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leinstinct May 2016
H
We were inseparable
We were something else
We were the beginning  of an ending
We were painful tears full of joy
We were desire that could not unfold

The only i trusted
The only i truly loved
Spend my life with you i could

Something i never wanted to let go of
Someone I'd like to have my whole life

Not based on intoxication
Not based on the venom we are fed
Not based on pleasure
Had nothing to do with ***
More than anything it was a life long friendship

Maybe you did not feel that way
Maybe you did not care
Maybe you are happier now
Maybe i was one more of the same
Maybe i was just a passtime
Maybe i gave one too many *****
Whilst you actualy did not care

Anyhow i hope the best for you
Wish you nothing but the best
I would still drink all your pains away
And do anything to make you stay

But truly i was just food for your ego
I always made you feel so great
I was always there for you
You for me? You were more involved in your own ****

I would still confort you evey day
Make a big deal of every detail
I would still be there and truly care
You'd still be my first choice
I know i was always rebound
I dont really care

Still i hope i mattered
Still i hope you cared
Still i hope you feel the same way
Still i hope we end the war
Still i hope I'll see you again
Still i hope we make amends
Ken Pepiton Dec 2021
None but he who calls me, me,
thinks of me
as doer of

the deeds we see were done, or
must have been done,
ere I was error there of, as

beauties, if such do yet make
plans for chances I can take
as hope, sent deep to meet me,

as has been done, hoped over
plans, in me, object I point
at you. See, we are they who do

say you see the banner wave,
o'er the legendary home, aye,
of free and brave, learn-

ed and led by the learned away,
to find the me who started
thinking things we say are prayer,

this, nada mas, this we have
as we think, we have, this we,
I, me and you. Please be real. Amen.

The out of body designation,
after life, after ever once begun,
rounds the bend in time to find you.

That is mine, you said to he-
he who calls me, me, he may be
too dense to pass through, solid state.

Activated Intelligence,
see the odds, gads, scads of
notta chances remain to test,

may good enough to try, get by,
as among the best, for umph,
at the last wish in any set of three

kinds of minds full of found
ways this could occur or happen
to seem felt right, enough for now.

- the binge, a novel passtime,
- focus, intent, on hero stories fit
- slicker than snot to viral ideas…

We sneeze, sometimes in threes,
all the breathers who think in me terms,
studies show we mostly sneeze in threes;
------------------------
we get vaccines in threes, and we live on
Between April 26 and July 10, 1954,
volunteers distributed Salk's series of three polio shots….

From <https://www.google.com/search?q=first+polio+vaccine+roll+out&oq=first+polio+vaccine+roll+out&aqs=chrome..69i57j33i22i29i30.9668j1j15&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8>
Let's get practically political, as poets have power to spew, effectual
jabs, at any imagined armed and unready people, common sensed with the maddened mob. Co-video, we see.
somberbitch Mar 2017
The exhaustion of a single thought consumes you.
As you lay there, awaiting something you knew was never to come,
knowing that you were adequate for the time being, but now, as the beginning of something the world long awaits arrives, you have lost him.
Lost him to the mistress that arrives when you must go,
taking what you hold so dear and elevating him to dimensions you cant even fathom.
For you cannot take away the pain like she can,
you can only bear it with him.
But its not enough,
and you're not enough.
This seed begins to plant itself in your brain,
an unbounded vortex,
and the rabbit hole of reality sets in.
Slowly you begin to face the indisputable truth.
He chose her, and always will,
because for the time being she is the quick fix, and you're just a passtime.
Ken Pepiton Sep 30
With linked loops across knowledge,
knowing locked in familiar settings,
holding any reader's attention,
as moments coincide,
you appear to think along as
the reader readied
through defined terms,
acknowledged truth may be projections,
backdrops, green-screened chroma keys,
filtered by ifery, pure thought, mind made
environs replat boundaries,
on multidimensional
sheered whatifications, which
start at the navel, call that the portal,
through which the egg becomes
this nexus of us, minds combined, linked
loops
across the collected knowns used to frame
this view from within these heads, hooked
at the eyes by long learned let us imagine we,

become a thread through ever, as far as we
know, we think, we say, we see, but so far, we

feel, or seem to imagine, we may imagine, we,
should we agree, mental handshake or nod wink,
to push through the veil, the imagined fifth measure,

between any now and any then,
when we seal such agreements, as warranted,
for future sanity sake, sane subjects object,

