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extasis Apr 2010
slight music
quite instrumentals slither through the space

now an ethereal silence and a curled, gnarled hand rest at the table
weather-worn pockmarked face twitch
a common occurrence
a scene worthy of a masterful painter
the air sighs, not in sound but in feeling
it is demure, languid,
a seamless bond of hunched figure and wispy breaths
a heart feels light and hollow with pulsating winds surrounding it
a man's hide tingles, prickles
pores gently widen in anticipation

a boxed room
a shackle room
dark, yet for the dim lantern
and a speckling of pinpoints in ever shifting pupils
patterns shift with tightening skin, hackles raised
billowing smoke against snarling and jolting

our West is not kind

a child stumbles with its chittering and chattering, back into its hole
an equalizer delicately rocks upon the floor
hot in its despondence and billowing smoke barrel
the metal becomes cold, uncaring; what despair was impacted upon it has left, as is the same with all objects subject to human emotion

Old blood sleeps in the shackled room
with chattering mumbling children in their holes

life is but glorious process, while we all wish for results
how deplorable
I had a dream where I killed myself from the perspective of my own gun.
I woke up sweating at 3:48 a.m. and wrote this.
Simon May 2021
"The Conjecture Radiance" is likely the most upholding effect that starts (when everything and everyone of course, least expects its full force), like an "onward march" to some type of safety.
(That then genuinely is apart of its own point of action).
However way you define its own least likely nonterrible way of communicating with the even least likely scenario, where each word is like a magnify glass too rich for its own purposes to handle. Basically, concluding the fact that whatever conjecture is full of such "radiance", doesn't conclude the Shareholder ("in the details") of this involvement. Or even (especially so), the very Caregiver (in the "emotional dispatching concealment" of the wrongdoings for how it certainly took too much of its pride into such ineffective reasoning at heart), is the truly deciding factor (at large) that actually pinpoints the very most primal directive, involved... Who do you think that might be...? If you truly stated with "I wonder", or even (for an entirely better recognition), for, "I'd reckon...'BLANK'...with...'BLANK'...!"
Well then... You’re reasoning to carefully "request" (from which the very ground you walk), would then appoint (in-charge) the very reckoning of one's own reasoning...had then gone toe-to-toe with something even more..."unimagining!"
After all, just because something even more...unimagining...would then seemingly come out of the blue and cost the very likelihood of your entire self, (from deep within that very self to go entirely "unmanaged"), just so everything leading up to this point...could then adopt (a certain flaw), or more specifically, adapt a certain plan involved (when and only when, you've gotten used to it, over time), doesn't give anyone (in the slightest degree) even the correct involvements for something even truly greater to take afoot the very compassion, from which everything is meant to take apart...and then reassemble, (when the time is right...) Just so everything (and everyone), can finally establish the very "belief" back into itself.
"But wait..." …Someone eagerly asks, "what about the 'Radiance' part...?"
Then something goes silent, until everything comes up from the very ashes, to once again then (single-handedly, of course), present the very ideal customs of the eventual "Hotseat" from which ALL such decision-making, choices, options, opinions, logic, analyzing, reasoning, concentration, focus, etc. That all align (and reflect) from some even GREATER common interest (still inconceivable, at large).
(And of course, it's obviously not from within yourself, or anything usually coherent like that. OH NO!)
It's much deeper and irresistibly separate then that could ever be...
"From within yourself." HAHA! What a bunch of hogwash!
That was the inevitable "Take one"...
"Take Two": Begins with one certain flaw involved... And it's not again (I repeat this...) Isn't "from within yourself."
"It's much more coherent than that!" Mark my words (that aren't good enough for simple results to ensure it so....)
You will find the "Conjecture" (in your very self), before you even discover what the ("Radiance") part is even about....
Stay tuned for "Take Two!" (For "Take One" is not up to standards with itself, if it wasn't for it's still BLANK one-sided half from being mysteriously misplaced from it's own such Conjecture, where the Radiance part, is too increase the full on "contact sport full of certainty"...(that entirely hints at fully making it from simply not actually being able to glow too brightly at heart)!
"For the very end of such a scenario...is a truest guarantee for inevitable warfare!"
Something that fully departs is like a logical effort for something that is not up to *****!
However way you slice it, it truly/actually depends on what your willingly able to take on...as for (effort itself), to seemingly stack the odds in your literal favor, forevermore!
Opting the favour that hopefully will (eventually) rise upward...just so ("what is the now"), could statistically "found" some sort of answer to this oncoming conundrum. One without ANY UTTER WARNING! Or even one without fully taking in what you do for your very self (in the logistics of your own life patterns). Because in the end, you might as well be the loyal knight full of such...”logical boundaries” itself!
“A loyal knight of logical boundaries” (in the making….)
deliciae Jun 2013
lying in the bed of an old pick up
parked in the loneliest part of Arizona
in the quietest pitch-black hour of night
i see a breathtakingly beautiful scene
that would rival VanGough's Starry Night
looking out across the desert horizon
i see a glowing pumpkin moon
sinking slowly into the shifting sand
like an orange midnight sunset and
the silhouetted limbs of a gnarled Joshua tree
against the midnight blue dome of
the clear dark sky illuminated by
millions of dazzling pinpoints
like diamonds shattered into pieces
and scattered through the night
though lightyears and galaxies away
I outstretch my hand trying to touch them
wanting to swirl them around with my fingers
and paint new pictures in the cosmos
I try to outline the constellations
but Orion and Cassiopeia
are lost among the sparkling stars
just as I am lost to the world for a brief moment

-*sg
Mikaila May 2014
I saw your name
And this car ride
Turned into a game of Russian Roulette.
Amazing how the very thought of you
Can reverse my body chemistry
In a matter of seconds.
Smiling,
I didn't even have enough time to blow my cover
Because it hit that quick.
Now I sit, rigid, in the passenger's seat.
God, my legs are weak.
My fingers are cold,
And I have to clamp down on my leg with the tips of them
To keep my voice from shaking.
She can't know.
She can't know that my happiness has been left behind
Like you leave your insides at the top of a steep rollercoaster.
Later it will catch up, slam into me with its new claws, and wrench the food from my stomach
No matter what you've said.
But not now. Not
Now.
I am afraid
To get out of the car when we stop.
Will I collapse to the ground like a newborn colt?
These ****** legs
Shake
And itch to run.
My only composure
Is in my secrecy.
I can sit three inches from my own mother
Silently imploding
And she will never know.
She can't know.
She is all I have left to protect.
My heart rate has tripled
And even when I take deep breaths
They rattle in and out of my lungs.
It feels like there is an electric current running through me.
It feels like I've just lost a lot of blood and the adrenaline is vibrating through my whole body
To make up for the injury.
Every time we hit a bump
My knees seize up
All on their own
And a shiver passes through me.
My white hands flutter before me
Like moths
And if I don't concentrate
My lungs stutter in air uncontrollably
And little pinpoints of light stud my vision.
She can't know.
Just get home.
Bump
I grip the seat.
Bump
Sweat slides down the side of my face
Cold
Like the point of a knife.
I swear I can see it glinting out of the corner of my eye
But its only my white cheeks and glistening eyes reflected
In the blackened window glass.
The girl there is ghostly and deeply shadowed
And for a moment our eyes find each other
In terror and then in
Resignation.
This is our trip
To the gallows
This is
It
This ride
This car eating up the still damp pavement
Lights making the steam that billows from it swirl and dance.
This metallic taste that fear floods into my mouth
Is my last meal.
This is my chariot
And death doesn't know she's driving it
But my number is up
And I stare down my execution in the oncoming headlights of someone else's car
Someone who can probably breathe right now.
Lucky *******.
My ears ring
And the music from the speakers sounds like it's underwater.
Thank god I don't have to talk much.
Almost there
Turn, bump
And my heart tries to climb out of my ribcage
My veins cold with
Fight or flight
But some cruel little part of my mind laughs at my body's frail defenses-
I've known for years that neither
Can save me.
Almost there
No
Please-
I don't want this to end.
Because it's hell, sure,
Sitting here with a nuclear holocaust ripping through my organs,
But I know this devil.
I can systematically lock myself down,
Keep it in,
Keep it quiet.
But the second I leave this car...
The moment I get home,
I will have to know what you've said.
I'll have to face whatever you think of me
And that
Is the most terrifying thing
I have ever sped towards
So ******* fast.
Cadence Musick Nov 2014
Soft glowing
Lights
Hang from emptied corridors
And the night melts into

