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CK Baker Jan 2017
In time you’ll recover and absolve
push those scorned impressions aside
hammer down the jaded edges
and sing
that delightful commoners song
the one you sang so well
in what seems a lifetime ago

You really had it you know
that fiery disposition and nimble cunning
those butter chords and derelict style
we could see it -- we could all see it
it was all it took to turn the evening tide
(and rile that buck fever)
heads bashing
tongues lambasting
middle fingers high
and raising Cain on those may fly statesmen

There were no rules
when it came to your survival
no textbook rally or common bond
no structured songbird or bravado stage
you either made it, or laid it
“life by the *****” Mr. Poppy would say
a kaleidoscope of dreams
with rich colored imagery
hardened artisan seams
in a carefully woven motif

But something got lost in the needle point
something sinister and distorted took hold
the quirks and street genius
that were your lifeline
gave way to grunts
and squeals
and chilling night crawlers
the colors faded quickly
to a cold confining grey

There was no grace in the new world
no retribution or switch back
no salvation or accorded finale
only edged platforms of blackened steel
that kept you cased
in a silent vanquished cell
shivering cold with fear
night without day
all in the shadow of death

But time heals all
and the polish sneakers
and open sores are long gone
(though the roman nose and shallow cleft remain)
indeed the falconer beat the widow maker
this go around
and I’m hopeful it won’t happen again
and if it does you’ll see me
standing hand on heart
with that old verse in hand:

he ain’t tainted
or silly,
and most certainly
not forgotten…
he ain’t loony
or fixed,
or a product of his self-doing…
he’s just a straight shootin’ guy,
who had the most of it
figured out
Salty rancher spackle is to Earthy diva smackers as Swinging hotel number is to?
Rippling cling bread is to Three lizard chariots as Indigo lime tangent is to?
Nighttime reunion planet is to Nettle lane scuffle as Soaking spider *** is to?
Fancy trance logs are to Sticky fudge lather as Vivacious gator college is to?
Cheerful blossom face is to Secret tractor rocket as Canned gremlin emblems are to?
Jealous pitchfork generals are to Heartbreaking patchwork veranda as Folding robot noise is to?
Pretty rhino rash is to Lost locket vengeance as Back pocket weather is to?
Frosted candy sidewalk is to Sneaky kook code as Shiny waffle smoke is to?
Sapphire cloud romance is to Magnetic comet lava as Blue triangle envy is to?
Vanishing honey melody is to Thermal elf pajamas as Whistling iceboat shampoo is to?
Peach mint politics is to Frozen doll pennies as Rusty anchor catapult is to?
Swollen pony fever Throbbing sword kazoo as Silent turbine science is to?
Obese germ thunder is to Stacked lemon towers as Corrupt moon jockey is to?
Demented insect whistle is to Glass trophy cleanup as Purple geode bubble is to?
Nighttime razor slime is to Lacquered dragon maps as Tint paper mittens are to?
**** camel drops are to Velvet ****** shoes as Slippery red muffins are to?
Flying hot drool is to Pale chocolate telescope as Tin trumpet ballet is to?
Expensive puppy speed is to Flowered duck mirror as Cosmic needle factory is to?
Fractured laser doodles are to Cracked butter gravel as Rubber holster straps are to?
Majestic panther fortress is to Jeweled cork target as Iron swan taxi is to?
Poisonous pepper bouillon is to ****** goat soap as Chrome feather pirates are to?
Digital gorilla scriptures are to Timid hunter stench as Frozen domino video is to?
Eccentric troll opera is to Transparent wax village as Spoiled coral agony is to?
Bizarre green metal is to Pillow eating hamster as Leather cavern ***** are to?
Eternal hurricane evidence is to Powdered rainbow perfume as Smoking yellow prune is to?
Liquid wish cleanser is to Exploding meadow ladders as Brittle rose hammer is to?
Caged foam filter is to Cherry balloon string as Ivory cactus spider is to?
Carbon puppet watch is to Sad kings compass as Elastic lace whiskers are to?
Nitrogen trolley dust is to Lazy elephant toffee as Orange toad choir is to?
Dark pole zodiac is to Blue finger blanket as Illegal bug nozzle is to?
Stinky towel cookies are to White jade caskets as Sticky snail tea is to?
Converting stellated caramels is to Mythic aerosol socks as Rubber raspberry jokes are to?
Flying clock carousel is to Whisky nut worms as Plastic fish platforms are to?
Queasy Vaseline queens are to Moody pigeon pills as Aqua mice fur is to?
Spotted bowl shadow is to Idiotic radiance lotion as Bungalow toad hearse is to?
Gushing chimney fungus is to Funky lamb acrobat as Utopian **** sprinkler is to?
Twinkling bungalow tablet is to Botanical duck rope as Bug hat ram is to?
Broken clock fossil is to Black ginger confetti as Parisian cobra meatloaf is to?
Silly Xerox ribbon is to Obedient raccoon carny as Traditional cat linguini is to?
Last astral advisor is to Elastic badger riddles as Broken circle rifles are to?
Bagged squire channel is to Temporary mosaic cake as Ancient bacon thread is to?
Wireless math army is to Moronic neon money as Pearl razor radar is to?
Rubber buzzard blizzard is to Troubled bubble wizard as Crushed hash ******* is to?
Purple birdy cure is to Tangled frost blossoms as Silken bridal saddle is to?
Unisex owl accordion is to Sugar bottomed boat as Optical nougat treasure is to?
Flavored saline rain is to Black arrow clan as Transistorized clam guitar is to?
Sharpened twig scar is to Mutant beet sonar as Baked troll mask is to?
Boxed noodle secrets are to Traditional guru buttons as Glossy marshmallow strategy is to?
Vibrating melted jelly is to Silver furniture dream as Spewing collated seats is to?
Burnt mountain pickles are to Baby preacher shoes as Sympathetic pilot pain is to?
Narrow portal treaty is to Monkey warehouse vacancy as Painted tornado trap is to?
Porch penny sulfur is to Glowing pony fat as Patched mattress bait is to?
Frigid waitress fallacy is to Graphic shrimp salute as Misted sneezing window is to?
Moist apple moss is to Daddy’s zoom seed as Downtown Pope cart is to?
Tired felon trickle is to Holographic squirrel candle as Wild ray hay is to?
Deadly zero chalk is to Folding wilderness chart as Curved ******* vacuum is to?
Hollow porcelain pellets are to Strawberry rain stencils as Microwave taxi nomads are to?
Wasted machete balcony is to Crumpled creature confessions as Fridge fuzzed fruit is to?
Sloppy demon damage is to Squeaky puppet chuckle as Mental arcade combat is to?
Monster trout stories are to Lewd pirate cocktail as Locked mammal grommet is to?
Rotting rope network is to Tragic toy goat as Cotton submarine shoes are to?
Complex pepper dance is to ****** cloud cushion as Marching taxi holiday is to?
Mental petal collectors are to Spooned barn putty as Dork factory fiction is to?
Hot spotted tops are to Timed stepping pests as Yogurt notching tartar is to?
Crazy dog comics are to Ambitious cartoon sphinx as Pavlov’s zinc ballet is to?
Soiled spinster wedding is to Padded razor wound as Floating fish map is to?
Slippery leopard pants are to Perfumed nut button as Dart wizard party is to?
Needy alien elephants are to Barking garden gnats as Quasar focused paper is to?
Slanted heart **** is to Bronzed cliff sandals are to Cunning jockey jokes are to?
***** thumbprint massage is to Holistic princess memory as Sliding dental sword is to?
Drifting wood whistle is to Fluorescent carpet powder as Foam dragon whistle is to?
Chopped web shadow is to Immortal vermin soup as Collapsing porch conspiracy is to?
Stolen thunder chant is to Haunted comet heart as Swollen throat portrait is to?
Fragrant frost parfait is to Grumpy caveman *** as Random stingray solo is to?
Squeaky polar turbine is to Silent lava fever as Oversized lunar fulcrum is to?
Synthetic dew droppers are to Pocket poster paste as Hypnotic screen dog is to?
Symbolic whirlpool nausea is to Dreaming tree phantom as Log badge bracket is to?
Camp hippo map is to Horseradish seizure insurance as Distant insect mirror is to?
German lady sherbet is to Stuntman laundry wax as Hungry butterfly ghost is to?
Fly smudged foil is to Amped maze coil as Shifting optic terror is to?
Automatic sheep floss is to Panoramic tanker anchor as Throbbing bone pillow is to?
Mutant clown village is to Nightmare translation treasure as Spotted spectral chakra is to?
Blind roach tweat is to Hermit worm tiara as Divine logo ritual is to?
Glueless gun stamp is to Malicious spam pump as Floral toffee pods are to?
Dudgeon mist removal is to Menacing bolt smacker as Boating duke shadow is to?
Costly metal plungers are to Creaky buzzing gushers as Glowing star cushions are to?
Raked barge sludge is to Crusted cream glitter as Zircon gutter babble is to?
Fake gold scholar is to Amish ******* mogul as Faithful ***** choir is to?
Sacred limo prayers are to Fried mice café as Splintered ****** thimble is to?
Dealing rabbit decals is to Pelican bongo festival as Patched equator rot is to?
Freedom gourd gasoline is to Cobblers studying acorns as Desecrated dice crater is to?
Tattered tapestry rod is to Busted particle scanner as Bogus piffle catalogue is to?
Trifle truffle raffle is to Last lamb laminate as Segmented cake goggles are to?
Domestic tackle tactic is to Ticking tic talk as Cordial corps coordinates is to?
Tucked duck caftan is to Sunken ramp ruckus as Wretched ranch rhetoric is to?
Clearly incomprehensible directions are to Useful archaic nonsense as Antiquated skeletal outline is to?
Bewildered beasts feasting are to Lazy busybodies resting as Vaccinating brave volunteers are to?
Lucky wagon dragons are to Famous gargoyle gargle as Formal postman funding is to?
Furrowed shroud chowder is to Borrowed tartan pajamas as Martini mixed algebra is to?
Cowgirl balloon helium is to Chewy glucose habitat as Stationary monument movement is to?
Diamond powered powder is to Diagonal diameter diagram as Purposely condensed expansion is to?
Organic iodine capsule is to Gleaming beach probe as Dominant dome static is to?
Shaving wrinkled targets is to Petting sensible monsters as Selling invisible whiskey is to?
Frozen piano architecture is to Note dotted clouds as Screaming Korean worms are to?
Sonic plant website is to Telepathic climbing clam as Bored protein exercise is to?
Gourmet mollusk cone is to Numb poodle caravan as Asian raven radar is to?
Adasyev Jul 2018
LAST UPDATE:
I won't cancel my account here and delete any poems which I like... I once was a poet here with freedom of speech. It is past now. Thank you all. Black, blue, silver, green or white can't be repainted with pink, as some state paid fools would desire. Bye

I STARTED WITH THIS;
Please be aware that the account hellopoetry.com/retardnnn with current female nickname "sara" IS NOT A REAL PERSON POETRY ACCOUNT, but a social media watching account used by the MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR OF THE CZECH REPUBLIC.

Please don't follow this account or support it anyway. If you get or did get any private messages from this account, they are a scam.

Since 2016, this account "retardnnn" can be found on many social media platforms including deviantart.com/retardnnn and many others. Here are some characteristics of it:

- there is never any uploaded content of the user, so no poems from "sara" even on this site where an invitation poem is required to join the community (perhaps deleted after joining)
- favorites of the fictional user are completely non-sense and accidental, completed just by clicking on similar tags, resulting in a mix of poems coming from many years, this is very distinct from a real person loving poems from people who they watch at a moment. You can see it yourself on hellopoetry.com/retardnnn
- in other sites like pinterest.com, the photo of "retardnnn" or "Sara" is some kind of pretty looking teenage girl. Even not being the same ******* all sites, this is a (jail)bait. By searching the source of the profile pictures, as I did, you can go back to the years 2012 or 2013, and the source photo is matched to Russian websites. This is certainly NOT a real person.

Use your brain, not sympathy for girl names.

