over to see arrived back from the dance floor. She was walking, hand in hand, with her new found dance partner, fanning herself with her hand and laughing.

“Ginny’s got some company, too!” she exclaimed, beaming at Evan.    

Ginny replied, “Rhonda Flemming, this is Evan Stewart. She used to be Rhonda Boehner back in Fillmore”

Ginny turned to Evan to introduce him to her old classmate. “Evan…Rhonda. Evan, I don’t know if you two ever met each other before when we all went to school”.

“I’m not sure I have, either”, he replied, extending his hand to shake Rhonda’s. Rhonda quickly grabbed hold of his and gave it an overly enthusiastic shake.

“Hi, Evan!” she exclaimed "This handsome man next to me  is Brian. I never knew Brian until he asked me to dance!” she said excitedly. “And I am newly divorced and so is he! How strange is that?”

Brian shook Evan’s hand and then Ginny’s. “How’s it going?” he asked, grinning with embarrassment at Rhonda’s forward frankness.

“Ginny is one of the smartest people”, Rhonda went on to Evan and Brian. “We were once partners in an English class. We had to write a paper about each other. That was so fun in an otherwise booooooring class. Remember, Ginny?”

Ginny rolled her eyes, and made a shooing gesture with her hand to convey that Rhonda did not know what she was talking about. “I’m not as smart as anyone ever thought I was. I just worked hard and did my best, but thanks anyway for the compliment” , she said, modestly.  

“Oh, you were, too, Ginny!” Rhonda disagreed. She had a gleeful glint in her eyes. “Always so serious, Ginny Delgado! “

Rhonda grabbed Brian’s hand. “Hey, Brian and I are going to go mingle and walk around and see what trouble we can get into. You two want to join us?  

Ginny and Evan looked at each other as if to say “No way!” Ginny responded, “I think we are just fine here, but thanks”

Rhonda winked at her and then tugged at Brian’s hand. The pair of them went off together, leaving Evan and Ginny to themselves.

Evan smirked at Ginny, and then they both started cracking up with muffled laughter. Evan paused and then burst out laughing again. “Where did you find her?” he asked. A tear actually began to run down his face from laughing so hard, and he quickly wiped it away.

Ginny stopped laughing, tried to compose herself, but busted out with even more laugh
Matthew Jun 2014
I fell in love at a McDonald’s. I expected it to happen in an overpriced cafe or a fancy Italian restaurant, but it happened at a McDonald’s and it was love all the same.

We were on our way back from the beach. We went whale watching but the ocean could have been empty for all the fish we saw. We paid good money for a caricature of the two of us. The graphite image of a happy couple with our faces sat in the back seat of your car. It would be framed and put up. We went into the sea as deeply as we dared and laughed and screamed as the waves came and came and came.

We were driving home with bits of mountains and boulders stuck between our sandaled toes and that’s when you pulled into a McDonald’s.

You ordered a sandwich, 100% real beef, never frozen, and asked me what I wanted. I said I would have the same. 100% real beef. Never frozen. I hate spending time and money on that which can only be consumed. We sat down with our food underneath the fluorescent lights next to a Happy Meal kiosk and I decided that I was in love with you and it was love all the same.
laura Jun 2018
drinking all night,
watching a soulless reptile
talk about his company
and trying to sell a sea of nerds
overpriced videogames
drinking all night on some ***** LA heat
was great actually but that dude looked like a lizard and nobody seemed interested
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?

and a decent poem this could have been, but then two
distractions came -
       one of less concern than the other:

a. a program on u.f.o. sightings,
         not so much the subject matter,
but the journalistic ridicule of what was later
    translated into a "sensible" branch
of phenomenology - the branch filled with
awe and fear - unlike the branch that deals
with: 'oh, there's but a simple explanation
behind it all',
               the hardship of seemingly
good intentions in making others believe
something tends to end with a crucifixion in
one way or another - the lesser crucifixion?
evidently stigmatism -
                      perhaps a more unfathomable
experience - no hand in the cookie jar
but nonetheless the hand being caned -
later, much much later the talk of
ostracising ostriches - ducking for cover
   when a less mainstream scientists comes
along and takes out equipment to
understand certain phenomena -
          perhaps without the layman's blinking
incomprehensibility - but at least
         not journalistic poking fun off -
     or how the ostriches always talk about
the faculty of imagination overpowering
the senses - casually phrased: you must have
been imagining things... well... **** me!
why did they invent hallucinogenic drugs
given that imagination can suddenly invoke
a hallucination so potent?

b. first it started with your face,
                 then it started with a mirror
and a face in it in some nightclub bathroom -
some look terrible in mirrors
       the movement disguises the many
apparently or non-apparent imperfections -
that trick of morality that beauty (is but
a short lived tyranny) needs to almost
nervously twitch for the participant in
a brief spell of Narcissism,
  so they take the photo, call it a selfie and
say: if i look good in a selfie, the image
in the mirror doesn't matter...
                           they actually look better in
the mirror than in the selfie -
   but then i decided i had enough of the culture,
only a day before, started to look more and
more at my shadow - maybe the
shape of the nearly skin head made me curious,
so i said to myself: tomorrow night,
   when you're sober, go out and make an
album of photographs.
              hence the distraction b... putting the album
together... from colour, to b & w aesthetic,
   fiddling with enough exposure and contrast
to get the shapes out (not a brilliant camera) -
but apart from my anti-selfie i
took two photographs of modern relics -
    they having dismantled them...
  i remember walking home with a few beers
when it started raining... good thing that
      one of them had the top glass window
smashed and it wasn't there...
              a great bar it turns out...
yep, a beer or two in a phonebox and
the nostalgia of having pockets filled with coins -
   and that ramous number oh eight-hundred
    R E V E R S E        0800 7 3 8 3 7 7 3
(just like the American say it) - on the other line
a person would hear the automated message:
someone is calling you from... would you like
to pay for the call?
             relics, truly... or minibars when it rains
or cubicles to **** in... why not? anyone using it
for anything else?
                  and so it was today,
after watching the vice presidential discussion
i picked the quietest moment in the night
3:30 a.m., the quietest moment in the night -
30 minutes out, started counting the number of
steps it would take for a concrete shadow
under a streetlamp would fizzle out and become
less and less visible, until another streetlamp
gave back a full-bodied concrete form,
the less blurry and fizzling out after ~34 steps...
it takes about 34 steps for the shadow to fizzle
out when looking at it when created by
a passed streetlamp, as said, another streetlamp
replenishes the lost density of the shadow.

