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lmnsinner Aug 2018
he gulps me into peaces
__

led to his bed.
eyes kissed and asked to
come and go to where I
dream and imagine
but do not think.  

he gulps me into pieces.  
oh my god
oh my god
oh my god.  

and when he sees I am at last
in peaceful,  
speaks.  

god could but desires not to answer
all who call out to him.

thus the human invented:
an imperfect messenger,
a version of his image
that answers you in
pieces of peace,
as best as a
human can.
An expert in mycology,
Of Norsian biology,
And fjordian psychology,
A troll, I troll the livelong day.
I troll the livelong day away.
Mushrooms for dinner, breakfast, and lunch:
My comrades call me Edvard Munch.  
In lyric peaces I live in league
With Jean Sibelius and Edvard Grieg.

#
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
Between paternal fascism and maternal quiescence
I had my own peaces to negotiate.
I wanted to hear the big chords, the big drums, the big horns.
Rock in a frame marked "real."
singing truth to power,
That's what everyone was going to do,
and where I wanted to go.
I was disappointed that I wasn't allowed.
bitter power trips borne of disappointment
the thoughts of death and the desire
in ways so foul, it tattooed us all.
And even still I avoided
placing those artists on a pedestal,
At the theater — the velvet place
we get glow sticks with our programs.
date night for those burnished elders.
with our Pringles and our peppermints,
The night wasn't about kitsch for me.
There's a smallish riot going on
The production is low-key. The set is too dark,
After all the years of not going, it looks like I've made it.
you cannot say I didn't live
If you're lucky, and negotiate your peaces, it all comes around.
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. source - https://www.npr.org/sections/therecord/2013/02/21/172506252/after-30-years-i-finally-went-to-a-barry-manilow-concert
Breanna Smith Jan 2013
They are at their breaking point when I'm already broken
Yet I am to be the shoulder to cry on,
The person who makes things all better.
I'm invisible now like so many times when others are more important.
My heart is once again shattered and
I'm left picking up the peaces with ******, tired fingers.
It's not fare but they don't seem to care.
Tired of crying, I want to scream!
If only they could see I'm hurting,
maybe I wouldn't be
invisible any more.
Plick,
Pluck,

the tiny little strings in my mind.

dancing to a different tune each and every day,
the world plays my songs.

eyes wandering around the room while I play with my thoughts,
like the child I never won't be.

cross-legged and slumped over as the heated droplets dribble down my spine,
and fall from my weary lips,
that which are worn from the words I never got used to saying,
singing the songs of my each and every day,

coalesce the thinkings that have somehow let me dance to where I sit today,
forlorn petals fall from my branches in beautiful pastels, cursed to live in the winding winds.

Aday to each and every day that I sing and prance within my tiny little heart,
washing my pains away.

ill-weighed upon my shoulders,
as yet i dance some more,
beneath the turbid downpours engulfed in shades of red.

i wish't to see the blue,
the green,
the steam, arising from my skin.

narrowly weeping within my little box of horrors i keep by my side,
in remembrance of each and every day i have and will yet shed a tear.

haunted lullabies revel on and on,
each and every day,

i crave the pieces of the peaces i'd once known.
to here,
today,

i shut my eyes,
and into the blackness bursts forth colors i've never seen,
and will never see again.
to see that which i've never seen.
silent shapes shaping away falling through my fields of vision,
and inform themselves to the visions I write today,
so here,

i simply continue,
to plick,
and pluck,
the tiny strings inside my mind,

each,
and every day.

~Robert van Lingen
Ken Pepiton Aug 8
I thought you were dead, I said.

When the bell ring-tone tolled, I answered a
poetic quest to see for whom the bell tolled, a personal
call John Donne could never have phathomed

a wireless, recordable, broadcastable
personal
dialogue with an old aquaintance, long
thought dead.
Ask
how, not for whom, for me,
how
does this phone ring?

I love old poet guys, get in they haid 'n' giv'em a glimpse

see say the seers see
oops
there it was

just
myst it flew past into the pen-
a-trail
i-um
of missed theories.

Phone call. Brrring me all attention...

Answer out out lout, this is he (I am he, called by name)

Old John Donne just melted at the idea
of 4g cellular,
knowing
for sure for whom the bell tolls.
I wink, think,

toll paid, extol the truth, appraise the worth

Pay the price.
Hear the message, next,

after the good news
the
message in the media
(I seen the movie, I know it all, from the fall
t' now, nobody saw past
yesterday or ever, after today

while it's called today.)

At the point of no return, nobody knows.

Allusions are locks, listen.