I claim the main reason the mentioned profile joined Hellopoetry several months ago is me. Particularly my short prose written in Czech that I published here on December 28th which mocks in a very unpleasant way corruption-driven part of state administration in Prague, responsible for supervising so-called "independent contractors" employment model which is widespread in my country (also known in UK and US I guess). It also targeted particular state official in Prague in a way that became some kind of popular after that. With this text, I achieved what I wanted and I am proud of it.

The user hellopoetry.com/retardnnn is now watching me but I blocked them, so is present just as number 6 but invisible in my watchers list.

I WILL DELETE THIS non poetry related text after this user GETS OFF THIS SITE. Thanks, LV

The employee rights complaint written by me dealing with Czech authorities is accessible through http://tinyurl.com/svarcsystem (in Czech language of course).

UPDATE: In a attempt to discourage people reading my poems, I have ADS IN FRONT of my poems. You can see it by logging off (at least from my IP).

UPDATE 2: For visitors coming outside, the number of views of this text IS FALSIFIED, compared to what I see when I log in.

UPDATE 3: After publishing this, ads disappeared. Also user hellopoetry.com/retardnnn stopped watching me. The number of views of my texts is rising again.

UPDATE 4: Ads again renewed, but this time for any poems I see from my IP (country). Guys are working hard.

UPDATE 5: After having published new header about censorship on my profile page, FREQUENCY OF ADS dropped but they are still present.

UPDATE 6: Still being the same guy (Adasyev) I have changed my profile name to a better known one, only to see if this will influence displaying ads.

UPDATE 7: After doing this, the number of views (of this text) as seen below is blocked at 251 (for readers coming outside the community, my IP or country). The number of views at my poems is also blocked.

UPDATE 8: Number of views is fixed to 540 as of August 5. This is meant from country's IP adresses.

UPDATE 9: When viewed from my country's IP, the profile hellopoetry.com/retardnnn is still present with 8 followers.

UPDATE 10: Number of views of this text was fixed to 635 when viewed from my country's IP. As of August 6. When I log in the current number is 715. Ads are displaying almost everywhere on this site from my country's IP. Immediately after publishing the above text number is modified to 726. Any future value will be falsified and blocked from my country, so it lacks a sense to continue with this updating.

UPDATE 11: In response to the censorship on this site from my country I have already deleted in the last days the incriminated text from December 28th and few others concerning state administration in my country.

PLEASE NOTE: With the current censorship on this server in Czech Republic, you can't be sure whether I get or did get any private messages from you. I didn't get one till now.

I DIDN'T REPLY TO ANYONE TILL NOW. IF YOU GET ANY MESSAGES FROM ME, BE SURE THE ONLY THING I CAN DO HERE NOW IS TO UPDATE THIS TEXT AND MY PROFILE'S TEXT.

Link to this post is:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2631516/a-message-from-me/

Shortened link (as seen in my profile's header) is:
tinyurl.com/linktomylasttext
Snehith Kumbla Aug 2016
what forests are those we pass,
blazing along the railway tracks,
a tree bloom of still cranes,
stream black of ******* bane,

stench of dead city rubble,
factories of rusted cast metal,
distant cotton twilight skies,
sun slide across a bunch of wires,    

passing tunnels echo
lonely platforms, frantic gecko,
looming hillside,
crackle dry wood fire,

a god barred in lock&key, 
blink glimpse of the sea 
one rush of vision,
pebble fling at frisson,

metal-crunch rhythm,
grind music sublime,
spark, grunt, grate,
we arrive, we dissipate...
(As experienced on a train journey undertaken in December 2014)
judy smith Apr 2015
The Pakistan Fashion Design Council in collaboration with Sunsilk presented the fourth and final day of the eighth PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week. Indeed the 8th PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week marked the twelfth fashion week platform initiated by the Pakistan Fashion Design Council [with eight weeks of prêt-à-porter and four of bridal fashion] and was a direct manifestation of the Council’s commitment to sustainability and discipline within the business of fashion and the facilitation of Pakistan’s retail industry. Indeed #PSFW15 endeavoured to define and present trends for 2015, focusing specifically on fashion for the regions’ long hot summer months. Day-4 featured High-Street Fashion shows by the House of Arsalan Iqbal, Erum Khan, Chinyere and Hassan Riaz and designer prêt-à-porter shows by Sana Safinaz, Republic by Omar Farooq, Syeda Amera, Huma & Amir Adnan, Sania Maskatiya and HSY.

Speaking about the PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week platform, Chairperson of the PFDC, Sehyr Saigol said: “With the 12th iteration of our critically acclaimed fashion weeks, the PFDC is always working to streamline our prêt-à-porter platform to make the PSFW experience more beneficial for all stakeholders in terms of show experience, exposure and ultimately, retail value. To that end, each year we look inward to find the best possible formats and categories to benefit the very trade and business of fashion. In this vein, we introduced 3 separate categories for Luxury/Prêt, High Street and Textile at PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week, giving each entirely separate show space, times, audience exposure and viewing power. Our High Street fashion brands had been given a standalone show time on two separate days as early evening shows and Textile brands a separate dedicated day for Voile shows on Day 3 of PSFW 2015, a measured step to further highlight Pakistan’s textile prowess and high street fashion strength which are of significant importance to national and international fashion markets. As per past tradition, we continue to work closely with all our emerging designers and mainstream brands to help hone their collections for the runway through mentorship by senior PFDC Council members and with retail support through the PFDC’s own stores and network. We are grateful for the committed support of our sponsors and partners which provides us the stimulus to further enhance our fashion week platforms and put forth the best face of Pakistani fashion on a consistent basis.”

“The Sunsilk girl is an achiever, with an air of enthusiasm and positivity. Great hair can give her the extra dose of confidence so with Sunsilk by her side, she is empowered to take on life. Fashion is very close to this aspirational Pakistani girl making the PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week a highly valued platform for us. We recognize PFDC’s efforts to promote the fashion industry and experienced and upcoming talent alike. Sunsilk has been a part of this fantastic journey for 6 consecutive years and continues to shape aspirations, taking contemporary fashion directly to the homes of consumers and encouraging them to script their own stories of success” said Asanga Ranasinghe, VP Home and Personal Care for Unilever Pakistan.

On the concluding day of #PSFW15, the Chairperson of the PFDC Mrs. Sehyr Saigol also made a special announcement on behalf of the Council and its Board Members, where she shared the Council’s plans to establish Pakistan’s first ever craft based Design District, a multi-purpose specialized facility that would assist in developing and enhancing the arts and crafts industries, which are an integral part of Pakistan’s rich cultural legacy. In addition to being a centre for skill improvement and capacity building, the Design District would also house a first of its kind Textile Museum.

The official spokesperson of the PFDC, Sara Shahid of Sublime by Sara also announced the official dates for the Council’s next fashion week, PFDC L’Oréal Paris Bridal Week 2015 which is scheduled to be held from 15th September to 17th September 2015.

Indeed the success of PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week continued to prompt private sector associates to grow in their engagement of the platform to launch new marketing campaigns and promotional activities. To this end, the PFDC’s evolving partnership with Sunsilk grew exponentially this year whereby in addition to their title patronage; Sunsilk also took over the coveted PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week red carpet and the Green Room/Backstage, as sponsors. This extension of their support is indeed a manifestation of the brand’s belief in and commitment to the platform. Also in continuation of their support for the platform, Fed Ex – GSP Pakistan Gerry’s International returned to PSFW as the official logistics partner, offering the PFDC a special arrangement for international designer consignments.

PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015 was styled by the creative teams at Nabila’s and NGENTS. Light design, set design, sound engineering, video packaging, choreography and show production from concept to construction was by HSY Events, front stage management by Maheen Kardar Ali, backstage management by Product 021, Sara Shahid of Sublime by Sara as the official spokesperson for the PFDC, logistics and operations by Eleventh Experience and photography by Faisal Farooqui and the team at Dragonfly, Hum TV/Hum Sitaray as the Official Media Partners, CityFM89 as the Official Radio Partners with all media management by Lotus Client Management & Public Relations.

High-Street Fashion Shows

The House of Arsalan Iqbal

The afternoon High-Street Fashion Shows on the final day of PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015 were opened by leading fashion brand The House of Arsalan Iqbal, who showcased a collection titled ‘Devolution Chic’. Inspired by street art across the world by various artists, European high-street trends and technique of quilting, Arsalan Iqbal garnered personal portfolios of graffitists from myriad urban cityscapes such as London, New York, Tokyo, Barcelona and Cape Town, juxtaposed with some unique in-house created patterns including those of Pac-man, calligraphic flourishes and aqua and tangerine bands and circlets. Based in chiffon, the ensembles were molded into voluminous structured silhouettes including draped tunics, edgy jumpsuits and wide palazzos dovetailed with off-white and ecru charmeuse silk jackets created with a revolutionary quilting process. Along with menswear pieces, the collection also included in-house footwear and jewellery made in collaboration with pioneering Karachi-based street artist SANKI.

Erum Khan

Designer Erum Khan followed next and made her PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week debut with ‘The Untainted Shine’. The collection took its inspiration from the sparkle of twinkling stars, a walk on pearl dew in the morning and the enchanted glow which is produced when “a magic wand” is waved around the body, making it glow in a pearlescent white and exhibiting a jewel themed lustre on the body. With neat and straight structured cuts, Erum had used fabrics such as organza combined with silk, 3D flowers, patch work and antique katdanna in a collection which was based in a white colour palette. Trends highlighted in the collection were high waist skirts to button up pants and sheer long dresses. Acclaimed Pakistani musician Goher Mumtaz and his wife Anam Ahmed walked the ramp as the designer’s celebrity showstoppers.

Chinyere

Following Erum Khan, fashion brand Chinyere showcased its Spring/Summer 2015 High-Street collection ‘Mizaj-e-Shahana’ at PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015. An ode to the era of the Mughal royalty and their imperial aesthetic, the collection comprised of modern silhouettes and traditional embellishments with organza skirts paired with cropped tops, angarkha-peplum tops with embellished cigarette pants, sheer knee-length jackets paired with structured digital printed bustier-jumpsuits, diaphanous wrap-around boot-cuts and embellished boxy sleeves with soft A-line silhouettes. Chinyere also showcased ten menswear pieces comprising of waistcoats, jodhpurs, knee-length sherwanis paired with gossamer sheer kurtas. The colours used had been divided into a collection of distinctive Mughalesque pastels and jewel tones. The pastels included the classic marble ivory-on-ivory, the bold black, saffron, gold and ivory. The colour segments also included metallic gold and grey sections, with accents of bronze and black. The jewel tones included jade, emerald, ruby and sapphire.

Hassan Riaz

The concluding High-Street fashion show of PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015 was presented by Hassan Riaz who showcased his ‘Contained Shadows’ collection. Inspired by the diverse facets of the human soul that explore both the dark and light sides of human nature, taking into account yearnings, desires, and anxieties that make us distinctly human, Hassan had based the collection in summer twill, organza and summer denim in shades of blue and white with a gold accent to reflect upon his inspirations. ‘Contained Shadows’ made use of structured and drifting silhouettes, cage crinolines with corsets and bustiers with distinct trends featuring cropped tops, nautical accents, experiments with transparency and patchworks of metal mixed & matched with flowers.

Designer Showcases

Sana Safinaz

PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015’s evening [rêt shows on the fourth and final day was opened by premier designer label Sana Safinaz. Sana Safinaz’s PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week collection was inspired by monochromatic structured looks with pops of color. The collection was based in luxe fabrics such as kattan, silks, fine silk organza and dutches satin in a colour palette majorly based in black and white with strong vibrant pop infusions.
Key trends being highlighted were the oversized T, constructions-clean lines, simplicity of cuts and effective embellishments.

Republic by Omar Farooq

Following Sana Safinaz, acclaimed menswear brand Republic By Omar Farooqshowcased a collection titled ‘Que Sera, Sera!’ (whatever will be, will be!). Omar Farooq had used a variety of luxe fabrics such as suede, linen, chiffon, cotton, cotton silk and wool silk. A collection for all seasons, the ensembles built upon the label’s signature aesthetics while providing a new take on contemporary menswear. Acclaimed media personality Fawad Khan walked the ramp as the brand’s celebrity showstopper.