An


Outer space
Dripping pinpoints of light
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2011
Starlings fly in silver sky
Bullfinch in the dry grass sings,
Emerald teal in tandem fly
Explosively on phosphor wings.
Miracles are in the air
Golden sun in evening glow,
Marigolds of orange flair,
With lavender, in patchwork grow.

Sap is flowing in the wood
bursting buds of olive greens,
Winter flees as winter should
Whilst bubbling brook transform to streams
Miracles are in the air
Colour rich in reddish hues,
Greens of fresh lime , aqua flair
Spring arrives in vivid views.

Silk striations lace the sky
With molten, mackerel clouds of gold,
Evening chill for you and I
Suggest we snuggle close to hold.
Miracles are in the air
A Moonrise breaks horizon’s door,
Hugely round with craters bare
We laugh with joy and seek for more.

Tantalizing night upon us
Stars ignite the heaven's fire,
Black as pitch with jewelled Adonis
Hot white pinpoints of desire.
Miracles are in the air
Passion in the blood doth boil,
Moonlight through her silver hair
Exquisite as blue fire on oil.


Marshalg
@thebach
29 August 2011
Staring out into the crimson sky
the westbound sun melts into the horizon.

A red and gold puddle of translucency,
blends into an ocean
of majestic purples and blues.

Pinpoints of light begin to appear
as day succumbs to night.

I stand in silence,
near to tears.

Wondering where you've gone.

The radiance of the emerging moon
shines a beacon  into the vastness.

To no avail.

I know that you are gone.

And unlike my faith in dawning sun,
I hold no hope of your return-
Upon the morning.
I feel I should make a collection of poems
called Born at 3 am.
It seems like that is when they arrive,
when the world is calm and sleep eludes me.
So this has been posted to my you tube channel I  hope you'll check it out
www.youtube.com/@tsummerspoetry  
Thanks.
Colm Feb 2019
It's electric friction beneath the feet
Like stockcars locked on the inevitable path
Matching until meters burst
Exceeding the limit and flying off the track

With powerful pinpoints and frustrating fault lines
And the breaking of makeup on the skin most bold

It is a poker face across the way
And the frustrations of knowing that the crowd turns cold
Whenever you've failed to play perfectly within the fold

Tennis
Is the realization that you are IT, and all that which influences the bouncing ball
Tennis
Julian Sep 2024
Cynegetic scollardical cymaphens reticulated through gradgrinded lavaderos pinpoints the sycomancy of sciophilous garbology the schwerpunkt nidus of all nimonic nomology of alamodes eruciform in regardant espaliers estranging abvolts while appointing the abseil of maskirovka abroach of every finicky virgation such that indomitable agathism truckles dancette at the ventrad extreme of camarillas of plenary azoth intermediary to alacritous svedbergs transposed by avocets backfiring because of autecology in gnotobiology the auncel of many wellaways. Pivoting from provenance to the entelechy of providence seeks to decimate by aucupation anisothenic because of aduncated helms of adscription reasting importunate insubordination as admaxillary heaving in  onocrotal obsequent dragoons underscoring termagant obeluses undergirding the izzat of fretful katzenjammer such that ixia browbeats iters, irokos, jabirus and other gossypine jockos of the bosket might the skeletonized skullduggery isotropic to such a steep extent of isorhythm that interpunction is vouchsafed by militating tacenda and tangible tatamae sweltering urmen orchestrated by stibadium of stereopsis manifest as sprags apotheosized by spinney sapwood tholing ulterior docimasy (a spikenard of maritodespotic bascule). Ocreated jansky instituted to the benefit of satraps of jannock ponderation of psephology vivat in atomkent bernaggles ****** with primposition abetting abaft gamidolatry twiring upon the turtleback as the rapknock trimkoppa usufruct of martingale mortmains more mortiferous than sanguine because of steep annihilation of tutiorism turncocking thymogenic and algedonic optimization of subaltern structuralism vitiated by stivers of egestuous morality esteemed as the linchpin of ratheripe syndicalism. Rendevation is allied with elastane garbology that maybe the sennet treacles wiggletempers wuthering willowish slimmerbacks to prevent trykling vecordy in verglas iceblinks of angstroms of stacking bagging bareges and galeres of galericulated eloquence shapely in vernalized pulchritude tziganology manufactures with trucage and facture among factotum sinecures dainty with coy sobriquets of vesuvian vestas whirling around koines of lavolta knouting with donnybrooks of hilasmic kitthoge kirking in intrepid earwiggery the keffel of noisome ratomorphism projicient to commiserate with reedbuck morkins of grampus reclamed as vorticism for rectitudinous flavors of soteriological varietism dignified against nihilist trillops rather sanctified by numinous albenture. The riometers of rhinocerial quandaries rapt in skewbald stereopsis roodging ever wase of wanchancy scavaged from rampick vestiges of delignated sapwood among vinsky and propriety the cathead bangtail pulchritude of despised cicisbeo persiflage intermediate to entelechy equipoise isonomy steeped on catastrophism is nasute enough to forage apodictic enumeration of nimiety in binturong notaphily by bergamask delegation of bayadere pretense lavished upon stalwart batten. Thereby, a bypassed lavadero choused by baragnosis in macropicide by barracoons depaysed by bonanza compital with ochlesis in sybaritic windfalls ocreate because of throttled octothorpian usufruct because of swooning elflock ulmaceous in unstercorated scofflaw ultraism the linchpin upstay of covert interpunction parlayed into implodent acmes that the pesky urchin mortmains counterfoiling imprimatur latitudes of morrises entangled in mazopathia designates the interdigitation of ulterior sophism specious by design to abet the interramification of ixiodic cimelia in perdurable olivasters of categorical imperative. Because of these whilom stipulations, isochrone bandobasts of flagrant bontbokian architectonics entangled in aquarelles lionized as the persiflage of videndum visibilia apophasis  constrained by the pilloried aplanatic interpretation of megalography apical and foudroyant at the forefront of all mutual endeavor dripping with apostils aquiline in biotaxy among halibiotic bucentaur shenangos adscripted by Hakenkreuz.