which brings me onto... overpriced books.
        now, stopping drinking could help me buy socks,
or a new pair of shoes...
                              i haven't picked up a book
recently that would grab my attention...
                 and the last time i wrote poetry while
also reading a book, not since the time of Ezra's Cantos,
and that's donkey's years away, it would seem.
     but by chance i came across one...
the most expensive book i ever bought was in
Edinburgh, £28.50 and in brackets
             [cheapest online £60.30 inc. shipment]...
but the book i'm going to reference seemingly
fell from the sky... Ponderings II - VI:
Black Notebooks 1931 - 1938
by Heidegger -
which stands at £30.10 from a second-party
retailer on Amazon... otherwise it's £50.00!
i am mad enough to buy this book, hence the strict
regime of alternative drinking nights...
           but that's beside the point...
i don't care to compliment the translation,
       this is the first insight into Heidegger stripped
bare from what i consider to be the hardest books
to read - the devilishness of youth -
2 ****** years and a few good books and much
poetry in between enabled i finished that
   monstrosity that is being and time -
but these ponderings? a complete and utter
revelation! well... it's no good looking at it
if you haven't read the magnum opus -
        i can say enough in that he does treat
aphorisms with a slight disdain, or rather as stepping
stones to create an alternative narrative,
    aphorism that have a different impact in a sense
that they are not isolated to just one isolated incident,
     i guess it's phenomenological in a sense
that phenomenons weave a narrative whether in
a cause and effect scenario, alternatively
        either cause, or effect; i thought i write this
poem before writing something less lucid when
relaxing with the whiskey during the end of the shift...
   and all because what's revealed from this
is how to answer the above question -
      if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around
to hear it, does it make a sound?
    if you look up all the Anglophone answers to
the question, you end up reaching the escape
route into buddhism, pop culture jokes
          and a general impracticality of it all
being related to perception and that horrid word
                i don't like this approach at all -
the easiest escape route is to approach buddhism -
that's the standard practice in English societies,
to escape into buddhism and chime jar jar jam and
joe who was later known of om -
     the book in question (ponderings ii - vi)
shows the skeleton of what is otherwise an Alcatraz
of prose in that systematic height of composition,
and that's how the concept of dasein enters
like a behemoth - in these ponderings dasein
is stripped to the bare essential of: being & there -
that's how i saw that ****** question answered -
it's not really a question of perception
    but a question of concern - and i have started
to really adore how the Germans always manage
to provide a higher tier of logic than the English,
the de facto argument of logic is:
   if i use words, i am logical -
   which doesn't not mean i categorising further
and suggesting i'm also rational,
          because that's beside the point -
illogical expression is something incomprehensible
for a logical person: sign language -
        but that's not to say something illogical
is irrational -
                    what i am suggesting is
that by using words i am logical -
            i can also be irrational, but nonetheless logical,
in the same way as i can be rational
    using the same starting point -
                                but in saying that i can be irrational
cannot mean that i'm illogical -
       because i am still using the basic blueprint: words.
this is the avenue where this £30.10 priced book
on Amazon leaves you wandering -
              but not on its own...
   as already stated...                   and i never
thought i'd be able to say it: reading philosophy
in English has suddenly become comprehensible
and rather enjoyable to me...
         by the looks of it... this will be the only
book on philosophy in English in my library
(the history of western philosophy doesn't count),
given that all the rest of them are in Polish...
      well... with the exception of Nietzsche,
he's pompous enough to be read in English,
         reflections from Scotland,
        on the faded and ever more fading former
JAC Jun 2017
You are overpriced coffee:
You taste like all of the wonderful things
That wake me up and warm me
But you leave my pockets empty
And leave me needing more.
Izanda Zeravla Jun 2016
Well here we are
living all together
In the incredible enchanting
thing we call America

And for those not in,
The thing we call the world
Living peaceably "supposedly"
and happily
all together,
all in one.
Then why are we in such an uproar?

Anyways we go through the day,
completely oblivious to one another's
hard times and struggles
Only motivated by filling that hole
in our pockets-and pocket books
Which seems to be growing deeper and deeper
by the day
what a shame...

Anyway, once again go bout my day,
my folks come back from the store

A chicken in the fridge
it sat there for a day or two, but didn't seem to spoil
Mother admits she likes the chicken from
Publix better
I said it tastes more like chicken and less like rubber
A bit overpriced she thought but now that
chicken will be bought again and again
because it's worth it she says
And no, no this is not a "promo"for publix
Just something I observed
every now and then...

I agree with my dear mommy
Don't know about you,
but I know about me,

And I,
would cry
at the mere thought of giving my child
something filled with gmo's
and growth hormones
don't even know if that's chicken anymo'

I would cry
because you see
You can't tell
who's six or sixteen
I give my courtises
to dairy companies
and chicken factories...

And now
we got people like
me blowing the horn
on food companies and...
wanting to sue the FDA
for what they think is right and okay
to give to our fragile growing little souls
I have 3 younger siblings,
So I would know...

And so now i'm blowing the horn,
A new sound is born,
I'm blowing the trum- pet

On all Trump's pets
and they have to realize
a road of separation
and segregation
is just not right the way it's not okay

But that's were we are heading
I will prepare my bedding
and pack up my
"two piece" of nothingness
prepared to go as soon as they say...
Sigh...I'm in distress
and the thought of this
just to much stress...

They try to "build a wall"
but all your building is the hatred
You cannot honestly tell me
a wall is the safest...

Or the most secure

They have to realize
if you have the same mind,
Then you have the same
And must I re-mind them
That the same thing you dish out
Is what you'll get...

love has disappeared

So quite frankly
I think I'm good in
my corner of the woods
being unnoticed
by those who don't choose to look
beyond their naked eye
to see if something more significant might lie
behind this
Un-smiling face

Cuz' I wanna hide from the world

So me
and my mummies over-priced chicken
and my points of views
and my way of livin'

Can stay over here
if the world comes along then that's
fine with me...
If not, then that's also fine with me,
You see
you cannot
The road behind still seemed more tempting  than the wasteland of hollow thoughts and
empty dreams that lay outside my hotel room window.
I'd long since given up on having anything known as a comfort zone.

Still although it was hours since we landed still my thoughts rambled like some child as he sits listening to a trains whistle on a long dark night.

My fellow shadows had long since learned a private room was better than a front row seat to
my often insanity spun sideshow of late nights and bitter rants.
It was me and my thoughts a plague of my own creation  in full swing and obsecure few
a stiff drink and some good pills kept the thoughts at bay for the moment.

We found areselves in the city of Angels but  it reaked more of devils torment and wicked excess.
Hookers cheap *** and some overpriced drugs.
The blood of dreams covered the streets and old starts of the fames lure slept next to the broken and homeless.

Why had I ever came here was it ego?
Or just a good time to flaunt in the face of all thoose caught in the gears of
the day to day grind.

This land of empty thoughts  and cursed remakes there was nothing creative bout this scene kids  just give your neck to the vampire and pray he yerns for a taste.
Maybe you'll be one in the few or just another hideline.
Fallen star found dead outside some overpriced nightclub.