Syeda Amera

The third Prêt show of the final day of PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015 was presented by designer Syeda Amera who made her ramp debut with ‘The World of Sea’. Inspired by love for the enchanting underwater, the collection was based in premium quality organza, jersey, nets and silks with delicate cuts and embellishments consisting of beads, sequins and feathers to reflect the collection’s aquatic theme. ‘The World of Sea’ featured a palette of aqua marine, scupa blue, powder pink, grey blue, tequila sunrise yellow, orange and lagoon green with trends that employed skirt layering, frills and ruffles and flared pants.

Huma & Amir Adnan

Following Syeda Amera, Huma & Amir Adnan showcased a joint collection for the first time at a fashion exhibition. Both Huma and Amir feel that as a couple they share their lives and draw synergies and their collection ‘Symphony’ was an epitome of how two people can revolve around the same concept in harmony, while maintaining their individual distinction. Showcasing both menswear and women’s wear at PSFW 2015, Huma and Amir had used a mix of fabrics, textures and embellishments with a complex collection of weaves, prints and embroideries in silk, linen, cotton and microfiber. The color palette included midnight blue, emerald green, wet earth, aubergine, ivory, old paper, turmeric, leaf and magenta. Key trends highlighted in the collection were long shirts, double layered shirts, printed vests and jackets, textured pants, colored shoes for men and layers of multi-textured fabrics, tighter silhouette, vests and jackets for women.

Sania Maskatiya

Designer Sania Maskatiya showcased the penultimate Luxury/Prêt collection of the evening at PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week 2015. This S/S ’15, Sania Maskatiya took audiences on a fashion journey to ‘Paristan’ – a place of fairytale whimsy at PFDC Sunsilk Fashion Week. With a colour palette ranging from the softest shades of daybreak to the deepest hues of nightfall, ‘Paristan’ was a collection of playful, dreamlike prêt ensembles. Featuring luxury fabrics like silk, organza, charmeuse and crepe, the pieces followed the brand’s signature silhouettes, both structured and fluid. Beads and sequins embellished varied hemlines and multiple layering, all set against captivating scenes of mirth and magic. Motifs ranged from the sublime to nonsensical; friendly mice and naughty elves, clocks and teapots, flowering fields and star-filled skies, princesses and ponies.

HSY

Day-4’s finale was presented by acclaimed couturier HSY who showcased a collection titled ‘INK’; a collection inspired by Asia and specifically HSY’s journeys to The Land of the Rising Sun. INK represented the essence of Langkawi, Indonesia, Nagasaki, and Yunnan with natural and indigenous yarns, hand-woven to perfection. The collection featured the traditional dyeing techniques of Shibori from Nagasaki, Batik from Indonesia, and Gara from Sierra Leone infused with mackintosh, saffron, aubergine, eggshell, rosette, indigo and ochre. Created with the scorching sub continental summer in mind, INK channelled versatile hemlines to suit a diversity of younger, older, working men, women and homemakers alike.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane
cleo Feb 2017
i don’t count aloud anymore
i can't stand to hear your name,
such a common word
it doesn't matter the context
i still go quiet every time

i used to pick up pennies, called them lucky
i remember picking up a few
on our way back to your place.
nowadays i don't give them a second glance
it's not their worth i've forgotten

they say one is the loneliest number
is that why you did it?
because you felt you’d earned it
after all this time being by yourself--
that you deserved it?
what about me,
did i?

i remember exactly what i wore that day:
short shorts, a baggy t shirt
i haven't worn those shoes since (and i so loved them)
they were these expensive purple velvet platforms;
i actually had to beg my mother to buy them for me.
"you better wear them", she warned.
that day i went home with you was
the first time i'd ever worn those shoes,
and the last
sorry mom
The platforms are full of passengers

The fruits, coffees and tea stalls

The train runs on the track with heels

Like the whops of horses



Passengers enter the train in a hurry

And leave without any worry

Someone sleeps in the berth and snores

Some other sits and reads the news

The gluttonous eater eats the eats

The vendor sells nuts and peas

and cries like the buzzing bees

the T.C comes, wakes up and asks

for the ticket and bribes for berths

the beggar begs for alms singing hymns

some play cards making unbearable noises

the child weeps ,cries and moans

the thief enters the coaches

and tries to steal the bags



the passengers make friends with ease

but it will very soon cease

life like railway travel is a passing shower

it doesn’t last forever

It lasts only till the destination comes

The passenger takes the bag and leaves
Julie Grenness Jul 2015
I reminisce by this railway siding pond,
Musing on rail relics rattling on,
Recalling lives and times bygone,
But memories of their shades linger on,
The lonesome call of distant steam trains,
Eras that may never come again,
I see they're gone nowhere in particular,
Replaced by planes and transport vehicular,
I imagine queues on foggy platforms,
Awaiting the misted trains' shadow forms,
Standing by, expecting the status quo,
I blink my eyes, where did they all go?
Looking backwards along yesterday's track,
I'm no kid any more, get off my back,
I reflect and reminisce,
Nostalgia is for the times we miss,
I'll reminisce by the railway siding pond,
I recall the times and lives bygone,
As ghosts of rail relics keep rattling on......
I aimed to write a lyric poem for a change. Feedback welcome.
When I die
I don't care what happens to my body
throw ashes in the air, scatter 'em in East River
bury an urn in Elizabeth New Jersey, B'nai Israel Cemetery
But l want a big funeral
St. Patrick's Cathedral, St. Mark's Church, the largest synagogue in
        Manhattan
First, there's family, brother, nephews, spry aged Edith stepmother
        96, Aunt Honey from old Newark,
Doctor Joel, cousin Mindy, brother Gene one eyed one ear'd, sister-
        in-law blonde Connie, five nephews, stepbrothers & sisters
        their grandchildren,
companion Peter Orlovsky, caretakers Rosenthal & Hale, Bill Morgan--
Next, teacher Trungpa Vajracharya's ghost mind, Gelek Rinpoche,
        there Sakyong Mipham, Dalai Lama alert, chance visiting
        America, Satchitananda Swami
Shivananda, Dehorahava Baba, Karmapa XVI, Dudjom Rinpoche,
        Katagiri & Suzuki Roshi's phantoms
Baker, Whalen, Daido Loorie, Qwong, Frail White-haired Kapleau
        Roshis, Lama Tarchen --
Then, most important, lovers over half-century
Dozens, a hundred, more, older fellows bald & rich
young boys met naked recently in bed, crowds surprised to see each
        other, innumerable, intimate, exchanging memories
"He taught me to meditate, now I'm an old veteran of the thousand
        day retreat --"
"I played music on subway platforms, I'm straight but loved him he
        loved me"
"I felt more love from him at 19 than ever from anyone"
"We'd lie under covers gossip, read my poetry, hug & kiss belly to belly
        arms round each other"
"I'd always get into his bed with underwear on & by morning my
        skivvies would be on the floor"
"Japanese, always wanted take it up my *** with a master"
"We'd talk all night about Kerouac & Cassady sit Buddhalike then
        sleep in his captain's bed."
"He seemed to need so much affection, a shame not to make him happy"
"I was lonely never in bed **** with anyone before, he was so gentle my
        stomach
shuddered when he traced his finger along my abdomen ****** to hips-- "
"All I did was lay back eyes closed, he'd bring me to come with mouth
        & fingers along my waist"
"He gave great head"
So there be gossip from loves of 1948, ghost of Neal Cassady commin-
        gling with flesh and youthful blood of 1997
and surprise -- "You too? But I thought you were straight!"
"I am but Ginsberg an exception, for some reason he pleased me."
"I forgot whether I was straight gay queer or funny, was myself, tender
        and affectionate to be kissed on the top of my head,
my forehead throat heart & solar plexus, mid-belly. on my *****,
        tickled with his tongue my behind"
"I loved the way he'd recite 'But at my back allways hear/ time's winged
        chariot hurrying near,' heads together, eye to eye, on a
        pillow --"
Among lovers one handsome youth straggling the rear
"I studied his poetry class, 17 year-old kid, ran some errands to his
        walk-up flat,
seduced me didn't want to, made me come, went home, never saw him
        again never wanted to... "
"He couldn't get it up but loved me," "A clean old man." "He made
        sure I came first"
This the crowd most surprised proud at ceremonial place of honor--
Then poets & musicians -- college boys' grunge bands -- age-old rock
        star Beatles, faithful guitar accompanists, gay classical con-
        ductors, unknown high Jazz music composers, funky trum-
        peters, bowed bass & french horn black geniuses, folksinger
        fiddlers with dobro tamborine harmonica mandolin auto-
        harp pennywhistles & kazoos
Next, artist Italian romantic realists schooled in mystic 60's India,
        Late fauve Tuscan painter-poets, Classic draftsman *****-
        chusets surreal jackanapes with continental wives, poverty
        sketchbook gesso oil watercolor masters from American
        provinces
Then highschool teachers, lonely Irish librarians, delicate biblio-
        philes, *** liberation troops nay armies, ladies of either ***
"I met him dozens of times he never remembered my name I loved
        him anyway, true artist"
"Nervous breakdown after menopause, his poetry humor saved me
        from suicide hospitals"
"Charmant, genius with modest manners, washed sink, dishes my
        studio guest a week in Budapest"
Thousands of readers, "Howl changed my life in Libertyville Illinois"
"I saw him read Montclair State Teachers College decided be a poet-- "
"He turned me on, I started with garage rock sang my songs in Kansas
        City"
"Kaddish made me weep for myself & father alive in Nevada City"
"Father Death comforted me when my sister died Boston l982"
"I read what he said in a newsmagazine, blew my mind, realized
        others like me out there"
Deaf & Dumb bards with hand signing quick brilliant gestures
Then Journalists, editors's secretaries, agents, portraitists & photo-
        graphy aficionados, rock critics, cultured laborors, cultural
        historians come to witness the historic funeral
Super-fans, poetasters, aging Beatnicks & Deadheads, autograph-
        hunters, distinguished paparazzi, intelligent gawkers
Everyone knew they were part of 'History" except the deceased
who never knew exactly what was happening even when I was alive

                                                February 22, 1997
Max Hale Jul 2018
Clever minds that stretch
The many elements which live as our backdrop
Too often everyday is spoiled
By unnecessary people, gathering ammunition
For climbing invisible platforms of command
These are cast aside by simple smiles and welcomes
And it was.
Even if the task was invisible to me at first
My soul felt at home amongst these new work mates
My responsible position was underwritten
Given gravitas and a freedom to which I wasn't quite used

The time was charged with familiar but different
It was fraught but strangely healthier in paradox
The honest fight was taken with gestures of family proportion
Success had waned but the unity of 'knowing' was the strength
That continued to support that Company
In spite of the turmoil my personal facets were given air
To run and to adjust, to temper and to manage
Poor communication was completely disastrous
The confusion of three currencies
And the balance of understanding left us guessing
Never mind agreement or translation

Through all this, looking back my heart is lifted
Not by the freedom or the ability to achieve ...mostly,
It is the strength from our leader,
That calm, silver haired man
When many were distraught you kept us going
And fed us with hope and built our confidence,
Not always with the obvious
But gave us the ability to win through by believing ,
Believing in us and building back our motivation and teasing out
The raw infrastructure of our true capabilities
Never before has anyone, apart from my Mother
Believed in me as you did. To tackle the toughest of tasks
Anything that the industry, the public or our customers
Could throw at us, we dealt with it.
Sadly you could do nothing at the final demise but take the role
Of a father giving news of an aged relative sadly moved by
A force greater than yourself
I know had you the influence, the power and the funding............

You were always more than a boss Chris
Your transparent enthusiasm raised our spirits
And in times of worry I hope we lifted yours too.
I think of you often, thank you for being a friend
After we were no longer professionally connected.
I see your generous smile and your warm handshake
I can hear your laugh now
It's always a treat to catch up over a beer.
I now find you in my phone, in my photographs
But mostly in my heart for being a great bloke
You taught me so much.