Read. Buy of me, whispers wisdom, each piece of me you see,
the seeing, known, judged
worth the weight of believing as

we walk
in all the light we have,
we always have,

we being,

as long as we are in the world, the light of

the world, the salt in the electrolyte,
we are that, too;

as if material ATP pings into light, from power we provide,
leaving ADP for recycle and recharge,

message sent. Ditdaditdit Dah didah

Find The Answer. Look for what you hope, don't lie.
Look here,
deep in you,
you say you hang here, in your comforted zone,
converted from old

erroneous zones all piled up, like an igloo

pending completion of global warming and sealevel rise.

The signal the world sensory essentials perceive
were mere
idiot lights in 1920, now,
world signals have

e-volved into sensory arrays tied five-gee wise to
the honest-to-god globalbrain

Artistic-witty Invention, AI, augmented intelligence

for fact checkers, to use in governing the untamable lying tongue,

true to its quant-if-i-able motivator point:

no lie is true. Zero is not 1, nor any other imaginible thing,
caw,
zero is nevermore
than nullness in a position imagined re

ifiable, re-alified, holder of nine's place
just incase

the increase decreases suddenly and the patterns we ex
pected per
spication-wise morph from razor sharp creases to
wrinkles

in time

Evil has a snowball's chance in hell,

ha ha ha lol AI think turing tests are responsible for cognitive

neural nets leaking
from left ears, silken threads, lacing through wars and peaces,
pearly
encrusted
traditional
bubbles building up around

preciousnesses the size of a single trans-re-trans-re-trans
mogrificative
spell

muttered once, on the shore, as now

care
fill me less,
care
fill me none, no care is mine I cast them on

whoever cares.
Take 'em away with this next wave of breath
After an unexpected dialog with a former warrior friend, from the days of dying for causes
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
We get better as we get better

Mneuromorphicmeme makers
Sapiens augmentatious, that's us

Who could argue against us. AI don't know

Smell that smell,
Suffer, wait, wait wait
let patience have her perfect work

wait to see the whites of the eyes,
what am I seeing?

Why the shades at night, are you cross eyed?
Are you lookin' at me?
What are you lookin' at?

Shame on you, who can see what I see
I look at you
do you see what I see? nope,
similar, right

watch my eyes, see the whites,
ninoculate bi noc u late

see the angle point 123
see
the point I see from my aiming vector,

see my point from the angle of your POV
see

Pretend you do, and walk a mile with me,
help me with my load,
you know any stories told 'round here?

Life history strategies, those they conserve,
per haps a cultural system,
like pickling, or fermenting, or culturing
gut-felt tales of gods and monsters?

Guts, good god, Maudie, come see
a-fore-al-flusher, disgusting
turds taken for golden nuggets,
we missed in the dust
dancing in the golden sun shone
through a tiny hole in the roof
through which rain may drip, someday we may remember

Camera obscura, who first saw the truth in one of those?

"what you diggin' fo down there, Gold?", she giggled,

Gold dust sprinkled fine as fine can be,
breathe this
Deep in the tunnel,
the last highest part of the dust of the earth,
the dust of many men drifting in the wind,
radiates, dis integrit-ified, trans mogr ified known,

No, I would not have guessed.
I should have learned and
did, did you? Is war your

right and my wrong?
Warrior,
can you imagine
following a peace? Bliss? Nirvana? The
rest that remains for the people of God?

Is this real? Is real. AI affirm ifative

Warfare is thinkified, just-ified, never done.
The doing of evil at this level of living is imaginable
only, not re-alizable.

We remain mortal. These peaces we put together are
for mortal moments.
We remember learnings we recall from gatherings together,

Familiar things, whence we seen the source whither
haps in my favor may be found
in the next round
after, ever after

I find a way back to the light where I saw
dancers in a blue moon beam,
blue light, not calendar man made myth of two full moons
in a single cycle of the moon,
we know better,
set your timer with the solstice,
let the seasons roll.

Precision, close enough, field-ish, an ion cat ion sort of,  

the safer it gets, the safer we need it to be,
let patience have her perfect work,

safe liberty needs broad horizons,
not high walls.

Enemies are ideas wishing to be im-portentious,
as if forever is a game to be won.

Contention is single source. Pride.

So, you, passerby, can you make proud, or pride
weigh more than the peace I made?
Want to trade?
I take your pride and flush it, wipe your own
stench away, but trust your gut,

a peace-filled gut wins every single time,
incident after incedent, pre-dictable as forever
in any direction,
going on.

Does this smell digestible or does my gut go
NONONO yech onomatopoeic retch

finger down the throat, you know, the secret sign,
in a word,
*******. Don’t swallow any more. Spit it out.