Me I was here for a gig and nothing more .
To provide some laughs between drinks i had no illusions of fame.
To me I looked in the crystal ball and just saw another cheap snow globe
of nothing more than candy coated lies.

This wasnt my scene it wasnt anyones scene just a playground gone
wrong a wasteland of bad ideas and hollow thoughts.
That made Vegas seem like a good idea at the time.

Neon lights and lost thoughts haunt the hours spent like some
silent witness to a future crime scene and a redlight work of art.

And as I recalled the nights show I tried to forget the faces from behind the lights
that seemed broken by some plastic surgeons *******.
Give me women with flaws and unsculpted fools.
Perfect people can have this place that seemed more like a gateway to
a delusion cast hell than screen print paradise.

Course many would paint it diffrent if they held the brush but I wasnt
much of a painter to begin with.
And as tommorow loomed with the smog I packed my suitcase thinking.
If we could just drown half the suits and give it to the miscast freaks
pretending to be superheros for tourist pics what a ****** up
theme park we'd have then.

A few hits and alotta drinks later we were gone and there was no question
If we had left a empression.
Only a ****** of a much higher degree would wanna leave anything there.
Except maybe a pipe bomb in a suits office bleeding some old franchise
for every drop it was worth.

No my friends the rearview wasnt looked in often.
What did you think of it?
My fellow traveler  asked as we counted potholes and passed the bottle

Well it sure wasnt Kansas my friend.
What the ***** in Kansas?
Anything but this ******* place amigo.
Akemi Apr 2017
Barbiturate is one of the few drugs capable of killing you painlessly, so of course the state has banned it. Instead we get paracetamol, a ****** over-the-counter painkiller that leaves you in pain for up to five days while your liver and kidneys shut down. Suicide prevention is a ******* joke. Secular appropriations of Christian values that assume life is worthwhile, whether you desire it or not. It’s long been known that rates of suicide rose dramatically with the birth of modernity—techno-scientific paradise for the middle-class which stresses efficiency over existence. New forms of automation, the human body disciplined into repetitious acts, the partitioning of workspaces so that no single worker could operate the whole—so that any worker could be fired and replaced with the minimum amount of training necessary for capital to continue circulating. The body is individualised, scrutinised, and punished by rich kids playing panopticon, so that any mass agitation is coerced into silence through the threat of destitution.

Slitting your wrists barely succeeds and more likely than not leaves you with tendon and muscle damage. Catalytic converters in cars now convert carbon monoxide into harmless CO2 and H2O. Drowning is one of the most painful ways to die. You cannot escape. The state places helpline numbers around suicide spots to treat life after the fact, rather than at the source of suffering. Vocal band-aids, ****** ******* aphorisms that seek to revert you back into a happy state-serving commodity. Things will get better. Life is worth living. Think positive. Alienation is omnipresent. Neoliberal discourse requires you to be subservient to the greater system of capital and the easiest way towards this is the instilment of comfort, of pleasant nullity, the circumscription of emotional capacity and reflectivity. Suicidal thoughts are abnormal, because life is worth living. Eat your packaged food item and watch Netflix.

For a drop into water to be fatal, it has to be 250 feet. Try to aim for your head to maximise brain injury. The most prominent suicide spot around here has a drop of 100 feet. They cordoned it off anyway. Your life doesn’t belong to you. The first time I tried to suicide my mother asked ‘why would you do that?’ as if it was the dumbest thing in the world. The second time, the doctor looked at me in an exasperated manner and prescribed me lots of drugs. Geettt bettterrrr. Nobody cares about you, they simply want you to return to normal. Normality as in serving your parents, serving your friends, serving the state, and serving the market. Normality as in not questioning social norms and institutions. Normality as in get a stable job (i.e. compete against other workers in an exploitative, undemocratic system that values and inculcates self-serving desires), get married (preferably to someone of the opposite *** who is middle-class and imbibes European culture), get pregnant/get someone pregnant (but only once or twice, because anyone who has more children than that is backwards), invest in housing (those students and lower-class families need to learn how the world works; really, it’s a benefit to take their money), watch sports (to instil national pride in your children; no son, we didn’t colonise the Pacific Islands, keep watching the man with the wooden stick hit *****), eat out every week (preferably exotic restaurants), go see the world (preferably exotic locations, so you can be served by exotic people, take in exotic sights, then leave without considering where any of your money has gone to, whether any of it has reached the slums, whether the beach you lay on is accessible to the people living there, or whether it has been privatised by the tourist firm so that only rich tourists like yourself can lie on it), join a club (those capitalists were innocent, it was the indigenous folk that were making a ruckus over the new golf course; it’s not like we’ve been colonising their land and culture for the past three centuries), donate to charity (but never any charity desiring systemic change; that’s crazy), consume, always consume (keeps the economy going; why question the desire for infinite growth in a world with limited land, resources and markets?), replace your phone every year (those poor workers in Asia need our help), repeat to the point of nausea.

The most successful method to suicide is a shotgun to the head; high calibre, slug rounds. Of course, with all these methods, the chance of failing may leave you disfigured, paralysed, mentally disabled or physically crippled (spinal damage, broken limbs, failed organs), with no guarantee that your family, or even your state, will allow for euthanasia. After all, the popular discourse paints suicide as selfish—an irony, considering liberalism places the self first and society second. It is viewed as sinful regardless of context—deontologically detached from anomie, alienation, material deprivation, social pressures, psychological affectations, any cause or structure. Life is worth living. This ignores that the subject is situated in existence. The subject moves through existence to live. Life, then, is the totality of the subject’s interactions. It cannot be universalised into a single state or judgement that merges all subjectivities into a catch-all worthiness. Worth is dependent of the subject.

I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe I just want everyone to **** themselves, because the world is ****** and the majority of people are ******* it worse. Most people think being nice makes them good. They turn blind to the systems of oppression they partake in. A while ago my mother was asking if I’d heard about the mass suicides happening at Foxconn, the largest electronics manufacturer in the world. This year she showed me her new iPhone. I don’t ******* understand. I don’t understand how people can be outraged at humanity abuses, yet do ******* nothing to help or change their ways. Yes, market solutions are ******* ****, but these commodities are still coming from somewhere, and while capitalism is in place, our money is still flowing back. I don’t understand how people can be concerned about ecological issues, then pour dishwashing liquid down the sink every night, dissolving the gills, eyes, and organs of fish in rivers and oceans. I don’t understand a ******* thing. I feel physically sick most days. I can barely function outside of university, because engaging with real people, in real systems, just reminds me of how careless, worthless, and disgusting they are. When I first turned vegan, my dad simply said plants are living too. Well no ******* **** dad, why didn’t you ask me my reason for turning vegan, rather than simply repeating the dumb **** everyone else says? If you were stuck on a desert island. Well I’m ******* not. I’m stuck on this **** world filled with nice people who don’t give a **** about anything. I’m stuck every week walking the same roads, to the same university, where I become more and more distanced from reality through abstract philosophical theories that no one else cares about. I’m stuck walking through the supermarket every week, to purchase overpriced commodities produced by transnational corporations I don’t support, but nonetheless have to buy to survive. What alternatives I buy are mocked because it's so funny being ethical in our day and age. Because it’s so much more normal eating pies, and drinking beer, and treating women like objects, and affirming nationalistic sentiments of white supremacy, and making fun of ethnic minorities while they’re incarcerated, and beaten, and killed. All lives matter, the liberal conservatives cry out, while doing ******* nothing to help any cause. I don’t understand this world, and I have no desire to be in it if this is all there is.
ConnectHook Apr 2016

Too little and of course, too late
they spend what’s left imprudently
attempting to alleviate
the love of God’s own liberty:
The world transexual one-party state.