Speak soon, with love, Max
For Chris Palles, a giant amongst men in his calm effortless and kind way
It is not always easy to express one's self
When his artistic creations are never placed in galleries
They are often forgotten of
Sitting there gathering dust on a storage shelf.
It seems as if ten more people are at the same task
As which you create with
Comparing their outcomes to your own
Your light of hope fails to light
Due to many missing you that must express
such visions
A dog starved to the bone.
Eyes meet the other exhibits
As your kiosk is primarily never sought for business
The confidence of challenge is there, however, it soon melts away
When all of the hard work which you have placed
in expressions for the world to see
Fade to darkness like the "dark side of the moon"
As night simply ends the days.
Questions remain about what you are truly "gifted"
at or "ahead" of other game pieces on the board game of life.
When so many are inventive such as you
One too many is a crowd.
You pull down a fake smile. A fake shrowd.
Now the net is neutral
Damaging my once vibrant flow
As my hands are now tied to how I can grow
The rules of the game are now many and harder to get around
Like a roadblock in your sight of your future
The air begins to become too thin and your mind weighs heavy
As the cut in your creative inventiveness
Bleeds too heavy and needs a "miraculous" suture.
Needing others on my team
Every time  I seek out such
I'm the "driver x" at the "speed races"
and the "forced gun" to bear uninspiring
and lonely expressive paces.
Is their justice to the laws limiting one's freedom of expression
just to protect those in the "top few?"
When the own half of the platform on which you try and "compete"
However, you are too small to be seen as "you."
This poem is concerning Net Neutrality. It shall place too many restrictions upon our freedom of expression. As it needs not to be limited enough to cruel competitiveness and other hefty charges to earn the privilege to post that in which you create, the government hits the final blow. They are slowly suffocating us artistic souls and silencing true brilliant voices. Bringing forth needed information to the world.
Martin Narrod Feb 2014
The Checkout Line

I wish to speak with you
ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

The words and meanings you carry in your pants, the pick-pocket steals your hopes from time.
and the visions of empty trash receptacles
with their late evening drunken lovers' bouts, at restless end tables. And the bums with their ******* attitudes **** covered clothes, and soiled minds

the clarity of the curbside drunk, picking up shades of filtered cigarettes of twilight scandalous
pickup lovers in their evening best.

And to talk with you ten years from now, you'll be ten years behind.

They're Green Beret head ornaments
detailing the porcelain platforms of Delft
Lining up for one last line to carry them into another faded sunrise at dawn's forgotten memory of yester night
and they walk their gallows holding pride fully their flags of exalted countrymen.

The republic of teacups of literary proficiency.
Wearing the necklaces of paid tolls to an afterlife they find in the miniscule car crashes of engagement with a grinless driving mate in a neighboring car in its pass into the forethought of turned corners.
Where they befell the great disappointment of failure in the frosted eyes of their fathers' expectations.

Who carried the shame of their mother's incessant discontent through short skirts, and high heels.

Who disapproved of the **** whom wore the sneak-out-of-the-house-wear clothing line, and traveled by night over turbulent asphalt by way of sidecar through turn and turnabout hand-over-hand contracts of lover's affection, and slept in tall grasses of wet nightfall with views of San Francisco, and were trapped in the inescapable Alcatraz and Statesville of unconsenting parents and their curfews,

through trials and trails of Skittles leading to after school Doctor visits in the basement of a doting mother, whilst she sits quietly in her exclusive quilting parties with noble equities of partners in knowledge, listening to Edith Piaf and the like,

All the while condemned to time, trapped in the second hand, hand me downs of the 21st century, decades of decadent introverts with their table top unread notebooks, and old forgotten score cards, and the numbers of scholars of years past,

and to talk with you ten years from now will be my greatest pleasure, for you will be....ten year's behind.


They push the sterile elevator buttons, and descend upon the floor of scents flourishing from their crowded family rooms, only aware of distinctive flavors, in their middle eastern shades of desert gumbo,

Who speak ribbit and alfalfa until midnight of the afternoon, sharing fables of slaughtered giraffes and camels that walked from Kiev to Baghdad in a fortnight,

Who are aware the power is out, but continue to scour for candles in a dark room where candles once burned, where candle wax seals the drawers of where candles can be found. Where once sat gluttonous kings and queens in Sunday attire waiting for words of freedom from the North.

of Florence, Sochi,Shanghai
of Dempster, Foster, Lincoln
of Dodge, Ford, Shelby

Of concrete fortune tellers in 2nd story tenement blocks with hairy legs, and head lice, wearing beautiful sachets of India speaking ribbit and alfalfa.

On their unbirthdays they walk the fish tanks wearing their birthday suits to remind them who serves the food on the floors of the family room fish mongers tactics.

The old men wear gargoyles on their shoulders.

Lo! Fear has crept the glass marbles of their wisdom and fortune, blearing rocket ships and kazoos on the sidewalks of their Portuguese forefathers.

Where ancestry burns cigarette holes in the short-haired blue carpet, where Hoover breaks flood waters of insignificance across hard headed Evangelical trinities.

Who share construction techniques one early morning at four, where questions of Hammer and **** build intelligence in secondary faces of nameless twilight lovers, who possess bear blankets, and upheavals, finely wired bushes of ***** maturity. Eating *** and check, tongue and pen.

Where police caress emergency flame retardants over the fire between their legs, wielding the chauvinistic blade of comfort in the backseat of a Yellow faced driving patron.

With their innocent daughters with their nubile thighs, and malleable personalities, which require elite words and jewelry. Wearing wheat buns, Longfellow, and squire.

Holding postmarked cellular structure within their mobile anguish.

Who go curling in their showers, pushing afternoon naps and pretentious frou-frou hats over tainted friendships with their girlfriend's brothers with minimum paychecks'.

Through their narcissus and narcosis, their mirrored perceptions of medicinal scripture of Methamphetamine and elegant five-star meat.

Who amend their words with constitutional forgiveness, in their fascist cloth rampages through groves of learning strategies. And the closets, cupboards, and coins
with rubber hearts, steel *****, and gold *****,

Tall-tales of sock puppet hands with friendly sharing ******* techniques, dry with envy, colorful scabs, and coagulation of eccentric ****** endeavors, With their social lubricants and their tile feet wardrobes with B-quality Adidas and Reeboks gods of the souls of us. Who possess piceous syndromes of Ouiji boards in their parent’s basements.

When will fire burn another Bush? Spread the fire walls of Chicago, and part grocery store fields of food. Wrapping towels under the doors of smoke filled lungs, on the fingernails of a sleepover between business executives with the neoprene finish of their sons and daughters who attend finishing school, with resumes of oak furnishings,

And I long to talk with you ten years from now,
For you'll be talking ten years behind.

Who profligate their padded inventories breaking Mohammed and Hearst,
laying the pillows of cirrus minor
waiting for the rain to paint the eyes of the scriptures which waft through concrete corridors,
and scent the air with their exalted personas,

With the different channels of confusions, watching dimple past freckle, eating the palms of our tropical mental vocations to achieve purity from the indignation of those whom are contemptuous for lack of innocence in America,
this America, of lack of peace,
of America hold me,
Let me be.

Whom read the letters off music, blearing Sinatra and Krall, Manson where is your contempt?

Manson where is your manipulation of place settings?, you deserve fork and knife, the wounded commandments that regretfully fall like timber in an abandoned sanctuary of Yellowstone,
Manson, with your claws of the heart.
Manson, with your sheik vulgarity of **** cloaks exposing your ladies undercarriage,

Those who take their pets to walk the aisles of famished eyes,
allowing the dorsals of their backsides to wonder aimlessly through Vietnam and Chinaman,
holding peace of mind aware of their chemical leashes and fifteen calorie mental meals, holding hands, unaware of repercussion,

With their vivid recollections of sprinkler and slide, through dew and beyond,
Holding citrus drinks to themselves, apart from pleasure, trapped with excite from sunsets, and in-between.

Withholding reservation of tongue to lung.
Flowing ribbit and alfalfa, in the corridors of expected fragrance.

and to speak with you of ten years from now, will be a pleasure all my own, for you will be talking ten years behind.

They walked outside climbing over mountains of shrapnel, popped collars
and endless buffets of emotion,
driving Claremont all the way to art gallery premiers
and forever waited for plane crash landings
and the phone calls that never came

Glowing black and white cameras
giving modelesque perceptions to all-you-can-eat eyes
giving cigarettes endless chasms of light

Colored pavement trenches and divots
cliff note alibis
and surgery that lasted until the seamstress had gone into an
endless rest
and
empty cupboards

Classic stools painted with sleepless white smoke and bleached canvas rolling tobacco with the stained yellow window panes of feral tapestry and overindulgent vernacular

Like a satiated cheeseburger weeping smile simple emotion
on November the 18th celebrations
and Wisconsin out of business sales

Too much comfort, stealing switchboards from the the elderly, constantly putting gibberish into
effortless conversation.

Dormant doormats, with the greetings that never
reached as far as coffee table favelas,
arriving to homes of famished
furniture, awaiting temperate lifestyles and the window sill arguments from pedantic literacy

Silver shillings and corporate discovery clogged the persuasive
push and shove
to and from

Killing enterprise
loquacious attempt at too soon
much too soon
too soon for forever

Wall to wall post-card collages
happy reminders of the places never visited by drinks in the hands of
those received

Registered to the clouded skies of clip board artists
this arthritis of envy
of bathtub old age
wrinkled matted faces
logged with quick-fixes, anemia, and heart-break

disposed of off the streets
of youth, wheeling and wailing
rolling down striped stairs
of shock and arraignment
holding the hand rails of a wheelchair
suitcase
packed away in a life

Down I-37
into the ochre autumn fallen down leaves
and left memories behind
their green Syphilis eyeglasses

weeping tumuli
recalcitrant
mulish, furrow of beast and beyond

yelling, screaming, howling
at the prurient puerile tilling
of sheets

****** the voices of words
and vomiting the mind into the pockets of the turbulent perambulations
expelled from meat-packing
whispering condescension
and coercing adolescent obsessions
with fame, glamour, and *****

Creeping out into the naked
light of the Darger scale janitorial
closets, carrying the notorious gowns
of red wine spells, backpacks, and pins

henchmen, plaintiff, and youth

All the while
ripping at the incantations of the soul
whispering ribbit and alfalfa
in the guard-rail scars
of the dawns decadent forgotten
sanch kay Jan 2016
pinecones are
childhood summers spent tripping over the syllables of dense forests
folded somewhere between real world Europe and my very real imagination,
nestled against each other on bookshelves made of pinewood -
a childhood game of hide and go seek pressed in photo albums
where a version of me lived;
a version of me who delighted my mother and father,
a version who to me remains a stranger -
smiling gap toothed, shoes in snow boots,
sticky fingers pressing pine cones against her nose -

the present, a fragrance;
the future, a rolling pine forest.

pinecones are what the years between 17 and 19 felt like
in perennial wanderlust,
soul spliced into shards trying to make sense of
everything I felt and everything I thought;
everything I needed and everything I still want.
pine cones perfume the edges of a dream
dipped in the streams and stories of far-off lands,
pine cones are the crutches of a crippled mind
still building a new home for itself
in the basements of other people’s hearts.

pinecones are
platforms which I danced from,
leaping limber, slaying fear, the win always near;
pine cones are a reminder that while
a man can break his shoulder trying to tear one from the tree,
the true mark of bravery lies in how well you can break free.

pine cones are
the skeletons upon which hang the colourless drapes of my future
before stepping into galactic puddles that splash colour
all over every unmade plan,
memories’ strands shining technicolour through translucent skin -
the touch of your fingers no longer feel like sins.

pine cones are young green and supple,
seeds of love lust and chance encounters
that blaze into fiery shades of yellows and oranges,
every colour turning a tinge darker, a daily time marker;
pine cones are what remain, dark and unyielding
after a lifecycle of fires starting
and dying
within the embers of consciousness.
hello, memory.
they bend and stretch,
this way and that,
in the most unusual
poses, but they're alive,
picking through garbage.

the man had had a really
nice dream the night before,
of a time of before, when
life was so much more than
picking through what was
refuse to others, refuse to
him, and to her, back before.