Emphatic hadal asphyxiation  of haemataulics wandering in venostasis handseling nomogeny bocking in magpiety and harking every sederunt endeared by abbozzo surging into composite ampelography (the venue of the obvious humdingers and sockdolagers egelidation appoints commonplace) effulgent upon oystercatcher eyeservice of habanera to harpoon tympanies of mackintosh forestalled by adiathermic alamodes (cavorting still today with their own lavolta) beyond the stanjant capacities of jiggermasts omnified by sociogenic thremmatology of seminal haecceity. Redoubled by eluetherian energism tainted by egoism, the duende of barasingha Boanerges magnetized to omphalism disorbed by crass cryptadia martingales (the chronobiology of emphatic kymatology) the ambit of focal cockshies is predictably invariant within narrow ranges of cliometric servitude to windcheater keystone mainstays of revalorized kith governed by imperious woonerf. Every punctilio carracks esteem ceraceous in the Baedeker espouses  concubinal nympholepsy with the numbats of umbrose stoping stunsails of megacerine stupulose macroscian vorticism sidelined in primeval eisegesis idiorhythmic to bubaline skeletonized briquets that betise every gigantomachy the batten tries to proscribe in a whack-a-mole shifty enthymemes of fretful epilations mobilized in exigency by adynaton scofflaw swashbuckling affreux monetized alidade always repined but never eradicated because of eruciform demand for brehon.

        Although directly ignorant of traves of allemain known only by the allemande, the alnagers of cisvestism--the alpenstockers of cultural vitiation by joggling virgation of whittawers of striga--ambagious and anaclastic in submerged analgia milked by reedbuck poldering wharfingers of transpontine beblubbered sentimentalism sublated from specious sophistries and casuistries into pseudo-coherent aporia enlisting accidia to rankle and cadge deadwood ideologies into deadeye bronteums tethered to davenport miscegenation of dancette and dageraad by tamaraw juggernauts of austringer auncels of cultural mismatches attorn by ateknia corroded by asterisms become extremely macroseismic svedbergs of turtleback iceblinks manufactured as ad hoc ashplant soteriology among arrendators indelible in houndstooth oreillet. Thereby, opsigamy turncocks opodeldoc oniscoids sublineating the perverse subreption against any given stritch that outfoxes simple carnal maximalism examines the subfocal mensuration of cryptotype embedded in pycnostyle genizah gamboling with cribbled sophomoric crampons couveusing cordwainers into covert mirlitons ignorant of contecking urgency because wertfrei boweries pullulate with Jesuitical jarveys of psaphonic dearth into zugzwang wroth easily enthused on suboptimal garbology of elastane manufacture.

    The woolpack of fundamental fantasia is designed by eurythmics uxorious to windlasses of caprice engineered by zazzy woodreeves zebrine by umbrilizing protanopia revolting against ukase bonanzas never deferent to synoecized synartesis of Sarvodaya because of nosebag boondoggles of rannygazoo nonage of finitism aggrieved by nolitions negentropized which fuels insipid upaithric blandishment and nebulized futilitarianism ignorant of the demarcated set of nautic operations permissible by rigorous interramification against birling bickerns of bodaches suborned by inculcated onolatry cretifying nidifugous miasma despite enriching the briquet rather than outmoding hierarchies of substratose balanism integral to selfsame caesarapropism.  A mackintosh optimized with gradgrind statoliths of emacity in stegmonths macarized by vasotribes against schmeggegy enriches rivages of choregus plight in paxillose rifacimento of inveterate agiotage corralled by cliometric restraint of revolute revanche shroffed in shambolic spancels of revalorization hindered by simultagnosia of echards versus umstrokes and chevets narrowcast to the morioplasty of dyvors backbitten by bewildered and marooned mobilism rather than enriched by psaphonic laxisms of vaccimulgent latitude. In this varsal gestalt picture it becomes axiomatic that jiggery-pokery belongs to antebellum agathism by jerkinhead moralism dispossessed by jannock wuthering in vesuviation of woolfell vestiges windgalled wedeln by cordwainer oystercatchers of dogwatch domett of doucs of subsultus brackish stockinette omnified by drabbles against the very dowitchers obedient to lampas limpkin vastation lapatic in transformation of the corrugated jamdani forefront zebrine in favor of rheotaxis defeated by the zelotypia of arriviste hawseholes hinnable against circumjacent kitsch because of hodiernal hogshead wirewoven pycnostyle promulgated by hopsack betises in nimonic optimization against plucky quagmires of neutrosophy (the horme of ulterior huggery attempting gezellig for schmeggegy) neutered by huckabuck stridulation.

    The hederaceous-vulpecular merger of hulchy subfocal hylomania delegating abrasive hypaspist by cultural Zollvereins entrusting the zenana of nomogeny degaging algedonic overdrive because the dedans prefer predictable syntalities orchestrated by dabchick autecology endeared to aurilave upbringing trapezing over nodalities and nolitions by adept alnageria alpenstocking amnicolists of the seediest verisimilitude of vogue jarveyed substandard by design. We can therefore conclude that acerbated pleochroic aasvogels gifted with enjambment use encaustic docimasy to throttle fretful emunctory empasm to the octroi of stannaries’ designed as impudent isostasy milking the Ishan of Hakenkreuz and the ushabti of bahuvhri into a composite stricture beneficent to swanskin because of privileged sycomancy about abroach virgations vastation prefers appointed to the promachos sulcalization of pleonasm in metaplasm metapolitical because of wapentake pandering. This incentivizes the sastruga of opodeldoc sarods marinated by the sarinda of aftershaft draconian dragoons which becomes an impediment to saltus surreys saginating sybotic sederunts to rackrent bareges impeded by bannock as chatelaines who adscript against cryptotype maraud in celsitude wuthering bletcherous in the wroth of contrition. Maritodespotic muliebrity wroxing virility further strained by exigent conditions wrawls when winklers yeuk rimose yelm into narrischkeit zugzwang yawing pupated policies against the puckery of bagging jarveys of psittacist stokehold inertia as midwives and proxenetes of boyau and bowline iberis the psaltery of nebels probanding pinguefied pataphysics. The relict of remigation for phonascus in unanimity thereby deposed by the provincial attitudes of omnicompetent authors of strigine thremmatology in onocrotal resignation sweltering in barms become feckless in every modality save opisthenar dippoldism wagered against yaraks by yirding niccolic oppidan strictures easily refuted by collective opsiometry limited in efficacy because of surdomute organdie on the twiring turtleback of opprobrium constitutes a larger minority of psephological brunt of osmol channeled through ablegated aboulia of abessive bannock monopolized by bodach acrotism of oxtered naivety coauthored by vintage adamitism gradately detraque against the sloyd of snaffling scaldabanco thus wagered against pathetic sondation debunked by arduous contortions of syllepsis enumerated syllabatim emphatic about swapes of edgy suretyships sundogs to humane scholastication rather than inane schmegeggy. Scialytic polemics must unearth the axiomatic fallacies undergirding the scilicet scissure cobaltiferous to both scop (the protectorate of subternatural lionization of epigones) and scumble (the affairs of apotropaic propriety resorting to stultification of seedy seahogs sanctioned by bontboks of trespass rather than authenticity) primarily because seersucker semioviparious serpentry (staked on iridaceous interpellation of exploitative wapenshaws doytining with washball protervity among wastelot polders coffling rather than coacervating headlong imperatives of collective perdurable jannock) gravitates jawhole nidamental sophistry on perverse baized notandum (counterfeit backpieces of bagnio rotocracy) to pullulate among degrees of fundamental baryecoia stipulated on maladroit bavardage by prominent odalisque gammerstang squintifegos eager to beeskep the patriarchy by wayspaying all virility with such stang (commodified svedbergs of rackrent immoral self-mortgage) that statuvolism entrenches synchysis despite self-aware brisures of ochlesis informed of both its duplicity and noxious futility. Debased structuralism incumbent upon any sociogenesis stodged by podlec fracklings often of a nyejay persuasion traindeque both toonardical bodaches and permeable victims of cisvestism because, as chorizonts of benevolent nativism because of chlamydate outliers and simultaneously  neovitalism because of pushful atheism, they derelict (because of pauperized nimiety to narrischkeit nihilism) the fundamental conjugates to a predicate of stark realism integral to univocal science waygone by suboptimal syndyasmia of ecdysiast spuddled saprogenic quidlibets gorgonized by tanquams of batten morigeration (modish only at the periphery of perusal manque to eximious stridulation beyond coemptive tantiemes of mandarist sophistry) embodies the marasmus of higher education--lustrated of useful heterodoxy cogent in parallelism to truth.
  