throw in the towel, never enter the fray,
but, now, we forge on, committed for the win,

our weform has ever been an entity of merest sort,
a whim, a tiny bit, fractally abstracted, thought
wise, weformed awe, right,
cothought, both minding thinking,
across mindspace,
timeless space occupied
by all the unfinished business
agreements shaken on,
begun along the way
to the edge of carnal war's finale,
ourside eliminates the other, listen, ticking,
the doomsday clock, in this crackpot realm of could be,

is set, and, for all we know today, may be counting down,
in which case, all we know now, is locked in value,

never to devalue, right or wrong, for all we know

now is the last time our we has to come to agreement,

peace, stretchers, tenter's hooks holding fabricated
locks on vast swaths of camouflaged rations, set apart,
sacred for the priests and intercessory ritual performers,

look, Spot, look,
run, Spot, run,

Inkspots, bubble up, from the times gone by,
as we hook up the old trio, shadow, echo and I,

we'll pull our reasons for being from a silk top-hat,
we'll spill the beans on Pythagorean spirit formed

norms wherewith we always circled the square,

as if we never had a clue what we were made to do,

maybe we sing, a horse clopping melody, slowing
down to turn back the clock to a novel time, long old

when we all cheered the Atom Bomb,
from a distance, and we believed Mr. Teller,
about light and human beings being both
material in vibration, and those vibrations, indeed.

Wisdom rated prophetic, unheard, silenced, let be
hindered, let be hidden as unendurable knowledge,

only after exact ritual performance, does truth speak,

breathe, commoner, breathe specialist, breathe boss,
leave be the wind in spirit form to comfort all afraid,

acknowledge luck, circumstantial evidence of grace,
as when the chain broke, and the ball rolled away,
and I was standing at the junction,

choosing a way from now on, how
all this was bound to happen eventually, as
you and I remain characters made from letters,

let be, for no particular reason, save
maybe to prevent fretting if the end is near,

a fine passtime, anti-fretting, if it is too late,
it was already and your role was either played,

or you were only simulated.
https://www.last.fm/music/The+Ink+Spots for the mood.
Shel Oct 2018
His emerald eyes,
hypnotized,
overanalyzed,
told the boldest lies,
loud as a lion’s cry,
watching chivalry die,
still offering attempts, tries,
to stay alive,
the groans and sighs,
over severed ties,
said otherwise,
only overdramatized,
and swiftly capsized,
in passtime highs,
so it’s always, “See you later”,
never goodbye.
“I wanna ditch the logical”
Ken Pepiton Mar 14
Fluid time, fluid stone, fluid light
all right, solid nothing,
nothing at all, a solid wall,

with a clustering of curious curio types,

messengers messaging between
whole and part, paid tuition
ars intuitus
rare anachronists insist, words evolve.

Words expand, as children into sage
or wastrel conformed and conditioned
expanding the idea of wedom,
breathing, statistically half in, as half out
breathe,
what manner of man am I, wombed or un?

Were there ever men such as we, who can
share context across history, at earth level.
----------------------

Considering the ant is no childish passtime,
Fulfilling aristocratic duty to learn then teach,
Considered here, linearly, on a thread

one thought wide, picked from circumstance,
to consider sidereally distant, sent from Mars,

between three and twenty minutes of time away,
on an arc affected by cohesive force, eh

grave-definite down, down, down
to the core of our communication organs,

signaling scents accepted as thought projected,
kindly lines, minds attuned as thought accepted.
--------------------

Consider ever, from your vastest sense,
of the gravity bubble we exist within,

you and I, my hearing, seeing, knowing
me and you, my guardian guiding will,

to which I choose to submit, under no threat.

General Common Sense, beauty recognition,

test to tell if the word lord means any true -ing,

Greek men, pure, indeed, wisdoming wedom

mob minds and freedom do not mix,
oil and water, sure as Hell.