but these dreams don't
bother him; they both live
in a world without hope,
even quite literally, truth,
living right up to the edge
of the large areas of the world
considered still too radioactive
for human life, so dreams of
before are always very
welcome for them all,
as are memories; they live
now in a world where dreams
and memories are the only good
things to live for still, but because
of a lack of good things, the joy
contained in dreams, in memories,
are many times more potent in a
normal man or woman from before,
so even without hope, people still
enjoy talking about the old days,
and storytelling again takes an almost
central role in these brand new societies,
that are actually a continuation of at least
from 30,000 BC from a total of around 200,000
years, and likely going back many more tens
of thousands of years, so, it's in their blood, our
very genetics, our evolutionary make-up, and
maybe their mess began exactly because there
were no big story-tellers being heard, not for
many continuing generations, not speaking of
whatever great social ills may have been
prevalent in their day, nor leading rallying
cries that made a difference in changing
government social policies, not heard like
a woody guthrie or a john lennon, and so much
further beyond and behind them, not in
the last few decades before the War,
the great voices were still out there,
if you're into your local music scene,
you'll probably get it, when you've
really heard it, and done well, that
reflects back to an audience exactly
what that audience is not maybe
thinking, but what they are feeling
as a whole, those feelings that last
sometimes a lifetime's length, the
ones like from rejoicing to mourning,
or from happy to sad, or mourning back
into rejoicing, and sad back into happy once
more, those voices were still out there, but it's
just that no-one could hear anymore, addicted
to their platforms, their own artificially constructed
lives carefully crafted to project outward, as deeply as
any ****** or blow or any other addiction one could
think of, they all filled their lives ever more with
trivialities, our hearing the storytellers remind
them of their purpose, and all those afflicted
by that culture shared little blame, it
seemed to shift at some point in a
fundamental way from a general
what's good for my world? to a
what's good for my religion?" to a
what's good for my country?* to a
what's good for my family? to a totally
exclusive what's good for me?, instead
of that proven much better an even balance
between the all of these, rather than too
much an extreme on any end of any
spectrum, like picking from a complete
spectrum of every colours, but only picking
those hues at the extreme edges, leaving so
much beauty unfulfilled, and so sadly unused,
so many crayons left melted in the crayola box.

but none of that matters at all anymore,
there is no left or no right, no ideologies,
no selfies, no rat-race, no rich, no poor
just all one thing now, survivors, that
as promised would envy the dead, add
but again, what's good for him and for her
are their dreams, like his last night's,
or any of his memories, even the ones
that without the stark comparison of
here and now seemed horrible, of trying
to guess how on earth all these millions
of small factors, how that vile mixture
was made that got them to the point of
the mutually assured destruction that
was designed to prevent it from ever
happening, just as in dr. strangelove,
if for no other than the most important
reason in all human history now, after
before, how to make sure never to let
whatever those factors were that most
made war come upon them no matter the
human cost, that they never be ever
allowed to ever take root, if the human
race even survives at all, which is still
very much in question.

they keep walking even after it is starting
to get dark, looking for a fresh vein of whatever
food they can possibly find, staking out the area
for a thorough 6-feet down over plot between the
four bright yellow luminescent plastic government
issued poles bright and early tomorrow; people work
really really hard in this time as a rule, of necessity,
long hours, so when the day is done, and the mind
again has time to wander, they will wash and lay
out tomorrow's meagre choice of garments to
wear the next day, have a light bedtime snack
if they have anything to eat, or looking forward
to what is now the only sure meal of the day,
and thus the biggest, lunch time, to help people
with the best gift from the one group of their own
that had betrayed them all the most, the politicians,
those who still ran the show, and they realize how close
their democracies often got in, as too far in areas too often
also, but they still need them, and giving them the midday
fuel to scavenge to struggle to keep themselves from
completely starving to death, all of that, lost in
another memory myself now, the work infecting
the author, or is it reflecting the author, hmm,
but all of this is infectious i must admit,
but, yes, my point way back there was
the people work themselves deliberately
and for only the reward of keeping body
and soul together one more day, or week,
but also so they can run and jump and slide
right up to the soft body of their lover dream,
or the the hard body of their lover dream, it
doesn't matter who likes which, but snuggling
in with affection near spilling over the edges of
your heart like a 2nd type of madness, a madness
not of thoughts, but of feelings, a manic heart patient,
philosophically speaking, with the greatest lover
you've ever had, or will have, your perfect lover,
the lover you would pick like building a sims
character, with your perfect preference looks,
like ideal eye colour & type, hair colour & type,
every physical detail, and every personality trait,
but we have all kind of done that in real life at
least once, and realized even when someone
else checks so many boxes, like that line from
500 days of summer when the guy's little
'tween buddha little sister who gives him
advice said something like, look, just because
a pretty girl is into all the same ****** ****
you are doesn't mean her your soul mate,
but when this lover checks every box
in the yes column dream, and not one
box in the no column dream, that's the
type of thing that can't be ignored no
matter how hard a human being can
try now, so they all share the one same
lover above any other, their dreams,
because though they still have some
to be grateful for in their immediate
lives, they still breathe, it is a harsher
world now that ever could be before
easily imagined, and they all rush
as one to their lover's arms each
night, as almost in unison for those
of them in the majority working Main
Shift, the best pickers given the best
light from the sun, and all is shared
back to the community, so the elderly,
orphans, or otherwise infirm in some
way all get the best share, because they
have already otherwise paid a cost that
strangely wasn't noticed in the before,
and then it's true love dream the greatest
of all dreams forever and ever dream, just the
dream of a time before what every single language
that still exists as a living language, and
many, many were lost, but each one of
them calls the War the Catastrophe,
even those languages to whom the
word catastrophe already had a strong
link to another event, this was likely not just
the very worst thing that hadn't yet happened
to them before it of course did, but the very worst
thing that will ever even happen in their world, period,
not because of some mass enlightenment,
though there does seem to be one of those
incidentally as well, but because at looking
at the scarred and some areas forever mortally
wounded, including startlingly enough, every
specifically targeted areas on every continent
known for their high agricultural yields,
from the Great Plains in North America,
and Ukraine in Europe, to Iraq in Eurasia,
to Egypt in North Africa, to places you'd
never heard of mostly, and with that best
of the last arable land already gone (fighting over
water supplies in more arid lands is what
triggered the War), any hope is thoroughly
misplaced, and though even he would
always feel guilty of it, war seemed the
answer to him once, too, before the one to
really end all others, for the human race
will most likely be extinguished just due to
irreparably damaged DNA where in not too
many generations, those where any people
can still even communicate in some sort of small
way will dwindle and dwindle, being the very
most fringe minority no matter how deep one was,
no matter how safe one thought they were,
mere generations because the heart will still want
what the heart has always, it can't be controlled, there
will be no more war because there will be no
more people. he remembers it happened on that
really big celebration of the anniversary of
d-day, the big d-day centenary, the day that
social disorder, just as in 1848, spread as quickly
as the real huge forest fires they have everywhere
now, today, and my story is getting more and more
mixed in with life, just one more new fact of a new life,
when all the new dictatorships sprung up in some of the
most unlikely of spots to end in all-out thermonuclear
warfare world wide, all on live feed... it feels somehow
ironic that the vast majority of those who instantly
vapourized in the very first wave of a much more
extended war than anyone would have guessed,
but the greatest casualty list by far, were themselves
watching it all happen and be commentated on by
talking heads in big newsrooms, instead of using
those last precious moments to say goodbye to
some loved-one, everyone has at least one,
but they were addicts right to the end
of the time before when the very
word cellphone, and the concept
of it even be almost knowingly
forgotten, as so many others,
and now sweetest sleep has
grabbed hold of both of them
after an hour or two of intimacy
just for them alone, and their
greater lover always dream, awaits
them already, arms wide open, beckoning
calling out to them all, each by name, all of
them left, for in dream lies the
last link to anything normal.
i took a psych class once, i forget which one, but we watched a documentary on dream study done with former concentration camp, and true death camps, like Birkenau the notorious Auschwitz sub-camp that exterminated m such a thoroughly organized fashion, too, what did people in such trauma dream of (i'd have guessed they would have horrific nightmares and terrors each evening), and it turns out 100% of them reported having the most marvelous dreams of their lives, like a pressure valve for the incredibly intense misery on a seemingly unending day by day fashion, their dreams were unparalleled in how marvelous they were. And after watching Chernobyl, reading old government documents on what day to day life would likely be like for the survivors of a fullest exchange of nuclear weapons with the old CCCP, and that seemed to me to the closest thing to hell as far as living would go, so I thought their dreams would have to be pretty great, too.
Cunning Linguist May 2015
>Extract
Readme.txt
Todays topic of discussion is digital physics
I/O
>Boot sequence
•Online
Big Bang initiates
The grandiose simulation
Cosmos at war with emulation
Surrounded by bots lost in false self awareness;
Like castles in the air
Beware when virtual CPU perishes

From far enough away,
the galaxy is comprised of minute pixels
The brittle firmware will be abysmally crippled
When a hacker simply introduces
a virus into reality's framework
DDOS style attacks will conclude in
Universal Blue Screen of Death
Resulting in the glitching out
of exodus in mass

Metaphysical metadata memory dump
(checksum)
Mirror carbon copy clones of true conscious unification
Are simply sentient drones toiling
in their default algorithmic hallucination

Scrolling through existence
Analog life is digitized in the matrix
illusionofconsciousness.exe
Interface encrypted in the realm of comprehension
Representations of data abstracted
from the banks of every computer
in the human system

Lets get down to basics
Matter does not exist
Science is not sacred
DNA is molded by perception
Creativity is your true oasis

Trans-dimensional harbingers
Conspire together to alter our processors
Measure and tether us to our oppressors
It's standard procedure
Following the leaders

Open the prompt
>Start/Run/cmd
With custom font,
Format my programming;
molecular syntax -
Port the source code
To run on new platforms
Upgrading paradigm
Until baseband collapses

Systematic inversion
We the people,
End users of genetic *******
Trapped in beta,
the bane of human recursion
It's our destiny
To become one with singular conversion

Iterations of congregations
Gregariously lost in configuration
Flies entangled into the interweb
Tied to the mainframe marionette
Files unable to bypass the firewall
Gateway remains unattainable

>cut/copy/paste
>(Ctrl+x/ctrl+c/ctrl+v)
Interweaves cyberspace as our
perceived reality database

>Ctrl-alt-del
>Task Manager
>System
>End process

•Offline
>Server on standby
Null

Dragged and dropped into the recycle bin
Degauss your GPU state of consciousness
& manifest color as it truly exists
In its most absolute resolution

Maximize your window of life
Partition the root someplace private
Elevate your mind to optimal brightness
>Reboot in safe mode*
To achieve enlightenment
This is a very experimental piece I'm not sure if I'm finished with yet. May repost at a later date.
Some explanations:
"Digital physics is grounded in one or more of the following hypotheses; listed in order of increasing strength. The physical world:
is essentially informational
is essentially computable
can be described digitally
is in essence digital
is itself a computer
is the output of a simulated reality exercise"

"A central processing unit (CPU) is the electronic circuitry within a computer that carries out the instructions of a computer program by performing the basic arithmetic, logical, control and input/output (I/O) operations specified by the instructions. (Basically a computer's brain)"

"In computing, a denial-of-service (DoS) or distributed denial-of-service (DDoS) attack is an attempt to make a machine or network resource unavailable to its intended users."

"Ever wonder what that "degauss" button on your monitor does besides make a buzzing noise and cause the screen to go crazy for a second? Though that's its main purpose, the degauss button has another useful feature. To understand it, you'll first need to know that the earth has natural magnetic fields. The magnetic charges from these fields can build up inside your monitor, causing a loss of color accuracy. Degaussing scares the bad magnetism out of the monitor and fills it with good karma.
If your monitor doesn't have a degauss button, fear not -- many new monitors automatically degauss themselves. If you have a flat-panel display, there is no degauss button because magnetism doesn't build up in flat screen displays."

"A graphics processor unit (GPU)  is a specialized electronic circuit designed to rapidly manipulate and alter memory to accelerate the creation of images in a frame buffer intended for output to a display."
Bob B Nov 2018
Oh, the sensation, the media frenzy,
The spotlight, the fame, the hullabaloo,
When anti-evolution laws
Were challenged by the ACLU!

The year: 1925.
The place: Dayton, Tennessee.
To say it was an extravaganza
Wouldn't be hyperbole.

For many people it was hard
To find a way to reconcile
Biblical accounts with science,
So science found itself on trial.

A young teacher, John T. Scopes,
Was willing to face prosecution
For breaking a Tennessee law for having
Given a lesson on evolution.