     The doyen libken formative to docile inquiry coagulates lemmas idiosyncratically because imperious laxism is gnotobiological in autecology and sedimentary to epigones of isagoge of subsequent interrexes of social sciences incondite in handfast geoscopy to gangues of both coherent pretense and redundant tortivinity somewhat approximate of truth but subjoined to tegular tropophilous ginglymus virgated by tangential suborning tephra (a tautomerism of specious pragmatica) paroxytone by tamburitza professors jockeying for sematic acclaim with sententious deliberative neglect or endorsement of tribuloid quodlibertarianism. Imprinted agitprop slanted by backpieces and defiant tresayles against patriotic fervor become the tournures of tootle or the testudo of flagrant dogmatism which verges into terramara guff gowking adduced historical liturgy of either gavelkind naivety or grognard misprision of true militated mizzenmasts of supersolid vis because of varsal epergne kneaded into mockado mulisms of mumpsimi tangential more obtusely to linear truths than acute in vraisemblance to centripetal axioms of bandelet assuaged not by only seniority or by seniority at all but rather dignified by the rigor of nutation survived as the cockshies of gestalt tangible noesis by the nepholemetry of plenary genius rather than prima facie parvanimity. The inchoate period of neutrosophy existed in septiferous nidamental fragments that entrenched many nimbose nivial of peremptory iberis (far before iconomachy became necessary) waged in internecine mutualism of gridlock between idiorhythmic utility and ignicolist illutation compounded into imparidigitation impleaching entire disciplines by interspersing indign paragons and oryx osnaburg overlock as the predicates of easement dissembled as alloquy alepines to auncels leading to both bonanza and academic akinesia as stipulated by the same gammon handfast to ahimsa and other deontology subternatural to such a grave extent that agoge became improbable. The aglet of adiaphorous nimiety screwball with anteric agistments of redoubled agathism must always concede to the damson which utterly belittles widgeons of the polder’s deadwood ambitions devalled in noyade in the dolabration of stratified tegular doits met with austere dometts against draffish kitsch falsidical in oppositive nesh facetiae quopped arrosive in psychotaxis reiterated by baseline banality into ashplant evulsion eruciform in only the gaudiest neglect of moral enthalpy.

One of the more importunate quandaries vitiating lyceums is warped emotivism disdainful in elutriation of alembicated elentic capacities corrugated to such revolute strain of ekistics that ecrevisse isorhythm of post-graduate isopach groomed by isochrone maximalism used in frenzied undinism in profane ukase authored by spurriers behooved by resourceful sprags buddling with enmity against bodkin proxemics that evolve into bisontine blackmasters of substandard competency inculcated often by berceuse (only to the afterclap of incredulity among the vast majority) bavians of academic bavardage insulated from bickerns of astute nidology primarily because of jocko niaiserie conformed to chatoyant chamfrains that prefer projicient procrypsis to dutiful moya. The mowing subservience of academia (even hederaceous institutions) to demolish oikonisus is flagrant that ineptly mottles morphallaxis of synsematic opinions outside the arena of their original context to misprision because of metapolitics for mercedary menticide heaving the vestiges of prescriptivism to upstage coherent probands only because of hamstrung pseudogyny and psittacist yawing yelms wed to the annihilation of wilding albenture in socially contingent disciplines bent by witchknots into jettatura by jimswinging yaraks privy to the jud and sudd of domestic academic canque casefied into catacoustics to sustain sabbatical bordars by bobstaying incondite blunges of post-modern ****** adduced from nebulized dogmatism of socialist monotroch nimbose in heyday decay never again as preeminent as it was prima facie. Diseased socialism is a spindrift smellfungus minatory paideutic enterprise berating the cockshy phrontisteries as martext asylums against mainsail livedo levanting moral valor iracund against the hyperbulia of tribuloid heterodyne haecceities more accurate than quacksalver pantagamies of upstaged gynics gaumless in pedestrian platitudes in footling shibboleths of academic macarization pilloried by sulcalized thinkers gnapping at every seamy flothery of goliardy compaginated from apocryphal comprachios disfigured by celation into tyrannical eisegesis rarely challenged because scacchic engrenage anticipates acrasia in etypical honesty against cotquean niffs of supercilious athenaeum nilling truth because of the pules of the turtleback amenable to the fondink of bowdlerization often apologetic about moonraker decimation ignored by the empaths that sublimate the notandum of commiseration so steeply misinformed about cladogenesis and so aggrieved by cittosis and cisvestism that they manufacture bugaboo cirripeds chirking caudling jiggery-pokery “color-blindness” jeremiads of jeofail in jarveys against nappes whipstaffing internecine irredentism yomping fecklessly and fretfully bereft of chiasmus into the traulism of mismatched narrischkeit.

TO BE CONTINUED....
Maggie Emmett Nov 2014
In the moonlight, high in the Lemon Gum,
perched under the arching ghostly branches
two eyes of jet peer from a snow-white mask.
Tyto Alba, the Barn Owl, with heart shaped
****** disc, edged with ruff of stiff feathers.
Mottled pearl-grey body feathers above
the moth like plumage, purest white beneath
her slim legs are bare on the lower half,
with small feet that end with deadly talons.

Nocturnal, she roosts in the heat of day.
You will hear her screeching in the cold night
hear the scream before you ever see her.
She can see in the half light of humans
night vision even in total darkness
pinpoints her prey by listening to each sound
the desperate, scuttling little creatures make.

She is a well designed killing machine
with hooked beak, powerful feet and sharp claws.
Her flight feathers have softened edges
to make her deadly flight near soundless
She swoops silently down without warning
seizing victims with her claws, biting deep
into their neck arteries, puncturing
their most precious organs for a quick death.
Owls are deadly but fascinating birds of prey.
Aditya Shankar Feb 2014
I sit down in front of this piece of paper, pen in hand, the wind through my hair and a single dim light’s reflection in my glasses. I close my eyes, tired of repeatedly trying and failing to write an article. I wearily rub my eyelids and sit still for a while.
And that’s when I see him.

He stands against the backdrop of a waterfall, the green grass gently caressing his bare feet as he walks slowly towards the calm, turquoise lake. A sudden whiff of tulips assails my sense of smell as he walks into the water, his composed steps mirroring the complacence of the cool blue he walks into. He wades in till he is waist deep; birds chirp in the distance, trees sway in the wind and everything the sunlight touches melts into a golden brilliance.

As he walks in, ripples branch out from his torso, tattooing themselves upon the surface of the water. They move forward with him, each with a colour that merges into a thousand new hues as two of them meet. I stand there watching in stupefaction; he does not acknowledge my presence as he continues to walk forward, his eyes fixed upon the blue-gold sky over us.

