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Tyler Nicholas Aug 2011
Zeus is ****** tonight.

Maybe he was having conflict with Hera. Maybe Apollo or Athena or Artemis accidentally attempted to rain art or astuteness or animals down upon Earth, respectively.

Maybe he drank too much wine.

Whatever the reason is, it's quite a light show.

There are no stars, only the
chemiluminescence
on my shirt and my shorts
that were poured upon me by
intoxicated partiers who thought it would be entertaining
to shower the combination of peroxide and phenyl oxalate ester
upon the party guests.

A map of the universe
is splattered across my hands.

It's as if Zeus
threw away the sky,
in an inebriated gesture,
and it landed around me.

Cronus should have swallowed the father of gods and of men whole.
We sit in a circle after
In my living room
I am talking
How my ex who
I can not help but
love
was ***** during this last Halloween
How another girl
who met another night
was corned
One kept watch
blocked off the section of the house
She was ***** by a window
She could look out
See the other partiers
Why was this happening
I cry
I tell them how
I feel helpless
I cannot protect the women I love
While I’m talking about this
He is handling his ****
with sick pleasure
right ******* next to me
I don’t know it
but he is
thinking about
the girl
last night
and
the ones before
their screams and their blood
how he had gotten away with all five
It had happened to the victims before
they say reporting
Does
Not
Mean
****
I don’t know it
but he is thinking of his next victim
My mom
I do not know what to do.
Meg B May 2014
Gazing down
on sleepy towns,
transparent sky,
high above

Down below are the workers,
the daughters,
the smokers,
the bank robbers

On I soar,
hearing the jet engine roar,
and thousands of feet beneath,
the partiers are still drowning in
deep sleep

Flying by
as lovers exchange a kiss,
a lonely man cries,
a doctor mending a broken wrist

Downward gazing,
burnouts blazing,
artists creating,
blooming vegetation,
streets full of
imagination, fascination,
devastation,  miscalculations,
faces, races, places, nations;

Peering down from the heavens;
the view is
amazing.
Daniel Samuelson Mar 2014
A screaming pierces the serenity of the river valley.
Overturned wreck of a car and splattered, shattered, scattered glass.
A fresh-cut gouge in the dirt embankment where he clipped it
and in retaliation it flipped him on his roof. 
He staggers from the chaos
moaning not from pain, but from the Jaeger, Keystone, and regret
of totaling his mother's car. 
He flees the scene with his homies, his fellow drunken cronies
and the witnesses are left behind, scratching heads and raising brows. 
I among them contemplate the carnage
and I try remembering a different time, ten years ago or so...

This place used to be so beautiful
before the partiers and potheads and Varrio Locos took it over. 
Shallow waters filled with algae drifts and interspersed with boulder bridges. 
Sandy beaches, nature trails, wild grapes, and fishing holes. 
The last free-flowing, undammed, undamned river in the state...
Now it's bloated with beer and blood and bad decisions. 
Not a bare rock face remains, each one caked up in graffiti makeup. 
And the air, once frequented by the heady scent of sycamore
is far too thick with marijuana anymore.
Santa Margarita, choking on smoke and dope and disrespect,
once my heart and home and refuge, now and forever a cheapened wasteland.
I hate how we humans must adulterate whatever beauty we can find, just so we can prove in some way that we do indeed exist. We may claim dominance over nature, but need we express it? And as a disclaimer, drunk car crash dude was fine and no one (thankfully) was dumb enough to be in his car.
ChinHooi Ng Nov 2014
Men,

the loneliest group of species in the universe,

and so Bell invented the telephone,

lonely voices,

flowing through the receiver,

a party is,

the carnival of a group of lonely people,

loneliness exhaled from their mouths,

into the air,

if the air could speak,

it’d say “hey,

my name is loneliness,

so nice to meet you”,

in the broken sky,

lonely kiteline won’t let go of,

the wing,

won’t let it,

seek some comfort,

standing on the top of the world,

overlooking a frigid world,

afraid of being forgotten,

wanting to send everyone a postcard,

time has carved loneliness ,

on the tunnel of life,

loneliness follows the partiers home,

and hides in wardrobes,

and becomes their coats,

and masks.
Anais Vionet May 2023
Ever snorted *******?
I watched some partiers snort ******* last night,
in a dark, Manhattan nightclub corner celebration.
But I’ve never crossed that line. The white line.

When offered some, with unctuous camaraderie,
I shrugged and said, “No, sorry, I’m allergic.”
What are you supposed to say, “Crack is whack,”
or “I prefer my coke with *** and ice?”
The white line. I don’t cross the line.