The "Monkey Trial" it was called.
The challenge meant swimming upstream
For the feisty lawyer Clarence Darrow,
Who helped to lead the defense team.

A prosecutor was William Jennings
Bryan, who with no apology
Loved to stir up outrage against
Evolutionary biology.

Defendant Scopes quickly found
It wouldn't take long for him to know
What it was like to have a part
In a multimedia reality show.

The courthouse received a make-over:
Platforms for newsreel cameras were built;
Extra spectator seats were added.
They were playing the trial to the hilt.

Concession stands sold food and drinks;
Toy monkeys were on display;
A chimp was dressed in a suit and fedora;
The clergy also joined the fray.

The media and the public loved it!
The country watched the trial progress.
What would win: science or scripture?
The answer was probably easy to guess.

After an eight-day trial, the jury
Deliberated. Nine minutes later
They had their verdict: guilty! How
Could someone question THEIR creator?

Scopes had actually never given
The lesson. That's what he later said.
Strangely, five days after the trial,
Williams Jennings Bryan dropped dead.

Laws later changed, but even during
Current times, some people feel
That stories from the Bible should be
In science textbooks. Now THAT'S surreal!

-by Bob B (11-6-18)
These are the gardens of the Desert, these
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful,
For which the speech of England has no name--
The Prairies. I behold them for the first,
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo! they stretch
In airy undulations, far away,
As if the ocean, in his gentlest swell,
Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed,
And motionless for ever.--Motionless?--
No--they are all unchained again. The clouds
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath,
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye;
Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South!
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers,
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high,
***** his broad wings, yet moves not--ye have played
Among the palms of Mexico and vines
Of Texas, and have crisped the limpid brooks
That from the fountains of Sonora glide
Into the calm Pacific--have ye fanned
A nobler or a lovelier scene than this?
Man hath no part in all this glorious work:
The hand that built the firmament hath heaved
And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes
With herbage, planted them with island groves,
And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor
For this magnificent temple of the sky--
With flowers whose glory and whose multitude
Rival the constellations! The great heavens
Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love,--
A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue,
Than that which bends above the eastern hills.

  As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed,
Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides
The hollow beating of his footstep seems
A sacrilegious sound. I think of those
Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here--
The dead of other days?--and did the dust
Of these fair solitudes once stir with life
And burn with passion? Let the mighty mounds
That overlook the rivers, or that rise
In the dim forest crowded with old oaks,
Answer. A race, that long has passed away,
Built them;--a disciplined and populous race
Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek
Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms
Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock
The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields
Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed,
When haply by their stalls the bison lowed,
And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke.
All day this desert murmured with their toils,
Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed
In a forgotten language, and old tunes,
From instruments of unremembered form,
Gave the soft winds a voice. The red man came--
The roaming hunter tribes, warlike and fierce,
And the mound-builders vanished from the earth.
The solitude of centuries untold
Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf
Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den
Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground
Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone--
All--save the piles of earth that hold their bones--
The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods--
The barriers which they builded from the soil
To keep the foe at bay--till o'er the walls
The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one,
The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped
With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood
Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres,
And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast.
Haply some solitary fugitive,
Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense
Of desolation and of fear became
Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die.
Man's better nature triumphed then. Kind words
Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors
Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose
A bride among their maidens, and at length
Seemed to forget,--yet ne'er forgot,--the wife
Of his first love, and her sweet little ones,
Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race.

  Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise
Races of living things, glorious in strength,
And perish, as the quickening breath of God
Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red man, too,
Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long,
And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought
A wilder hunting-ground. The ****** builds
No longer by these streams, but far away,
On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back
The white man's face--among Missouri's springs,
And pools whose issues swell the Oregan,
He rears his little Venice. In these plains
The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues
Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp,
Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake
The earth with thundering steps--yet here I meet
His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.

  Still this great solitude is quick with life.
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers
They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,
And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man,
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,
Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer
Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee,
A more adventurous colonist than man,
With whom he came across the eastern deep,
Fills the savannas with his murmurings,
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,
Within the hollow oak. I listen long
To his domestic hum, and think I hear
The sound of that advancing multitude
Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground
Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn
Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain
Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once
A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.
Cedric McClester Apr 2015
BY: Cedric McClester

While the internet entices
Those making sacrifices
For Boco Haram or ISIS
Whose platforms are divisive
Here’s what my advice is
Stop cutting heads in slices
While rolling out the dices
Which makes you not the nicest
Saying it’s all in Islam’s name
When you practice to defame
Every prophet who ever came
You’re only poppin’ game
Cos’ their message was real plain
It’s really not hard to understand
Men can’t do what only God can

There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****
He’s the only Khalifah
That I know there is
You can’t build a Khalifate
Solely based on hate
So let me restate
(well here it is)
There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****

You have to be mad
Or Michael Jackson bad
To declare world-wide jihad
I find it a tad rad
And it really is quite sad
But you’re making Shaytan glad
He’s got you living at his pad
So never mind Riyadh
Of course Asad’s got your back
Inside of Syria and in Iraq
You’ve made a devil’s pact
I know this for a fact
So as you plan your next attack
What will be your third act
And whose head next you gonna wack

There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****
He’s the only Khalifah
That I know there is
You can’t build a Khalifate
Solely based on hate
So let me restate
(well here it is)
There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****

Just like Teena said
I’m talking square biz
There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****
So you need to tell me now
What the **** gives
With you deciding who dies
Or who the hell lives

Allahu Akbar it’s the final test
As another jihadi with a suicide vest
Blows himself and others up
Like you might have guessed
Hoping for the paradise
That his leaders stressed
His picture will be shrouded
Nevertheless
See he never gave it more
Than just a casual look
So he’s hasn’t read the words
Inside his Holy Book
Which explains why he’s a pawn
Instead of a rook
And an internet suggestion was all it took

There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****
He’s the only Khalifah
That I know there is
You can’t build a Khalifate
Solely based on hate
So let me restate
(well here it is)
There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****

The ******* Taliban
In Peshawar Pakistan
Had the upper hand
And carried out their plan
To ****** like the ****
Although it’s clearly banned
By several ayats in the Qu’ran
They don’t seem to understand
They’re no fans of education
But how do you build a nation
If your sole vocation
Is suicide and assassination
Now the whole world’s losing patience
With the latest allegations
Wondering what’s their motivations

There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****
He’s the only Khalifah
That I know there is
You can’t build a Khalifate
Solely based on hate
So let me restate
(well here it is)
There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****

They say that Islam is
The religion of peace
Before they blow themselves up
And the madness doesn’t cease
Like someone just released
A heard of savage beasts
And I’m not just talkin’ ‘bout
In the Middle East
Over in Australia a self-made Imam
Showed us just how much
He didn’t give a ****
By taking hostages at gunpoint
Without a demand
After having had
A thirteen hour news span

There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****
He’s the only Khalifah
That I know there is
You can’t build a Khalifate
Only based on hate
So let me restate
(well here it is)
There’s only one Khalifah
And his name is ****

While the internet entices
Those making sacrifices
For Boco Haram or ISIS
Whose platforms are divisive
Here’s what my advice is
Stop cutting heads in slices
While rolling out the dices
Which makes you not the nicest
Saying it’s all in Islam’s name
When you practice to defame
Every prophet who ever came
You’re only poppin’ game
Cos’ their message was real plain
It’s really not hard to understand
Men can’t do what only God can




(c) Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.
Simon Oct 2019
A fulcrum to a virus, is stabilizing the charge of negativity in the bodies natural system. The heart feels it’s blood rippling with contractions. Main internal organs feeling the depth at which disturbance is relative to the norm. The norm being (activity) in the face of hustling environmental situations. Outside your system, or inside isn’t contrary by any means. It’s the same as if it were simple inputs reacting in a form able to move on its own accord. Syncing with the outputting world. Activity starting to measure itself for the greater good. A judgment calls in the face of closing a deal. The deal is finally running into something meant for challenges to address the norm from growing stale too early to experiment. Experiments meant to mold something that’s already in preparation. Waiting for the call to the fulcrum making ends meet with the negativity taking effect. Stronger as the virus who is used to surroundings of this caliber. An arsenal made to manufacturer imprints onto your biological code of conduct. Operating a system’s (will) against its own preparations. A set up of different fulcrums into the breath of negativities process. A virus! Virus includes its force of adjustment in the form of flaying innocent diagrams. Innocent diagrams pinpointing the exact locations which the virus could have a better hold of a body’s systems to executing its process of negativity. Spreading this unusual influence will boost the construct’s own fulcrum. So now it’s virus’s fulcrum versus body’s fulcrum? Can’t predict what hasn’t started processing the experiment. Knowing that much, will scare your interpretations from ever taking true shape. Never appreciating another awareness again. Only as long as it’s needed to accomplish it’s objective. Virus or systems encased in a body formation. There more alike then you think. Giving credit away from what is truly obvious. Virus…bad. No virus…good. The virus might as well shove its fulcrum right down your throat! Forcing you to understand just how premature you sound. Experiments issued by the systems controls, enacting a system wide preparation. Conceding balance controls. Its preparations already tested itself enough in its own environment. Its own tools and mechanisms ready for performance. Components never shy away from a challenge. Unless you’re a conscious base simplifier? Wanting nothing more then to not issue such orders. Getting in the way for a conscious system never understanding its own velocities bouncing one second to the next. It’s sometimes a burden in the light. Focusing on too much, is sometimes a headache waiting to run you dry! Virus prompting the systems desire to accept its fulcrums challenge. Respecting the process of negativity to run it’s course. Tempting the virus to not drown its components too easily. Virus tempted to act. Systems body waiting for virus to take the obvious bait. Which is too good to be true? If only the rules of different fulcrums were to make a biological check under the hood. Everything wouldn’t be so confusing, repetitive, or complicated. The list doesn’t go on and on. It lapses with the same circulation of promises to act on certain flaws that are made out to be one-sided believe and claim. When it’s actually the one-sided always tipping the scale in the end. Concluding the advantages of two opposites never winning the same side as itself. One-sided meant for only one giant slice of balance can be met. Never completely diminishing the result thorough to its points of interest. Interest is already exasperating its body language! Process of negativity is openly resonating from deep inside. Cells becoming soggy. Filled with disbelieve in itself. Trying to interlock messages out toward other neighbouring cells of similar placements. A cell being no more different then someone’s own home. Space reacting to your design. You’re believe system. Instincts holding sturdy promises to the experiment. Which meets every expectation available? A heated discussion between the spaces of cells. Something is radiating those spaces between ties uncut by regular motives. Fulcrums don’t imagine well. It’s a circumstance of visuals, and feeling. Nothing more to hold your own full of reflective potential in remaining stable between your relations. Don’t let yourself become uncomposed in the face of negativities actions. The virus is cunning. Yet ill tempered. Never hesitating to take the whole neighbouring block out with itself. Annihilating itself over the control of its fulcrums (want’s and needs). Diverse a charge to big for complications to arise out from the self replication that is voting the fulcrums negativity to higher platforms. Frequencies ricocheting back and force. Like kids bouncing from phase to phase, in order to find themselves. A dust settled in wrong claims of itself. The experiment was a sham. Virus has been tricked! Tricked by its own flawless nature. The system rejoices the claim of servitude. You were never really supposed to willingly action our will to newer adaptions. It’s tolerable to think two sides of the same coin, could ever amount peace. A peaceful remedy too powerful for the likes of a mere prisoner. The virus gasps in suppression. Never dislocating influence back into the stream of fulcrums not yet devised to join it’s cause. A cause made up. No servitude. Except for one ego rising better than the other. Becoming its own worse enemy. A self reflecting charge full of gimmicks too in denial and childish to RIP succession apart! The virus speaks one last time. I-I…thought we had a deal?! Now how does a deal go unaddressed, when we didn’t notify each other of such claims? The prisoner is escaping! Hold it for ransom?! The fulcrum of systems body, sinisterly grins delight. Let’s test the strength of similar brethren. In the attempt to draw more to our immaculate system of faithful desires!
A deceiver in the light, thinking it’s the deceiver in the dark. Mixed communications through tightened visuals of appealing the issue. Judges something not what it seems to be at first.
sobroquet May 2013
䷇䷄䷂䷀䷊䷌䷼䷶䷩
Jupiter and the moon take most blows for us
a very nice  arrangement for blithering piles of pus
intelligent design or some grand coincidence
the phenomena that is life is no mere incident

64 hexagrams comprise  the I Ching
64 nucleotides in a DNA  string
anthropic  anthropomorphic antagonists
dripping and  drooling  with dread
that (what if)  God caused the thoughts that reside in our heads
the phenomena that is life is beyond your stead

Big bang
hot thing
can't explain
why the rain
brings gain
to the blamed and the sane

God isn't real, that's their deal
religion's exist   because you feel
pithy platforms of persistent intrusions
pulpits of platitudes feeding delusions
the phenomena that is life is no mere illusion

Church day, fey day
leave your questions at the door
harken hear the story
of God in all its glory
the grand and the gory
the mysterious phenomena that is life
䷇䷄䷂䷀䷊䷌䷼䷶䷩
Genetic Code  http://users.rcn.com/jkimball.ma.ultranet/BiologyPages/C/Codons.html

I Ching   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Ching       ䷇䷄䷂䷀䷊䷌䷼䷶䷩

According to physics, space inside our universe is multidimensional.
There are 64 main dimensions and each dimension is further divided into many sub-dimensions. Since the inhabitants of earth can perceive three dimensions, their senses have no access to many other realms of universal reality.