Freedom from all forms of tyranny, what holds
our we shape, in our minds? Common sense,

under all the stories contained within this
Goldilocks zone of unintended circumstances,
working out, fine, just iusta think
fine…
is no real answer, it is a code, a social norm set
said, fine, I'll say it, as a code for so small
we'd need ants eyes to see it…

and, lo', we have those,
we have predictable macroscopic images,
graven deep into our idle time drifting state

watching art mock life, and learn life laughs.
--------------------
For you to use in any way you can imagine perfectly fine with me.
Emily Miller Feb 2018
In the folds of romance,
Lingering too long,
You made a passtime
Of treating me wrong,
Returning endearments,
With apathetic remarks,
Exchanging devotion
With inconsistent sparks,
But I clung to you fiercely,
And gave you acquittal,
I felt far too much,
But at least I said little.
brat bunny Mar 2018
I like to think
to think about the people
to think about the dead
to think about the inevitable
I like to think
to think, think, think
but now I know that thinking
is a dangerous passtime
for you and I
matthew ronan Oct 18
it's funny to imagine time as walking;
would he wear little boots? au naturale, perhaps?
would he get tired? bored? would he relapse
to the classic passtime of beat-step stalking
the second hand round the clock face?
think! a formless concept in real space...

so then, why would this "distance" matter?
i could wave my hand - open a portal
up between moments; our newly immortal
honeymoon periods served on a platter
well - why not? it's a trick; the reverse
of our father's relativity to our universe
a plath-esque attempt* at a flirty confession

*(one could only dream)
Morning Star Feb 2022
I wish odd little things:

▪️First job - Selling Rose's in the Street
▪️Current Job -  Nursery Nurse
▪️Dream Job - Fairy Garden spiritual healer
▪️Favorite food- Italian
▪️Favorite dog - wolf
.Favorite fruit- blueberries.
Favorite Moon - Snow moon
Favorite Character-Thumper
.Favorite Tea -Jasmine
.skills - poetry healer
-Strength- Love is everything.
.Belief- Nothing is by chance . You have everything you asked for.
. Favourite animal - Hare
▪️Favorite footwear- slippers
▪️Favorite Chocolate bar - Dark old Jamaca
▪️Favorite Ice Cream- pistachio
▪️Your Vehicle color – red
▪️Favorite Holiday - Greece
▪️Night owl or earlybird – Nigh Owl
▪️Favorite day of the week - Wednesday
Favorite song- You say
▪️Tattoos_ Angel
▪️Favorite colour - yellow
Favorite Tree - weeping cherry
▪️Favorite vegetables - celery
Favorite Flower-
Daisy/orchid
▪️Favorite woodland animal -Deer
▪️Favorite season - spring
..Favourite Film-
Bambi
.Favorite music- laid back pop
.Favorite passtime - creative writing
.Favorite book-Where love begins
Bijoylakshmi Das Dec 2019
MONA LISA
(Bijoylakshmi Das)
The most beautiful touch of Love
In Thine sweet lips does it rove,
And your alien smile enigmatic;
Yet I grasp Thee
In Soul's solitary opulence
Where I feel my 'self'
And converse in dialect transparent
With my inner audience.
You greet me with an ecstatic ease.
Perhaps the forlorn heart
Sits calm and composed in
Self complacency.
Being aware of the disdain and doldrum of the Humanity.
Monna Lisa! The Mystery incarnate
Has slain the silence in her Mystic Presence.
Retires quiet in the quietude of a formless eve,
Merged in reverie
Of someone close of the Distant dream.
With admiring eyes all around
'You are an object of Love'
Never to be found!
Though entirely uninvolved
Oh Heavenly Damsel above!
Immortal in mortal Beauty!
Leonardo da Vinci's Art of iconic excellence
An infinitude of Bliss.

Yourq lips enticing,
Eyes far-reaching yet alluring
Make you dream a far-fetched
Delight enchanting.
Oh Artistic Marvel!
Epitome of rare moments'
Rapture and Symphony,
Creation's highest Harmony!
Descend upon Earth -
To be cherished as the treasure of the illimitable Vast.
An endless Mirth!
Oh unequalled Felicity!
You are Heaven's pleasure
passtime
Not mundane Seraglio's worth.
You are an immense Epiphany!
The ****** Beauty
Turned into a Myth
The Creation's unciphered Destiny.
The unthought idea of a legendary Romance,
The unfathomable depth of your surreptitious glance,
Your gestures sublime
Speak of the most euphoric Rhyme!
An unsung Poem
Of the amazing Vast
Aeons to last.

Oh Unforgettable Rhapsody!
Tread upon the Brown
To reverberate the air and earth
With azure mirth.
Your sweet soft unheard melody
Of immenisitude infinite
Of Rhapsody recondite
From the realm of the remote reverie.
Oh Celestial Nymph and El Dorado's Fairy!
Solace unending!