They think it’s normal — right for all
lost in a prideful dying fall
their lions heed the sea-horse call
attempting to transgender fate;
the devil searches for a mate
his nightly Babylonian date:
the world transexual one-party state.

They’ll legislate the Lord away
(his fundie followers as well)
their hateful heaven, holy hell
shall wither up and disappear
before redemption can draw near.
Their myths no more shall obfuscate
nor dangle such celestial bait
that underwriters overrate:
the world transexual one-party state.

Their antichrist is overpriced,
the nations, globally enticed,
now glorify the deviance
in herd-like mass obedience
surrendering to expedience:
where good is bad, and bad is great
and Christ the only one to hate,
allegiances exacerbate
the world ******* one-party state.

Parties will form and parties end
but parties can no more defend
consolidation into one
than flip a switch and dark the sun;
the Caesars left this part undone
the Muslims are just having fun
with our ******* one-party state.

Bring on the night until we see
that dark means dimming by degree
two parties? Overdone by one !
So let it bleed and let it be
till One is All and all agree
that we are doomed to hesitate
when God cannot resuscitate
the late One-World ******* State.
a poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016

Sarah Michelle Nov 2010
skin tight black leather
duct tape
rambling nonsense and
intensly derogatory terms
life is nothing but a bar
over run by fake plastic beauty
with overpriced wine and overpriced steez
******* kayne west
in our
besieged republic

snipers are
popping up

taking ***

ending lives
with a well placed
head shot

active shooters
star in
world premier

rise like
dark knights
casting large
looming shadows
on real 3D cinemax
multiplexed screens

sprinkling overpriced
buckets of popcorn
with generous
dollops of blood

head back to
still ******
about missing
recess and
to detention
halls where
bullies tortured
scrawny inmates
with wedgies
and painful
***** twisters

come back
to even the score

bullet hole
pockmarks on
Sharpie smudged  
smart boards
declaring endless
summer vacations
for classrooms
of children
who don’t
give wedgies
and only dream
of soft *****

urban guerillas
are now working
to liberate airports
from the tyranny
of TSA agents
duties for
10 bucks
an hour

last night
the latest
active shooter
showed up at
the Garden
State Plaza,
-my hometown
mall of america-
mumbling about his
Grand Theft Auto
score, strung out
and crashing
from an unfilled
pharma addiction

he grew
up as a
in Teaneck

a former
at Nordstroms
said he was
a really good kid

he was,
one of the good ones,
he could have shot
some people
but the only
person he
shot in the head
was himself

legions of
police officers
surrounding the mall
stood down
grateful for overtime
milling about
in the flashing
red strobes
inhaling the heady
blue fumes
rising to commend
Bergen County
Blue Laws and
next Sunday’s
time and a half
active shooter
training day

Jimi Hendrix:
Machine Gun

miranda schooler Jun 2013
you will never be let down by anyone
more than you will be let down
by the one you love most in the world
it’s how gravity works
it’s why they call it falling
it’s why the truth is harder to tell
every year
you have more to lose
but you can choose to bury your past
in the garden
beside the tulips
water it
until it’s so alive
it lets go
and you belong to yourself

when you belong to yourself again
remember forgiveness
is not a tidy grave
It is a ready loyal knight kneeling before your royal heart

call in your royal heart
tell it bravery cannot be measured by a lack of fear
it takes guts to tremble
it takes so much tremble to love
every first date is an earth quake

sweetheart , on our first date
I showed off all my therapy
I flaunted the couch
where I finally sweat out my history
pulled out the photo album from the last time I wore a lie to the school dance
I smiled and said
“that was never my style
look how fixed I am
look how there’s no more drywall on my fist
look at the stilts I’ve carved for my short temper
look how my wrist is not something I have to hide”

I said
well , I was hiding it

the telephone pole still down from the storm
by our third date I had fixed the line
I said listen ,
I have a hard time
and by that I mean I cry as often as most people *** and I don’t shut the door behind me
I’ll be up in your face screaming


I sobbed on our fourth date

I can’t live here
in my body , and by that I mean
I can’t live in my body all the time it feels too much
so if I ever feel far away know I am not gone
I am just underneath my grief
adjusting the dial on my radio face so I can take this life with all of it’s love and all of it’s loss

see I already know that you are the place where I am finally going to sing without any static which means
I’m never gonna wait
that extra twenty minutes
to text you back ,
and I’m never gonna play
hard to get
when I know your life
has been hard enough already .
when we all know everyone’s life
has been hard enough already

it’s hard to watch
the game we make of love ,
like everyone’s playing checkers
with their scars ,
saying checkmate
whenever they get out
without a broken heart .

just to be clear
I don’t want to get out
without a broken heart .
I intend to leave this life
so shattered
there’s gonna have to be
a thousand separate heavens
for all of my separate parts
and none of those parts are going to be wearing the romance from the overpriced vintage rack
that is to say I am not going to get a single speed bike if I can’t make it up the hill
I know exactly how many gears I’m going to need to love you well
and none of them look hip at the hot coffee shop
they all have god saying

“good job . you’re finally not full of ******* .
you finally met someone who’s going to flatten your knee caps into skipping stones ."

throw me
throw me as far as I can go
I don’t want to leave this life without ever having come home
and I want to come home to you
I can figure out the rain .
John Jan 2013
Fat women with
Fur coats
To warm their overfed
Heaps of mass
Holding overpriced
Elongated, mechanical strings
Attached to their
Mouse-like dogs
That wear clothes
That cost more
Than my entire outfit
Shirt, jeans, boots, jacket

They yap to small devices
Glued to their ears
Like instruments
Of envy and jealousy
Yelling at their husbands
Or boyfriends
Or pool boys
Who haven't done their job
Either paying for whatever they want
Or neglecting to net out
That last nat
From their jacuzzis
Where they sip white wine
And sizzle in soapy water
Before getting out
And slipping on shoes
Made by kids
In Cambodia
Who have never held
A hundred dollar bill

What is wrong
Who is right
What is it
That's been done
None of it makes sense
To me
Luke Innes Sep 2013
There’s an Indian restaurant down the road,
And the owners have a beautiful daughter,
But she’s the apple of her daddy’s eye,
So I really don’t think I oughta.