Why not? The dog eats it.
It's disgusting.
But, watch, the dog rolls in it, then she sneaks up
on the skunk, oh
****, I ruined her hunt, she had that skunk,

Until I yelled, "Macy, no!" She froze, the skunk fired,
on my exclamatory point.

Right there, see. What is aimed at,
wait to see the whites of their eyes,

shoot 'em.
Sniff, nose gnostic vapours settled by dew
soak into the mulch maker's realm,
de cay, de cawl, draw back your cowl and scowl

in the mirror,
or was that in a movie? The camera was you, you
saw the blood swirldownthedrain, you
saw thy evil mother,
locked away,
NULL-ified for as long as I live. Okeh.

******-drama scenario. This is the game? No rules?
You lie. Lying is allowed here, it is a skill
we conserve, we conserve the
sacred liberality ification
manifested in the
leavened sons
of God's sons.

Truth, be known, has one foe. Pride that makes the lie.

-------
Magical transfer, dis gust, take yo breath away,

congenital liar, natural nurturerer,
teller of tales of the mighty hunter,

the hunter of might,
might he be a hunter of darker

theory of mind, begins with the first lie

I may remember mine, do you?

The green man? Yeah, spiderwoman's caretaker.
Lacto, make some cheese,

we offer the milk mixed with the smoke
from the mushrooms grown on
the darkside of *******.

Leadership, lead away. Followers,
this way, down or
up.
It's POV, you see,
Ya'll are the beta testers. If people as smart as you don't tell me I am mad, to try, I shall continue to pay close attention as time, per se, parses out.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2018
WARNING:
don't read this poem if you suffer from ADD, or merely hate long poems

                                                  <>
gave away 3 opportunities to a trusted someone,
a Persian poet carrying on a tradion

ask this poet of his unspeakables,
the open hidden,
received thrice, not nice, searching provocations, (idiot me),
inquiring of the souls interior chambers, where the fear to tread
is politely called in good company,
don’t go over to the dark side

questions of a thousand years, that got that way because
no one wants ever to be truly asked, and especially,
truly answer

but today's surrendering (the last of the three)
What gets you out of bed in the mornings
goes to the deadliest battlefields that millennially nourishes
and beats the blood of life
to feverish flooding that drowns you too close to real
death dangers

step to the step machine, lift the weights,
that cannot be lifted without a prayerful groan,
for surely surly poems cannot be, sleepy eyed ignored,
stepped over,
these muscle builders for the mind, these killing questions,
these ****** answers

Jeez Louise

if you are gonna ask me killer questions like this,
I may have to hide all the mirrors in the apartment,
with  funereal linen cover-ups,^
and/or publish poems that actually
pay the rent (a drag)

to steal a phrase,
what a long story this poem could be,
especially,
for one-me routinely accused of being the
arch super-villain with ***** nails,
fighting the good cherubic angels of
brevity in poetry

delay, deflect, d'ignore the irrefutable,
snap, crackle and pop goes the body's ports and parts,
when first you self-deceive,  
yeah yeah, alive, no jive, means

that still ya gotta get out of bed
by moonlight over Manhattan,
to deal with minute to minute trivia of lamentable suff

oh.
still here?

you actually want me to answer that question?

thought you were enjoying my evasive shadow boxing,
prefacing a smooth operation while escaping to north of the border

but lurking (always lurking) of late in the back of
the front of the left brain foot poetry orb, has been this word, variants thereof, saying
of me, write of me,

bless, (the) blessed, (with) blessings...

shocked? shocked?

yeah, me too.

on my mind when first we rise...

ah! counting your blessings no doubt...
now that's a thot, quite humorous, let's me count the ways

got your health?
well not really, left you hints aplenty...

peaces of mind?
sure, how many pieces you want to buy, we got 'em for sale
slightly used tarnished but organically reusable, from Whole Foods,
don’t be dumb
peace of mind can’t be store bought

No, I am not whining; I know what I got is good, but them **** poems that keep coming at night, like a fire engines flashing lights, a/k/a
them things that keep you up at night, are my habitués
but sometimes it takes months to finish a poem that
was mostly writ in a single flash
but bed born and dying
for there is no reality disclosable answer

get out of bed from

a ritualistic habit pointless

fear of living for nothing

great blessings, right?

to rinse and spit out our words of the
holy dark
for never seen the true light
supposedly that comes with you from the birth canal

(aren’t you sad you asked)

you see
I do not know
what gets
me
out of bed
in the morning
for I have been up all night
wondering why
I should

counting my seven days of mourning counting my blessings is a ******* curse

no more questions
^ look up sitting shiva
if want to see the other two, send me a private message

— The End —