It is said that through the ancient process of yoga (specifically kriya yoga) one can obtain access to many other dimensions. When a yogi obtains access to other dimensions, he can perform unusual activities.

A yogi can achieve 8 (eight) mystical perfections. Each perfection gives him access to 8 (eight) additional dimensions. Thus by achieving all eight perfections, a yogi obtains access to all the 64 (8x8) dimensions making his body unaffected by space time bound physical laws.  
the octave and well tempered system (Bach) solfege
Sri Gautama Buddha's Noble 8-fold path



Comparative Cosmology, Akif Manaf

The term 64-bit is a descriptor given to a generation of computers in which 64-bit processors are the norm. 64 bits is a word size that defines certain classes of computer architecture, buses, memory and CPUs, and by extension the software that runs on them. 64-bit CPUs have existed in supercomputers since the 1970s     http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/64-bit_computing
64 squares to the chessboard
The '64 thousand dollar question' saying.
The planet Jupiter has 64 moons
After twenty years, as cursed as I may be
for having learned computerese,
I continue to examine bits, bytes and words
and insure that I'm one of those computer nerds.

Program design, source code and compile
followed by walk-throughs that place me on trial.
There's lots of testing - a means to an end
in hopes of avoiding future production abends.

There are micros, minis and mainframe hardware
which are made to work with in-house and vendor software.
Provided are many platforms for everyone to use
and assure misinformation in data's abuse.



Author Note:

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
In response to a sardonic essay written in the recent Saturday Nation by Proffessor Ekara Kabaji, wryly  disregarding the position of Kwani in the global literary movement within and without Kenya , I beg to be permitted a leeway  to observe that any literature, orature, music,drama,cyborature,prisnorature,wallorature,streetorature , sculptor  or painting can effortlessly thrive and off course it has been thriving without professors of  literature, but the reverse is not possible as a proffessor of literature cannot be when literature is not there. Facts in support of this position are bare and readily available in the history of world literature, why they may not be seen is perhaps the blurring effects from tor like protuberant irrelevance of professors of literature in a given literary civilization.
A starting point is that literature exists as a people’s subculture, it can be written or not written like the case of orature which survive as an educative and aesthetic value stored in the collective memory of the given people. The people to be pillars of this collectivity of the memory are not differentiated by academic ranking for superlativity of any reason, but they are simply a people of that place, that community, that time, that heritage, that era and that collective experience. Writing it down is an option, but novels and other written matter is not a sine qua non for existence of literature in such situations. This is not a bolekaja of literature as Proffessor Ekara Kabaji would readily put, but it is a stretch towards realism that it is only people’s condition that creates literature. Poverty, slavery, colonialism, ***, marriage, circumcision, migration, or any other conditions experienced as collective experience of the people is stored or even stowed away in the collective memory of the people as their literature. Literature does not come from idealistic imagination of an educated person.
Historical experience of written literature informs us that the good novels, prose, drama and poetry were written before human society had people known as professors of literature. I want you my dear reader and You-Tube audience to reflect on the Cantos of Dante Alighieri in Italy, novels of Geoffrey Chaucer in England, Herman Melville and his Moby **** in Americas, poetry of Omar khwarisim in Persia, Homeric epics of Odyssey in Greece and the Makonde sculptures of Africa and finally link your reflections to Romesh Tulsi who grafted the Indian epic poetry of Ramayana and Mahabharata. At least you must realize that in those days literature was good, full of charm, very aesthetic and superbly entertaining. This leads to a re-justification that, weapon of theory is not useful in literature. University taught theories of literature have helped not in the growth of literature as compared to the role played by folk culture.
Keen observation will lead you dear reader, down to revelations that; professors of literature squarely depend on the thespic work of the people who are not substantially educated to make a living. Let me share with you the story about Dr. Tom Odhiambo who went to University of Witwasterand in South Africa for post graduate studies in literature only to do his Doctoral research on books of David G Maillu. Maillu is a Kenyan writer, he did not finish his second year of secondary school education but he has been successfully writing poetry and prose for the past three decades. His successful romantic work is After 4.30, probably sarcasm against Kenyan office capitalism, while his eclectic, philosophical and scholarly work is the Broken Drum. Maillu has many other works on his name. But the point is that Dr. Odhiambo now teaches at University of Nairobi in the capacity of senior lecturer in Literature. What makes him to put food on the table is the effort of un-educated person in the name of David Maillu. Dr.Odhiambo himself has not written any book we can mention him for, apart from regular literary journalism he is often involved in on the platforms of the Literary discourse in the Kenyan Saturday Nation which are in turn regular Harangues and ripostes among literature teachers at the University of Nairobi, the likes of Dr Siundu, Proffessor wanjala Chris and Evans Mwangi just but to mention by not being oblivious to professors; Indangasi and Shitanda.
No study has yet been done to establish the role of university professors on growth of African literature. One is overdue. Results may be positive role on negative role, myself I contemplate negative role. Especially when I reflect on how the African literati reacted on the publication of Amos Tutuola’s book The Palm Wine Drinkard. The reactions were more disparaging than appreciative. Taban Lo Liyong reacted to this book by calling Amos Tutuola the son of Zinjathropus as well as taking a self styled intellectual responsibility in form of writing a more  schooled version of this book; Taking Wisdom up the Palm Tree. Nigerians of Igbo (Tutuola being a Yoruba) nation cowed from being associated with the book as it had shamefully broken English, broken grammar etc. Wole Soyinka had a blemished stand, but it is only Achebe who came out forthrightly to appreciate the book in its efforts to Africanize English for the purpose of African literature. Courtesy of Igbo wisdom. But in a nutshell, what had happened is that Amos Tutuola had taken a plunge to contribute towards written literature in Africa.
One more contemplated result from the research about professors and African literature can be that apart from their role of criticism, professors write very boring books. A ready point of reference is deliberate and reasonless obscurantism taken Wole Soyinka in all of his books, Soyinka’s books are difficult to understand, sombre, without humour and not capable to entertain an average reader. In fact Wole Soyinka has been writing for himself but not for the people. No common man can quote Soyinka the way Achebe’s Things Fall Apart is quoted. Achebe wrote Things Fall Apart when he had not began his graduate studies. However, he did not escape the obvious mistake of professors to become obscure in the Anthills of the Savanna, the book he wrote when he had become a proffessor. This is on a sharp contrast to entertaining effectiveness, simplicity and thematic diversity of Captain Elechi Amadi, Amadi who studied chemistry but not literature. He does not have a second degree, but his books from the Concubine, The great Ponds, and Sunset in the Biafra and Isibiru are as spellbinding as their counterparts in Russia.
Kenyan scenario has Ngugi wa Thiongio, he displayed eminence in his first two books; Weep not Child and The River Between. These ones he wrote when he was not yet educated, as he was still an undergraduate student at Makerere University. But later on Ngugi became a victim of prosaic socialism, an ideology that warped his literary imagination only to put him in a paradoxical situation as an African communist who works in America as an English teacher at Irvine University. His other outcrops are misuse of Mau Mau as a literary springboard and campaigning for use of Kikuyu dialect of the Gema languages to become literary Lingua Franca in Kenya. Such efforts of Ngugi are only a disservice to Kenyan literature in particular and African literature collectively. Ngugi having been a student of Caribbean literature has failed to borrow from global literary behaviour of Vitian S. Naipaul.  Ngugi’s position also contrasts sharply with Meja Mwangi whose urban folksy literature swollen with diversity in themes has remained spellbinding entertainers.
The world’s literary thirsty has never failed to get palatable quenching from the works of Harriet Bechetor Stowe, Robert Louis Stevenson, Shakespeare, Alice Munro, Octavio Paz, Pablo Neruda, John Steinbeck, Garcia Guarbriel Marguez,Salman Rushdie, Lenrie Peters, Cyprian Ekwenzi, Nikolai Gogol,I mean the list is as long as the road from Kaduna to Cape town. Contribution of these writers to global literature has been and is still critical. Literature could not be without them. Surprisingly, most of them are not trained in literature; they don’t have a diploma or a degree in literature, but some have won literature Nobel Prize and other prizes. Alfred Nobel himself the author of a classical novella, The Nemesis, does not have University education in literature. What else can we say apart from acceding to the truth that literature can blossom without professors, the Vis-à-vis an obvious and stark impossibility.
Men with picked voices chant the names
of cities in a huge gallery: promises
that pull through descending stairways
to a deep rumbling.

                              The rubbing feet
of those coming to be carried quicken a
grey pavement into soft light that rocks
to and fro, under the domed ceiling,
across and across from pale
earthcolored walls of bare limestone.

Covertly the hands of a great clock
go round and round!  Were they to
move quickly and at once the whole
secret would be out and the shuffling
of all ants be done forever.

A leaning pyramid of sunlight, narrowing
out at a high window, moves by the clock:
disaccordant hands straining out from
a center: inevitable postures infinitely
repeated—
                  two—twofour—twoeight!
Porters in red hats run on narrow platforms.
This way ma’am!
                          —important not to take
the wrong train!
                        Lights from the concrete
ceiling hang crooked but—
                                        Poised horizontal
on glittering parallels the dingy cylinders
packed with a warm glow—inviting entry—
pull against the hour.  But brakes can
hold a fixed posture till—
                                      The whistle!

Not twoeight.  Not twofour.  Two!

Gliding windows.  Colored cooks sweating
in a small kitchen.  Taillights—

In time: twofour!
In time: twoeight!

—rivers are tunneled: trestles
cross oozy swampland: wheels repeating
the same gesture remain relatively
stationary: rails forever parallel
return on themselves infinitely.
                                            The dance is sure.
Kristine Dyer Jul 2016
They shot a lot of black men,
this year.

Men with power and uniforms.
They were shot, too.

Schools were bombed
bullets scattered
& teachers, like me, had panic attacks practicing
drills, imagining their students’ bodies
riddled with shrapnel.

& we argued about gun control,
racism,
immigrants,
walls.

Injustice permeated the coffee I drank to calm myself.
Sorrow waltzed along the edges of cheerful conversations
in the grocery store.


White men and women took to platforms,
insisting their version of justice could correct
the suffering.

No one really believed them.
Presidency became a mockery
Division made more clear.


Over three hundred died in Baghdad,

no one flew their flag.

Maybe we were tired of avatars with flags of nations other than our own.
all suffering.
Perhaps so much compassion was overwhelming.
It could be that skin color meant more than I thought.