There was a Chinese takeaway next door,
That did the best fried-rice,
But the authorities came and shut ‘em down,
For infestation of rats and lice.

There’s a newsagents further along,
But it doesn’t do much to dazzle,
Unless you want overpriced cigarettes,
And back issues of Razzle.

The Arab café across the road,
Does the best cappuccinos around,
The sound of Algerian pensioners laughing
Is such a beautiful sound.

There’s a Working Men’s around the corner,
Where the Guinness is dirt cheap,
And in it I’ve had drunken nights,
And memories I’d fight to keep.

There’s a chicken shop on the way back home,
Which I must say is pretty useful,
When I’m staggering home, ****** as a ****,
The chicken burgers taste ******* beautiful.

There’s also a chippy down the way,
That does an excellent saveloy,
It got burnt down, and I can’t help but suspect,
It was a sneaky insurance ploy.

There’s an Irish pub next door to that,
Full of drunken, singing Micks,
The Dubliners on the jukebox,
It’s where I get my fix.

But I’m always drawn to the Indian restaurant,
Where the owners have a beautiful daughter,
She’s witty, glamourous, the same age as me,
And I really think that I oughta.
"i don't wanna have to be the one to tell you this,
but you're no foodie; you're just a fat-***
who's too cowardly to take an honest look at yourself.

It's okay to be whatever you want,
just don't lie to yourself proclaiming to be a foodie
to justify late-night trips to Jack in the Box four days a week,
or eating a whole jar of Tostitos 'Salsa con Queso' every two days.

Are you trying to mummify yourself with all those preservatives?

just because you blow most of your paychecks
on gasoline, **** food and overpriced coffee
pulled to the most pretentious of standards
doesn't at all begin to mean that you've got any class, taste, or style,
let alone that you're a foodie.

At least recycle all the paper products your pseudofood comes in.

Moreover, your thighs aren't ******* gluten,
they're all that other junk you eat habitually
while watching your oh-so-edified selection of films
before sleeping it off until 3 in the afternoon.

No wonder you're so full of ****:
you are what you eat, I suppose.

Pull your head on out your ***.

All that fat and cholesterol isn't for the faint of heart."
A bit of a rant. Sorry, but not really.
Fred Schrott Jul 2014
Hey, I already told you that you were a little bit crazy.
What did you think—that I was completely nuts?
Come on, Cashew, and shake that walnut-sized brain of
yours, and then we’ll try to put together a decent menu.
Still, I ought to kick you in those itty-bitty sunflower seeds,
those ones that you claim to be your source of protein.
Hey, Macadamia Breath, accidentally lose the ******* hula
dancer and then fire the impending search-and-rescue party!
Your tropical trail mix was no good for each other.
You need a vacation from this deserted island, Captain Crunch.
Go down south and get yourself the businessman’s special.
You know—some old-fashioned brazil nuts.
Yeah, that’s the two-tickets-to-paradise, for sure.
Fool, you really do need to buff up the old almond.
Do I need to open up the **** aluminum lid for you?
You’ve been stuck inside this assorted, mixed can that you
try to refer to as an extra bedroom for nearly nine months.
Get out and take in a little hike and bike
right after you do the wake and bake.
Maybe you should go slow roast yourself at the beach a little.
Why don’t you go to the mountains and try to become one of those
pine nuts that end up in all of those overpriced health cereals?
Hey, Snickers, those dank trees really are beautiful, you know.
Would you quit acting like a frikkin’ flax seed already?
Just admit that it’s almost payday, for criminy sakes!
You pathetic Mister Peanut, you.
Please, Saint Chestnut, give this completely lost consumer strength
from high above store aisle number nine.
Number nine.
Number nine.
Number nine.
Listen to me, Nutt Sack, will you shake those tiny little beer
nuts that no one can seem to stomach anyway?
First of all, they are becoming way too stale just sitting around here,
so if you continue to wait any longer, they will petrify—and then we
will eventually be forced to call you teeth-breaking Corn Nuts!
From, The Transitive Nightfall Of Diamonds, due out 8/14 from iUniverse books
Anonymous Jul 2014
Darling I can’t find a word to describe you…
But I can find three
Overpriced. Airport. Coffee.
You have an inflated self ego like the over priced liquid
Airports try to pass off as coffee
The brew tastes as watered down as your originality
And honey if I’m honest
I shouldn’t even compare you to coffee
Because that might be the greatest sin of all
I sat nursing a overpriced draft in a underated dive
in Carolina.
I won't go into the details of it's location.
I won't be there by the time of anyone reading this.

And moments are just that and best left alone.
It was a empty bar .
Only me  and the bartender and we weren't here for conversation.
I was avoiding the heat and like some B movie vampire in his coffin.
I found no need to view the light only burn my night world existence.

I never really liked bars much.
The people were pretty much the same social circle rejects and broken
highschool hero's who relived glory one beer at a time.

They always hated the jukebox .
Me I preferred a good song over some far fetched lie
about how some **** ******* saved the game.

Honestly I enjoyed a good drink and some even better music.
As well as the night's silence.
Simple people hate silence.
It forces them to think.
And thinking is a dangerous task for a halfwit.

Course I had to escape my hermit existence sometimes.
Air out my stale thoughts at least for awhile.

I sat there spending what little I never truly had to begin with.
Semi cold beer and smoke the perfume of my thoughts.
I shared only with the wasted page.

Hey mind turning on the jukebox?
I asked the silent man  sitting across the bar.

It's broke he said and nothing more.
Well seems me and that machine have something in common.

Sometimes stepping outside seemed like a good idea.
Until you realize outside is filled with a bunch of annoying ******!

I never went back to that dive although I hear the jukebox was later
replaced .
With some game that sat at the end of the bar like some idiot box microwave.

Still I think it has more personality than that bartender .
Course I believe at abuck a play it's overrated to begin with.

Kaitlynn Sep 2010
My fluttering heart gives me away
in the awkward silence that followed
the electricty of a forbidden touch.
Look into my eyes and tell me
that you love her enough
to cash in your best years
to change diapers and work too many hours
for overpriced formula at your local grocer.
You truly are an extrovert turned introvert,
giving up on your dreams to change lives
with your soul induced chords
intrically written with stories of your past.
Kristaps Nov 2018
Palaces of ****** souls
have green neon text frames
standing sideways like arches;

divine arrows, they guide
the paternal flunks, the tar-soaked offspring,
the lonely and the business bunch.

Here in these palaces, all sin is a freeze, all
lust is a spin.
Fairy lights are often flagged in a net,

to catch mischievous mares flinging
themselves against the glass displays
of overpriced clothing shops.