All of a sudden, he climbs out of the lake and begins to hurriedly hunt around, muttering to himself
‘It has to be here somewhere.’ He darts off between the trees, with the raw agility of a young impala. As he continues to fly over the many shrubs and roots in his way, I chase behind him panting and puffing as the entire forest falls behind in a blur of green and brown. And then we hear it, the scream tears through the woods and the sky explodes into a whirlpool of colour; he turns back and looks at me, his eyes wide with horror and disbelief. I skid to a halt before him and I realize that we had reached the outcrop of a cliff. I turn to him, my back to the massive drop from the bluff, a quizzical look in my eyes as I find myself unable to articulate the words in my mind. He puts his hands on my shoulders, the fear etched deep in his wide eyes. And he pushes me off the cliff.

The air whistles past my ears as I fall to the ground; it seems like an eternity has passed before I finally rest my head on the hard ground beneath me. Every bone in my body feels like I have walked headfirst into a moving train, I gingerly raise myself off the cold floor to see him standing over me. He raises a finger to his lips, signalling me to follow him. We walk forward cautiously, the fear of an unknown disturbance still hanging heavy over us. We walk through an open field of wild grass, the pale silver stalks dancing in the breeze as the moonlight lit up our path. He doesn’t say anything to me; I walk alongside his shadow as his shadow. We come to a clearing with a single tree standing proud in the middle of a vast expanse of nothing. He gestures to the tree, we make our way there with haste. I walk into the cool shade of a massive oak and collapse under its mighty protection. He walks around the tree and returns with a figure in his arms. Next to my tired form he lays her down, a look of gentle calm upon his hard features. The moonlight dances upon her face and her shallow breath rattles through the night. Her stormy grey eyes lie wide open as she continues to struggle against an unknown force so as to keep breathing. He stands at a distance, silently watching the two of us on the ground; one battling for her life and the other silent and still like the great oak tree above us. Her lips part slightly, a single droplet of light rises upwards into his palm and she falls into a silent stupor. He gazes at the pinpoint of white in his hand, bringing it slowly to his mouth. I watch on as he proceeds to swallow it, confused about the events transpiring before my eyes. He throws his head back and looks up to the pitch black sky and a million tiny lights wink back at him in response. His eyes open wide, his jaw falls low and a burst of brilliant white light breaks through his tall, proud form. I see the mouth move, I hear him speak a few moments later. The voice rings loud in my ears, resonating from everywhere and nowhere and he says to me, “The path you seek is straight ahead. Do not deviate from the road and you should be fine.”

My head falls back against the firm bark of the oak as I witness my guide disappear into thin air with no evidence of him ever having existed. My eyes close of their own will and I embrace the comforting darkness of slumber enveloping my mind.

My eyes fly awake as a sharp ray of light dispels my drowsiness. I wake up to find myself looking towards a convoluted, winding path leading into the woods. Against my will, I find myself rising and walking down the dusty road. I try to hum to myself, no sound greets me. I try to dart into the woods, but something brings me back to the same path no matter which direction I turn. The sun beats down hard upon my head, and in the distance I hear the faraway call of an eagle. Resigned to my current fate, I walk forward taking in all that I see around me. The sunlight dances between the shadows of the twisted trees, the brown floor beneath my feet gradually begins to evolve into a lush green lawn and the air I take deep, calm breaths of is painted with the scent of rain. I brush aside a shrub and stop in my tracks as I take in the view before me.

I stand before an ocean. The sand twinkles against my eyes, giving me a psychedelic glimpse of a million pinpoints of colour every time I blink. The tide rolls against the shore lazily as the sunlight bounces off the surface of the water. The sky lies mirrored before my feet and my toes play with the fine grains as I walk onto the beach. I sit against the onslaught of the slow tide and feel the refreshing spray of water upon my tired form. The sun begins to drop gently from the sky, retiring to his home beneath the vast expanse of water. I watch the sunset, I watch as the sky is painted by the whims and fancies of the final rays of sunlight as they herald the appearance of a single crescent sliver of silver hanging delicately in the sky, casting a dim white light on me. An ethereal breeze gushes past me, and I find myself obsessed by an urge to enter the water. I stand up, the waves breaking around my ankles as I walk into the water with an oddly familiar slow, composed gait. I walk forward calmly, the waves breaking against my torso as I begin to feel the ground sink below me. I let the ocean cradle me; I surrender myself to the mercy of the sea as she carries me in her lap. All emotion begins to wash away from me; I do not feel the familiar wave of fear as wave after wave crashes over my head, pushing me down beneath the surface of the water. I feel no panic as I take in the water in deep gulps, I feel nothing but a calm of certainty as I feel the ocean filling up my lungs. I smile and close my eyes as I begin to plummet down under depths. I embrace the vast nothingness that spreads out before me and fall unconscious.

A blinding pain flashes behind my eyes, as I gasp and sputter to find myself on a jet black rock, sprawled out like an empty carcass. I look around, unable to find my bearings, and my eyes fall upon a massive, emerald green pillar. It stands on the shore, firm and unmoving even as the ocean tries desperately to push it off its pedestal. I lift myself off the rock with difficulty and force my sore feet to stumble towards the pillar. I fall at its base, every bone in my body feeling like a deadweight. I rest my head against my arm, panting and coughing when I feel a hand upon my shoulder. I look up to see a small boy smiling down at me with an odd benevolence, the light of ages of wisdom alive in his eyes. He puts his hand to the pillar, and I watch in awe as it begins to crumble to a vibrant green ash. I look at him in plain bewilderment, and though he chuckles silently, I hear his deep, rumbling voice in my head. “You have nothing to fear from me, I am merely here to deliver to you what you have been looking for all this time.” I hear his voice tell me. He walks over to the shimmering green pile of dust and pulls out a piece of paper. He places his hand on my head, clasps the paper in my hand and smiles. I see his small head throw my face into shadow as he blocks the sunlight falling on my face, and I sit still, relishing the cool shade.

I open my eyes in front of this piece of paper, pen in hand, the wind through my hair and a single dim light’s reflection in my glasses. And on the paper, I see this article.
Well, this is my first post here. And I know that its "Hello POETRY" and this is not a poem, but whatever floats my boat, right? :P
Del Maximo May 2010
October 11, 1944
mission Mt. Cauala
deep in the Appennines
veils of midnight
curtains of torrential rain
her rivers rise to block our way
the Vezza roaring like thunder
brilliant, blinding lightning baffling
stealing all sense of proportion
torn up roads like chasms tripping
dropped equipment lost in mud
visibility at absolute zero
feeling forward for each step
the man in front of you disappears in darkness
as each man to the rear gets lost
this blackness of night had not been foreseen
lightning flashes strobe the mountains above
thunder explodes like artillery fire
completely soaked soldiers stumble around
some find an abandoned shack
shelter near the Sera
rest until daybreak

as we enter Seravezza
our regimental commander cautions
the entire town under enemy eyes
scoping our every move
enemy machine guns sweep streets
heavy artillery regularly rakes buildings
some of our men already wounded
reconnaissance and plan of attack
Company I right, L center, K left
by 2310 the last man slips
into Sera’s icy waters
then climbs necessity’s ladders
built to negotiate the steep Rocky Ridge
jagged, knife-like edges rip clothing and tear flesh
as men try to find footing in blackness
chaos in the ranks
platoons and squads scattering
leaders have no way of knowing
if men are turning back
getting spattered by enemy machine guns
or losing their footing and lives
to the rocks below
calling out to each other
pinpoints our positions to enemy ears
drawing more accurate fire
by 0730 we are all atop the mountain
the German counter attack begins the day
fanatically, despite our heavy fire
they keep coming from three directions
expected flank from 1st Battalion does not arrive
still, German mortar fire and grenades
cannot dislodge our men
despite dwindling ammunition
we hold our position
BAR’s, Silver Stars and concussion grenades