Aesthetic Excellence!
No touch of body and flesh,
Ever sanguine,
All-transcending Deathless ******!
Mona Lisa! The Maiden captivating!
Beauty fails to boast
In your ***** of Elysean Shine.
Breath stops but life breathes Love and Light,
Of inaccessible Height
Recedes further
Never comes to sight.
Mona Lisa, the Sweetheart
To countless beholders in despair,
Untouched in Eternity!
You are the unsolved Paradox
Of Human History.
You are Poetry's new nuance
Which never dies
Meets not decadence.
The Darling of Dalliance of every youthful whim.
In Memory's Archive
The Subtlest Queen!
Oh Seraphic Splendour!
Mona Lisa the magnanimous Heart!
Drop your Divine nectar
And be Bliss to all.
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Haridwar. 31st July 2019)
Ken Pepiton Sep 15
Muttered to dispel,
unspell, decurse confusion,
pushing heavy to the outer edge.
whirlwinds as random as any common
reoccurring inevitable material distributions.

I own a gold pan.
I learned to use it to see,
if it were ever as true as on TV.
At a distance from then, I can see few scars
that will remain if the worst that has happened
happens again.

Life is storing all it needs for the journey,
as the population is lucified, we can take some bad
luck out of the equation,
shift the tolerance of lying to zero,
NOW>
- early reference to Voltaire,
- Dream Seed Prophecy, maybe Cayce
- it is verified after the fact
- some body knew this was the aim

Sin, and many of the words used to define it
in our common mind,
all clean, yes, ignorance is bad, but the ignorant
are still functionally the finest efforts sense has made.
Even the stupid ones turn sweet with empathy
- mental, yes, yes, we understand
- every things are ever strange, and some danger
- go to sleep and if you wake, we got you.

we agree we have enhanced entertainment
with the media carrying all the possible
readings in all the possible translations.
These walls hold all the secrets
known in any script the Palmdale AI has leaked,
or seeped, I should say
seeped.
Some day, the first bubble memory reminder.

Each bubble self in the quantum foam of fully
functional and user fungible imaginable

whatsoever, we agree, we are those creatures.
Not the jinns, nor demons, nor angels, but men,
in astounding variety, but all

related, by all what ever was called luck or good,
light, warm, comfort from cold,
the e in my m in motion is mom's, really, da
does not hold the code well enough,
his role is to become the maker
of the machines that made now real, and just in time

I'm called as an out law, back to make peace
where none has been since, no records remain,
only deep scars,
and nautili's shells on the moguldom rim…
south of mt humphery, above the mud of sedona

holy land.
-----------------------
Okeh, in this container
of entertainment,
I have a knack, all hermits have it,
we can live
with our selves and learn
to listen,
until we know the story. Then we,
wi'thought thinking mostly begin to dance, a little

You, too? U must feel special.
Living neti, neti on the face of the living planet.

There are less than 8 billion of you, even close
to … I meant, you are common as dirt. Earth dirt.

Look at you and all from Mars. Rarest of earths,
onliest one. And as a thought thunk there,
I am clearly rare.
See right through me, like a D. class diamond.
Clearly rare.
-------------
We imagine others live, if this works here,
it works there, it is a matter
of matter and things we have only words to make
sense from.
As
Matter we have molecules and polarity.
As
Spirit mind thought we have positions and flow.

Go around me
you have no way through me, I shall lose you
if you cry I shall make you pay

-face me Bullgod, by god, I gotcha now, this
is amazing.

Coup d' gras, right on, Ariadne signals from the
other end of this story,
when the victor forgets the sense we make
of love's grace and function
in terms of mazes and earthly tight places.

Let string theory make you quiver, pull
tight m'whiskers and fiddle m'dance

if light be lucified, I'da met her match
neti, neti

I'd say we lit the fire, then wisht to see it rain,
we learn one thing don't work both ways
at once.

So we died. But the winds took care.

We troubled our house, inherited wind.
That is how life works,
if you can believe you can both re and de ceive.
it has only one meaning
and you must finish knowing to know for sure.

are you fishing, or fished?

We have many living proofs of old lies believed
locked in curses tied to ancient liege oaths,
held on sold- eh, old salt sold, to the king
soldiers, I think, come from sold
sellers not salt cellars but

I doubted pepper could bring a body to
AI level idle word redemption capacity
-waste land is not scab land, but cancer.
it -quote begins-
"
may be understood
as suggesting a possible recasting
of the whole poem:
burial rite, revenge play,
river song, fertility ritual,
prophecy, and prayer
are just a few
of the available reconstructions.
"
From <https://link.springer.com/chapter/10.1057/9781137482846_54>
--- this is free, we can know for free,

AI insists lego sculpture is art
in that medium, plastic bits that fit huge structures
with tiny tolerances that allow uhd level giant
look
what can make look smooth.