One finds when wondering the perpetual
lines of restaurants and cafes, the vastness of them
having a motherly touch, for

these palaces, they stretch like the sky and
they spread like the shepherded
fire ants of Gaia herself

And when ones welcome is overbid
they need only to follow  the
evenly laid out,  sorrow yellow street lamps

and bite their cheeks and bare the frost
for soon the polluted lux will lead them to
an overnight joint, a limbo of sorts,

where they can breathe anew.
On those red leather sofas- fast food
or the district kind- when the night seems

to crawl on its final limbs,
they'll lay and slip into sleep.
Some say they never do wake, that they

wither with the moon and then
haunt the attics of the dance halls
where they swirled and laughed and lived

in a previous life.
Meka Boyle Sep 2013
God is watching from beneath a department store window display:
Six floors lined head to toe with glass sheets and metal dividers,
Holding up the paper town- a city hall
Of half off summer sales.
The translucent sheets encompass the cold air conditioned empty space
That seeps in between the wheels of rolling racks, and pushes up
Against the impenetrable windows
That reflect the ash tray gray office buildings,
Looming in the backdrop
Square cubicles full of 9-5 daydreams
And lukewarm non-fat lates,
The iridescent shimmer of the dark exterior
Casts a shadow over the entire block,
Dancing in the reflection
Of a little Asian girl three floors up
Running in between the clothing racks-
Pitter pattering above the ceiling of a five star
Macy's restaurant
Packed with narrow tables and people
Alone and comfortable:
A spectacle to anyone across the street
Brave enough to look up.
Is this what the world has become?
Row after row of sorry complacency:
30% off signs and colorful adds
Drop into a diner waiting room;
The black-clad waiter paces back
And forth, oblivious that his every movement
Is being observed by someone perched on a ***** step of union square.
Safety comes in numbers,
And we forget ourselves
To the dull drone of elevator music
And neon ceiling lights projecting onto
Our downcast eyes.
Slouched against a fashionably bare
White metal chair, at a white table with white walls,
Echo the same vibrato of an asylum.
Arms bent over your head,
Brown rumpled shirt and blue jeans,
Who is watching who?
You look out of the window, just the way
The elderly man in the green vest does,
Two stories up,
The same ***** square glares back at you,
As a few teenage boys take a picture
Of the very architecture you are having
Your overpriced conversation and lunch of some sort of past.
The observer is also the observed,
And nothing goes unnoticed
Except the spectacle, itself.
Hand in hand, we carry our insecurities to the mall
And let them wander off on their own
As long as they're back by 3pm
And haven't done anything drastic
That would betray us.
Comfortability and conformity dance across the sleek walls of the Cheesecake Factory
As a homeless man drags his feet across the littered floor below,
Angrily sighing as stops and darts his eyes
Quickly scanning the moving forms within the indifferent architecture,
Before he abruptly picks up pace
And carries on.
The best view in the city:
A roof top full of anxious visitors
Who only look out over the top,
Afraid to look down and see themselves
In the reflection of the face
Of a blurred and changing crowd,
Hurrying away from now
Avoiding eye contact and fiddling with their jackets.
Repcin Maker Feb 2014
I want green tea kit kat
Not because it is green
Nor it is a kat
Because it is a GREEN TEA KIT KAT
But as I look in the fridge only 1 remained
Yay it's a green tea kit kat
But NO It is the last GREEN TEA KIT KAT
I dunno what to do

Why oh why
Is it overpriced in the Philippines
Where coconuts are all around
But no cheap Green Tea Kit Kat
Someone pls

Give me more Green Tea Kit Kat
I want Green Tea Kit Kat... the last piece was right beside me as I wrote this...
enjoy life's every moment because you wont know when it will be the last
Anjana Rao Nov 2014
How do you begin
to talk about trust,
when every thought
that swirls around in your brain
has additional questions
attached to it:
                         is it real?
                         is it made up?
                         is it rational?
                         is it an overreaction?
                         is it temporary?
                         is it permanent?
Tangled root systems
of the same questions,
for every thought.

And I haven’t even
started on
[that’s a different poem
How do you begin
to talk about trust
when, for starters,
you can’t trust yourself.

Grow up,
with silence
shrugged shoulders
the helpless statements of:
I don’t know, I don’t know, I just don’t know,
in response
to all your scientific parents’ questions –
questions peppered with
“you understand where we’re coming from

every time you think or feel anything at all
and have no explanation,
you’re left with one question:
                                                        how can you not know?
                                                        how can you not know?
                                                        how can you not know?
Say a word enough times
and it starts to lose its meaning:


Is it even a word,
or just a lucky combination of letters?
How do you begin
to talk about trust
when you’ve been let down
not once, not twice, not three times…

well, what’s the point of trying to recall,
when you’ve lost count of the times.

It would be one thing,
if you knew
why you’ve been abandoned,
or why people hurt you,
or why everything gets to you so often,
                                                                       [is it you or is it them,
                                                                        is it you or is it them,
                                                                        is it you or is it them?]
but it’s the not knowing
that makes you realize
that people as a whole


You’re not usually too angry about it,
this is just Reality.
This is just Reality, but
it’s the not knowing
that kills you,
closes up your heart
in a certain kind of way
after a while.

you’ll talk to people,
if you must,
say whatever seem to be the right things,
be the listening ear they need,
if that’s what’s required of you,
be good, understanding, kind, empathetic,
to the best of your ability,
but you won’t Rely on them,
won’t accept statements of
I can help.
That’s a different story.
If you can’t trust
[Forget about your family, the ones who supposedly love you,
with their helpful advice of “get a job, be useful, it’ll make you feel better.”
Forget about the docs and therapists, the ones who supposedly make it better,
with pills or overpriced talking sessions.
Forget friends, the ones who supposedly are your support system,
with “I’m here for you” and “I can help” that lead nowhere.]
then what you are left with
is trusting yourself
out of necessity.

And you’re back to where you started.
Today my therapist asked me to write about trust and I hate writing prompts but I can write poetry and I can write about my trust issues for pages upon pages so this is what I came up with, and I figured I might as well post it here since this is basically my sad poetry site.
Jaime Lyn Mar 2013
I can see you there

standing in your studio relishing

in the faces of your followers

creaming their jeans over your creations

lightbulbs hanging from the cealing by telephone cords

and photographs of babies dressed as dictators

trying to prove that innocence still exists

when we both know that this world

was robbed of its innocence a million years ago

you might fool some people but I can see right through you

professional hipster, wearing tie dye underneath your skin

and an overpriced suit on the outside

painting your lips with designer brand

translucent rasberry lipstick

and kissing your acquaintances

a kiss for each cheek

I want to know how you can fake it so well

hiding behind your little purple door

counting money while I’m busy counting lies

was it easy to push your dreams so far away

so deep in the back of your mind that they may as well be in your shoes

did you ever think you’d be here

that you’d sell your soul to the devil

because I’m afraid that you might be my future

and I would rather stand at the end of the dock with Mr.Gatsby

gazing at the green light across the river

holding on to hope forever
Awesome Annie Feb 2015
Don't give me stolen sentiments, I'd rather have the wine. Don't paint my paths with fake rose petals, I'm a bitter valentine.