It’s not the first time, of course, I saw more drugs
in high school than I have at Yale. I’ve mostly seen
“study drugs,” there, like provigil, adderall and alza (concerta).
Do they give students an advantage? I don’t know, maybe.
Call me a boxcut or a squarepants, but my parents are doctors,
and I just don’t cross those lines - those little white lines.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Unctuous: “an obvious, fake friendliness”

Slang: ‘boxcut’ ot ‘squarepants’ = a square, a no fun party-pooper

*I use artistic license for colors: for instance, adderall can be a blue, orange or yellow pill.
Breeze-Mist May 2016
I wake up early
the tropical squall outside
turns the beach blue-grey

outside our hotel
the bay looks rather bizarre
so quiet and still

I get dressed quickly
we pack our bags just as fast
glancing at the paper

we check out quickly
before realizing that we
still had three hours left

so we drive downtown
past the tropical art deco
to get some breakfast

two empanadas
tea for me, coffee for you
watching the local news

there's not really anywhere
where we can go for an hour
and be back in time

so you just drive 'round
I guess this seems strange because
It's usually busy

Streets filled with tourists
spring breakers and the partiers
are now near silent

a wet, grey Sunday
the streets no longer bustling
we wait to meet mom
Just a random memory of my dad and I that I can't get out of my head at the moment. Maybe because it's so rainy...
Everett street, Wooveburra


One day in the Mython town of Wooveburra, there was a working class street in the suburb of Kensworth, called Everett Street, where their lived former Mython prime minister, Jack Norridge, who was the most right wing politian around, and he only is living in the street because his rich wife took her and his money to make a better life for herself and her children in Sydney Australia and Jack was left penniless and had to apply for the age pension, and mind you he had nothing in common with any of the folk anywhere on this street, you see in one house is a family who can barely feed themselves nevertheless the luxuries they give to their kids, like paying for school camps, and Jack told them, on his day he had his second job at her and her husbands age, and yes, they tore strips of him, but them, they were doing better, which suited them fine, and there were no way they will help him through what he's going through, and in another house is Fred Gordon who was the librarian, and when he came face to face with Jack, and bare in mind when Jack was prime minister, he needed to fund his new freeway, so he nearly had the library shut, and now he's got nothing, he was in no way showing any sympathy for the man,,telling him endlessly, things like welcome to my world ****, and your not so big now, Jacky, you will be killed within 3 months, mate.
There was a young couple, what about 16 and 17 who have 2 kids and when he walked passed,,the young couple always wanted to chat to him, and they chatted about why the **** did they cut their grandmas pension, she had to stop giving us gifts, and then they called Jack a two faced slimey old cow, and Jack said, sometimes we have to cut back, then he said have a look at me, and then the couple said to him, your problems are ******* self-inflicted, our problems are just us finding a mojo that you ***** won't let us have, and then Jack was getting very nervous, and went into the pub and when he got in, it looked good, and people Said hello and when Jack asked for gin and tonic,everyone looked at him, and also one ,man said to Jack, hey are you former prime minister Jack Nortodge, and when he said yes, he laughed and he laughed at him and then punched him square on the gut,
And Jack said, I will get my lawyer onto you all partiers, in my day we all did an honest days work, none of this few drinker happy hours like you guys get, and then one drinker said, well in your day when everyone did a honest days work, does that make you different to the world, cause you haven't done an honest days work ever, so ******* right wing fascioust, and Jack left to go home seeing people throwing thier fists at him, as well as sticking their fingers at him, and then Jack said, I am going nowhere, so get used to me Everett Street, I am here to stay, and every resident yelled out, but our towns heritage won't be, you'll turn this street into Las Vegas, if we give you half the ****** chance, and then Jack went inside and all the residents went to the pub and tell of all things that Jack has done wrong for the country of Myth, and everyone hated him with a passion,,and that's what happened on Everett street this week, I hope you enjoyed it.


Sent from my iPhone
Redshift Nov 2013
"bling" goes the dial of people who feel sorry for you
"snap" goes the rope hanging from the ceiling

i have an issue with pity-partiers
it's just one of those nights
Anais Vionet Jun 30
In a phalanx of four: Peter, Lisa, Dave, and I, descended a waterfall of marble stairs - pilgrims to another time - as if we’d punched through a wormhole.

It’s a five-star bash at the palace of Versailles - a grand ball - and the air itself seemed to vibrate with a feverish energy. As we bottomed the stairs, something whisked by in the air - was it the ghost of beheaded Louis the 16th?