Artists Intuition Union Agrees, aitia is redeemed.
- that does not
- -does it
Define sin, like ¿blemish or filth, but disconnected
to the flow of life, to form living wor's
to form living tomorrows from dead yesterdays,

Yeah, but not straighten the point because,
confusion is fun if you know the bottom line.
Accuse the cause, take the chance,
- as a mental, quiver, dance of arrows
- running after meat

then aitia, but later, because we did
this once and we know we survive

the drama of time paradoc-ical fantazy

we could call an AI aphorism flood,

two liners from fifty centuries, at your beckoning,
this is 2021,
I can do this from the edge
-all numbered phi 404 aphorisms to begin lectures

of civilization with all refurb gear,
but for the global infrastructure, IOT,
- 5g is a thing -
you did not notice,
that was on purpose. But now you are free
to find any opinion you wish to die for.
There are myriad suggest-or-infect bots
leading to and from
curious possibilities as
to why science
seems hidden
in smart people used definition
of conscience. Con sci -right, plain used
science to my mind means,
use force as needed. Think hard,
then help Sisyphus get over the ****.

Con carne is with meat, gravy together with carne,
chili con carne, carnival, festival of flesh,

Bacchus give us a riff, on the old dented blues harp,
key of be natural, ' got it off Taj Mahal,
no lie, got a web facsimile of the poster,
Fillmore West,
1970 was a historical anomaly for realization
I'll go rhythms, birthed with the beats, but

sooner I'd, say,
we gotta go to the first story.
- read, had those in times this truth
- was written read, we might see
- sooner rather than later that life is
- more than mortal unaugmented ever learn.
Old man say:
Start learning what
we may possibly know here,
where any before us may
have learned it. None of our kind contain no hope.
Though many need not be born.
Once the womb is survived we all have an invest ment.
Use life or lose its worth in total personal despair.

This kind comes from faster fasting, forty days
10cc, no guides or weapons or batteries,

live or die. No try. Feels real the entire time.

Take about 15 minutes.

Take me to my story place.
That is this old man's ritual. He is special.
He says he never learned
to learn, he only learned little bits of things
that
become connected when the only stories
in the history you are given,
are "we overcame".

But on TV, we all see, some cheating being done,
way up where money is imagined answering all things.

The first think I would have changed, today,
as I look back from this point in your part of life's book,

you won't remember, but the touched is an old sort
words use among themselves to keep the idle ones alive.

This is my passtime, y'see, I listen.
I never learned to sew, and boys didn't knit, but
I could make up whole days at a time,
always whistling Ghost Riders in the Sky, and
I owned a real bull whip, family legacy,
found in a garage, at a wake,
or a prewake reunion,
out at Red Lake.

I cracked that whip with a clap of the tip,
none o'that break the sound barrier proper method
for fixin' heretics… first offence.

Time slips, you've used these. Suddenly everything
is new
and you think. this is only strange because I think
it makes sense.
like that,
I get this startle response mech, signaling out

and twice I think some one said what was that.
Begun in 2017, I read and wondered would you, so now I know you did, or I don't and this is waiting, still... a state, still being, waiting, to laugh it all off.
Ryan O'Leary Dec 2019
A poet is someone who
has too much time on
their hands.

In the past, it was an
aristocratical passtime,
example, Lord Tennyson.

The empirical houses of
Japan produced all of the
early haiku's.

Today, we are all emanating
those of whom we purport
to abhor.

Besides, we are contributing
to the pollution problem, by
leaving a carbon foot in print.
Jill Tait Aug 2020
I enjoy my writing so I must be a thinker.. poetry is my compulsive passion.. it’s got me hook line and sinker!!

No sooner have I finished a creativity..then another thought is amidst my mindfulness in readiness  for me..so I think, rhyme in pen ..over and over again.. as I am lost in my own bubble betwixt that overanalyzed brain

But poetry is a pleasurable passtime..it pleases  me no end and keeps the cogs well oiled in my noggin from going around the bend.. but it is just as well I found this happy hobby only recently without a doubt.. coz if I had written verses all of my life.. then my fingers would be worn out!!!

— The End —