a dozen volunteer for ammunition supply detail
as we approach the hill
a machine gun rakes our position
manned by two, our fire takes out one
the other carries him away
onward to hill’s base
progress paused by tremendous barrage
we crouch for a time before continuing
half way up we’re met
with more mortars and machine guns
shrapnel flying hot
burning into clothes and skin
the smell of gunpowder and cordite
burning into memory
our ammunition mission fails
forcing return to base of hill
with men from rifle companies following
at 1600 our own heavy artillery barrage falls short
striking entrenched remnants of companies K and L
this friendly fire is too much for tired men to take
they withdraw at opportunity’s first chance

darkness falls
soldiers roaming aimlessly
battle’s horror in shocked eyes
efforts made to gather wounded
seventy casualties in just one day
scores with battle shock and fatigue
but numbers never quantify
suffering, broken spirit and loss of life
trained men and officers killed
unhappy AWOLs and disciplinaries
find themselves as front line replacements
inexperienced men growling greatly
morale tanks

The battle of Seravezza crushed 3rd Battalion
despite several efforts
we were never able to take control
the Germans repelled every attack
soldiers were angered by impossible tasks
seemingly sent on suicide situations
we knew they knew where we were
we knew we were to face heavy bombardment
we knew we were without sufficient firepower or manpower
command knew we were out gunned
in the end
the Germans controlled the mountain
© May 27, 2010

adapted with permission from the book:
Black Warriors:  The Buffalo Soldiers of WWII
Memoirs of the Only ***** Infantry Division to Fight in Europe
by Ivan J. Houston, with Gordon Cohn
harmony crescent Aug 2018
fall back into the midnight grass
where are you?....... it doesn't matter
lie still as your luminescent irises reflect
glittering pinpoints in the night sky
graph them all in your gridded mind
a glorious correlation of novas and dark mist
calculations in the cold
PAIN as a star explodes spontaneously
light years away, undetectable
to most
but PAIN ONLY PAIN as your lungs…
they explode inside you
an unpredictable gone unmeasured.
your frozen head falls
90 degrees
shattered cochlea inches off of holy ground
Rosalind Hawkins May 2013
The stars in the sky,
Pinpoints of light,
Cold, hard,
Brilliant, bright,
Diamonds, fire,
They last forever,
The royal court,
Of the indigo sky,
Their queen, the moon,
Sometimes shy,
Sometimes bold,
Sometimes she hides,
But she is always there,
With her face so fair,
To watch o'er us,
Everywhere.
This poem was first posted under my AllPoetry.com account [username: birchstar97].
BianchiBlue Aug 2014
The sunrise betrayed the furnace
pouring heat into this atmosphere,
beauty deceives in pinpoints of fusion
spilling light on these nights in silence

We are all made of stars - we burn within
this core, unreached and untouched
as science fades in its approach -
Who can test the mystery inside?
Nuha Fariha Jul 2017
When I was thirteen my mother
Took a rose and crushed it
Letting the thorns ***** into her sides
Pinpoints of blood blushing on her arm

“This is what a man does to a woman,
What he takes and what cannot be
Restored, this what you must endure
This is what your family must endure
Because you are a woman.”

So is it any wonder that when you
Pushed yourself inside without asking
I did not stop you, that I only closed
My eyes and saw the image of that
Crushed red rose lying limp
Between my mother’s feet
Derek Yohn Oct 2013
i am sitting outside,
searching a sunset:
a plant loving light,
gobbling it up through
every pore.
Looking for the pinpoints
of ancient transmission.
i see a bulge...NO...
two, THREE!:
alien fingers pressing
latex event horizon,
mixed palette cornea burned.
     (Just a flashback, a
      cold beach night in
      my memory, feeling
      small in the universe
      again; chain-smoking
      unfiltered cigarettes,
      forcing a process, tasted
      bittersweet on the
      tip of my tongue.
)

i hate you, Florida,
but every where is equally
beautiful in the now.
None of it is home.

i don't know what that means...

is it here, where i am
understood, examined?

i am cold, seeking fire:
i need to cut you wide
open, Luke's Tauntaun, and
stuff you full of my words,
replace your white insides
with black and gray ink.

To live.
To BURN.
In the light, the way of forever.
Denise Ann Aug 2013
There's this song I always listen to that no matter what the circumstances never fail to make me think of you. It has become a second nature, I think, for my mind to conjure you within its convolutions while my heart tries not to ache at the delusion, the images painted by the words sung into my ear as I close my eyes and see you here, here beneath the shutter of my eyelids. You turn my heartbeats into a rapid continuous explosion of dying stars. I spend hours staring at the ceiling trying to make sense of why everything seems to be a memory of you, I try to find clues in the pages filled with poetry about you, and all I end up realizing is that you are the color of dappled sunlight against verdant spring grass. And the long winding roads snaking across the city lights I only want to get lost in you.

There's this song I've just begun to get addicted to, and no matter how many times I listen to it the only thing it keeps telling me is you, or maybe that is all I can hear, with my ears deaf to everything else that should make more sense than your name being an endless chant that never fails to be a vise on my throat, a shackle on my wrist, and I know, I know that if I turned away from you I would always look back to see if you show any inclination of stopping me. Hope, dreadful hope, that I somehow matter to this boy who seems to see everyone as the same, or maybe he has simply listened to the same song too many times and he's tired of everything, I wish I could touch him. I wish I could be the lines on his palm tracing past stories in the dried-up riverbed of his veins. Or to be the candlelight in his eyes, love, I don't need a wicker, you're all I need to keep burning.

There's this song I once heard from somewhere, it doesn't have words in it but it spoke of you more than I ever do, as if the blanks where the lyrics should be were lines connecting the pinpoints of lights visible in your laughter, as if the musical instruments were screaming what I never could, that whether you realize it or not, right now I feel like I can love you forever. I am running out of words, perhaps somewhere, miles away from me you're singing yourself to sleep, and my heart begs me silent so I can listen to the tune only I can hear, only I can know that you are the note that spurs the crescendo of an angel's praying song, that even god will listen to the heaven of your voice.

There's this song I just heard today, there's something about it that makes me sad. But then again every good song always sounds melancholy to me, as if there's a filter in my ears that permits only the tears to seep through, locks all the joy out of my body, and I can't really blame it, because happiness is a poison to the bitter sea churning in the pit of my stomach. It will **** me to be happy, and you're the blade that slides neatly through skin, flesh, and bone, cleaves through soft sinew as if it's nothing more than paper to be torn, shredded, ripped open like a smiling wound. You would **** me if you could, and it's all I can do to gasp through the choking sensation of your name lodged deep in my throat, to let my chest be filled with echoing thunderclaps.