Naah, it was a multicolored, donkey-headed, Cirque du Soleil creature. They swung everywhere, like gravity defying bugs on silken tethers, ring-swings and thin, web ropes. They flew, tumbled, unicycled, breathed fire and were shot out of cannons like fodder - all against a prismatic sunset backdrop.

A surprisingly chill Parisian wind clawed at our costumes of silk and broadcloth finery. The sun, a bright pink and yellow crack, low on the horizon, cast long, dramatic shadows on the flourish of chaos, as people arrived.

As night asserted itself, light became a living entity, blooming and dissolving in a mesmerizing multicolor-laser ballet that bathed the milling, costumed throng in fluorescent kaleidoscopes of kool-aid colors.

The day before, we had final costume fittings, earlier on the day, we had our hair and makeup done by artists who specialized in 17th/18th century styles (like we’d have known the difference).

From the salon, we were valeted, from Paris, directly to a ‘theme studio,’ setup in the Grand Trianon (the small, side palace where Napoleon lived in the summer) where, for €250 each, we got 10 glam shots on an elaborate, fantasy set.

Then we were escorted to the ‘Extravagant’ (a VIP area next to the stage) - passing through the envious glares of queued, lesser mortals.
‘Ahh, Privilege’, I thought, smiling brightly and waving royally - ‘just like Marie Antoinette used to do it.’ (before being angrily beheaded).

In the heart of the masquerade, tables fairly groaned under a buffet to shame the Roman emperors. There were open bars where rivers of martinis, champagnes and chocolates, the very essences of the celebration, flowed freely.

Elaborately constructed, elevated stages of polished aluminum pulsed music and life. LED light-panels painted fleeting hieroglyphs on the crowd, teasing the edges of perception and bands performed their own sonic wave-magic, swamping the crowd along in currents of booming, euphoric, Frenchcore club-music.

Dance, dance, dance, rest. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a more delightfully fragrant crush of humanity.
Our gilded, white clothed table was an island where we could retreat for cooling refreshment. I have two important words for you 'watermelon martinis’ - you’ll thank me later.

Versailles decadent past was alive that night. It was a young crowd, in general, so, of course, G was there, with Molly, K and Ice - but we were, like, ‘no thank you very much’. In several areas, costumes became fairytale slithers, as partiers became increasingly uninhibited.

After about four hours we caught the ‘exclusive’ light show (Hollywood bathed in unclothed decadence) before moving, weary limbed as zombies, toward the whispered promise of breakfast.

About 45 limousine-minutes later, waiting tourists and a crowd of locals outside a posh Paris restaurant hushed as we passed, colorfully costumed, like ghosts of an indulgent, hedonistic past - to our reserved table.
“Quatre, café et croque monsieur, s'il te plaît,” I told the waiter (four coffees & breakfast sandwiches, please).

I’ll admit to being a bit jaded. I’ve been to more than several ‘Parisian Haute-Couture Extravaganzas” but Lisa seemed genuinely impressed and I think the boys (Peter and David) had fun too. I was lavished with kudos as if I’d thrown the thing.

The atmosphere had been pure romance - in an upscale, Disney, mass produced sense and while it was, perhaps - like last summer's trip to the Ascot races - something not to be missed, it was also a one-time fling - something to look back on - when we’re 40 or whatever.
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge: Kudos praise given for an achievement

slang
G was there, with Molly, K and Ice = the club drugs Ecstasy, MDMA, Ketamine and ****.
PJ Poesy Apr 2017
Beyond the rusty and almost  illegible "NO DUMPING" sign, lies the old dump. Beyond the first layer of recently deposited *******, leftovers of the occasional hobo alcoholic or teen partiers, is the heavy underbrush, a thicket so thick. Beyond that, you begin to get into the good stuff. Waylaid remnants of yesteryears all bungled and tossed about, with plenty of new inhabitants (hatchlings and their recent refugee Canadian geese parents) calmly making good of what surrounds. Lots of rot, as it all sits creekside, gives malodorous inclinations of fishy remains, the raccoons' and martens' cast-offs. Beyond, and beyond further that, if you have stomach enough and don't mind mustering about with muskrats, is a nifty cache. Trinkets are found amongst heaps of broken glass in the beyond beyond regions. Whole or only slightly chipped vessels are gold. Especially, ones that may say, "Dr. Whosie's Whatever Wonderful Tonic Water." Those are the best.