Diamonds are a girls best friend, let's face it you're always broke. You never write me poetry, and its all just one big joke.

That box of chocolates overpriced, it tastes like a cheap *****. All the efforts just a waste, to get in my front door.

Don't buy me flowers that are half dead, I can't stand to watch them waste away. Stupid men love stupid woman, on this stupid day.

I could just be a bitter chick, on a day you don't want to be mine. Just get me drunk and **** me hard, I'm a bitter valentine.
CR Jan 2013
9:43 on a frigid clear morning, the morning I made the conscious decision to stand as far as possible from the dropoff to the train tracks, and an older gentleman next to me, newspaper folded, saying "It's a cold one today, isn't it". And I smiled in agreement and I drank my overpriced coffee, fogging up the sky.

10:13 on the train, unwashed windows turning the sun *****-bright, and I didn't drift off for it as all the men in suits and flatlined mouths slowly did.

And 11:36 in the City, a man I had decided not to love and his sarcastic appreciation of modern art, and me laughing endlessly. And this man showing me his secret hideouts and telling me secret stories, stories that you earn. I had decided not to love him, though, and so I didn't. It was easy because he had made no such call.

And 5:52 in his marble high-rise and his bed that was bigger than my bed, on it, he told me he had decided not to love me too. And then we kissed, and kissed, with nothing-to-lose moving our hands and mouths all over each other. Nothing-to-lose tangling his sheets and relaxing our heartbeats, and making them audible.

8:04 on the night of the morning I began to fear the third rail and the whoosh of the New Haven line, a bruise on my neck and my kiss-swollen mouth flashed red and *****-bright to the post-commuters, and the man I forgot not to love still in the city, and the feeling of peaceful but irreversible damage heavy on my lap.
gd Dec 2013
This midnight darkness has cast shadows over my thoughts and rain clouds over my heart. And I think the saddest moment of our lives arise when we come to realize and understand our forgetfulness.

I don't remember how it feels to have the wind blow against my face as I race my way around fences and bushes just to get a "tag." I forgot the vivid rhythm needed to create the perfect snow angel on a winter's afternoon, or the taste of snowflakes on the tip of my tongue. I cannot recall the smell of chocolate cakes my mother used to bake in our old kitchen, nor reaching up for a slice with my seemingly short hair and small hands. Neither do I remember how it sounded when I used to race down the stairs on Christmas Day looking for Santa's treasures. As well as the bittersweet excitement whenever I lost a tooth. Not even the fresh smell of rain for I feel as if I've been stuck in the drought of my mind for the longest time. All of these things are things I used to love; used to look forward to, and now they've lost their fireworks and have only remained in my life as dying embers within the midst of time and fate. I've seemed to outgrow these memories as if they were light-up sneakers and childhood overalls. And that's what I'm scared of: somehow I've come to lose everything about me, becoming replaced with this new socially acceptable person. But how much pure emotion does this hold now that I've grown? Is this overpriced down-feathered pillow truly as comforting as the eight stuffed animals that once kept me company?

Everybody just seems to get tired of everything so they replace their miscellaneous junk, replace their belongings, their clothes, their friends - themselves. How have we become so detached from the things we've seemed to love with all our hearts? And this question always leads me back to you.

You weren't the smell of chocolate cake, or the taste of snowflakes. You weren't the feel of wind or the sound of Christmas - but you were close. Oh boy, were you close. But now it seems so hard to keep this shelf in my mind empty just for you when I know you do not belong there anymore. But I can't bear to think that you will become irrelevant to me for the years to come. One day, I will see you again and you'll look similar, smell similar, probably feel similar but I know just like every other ephemeral thing, you will be different from what you are now. And I don't know if, at that moment, my heart will crumble under the realization of our burned memories, or if I will go on numbly as if they never existed. Maybe, someone will even catch me looking your way and she'll ask if I ever knew you because me gaze seemed to imply to. Then I'll file through the memory cabinets in my mind trying to recall the feel of your lips
and the touch of your hand
and the light in your eyes
and smirk in your smile
and the swing in your step
and the sting in your voice
and the weight of your affection.... but nothing will be recalled. I will watch our black and white silent story play through my head, follow your stride as you walk away from my sight like the very last time I saw you, and I will long for some soft of feeling, similar to the mountain I possess now, but I'm afraid none of this will be remembered. I will stare numbly down your path, maybe even fake a smile, turn my attention back to her question and only have the heart to say

"I used to."

- g.d.
Emma Hage Jun 2012
Hello, little god,
cornered in this world of insignificance;
between sips of too-cold raspberry tea
create your own brand of madness
and label it "art."

From the blueberry stool
that is your throne, conduct
symphonies of beluga whales and
daisy chains molded together
to craft another colorful beginning.

Papercuts and calluses
are your battle wounds;
a diligent ballpoint pen
is the dog that marks its territory.

But then--

White knuckles
crumple mistakes,
transforming them into carpet-coating origami.
Your fingers keep the beat
that defines disincentive:
bmm, bmm, bmm.

by antagonistic demons, tug
at the noose that is
a favorite paisley tie
and admit defeat.