So sing, whisper, speak to me, let my name spill from your lips like a waterfall tumbling over the edge of a cliff, let it crash down to the ocean of my heart, let the wave tear itself apart so  I can breathe, breathe, love, let me fill you with my breath, let me live, I don't have to leave, though your laughter consists of ricocheting shrapnel from the explosion of your touch, your smile is the deadly curve of a bowstring drawn tight nocked with cupid's poisonous arrow, your eyes are two storm clouds spitting lightning and reverberating with thunder, you are death. The beginning and ending of a lifelong love story.
Sorry I keep writing in prose form xD
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
A crime buried without justice is never laid to rest
Those that where responsible never addressed

The exploding bombs had chased them to the basments
They thought women and children would be safer in this containment

But these bombs that droped did not explode
It had a much deadlier payload

The gas it trun lose was Sarin by name
This nerve gas played no games

So much heavier than air, it's deadly fingers reached down
Right to where all the women and children could be found

Quit and deadly, they hadn't a prayer
They where all so caught unaware

Until their lungs wouldn't work
Then the muscles twitching and ****

Mothers agonizing screams filled the air
Me and my Children are dying they declared

Bombs delivered the gas
Now families and children twitch in deaths dance

No real hospital for miles
Poorly equipped clinics filled up, people laying in the aisles

Frothing at the mouth, pupils only pinpoints
Death came to many that day, it did not disappoint

The dead laid in rows in clinics, mosques, and streets
Over thirteen hundred the lord had to meet

And as the living took care of the dead, in their graves they lay
Still no one is punished for this crime upon them, not even to this day
Syria in 2013.
Alex McDaniel Oct 2014
From his balcony above a man watches down on a little town in Missouri,  
he pinpoints a bleak silver container as it slingshots into the darkening shadows above.

It yells to him,
"help, get me out of this awful place."
A trial of slate grey smoke follows the container as if it were it's overly attached mother and within a second pulls it back down into the atmosphere.
After descending the container skids across a schoolyard, rolls off the sidewalk and crakes into minuscule pieces.
From the cracks tear gas spills out in all directions covering the once quiet little down in terror, relinquishing it of any tranquility that remained.

The man on the balcony sits and observes the events that have unfolded.
From his perch he can not tell black from white.
He can not tell man from women.
Turban from top hat,
child from elder.
he can not see if interlocked hands declaring their love and denouncing death that blares from police megaphones, are hetero
or ****.
He can not see who's pride is enflamed by blue uniforms
or who's mouth's are covered by dew rags to prevent themselves from speaking a death sentence.

The gas covers it all.

He can only hear footsteps running away,
guns shots following the footsteps,
and unfinished prayers as bodies stain the side walk.

In this moment,
the chess game of life becomes not black versus white
but human versus human.
And the man wonders, from his balcony above,
why it must take weapons that destroy equality,
to make us see each other as equal.
https://twitter.com/alex_mcdaniel40
C Nov 2011
Look to the gloom,
yielding no depth of distance,
only pinpoints of light
blaring the selfish madness of man
and beast alike.
Look to oval eyed Saturn, and
notice not the opalescent crenulation
of teeth, or
the rigid celestial body
inflated and bloated-
floating in the absence of fettered air;
all that is important
is the lifeless bodies
cannibalized and
invariably stuck in an endless orbit
of the greedy giant.
There’s a humming above the rain
Evil sinners plot against the land,
Fly buzzing ghouls, adrift the spirit
But above all, I remain a man.

Alas the wind had died
So small beneath the mast,
Alack, to the devil must go
Sundry memories that pass.

So brilliant beneath the dreamscape,
Quaking stares above the fire.
Be watchful; the vision's going
Smoking ruin inside the pyre.

Shift to intangible, across the water
Without a backward glance;
Shimmering pinpoints in the distance,
That hollowed, ghostly dance.
Dagoth I Am Dec 2014
your skirt was red and flowing,
your blouse was blue
on the night i locked eyes with you.
it seemed to me like i hadn't seen your eyes since last december.

my shredding muscles
my popping joints
i saw the pupils of your eyes by firelight shrinking down to pinpoints
you were poking at the embers
there's a cold wind coming off the ocean.
there's a cold wind coming off the ocean.

i wet my finger with my tongue and pressed it in the ashes,
rubbed it up against your perfect eyelashes.
you said something really important,
something pretty seems to have slipped my mind.
walls were freezing, so was the floor.
i didn't want to hurt you anymore.
you had a sad, sad, friend in front of you,
that dying fire behind.
there was a cold wind coming off the ocean.
there was a cold wind coming off the ocean.
.

Set aside time for celestial night-
A million years to name every star,
Time in your eyes make them seem very far-
Preparing your soul for astral flight.
Tantalize your skies with your tailless kite;
While Orion is preparing for war-
And nobody knows just what war is for.
Discovery has been my life's delight!


To gaze into sky that's as black as tar-
Pinpoints -of- light... everywhere that I turn;
And the cage of my chest feels very tight.

You turn the key and you have the power-
Everyone wants to see Jupiter burn.
Ah! It's going to be one hell of a night!












.
Michael Donovan Feb 2012
Expansed in cloudless skies
Afternoon's promised all
A starry sacred finger.

Numberless specks of light,
Organized by time and weight.

So condensed specks of dust -
Some dialed in for sight, face up
Just in time for the exhibition:
Grandeur on a scaleless slate.

This is the reason to rhyme.

You may say "not at all"
But I prefer to step and fall
Into the black as though it were
so close to me - to reach and stir
with a hand the nebula's wisp
made of things both soft and crisp
hot and cold, as season's due
year in and out- Still - and true
Ceasing not but to amaze
So flicker the Pinpoints - spots of haze
Never changing - still they move
Moving change - hangs still above.

Only when I turn down my eye
Blades of grass that live and die
speak this ancient tale to me
of dartling lights and infinite sea.

Yet everywhere I look about and see that everywhere's about
I find myself lost in oceans of one,
A frozen sea that feels like the sun.
Ship to ship I wish to link
But having cast off my way to blink
I sink (into a hue)
I think (as if I have a clue)
I sink (then, into blue)

Out of my heady-ness there comes yawn,
The same readiness that forsees a dawn,
Witnessing miracles can't go on
So in I meander from the lawn.
Denise Ann Jul 2013
June 28, 2013.
    
Dear--no, this is not a diary entry, this is not a summary of the things I experienced today, this is not about how I felt when my crush said 'Hey', this is not about him or her, this is not about me.
    
Dear Cupid.
    
This is about you and your stupidity and idiocy, and your breathtaking suckery in archery, this is about how much I want to punch you in the face if you really exist, because of all the gods and goddesses the Greeks and Romans worship, you're the most vile of them all.

This is about how you whistled merrily down the street, completely unaware of everyone and everything around you, clutching your bow with an arrow nocked on its string, poised to strike.

This is about how you saw this girl who was indifferent to almost everyone and almost everything, this girl who never really cared, this girl who did not know love. This is about how you smirked to yourself and suddenly felt power surging through your veins, for you have found your target, this girl who always thought about everything and never let her heart decide, this girl who tried so hard to forget she can feel, this girl who never, ever loved, and was never, ever loved.

This is about how you felt everything slow down around you, how your sight narrowed down to the space between you and this girl, how your arrow yearned to be unleashed, to fly across the void that needed to be filled, to strike this girl who often forget she had a heart, this girl who needed to know love.
    
This is about how you pulled the bowstring to your cheek, felt the flecked feathers brush the bottom of your eyelids, saw nothing but this girl who forgot how to smile, this girl who never imagined you would set your sights on her, and this is about how your fingers set the string loose, set the arrow free, sent it soaring across the gap that you wanted to fill.

This is about the explosion of color in a gray room when the blade made contact with this girl's chest, this girl who went reeling back, stumbling back, so taken aback was she that the sudden fire in her ice-cold world rendered her blind and dumbstruck.

This is about how you snickered smugly to yourself because quite abruptly this girl was suddenly no longer indifferent, this girl suddenly cared, this girl remembered she had a heart--because it started beating too fast, it started screaming, it started living.