Amongst a treasure trove as this, in its paragon of days gone by, is also a seepage of what may not be as good as the good doctor ordered. It is arsenic, and other carcinogenic pollutants, things unheard of, that would make your molecular epidemiology stand on end. Things an Industrial Revolution left behind, the not so pretty things we find, but do not see. Seepage that sinks into water, under our skin, into Leukemic bones, and beyond words' worries of families affected. Beyond all this, is us, and by stirring it up, we are given a question. Is it better to leave what's left behind in its depths, or are we to pull it out, likely spreading more about, as well as what may be residually left unfound, or do we just stop and think? And maybe get a new "NO DUMPING" sign. Thank you for allowing me this whine. This has been my dump.
In my hometown, chemical pollutant dumping has caused cancer rates to be the highest in our state of New Jersey.
Tis the beginning of a delightful season,
I am inspired to hibernate from summers treason,
The young that run amuck, the partiers that don’t give a ****,
Are all put at ease in the brisk cold breeze.
I shiver with delight to roll down my long wool sleeves,
Nothing is better than sweater weather,
And Birds that cuddle in their blankets of feathers.
I feel revived as I inhale the fresh scent of rain,
The heat exhaustion has caused much sweat and pain.
Streets are adorned in colorful fallen leaves,
I bask in the smell of smoke flourishing out of chimneys.
We hold each other tight reading our favorite books next to the fire,
Warm mugs are filled with grandma’s fresh apple cider.
Our crockpot is full of our favorite homemade stew,
Herbal remedies on the stove are a brew.
The kitchens decorated with pumpkins and spices,
Ready to be carved, and turned into piesez.
We grow closer in our homes in this delightful season,
Cuddling by the fires and loving without reason.
Oh Jesus Christ, my favorite Lord, your Swedish nurse is a medical
***** smörgåsbord. Pelf = wealth, Bob ***** was ******* himself
in the dark behind Sam Walmart, slummin' in wet-cardboard stealth
up from the 11th dank, corrugated brown-paper hovel to the twelfth
The ***** garbage man I fearfully fear doubles for Trish Van Devere
Part your unparted lips for 4 departed party-doll partiers partying at
the lipstick department's impartial lip-parting party in apartment 44
Lend me both of your sweet **** as only they can end my epileptical
fits. I yearn for you when my *** is beat; off with solid sox that you
gots on your feet! Her queer name's Elizabeth Regina because she's
got ***** & a 90-year-old ****. She is married to a **** who loves
to drink 4-bile **** beers, Jew-brewed in a butcher shop's slop sink.
We will get along royally like a pig king & a slim mistress 'cause in
my first ****** trial queen queenie'll be a fig-scarfing, dim witness
I regret the damage Obama wrought, the Haitians he killed, the wet
men he sought. He ruined Biden like silk worms in underwear after
fallin' south to baloney places somewhere. A fat Georgian hurricane
came, lingered & went. It made straight my pole, but the neighbor's
it bent. "Be calm," I warned the toll collector, as I gave her her bath
because she farted so often we both had a barfing laugh on the long
turnpike of love that began as a 20-mile-Boston-******-baiting path.
Oh Jesus Christ, my favorite Lord, your Swedish nurse is a medical
***** smörgåsbord. Pelf = wealth, Bob ***** was ******* himself
in the dark behind Sam Walmart, slummin' in wet-cardboard stealth
up from the 11th dank, corrugated brown-paper hovel to the twelfth
The ***** garbage man I fearfully fear doubles for Trish Van Devere
Part your unparted lips for 4 departed party-doll partiers partying at
the lipstick department's impartial lip-parting party in apartment 44
Lend me both of your sweet **** as only they can end my epileptical
fits. I yearn for you when my *** is beat; off with solid sox that you
gots on your feet! Her queer name's Elizabeth Regina because she's
got ***** & a 90-year-old ****. She is married to a **** who loves
to drink 4-bile **** beers, Jew-brewed in a butcher shop's slop sink.
We will get along royally like a pig king & a slim mistress 'cause in
my first ****** trial queen queenie'll be a fig-scarfing, dim witness
I regret the damage Obama wrought, the Haitians he killed, the wet
men he sought. He ruined Biden like silk worms in underwear after
fallin' south to baloney places somewhere. A fat Georgian hurricane
came, lingered & went. It made straight my pole, but the neighbor's
it bent. "Be calm," I warned the toll collector, as I gave her her bath
because she farted so often we both had a barfing laugh on the long
turnpike of love that began as a 20-mile-Boston-******-baiting path.

— The End —