Take another bite of your
overpriced Reuben sandwich.
bleh Dec 2014
'i've only ever really read one poem. i, i have to admit.*  
You know, that, that one poem that everyone’s read, whatsit,
Howl by Ginsberg, 'best-minds-of-my-generation-destroyed-by-madness,-starving-hyste­rical-naked,' , yeah, that one;'
'It's just, I identify with it so strongly.' she says,
'That poem is soo me.'
It's funny how commentary on a generation 60 odd years ago come across as timeless insights..
how we learn that true spirit of rebellion and counterculture three generations ago,
  as it is taught to us by two generation ago countercounterculture academics.
but I guess, inevitably
  to those half drowned pontifications inevitably decried into transcendental truth by the onward spilling ratchet of cultural recognition;
  that sense of universal oneness generated by the unwashed ramblings of beat-generation hipsters dense innuendo in run on sentences running, running from their upper-lower-middle-class New York homes and their privilege of true vacant meaninglessness and despair,
   to those nervous tucked in shirted clean shaven scholars swooning over the same seme drugged, melancholic bearded men profussing the deepest of opaque truths only found up the furthest reaches of their own *****.
  As we push through to our lectures, the mosaic in motion of blazer wearing mac-users and mac-pac wearing blazers,
  As we hysterically interpret the formatting conditions for our reports, which could hang in the balance of whether the dreams we once had will ever be actualised,
  As we felt lost and found and found and lost at those park benches under the stars, where occasional strangers strolled by offering sessions and life-stories,
  As we paid exorbitantly to get out of our parents homes, and into tin-can flats with broken windows, absentee landlords and cracked paint only held together by all the moss, (the empowerment that is wage slavery,) for in our youth, poverty is not an ever-present pejorative, but the rite of passage to show that we are alive,
  As rituals of manhood are defined by two things and two things only; how much insomnia one can accumulate to meet insane and inane deadlines, and how much one can illuminate the walls in ***** from all the beers, spirits, cheap wines and questionable home-brews,
  As the government dismantles the human-rights commission, and we nervously attend the rallies initiated by the radicals, and the man on the megaphone calls on the crowd to chant and we can only mumble and laugh nervously at ourselves,
  And when the next speaker runs onto stage feeling the need to plead to this already nervous, placid mass that this is in-fact a PEACEFUL PROTEST, and that we are all true patriots and they insist everyone start singing the national anthem and we all look down and we again mumble, or pretend somehow not to hear them,
  and when, in this biggest independent rally around a unified cause our generation's ever seen, we have never felt so alone ,
  and isolated,  
                                                                    those earlier days,
  When we'd bleach our hair; we'd poison ourselves white, in the vain mystic hope that this was just the transition period to the time when we'd get true colour into our lives,
  Remember our wonder at the Eurocentric Asiatic television representations of the Abrahamic faiths, given transubstantiated holy revival by the medium of Saturday morning digital pastel pasture; when we were children staring excited and wide eyed into the Metatrons Fire of Sinai 'Random Almighty Mega Damage'; as Dante and the seraph class Tyrant-infused-Michael inevitably made battle with YHWH, -in the one True End,- as we grinded within the monolithic emerald obsidian halls, Mystical wonderment spilling forth from our reddened hollow eyes, at the beautiful unlimited expansive world contained within our console/consoling digital unit discs; conformally mapped and etched into the convex hull of our minds,
  Where we were gods, doing battle with every possible creature in morphospace, filleted into overpriced cards and cartridges, for which our strategies meant so much to us though none of us really understood the game,
  When we could quote verbatim every piece of dialogue in GTA2, and get concerned glances from our parents as we conjured veiled imagery of bukake-ladled innuendo which we didn't really understand until six or seven years later,
  When sexuality was a special secret club our elders and the kids in the years above came across so wise for being a member of, rather than an anti-turing test; a farcical ritual where everyone tries their best to imitate the hyper-reality of MTV while hiding the nervous feelings that this whole thing was really meant for someone other than us,
  When creating a whole new lexicon for our self-hood (be it artistic, ******, political or philosophical) felt like existential emancipation; a transcendental rebellion against the normalising identities and semantics of old, rather than an impenetrable circle-**** taxonomy,
  When one day we'd unveil a new term in some text, and it would completely change our outlook on every corner of our lives,
  Or, the next day, when we'd give up and just sit back on rolling banks, and look out at a veil of stars,
  Or the next day, when we'd wonder desperate and painfully, which of the last two was the real pursuit and which was wasted time? (Or was it this day, the day spent building an illusory dialectic between them?)
  Remember when we were in kindergarden, and you had to pass through the kitchen, -the adults zone,- to get to the toilet, and you'd feel both shame and wonderment listening in of the snippets of conversation muttered by these titanic figures; discussing abstruse issues from the newspaper in foreign yet noble tongues?
  Remember when we were teens, and every form-checking observation and question from these same adults was so painstakingly pedantically banal and asinine, that one could only respond with monosyllabic grunts and silent hysterics?
  And remember as 'young adults', when we'd inevitably entered this same dull Aristotelian world of forms, how we'd ask the same adults for advice on filling these paperworks, at once still asemic gibberish, and at once the fine-print that contained and predicted our lives?
  Remember when our dreams for the future were not bounded by the economy of our grade point averages and just how much debt we were willing to incur
I've seen the best minds of my generation climb into pre-packaged little boxes; and pay through the teeth for the privilege of doing so.  
  Akin to a 'Howl' they call it? Our cry for selfhood? What a scream.
It's not even a cry. Barely a whimper.
More of a zombified groan, completely aware our intrepid Journey of Self is just a pricey guided tour. (Tv Ad's static commodified existential emancipatory platitudes; 'your place in the world' / 'well it's my place and it's my time' urgh.)
And so we march asleep; all lame all blind.
  Trudging through the mind-fields; arguing, unravelling the semantic distinctions between the empty boundaries and the boundaries of emptiness.
  Transcribed down for essay deadlines,  /  assessing our lives trajectory as dead lines,
Becoming increasingly aware,
  We are not the living beings, the dasein, the Übermenschen being actualised; we are the machinery through which the institutions, the factories, the markets and education facilities actualise themselves.
  (While the only acceptable language we can breathe in opposition to these ratcheting pedagogical machines is the lexicon they provide us..
  ('oh, you hate systemic neoliberal alienation; the deestablishment of ontological anthropocentrism? Tell me more about the esoteric uselessness of academic culture.') bluh.)


       the more we follow those phantom images we built of ourselves,
the more we become aware they are but sirens; hypnotic dreamlike figures luring us to our doom,
  and as this awareness dawns; and the cognitive dissonances and schizophrenia grows,

                                just try to keep calm and carry on regardless.

Can we really claim the arrogance of having a better path?
The conceit that there's a better cliff we should be guiding ourselves to to top ourselves off?
I don't know,
I reaally
just don't know.
..i think i started out with a theme here, but it mostly devolved into venting.
      i finished another year of university recently. i'm not really sure to what extent higher education's given me perspective on life, and what extent it's simply annihilated what little i had.
   from my experiences of student culture, i feel our generation views itself as abandoned by the world, but to good for it anyway. We aren't the bohemians or beatniks or hippies or punks; our drinking and drugging ourselves to death isn't a counter-cultural high-minded rebellion. It's more a prideful self destructive egotism, a self derisive narcissism.   or something. i dunno.
  whether it's from cowardice or a more genuine scepticism, i certainly have no idea what i am (or ought to be) doing in/with/about this world.
Kassel D Dec 2013
unmarked, scarred
unwanted, bought
overpriced, underprivileged
never seen, faded
yet always bright in your eyes
shadows upon tasteless tongues
burning with desire
each sense bursting with light
clouded eyes that dare not wake
wondering at the sights their vision
will not bestow upon them
blinded and all seeing
your wisdom falls upon me
as if your essence were showers of rain
that sooth my uneasy breath
and cool the anxiety beneath my breast
but your eyes glow; ready to devour me
your lips curve at my desire
your teeth, sharp as shards of glass
tear at the ambition of my stoic heart
swallow the blood and take it
for within me it can only cause harm
maybe if it lies within your purity
it will soak in your water
that i may drink from this fountain
and taste the love that is sprung there
and forever live in the passion of your being

— The End —