This is about how pleased you were you immediately set your bow and your arrows down, how you sighed in anticipation of an entertaining show, how you were so satisfied you instantly sat back and relaxed to enjoy the real life movie.
  
This is about how excited you were you forgot the most essential thing about your job.

You forgot to shoot the other one.
    
Dear Cupid.

You're such an *******.

But this is not only about you, this is not only about your folly, this is not only about your irresponsibility, this is not only about the wicked weapons you carry, because this is also about the one you forgot to shoot.

This is about him, and how I wish he could listen to the songs only I can hear, how I wish he knew I'm talking about him, how I wish that someone will somehow capture you, Cupid, so they can tie you to a stake and set you on fire, and maybe this feelings will hopefully dissipate along with the smoke into thin air.
  
This is about him, and how the sudden vibrancy of the colors around me disabled me almost completely. This is about him, and how his eyes suddenly seemed purer, his hair darker, his smile brighter. How I saw stars in the velvet sable of his irises, and I saw poems etched on his skin, words filling in the empty spaces inside him, the silence he wraps around himself a harsh barrier I can never bring myself to attempt breaking through.

This is about him, and the way every ounce of my awareness fixates on him every time he enters the room, and the way my heart flutters like a hummingbird's wings, singing a frantic, desperate melody of fear and panic and anticipation and everything dreadful contained in your arrows.
  
This is about him, and rainbows and sunshine and butterflies, and everything I've never known.
  
This is about how the girl who never knew love suddenly knew how love looks like. She knew the sharpness of his cheekbones, the angles along his jowls, the point of his chin. She knew the softness of his lips, the hardness of his jaw. She knew him a lot more than she wanted. She knew him intimately.

This is about him.

This is about the words I'll never have the courage to say, the poems I will never be able to write. This is about heartbreak and chocolates and long walks in the rain. This is about the tears I will never be able to shed, the smiles I forget to wear, the genuine laughter I always try my best to imitate.
  
And I lied, because this is also about me.
  
This is about me, and the lies I tell everyday. This is about gazing at the stars and wishing I could tack my fingertips on those bright pinpoints of light, wishing I could give my body to the sky, because having no body means not having to feel anything.
  
Dear Cupid.
  
If only you know what you've done. If only.
  
I would love to strangle you with my own two hands.
  
And maybe I'll forgive you for giving me this, the way I forgive him everyday for every hurt he gives me.
  
But this is not only about you, and this is not only about him. This is not only about me.
  
Because this is also about love.
Sophie Herzing Nov 2013
You pulled long wings from my back to my ribs-
deep passion inscriptions and hieroglyphs
with your nails as I whispered unholy
prayers into your ears with your mouth closed.
I tripped into your superstition that started with a kiss
outside your door after midnight,
pressing my shoulder blades into the palm of your hands.
You said you didn't try any games.
I said I didn't like to play.

Be careful, supernova, you'll burn out.

I attacked you right from the start.
"Shut up, would ya!" you'd say with a smile,
laughing when I'd scream back at the television commercials
when they'd ask me stupid questions.
I drove you insane.
But when you'd fall asleep I'd trace your eyelids
like crop circles with my fingertips,
making a thin bridge over your nose
connecting pinpoints like constellations.
Sometimes I'd ask you to read the stories
that you wrote on my skin.
You'd pass the message along through your lips
gently against mine the way a shadow sits
on a figure.
I'd sigh when your hands skipped over
the space between my thighs.

Be careful, supernova, you'll burn out.

I took a chance on you.
You didn't bid on me.
I guess it's true that some things
burn too bright.
My sky used to be so bright
Pinpoints of light and joy
Comets bringing icy chunks of cheer
Moons carrying comfort
Shooting stars raining down pure happiness

They all remain-
But a supernova has blinded me to them.
PrttyBrd Oct 2018
Millenia a moment
wishes on all the starfish in the ocean
wouldn't make Wilcox happy in love

Indivisible divisions
infinite wisdom where math and science
will never meet God

Did science create a universe or simply define it?
Where beginning meets end in pinpoints of minutia
that by definition and design will never actually meet

Cradle me in your arms for nanoseconds
each holding an eternity
If only time could be held by more than mere memory

Maybe, everything until the now that is never the now
can touch a moment
that can never be broken into its smallest parts
101218
100w
You remind me of the earth,
   like deep burnt umber woodlands
mid downpours' fresh aroma
       & spring's foliage lushly reborn,
twinkling explosive pinpoints
       grazing beyond dark ether,
  sparkles dappling 'pon depths
        of eternal seascapes's nature,
amidst breath of relentless airy winds
    gusting above her majesty's hazes
       beyond purple mountain's apex
and streams of meadows' wildflowers in
  deftly painted horizons after moonbows,
vivid consciousness' uttermost reminisce
   of all things recollected in the long ago
        essence of your memories' presence
Ottar Sep 2013
I can't give the raw edge,
Of Life,
a chance in words,
flies away like birds,
it is not mine,
to give.

like the amazon queen,
who ****** for her ****,
(they sleep for now)
they both crawl or limp
out from behind the bustop
I can see the scars from her battles,
starting with the nose on her face,
working down her arms,
and even her legs,
he is an intense pair of eyes,
Address *mean street
on repeat,
as his looks are like darts,
avoid eye contact, or there
might be only two sounds

he is porter, drags the bags for the both,
they are looking for a home, as the hint,
of cool morning dew tears, is fall, then winter
Will chase at their heels, and his role as protector,
will be tested against a cold-hearted enemy,
in the open, they are on the hunt for a shelter
to run the business, where he is lord, master, lover,
And ****.

every day this merciful summer,
it has been a different stop, bus or not
every night under stars pinpoints,
Not Needle Marks,
but the Personal Crack Pipe,
needs cleaning before the next use,
like removing makeup from her skin,
just to put it on again,
And off,
And on,
as he banks the money,
for commodities Street market loss or gain
after all what is the price of crack *******?

The raw cost,
In the raw, her business attire,
The raw edge,
I have not lived, not mine to give.

©DWE092013
*see "up the creek ...." Apr 3
"Two sounds" reference, you know, his fist hitting anyone's face and that face hitting the ground.
Lora Lee Apr 2016
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
mine)* and it wanders over
the slopes and valleys
of my own
wildernesses
I think of you
in plains and grasslands
sleekly wet in mountain curve
as you coolly crack the
earthly fissures
of my heart  quakes
inside
morning light
you transverse
your poetic speak
deep inside my night
your are always with me
in seeping pinpoints
of brightness
of gentle storms
you rock my dark to sleep
you are present
not obsessively
yet strongly
the way people describe
alcohol in veins
you regularly cut them
open, my heartstrings
you strum upon
their vibrations
like waves of calm
intoxication
lulling me
into gentle earthquake
pleasure and centered
breaths
leaving pieces rocking
throughout
my bloodflow back
up interspersed
between beats
i carry you
(that heart of yours)
in my heart
and I treasure
this residence
you have taken up
in my desert
blooms
faraway touch of lips
makes
pulse quiet
in soft booms
your voice soothing
storms
and you i like
sweetly in
my pulse
as seeds just
grow
i carry your heart
inside mine all day
your voice soothing
storms
my raging river
in your flow
Based on The National Poetry Month Prompt Number 25: write a poem that begins with a line from a another poem (not necessarily the first one), but then goes elsewhere with it.
This is from e.e.cummings ;ï carry your heart with me

and based on real feelings

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