The skin color I wore,
Light, spattered with freckles,
made my compassion a condescension.
--how could I understand?
Terry Collett Apr 2016
The ******* steam train hissed out steam of grey and white and black which rose from underneath and the top and sides of the train like an angry dragon the steam then spread along the platform like a fog clearing after a while then fogging up again once the dragon hissed once more Benedict and Lydia sat on a black cast-iron metal seat on the platform and watched fascinated by the spectacle captured by the sight and sound and smells which was one of their shared joys along with exploring bomb-sites and riding swings and the slide in the park or swimming in the local swimming pool although neither could swim even though they were nine years old and went with classes to the swimming pool to learn but neither did hiss hiss went the train again Benedict looked at Lydia Im going to be train driver when Im older he said going to drive a ******* one like this one Lydia stared at him me too she said a big green one like we saw at Kings Cross the other week can girls drive trains? She said Ive never seen a girl train driver she added taking in Benedicts quiff of brown hair and his hazel eyes focusing on her might by the time youre older he said out of wanting Lydias wish to come true rather out of any real belief that girls will ever drive trains do you think they will Benny? Do you? She said anxiously thinking her treasured dream might evaporate before she had even stepped onto the engine of a train yes of course he said asked your dad hell know Benedict said he works on the railway yes I will she said knowing when to ask him and when not to and best to wait until he was sober and in a good mood and not when drunk and forgetful the train belched out steam again and a loud blast of noise and smell and Lydia waved one of her small thin hands in front of her face to make a space for her to breath in fresher air and not steam we can drive a train to Scotland then Benedict said Edinburgh or Glasgow  or Wales Lydia said never been there Cardiff or Swansea Mr Finn talked about Cardiff the other week in history something about a castle or something she added watching the grey and white steam rise into the air right up to the roof of the station she reached out and touched Benedicts hand near to hers and hoped maybe they would go to Edinburgh as they had talked about it a few weeks before about getting on a train from Kings Cross train station once they had enough money and clothes and food and drinks and once school was over for the summer holidays we will go to Edinburgh wont we Benny? Once weve enough clothes and money and things? Of course he said taking in her thin frame and lank mousey hair and dark eyes once we're ready for it and its a long six hour journey so need to get ready for the long trip and have enough clothes to wear he added seeing the pale green dress she was wearing needed stitching at the hem where it was coming undone and her off-white ankle socks looking grey rather than white passengers were making a last minute dash for the train opening doors and closing them with a bang and heads appeared out of windows and hands waved and Lydia waved although she didnt know at whom she was waving or cared a while blew loudly and the train hissed louder and faster and the train moved along the platform slowly and surely leaving steam behind to rush along the platform like grey and white ghosts wave Benny she said wave to the lucky people going to the seaside maybe we can go to the seaside as a trial run she added looking at hands waving from the train windows and noises and smells hanging around behind the departing train Benedict waved his hand at the departing train yes he said the seaside now theres a thought yes thatd be nearer for a trial run before Edinburgh and no need of extra clothes or much food the train vanished from sight only steam lingered behind it like a dragons tail then that too vanished and they sat watching the space it had occupied moments before which seaside? Lydia asked whats nearest? Benedict thought looking at the porter passing by Southend probably he said went there with my nan and granddad once or twice he said can we go? She said can we? She still clutched his hand with her thin small hand her fingers entwined with his yes course he said feeling her fingers clutch his and he hoping none of the boys from school could see the hand holding thinking him a cissy breaking the schoolboy code of not holding girls hands best look at the timetables for trains up by the ticket office he said after a few minutes musing good good she said excitedly squeezing his fingers more right lets go get a bottle of lemonade each and a pack of biscuits from the kiosk at the top end there he said have you money? She said Ive have none(she seldom did) Ive a shilling he said thatll do so they got up from the cast-iron metal seat and she still holding his hand walked up the platform taking in other trains on either side on different platforms black ones and a green one and a small black one like a baby train out for its first run maybe she thought steam still hung around them and the smell and whistles blowing and voices calling out she thinking of the seaside and the sea and sand and seagulls and ice-creams and maybe seafood like her mum liked and he thought of being a train driver steam rushing past him as he stoked the engine and a thrill raced through him and he felt he couldnt wait for that far off growing up date.
A NINE YEAR OLD BOY AND ******* A LONDON TRAIN STATION IN 1958.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
given the study of benzene, you get the inner electron dynamic, which later expanded into a non-conformity with electron orbits of atoms, benzene gave us the clue as to how electrons behaved, nothing on the atomic scale would ever be given planetary scales of orbiting a nucleus, benzene encapsulating a ring of electrons, gave way to an atomic cloud of electrons, meaning that beside the Higg's Boson, what's more important is not finding the mass-universal, but gravity on an atomic scale, not the sort of Newtonian gravity of Voltaire's anecdote-metaphor... unlike philosophers who with a framework of methodology use a constricted vocabulary, i'm bashing a single word... metaphor... which evolved into benzene, and subsequently into benzene attachments, in the respective ortho- para- and meta- positioning... hence metaphor revised with unfashionable variations of orthophor and paraphor... i don't have the time and space (patience) to invent meanings for these yet-to-exist words, but they're there... i want to understand gravity on an atomic scale, another form of gravity must exist here, not the gravity of apples, trees and autumn harvests for cider... i mean quantum gravity, it must... and this wouldn't be a universal gravity as that of apples falling from trees at g = 9.80665 m/s2, i'm guessing it would have to be cubic, i.e. metres per cubic second... also known as an existential stasis - on the atomic level, where the eyes are futile another form of gravity has to exist, a lot of will have to do with the relativity dip / parabola where time and space create space-time - but as the study of benzene showed in comparison with the atom: electrons do not have orbits, they're like clouds of people and morality, the most famous trick of them all: now you see me... now you don't... the study of benzene taught us that electrons behave in a cloudy formation and not in a Simpsons' logo of a nuclear factory... if i had the money and the equipment i'd be looking for atomic gravity / glue, given the already stated gravity of bigger things... fair enough to Higgs for proposing a constant of mass universal in all things... i want to differentiate the gravity of large things from the gravity of small things... given the proton + essence and the electron - essence, there's still the neutron ÷: the dividing / non-differential equator of debate, where both sparring partners of those favouring + and those favouring - are given dot-revisions as starting platforms, because, after all, magnets do not exist on an atomic scale, and saying that protons are north and electrons are south will not explain very much... in neutral territory we will debate the point of the second form of gravity, without the idea of magnets and the over-simplification of plus and minus on the atomic scale behaving like due opposites; another explanation of gravity must exist on the atomic level, given the ridiculous notion of Copernican north and Copernican south or east or west, i.e. on the atomic scale we're talking spiders in a spider-web and flies caught in it; the notion of Copernican north is funny given the preservation of nautical language.*

for every rational secular noun,
there's an irrational religious metaphor:
a compound noun-verb sort of speak,
a noun that does irrational things
with our minds when the tongue is applied,
(metaphors are complex grammatical
vectors, nouns are simple grammatical
vectors, so to avoid confusion):
for every rational secular noun,
there's an irrational religious metaphor.
Julius Nov 2013
had some ****** up dream
some ratchet chick kept saying '**** me' etc
so i went to do it but where was her *****?
it was like too blurred or something, was that my **** or...her's?
i went it to but...my *** ended up taking the ****
why are other's always present with these ****** dreams?

then later i think like, i'm on MD majorly
can barely sit down, my mums calling me, i can't speak!
i'm trembling! gotta wait for the come down
these images are made all the worse by the fact i'm at my grandad's house

some train ****, we heading to northern chinatown
but it's all so confusing, do i jump on the tracks and wake up as i die?
or do i get on the wrong train, because like the platforms are so mixed up
platform 7 is yesterday's plat. 5
one thing i will say is there are no vondelspectors anywhere to be seen

i remember in part of the same saga (my dreams take me different places these days)
more fruity and exotic, but still a girl in a bikini
and still other observers, but as I'm in a dream i'm like, why not?
is this not the one place i'm allowed to **** *******?
is that bad? or is it merely consensual?
she's twerking kinda, or i'm rubbing up against her
get an *******, but then, her dad notices
so i pull some crazy faces and wave the bulge in my pants for the world to see, and wake up

there was definitely a epic thrown in there
some strange motion in which i play the protagonist
or anti-hero, i can hardly tell because i keep waking up,
sleeping again to dream more, it's so addictive
BB Tyler Mar 2014
In any convergence of creative-minded people there exists a massive potential for positive change. Internet platforms included. Let's make use of this energy and bring awareness to the things we feel strongly about!

I'm asking yall to write poems about change! Social, Ecological, Cultural CHANGE! Let's address specific issues! Let's stop fracking, and plastic, and war, and hunger, and child labor, and let's free Tibet! Let's bring attention to pollution and corporate crime! Let's heal our wounds and bring our ills to the light! I know we can~

I created a collection called poets for change
please post here:

~~~~~~ http://hellopoetry.com/collection/2821/poets-for-change/ ~~~~~~

Our voices united are powerful and beautiful
tell your friends! spread the word!
REPOST THIS SHIZZ!
Let's show the World~
Salil Panvalkar Oct 2013
heres to another night spent writhing about in bed
like a serpent in the vast cosmic ocean bearing its fangs at each tiny source of light
a plethora of thoughts come to mind right when the head hits the soft stack of pillows
the trees and the leaves rustle as if sandpaper being scraped against a human face

and it leaves behind a deep unhealing **** that will last till the end of each sleepless night
be healed by the time the head leaves its nightly resting place to go out and take on the world
and the wait for the endless repetitive cycle to begin will begin once again
trudging through miles of globulous bile will again have the same lasting effect

as that of half eaten railway platforms and ground up browser tabs
elongated letters as they appear on the windowed capillaries of one's ignited violin
repossessed keyboards that belonged to aspiring writers who could never fill a page
with words that failed to even capture the imagination of the wittiest troll by the bridge

more words will flow through the sphincters present in half alive lighters
it seems this one needs to rhyme, so raise one to the brave baby fighters
streamlined thoughts finally arise as the mind clears up a little
here's another rhyme, this one might come off as a bit brittle

henceforth thoughts shall be placed with greater precision
there are ants residing in the laptop; sleeping with the laptop, a great decision
back into the depths of insanity shall we delve again
sleeping with a colony of ants equals terrible, piercing pain
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret,Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)
This essay is based on the observation research that had been carried out  by a social research firm in  Eldoret, Kenya, in the preceding six moths, which has been concluded on 30th January 2014.I the writer of this essay was among the lead team that carried out this study.We unobtrusively observed two thousand University graduates from east African states of Kenya,Uganda,Tanzania,Rwanda,Ethiopia,Sudan,and Burundi plus a few form some parts of Congo .Our target population of two thousand graduates was used under the guiding assumptions that it would help the study to arrive at water tight social conclusions.Our problem of focus was that ;why are male graduates in east Africa not marrying fellow graduates but instead go for marital partners who have substantially lower education qualification and even academic achievement.
The conditions of serendipity was also encountered and taken care of , when we also deviated from the natural social settings and charted with our digital social media friends who were approximately two thousand as well.They were digital social friends from Facebook and twitter digital social platforms. We  posted a thread in question form that ; if you were marrying today , would you marry a girl you graduated with the same year? Eighty percent of the responses to this thread was no , only twenty percent was yes.
The actual situations in an empirical experience is that male graduates prefer marrying ladies who stopped schooling in high school,and male high school or diploma college graduates prefer marrying ladies who don’t have clear high school education.And male primary school leavers prefer marrying ladies with inferior social positions like those who come from poorer families or from different tribal communities that are geographically, economically or culturally disadvantaged.
And in case where a male graduate dares to marry a fellow graduate , the dominantly observed social behaviour in this juncture is that ; the boy will go for the girl in a different school or faculty that is perceived to be inferior within the university academic climate.Like a student of medicine or law will go for a girl doing education or any University course perceived to be inferior.But the observation  produces insignificant cases of where a medicine student daring to marry a fellow medicine student.The minor cases of where a medicine student dares to marry a fellow medic will only take place in a social fabric that the male student at fifth year level will go for a girl in first year.Still there is a social tilt.
When we asked for reasons in a non-obtrusive manner from our unsuspecting respondents.We got both positive reasons and negative reasons.The positive reasons our respondents gave are that in most cases girls who don’t make it to the university happen to be more beautiful or their physique is more sexually appealling than those ladies who make it to the university.when we projected this type of reasoning , we also found that ladies who are in schools like education,journalism or any other school perceived  inferior in the cultures of the University are again more beautiful and more socially enticing than the girls doing University courses like law ,medicine or engineering.One of the respondents made a socially outlying remark by saying that girls at the polytechnic or certificate colleges are usually light in the skin,**** in character and blessed with big or pronounced bossoms than ladies at the university.
When we asked the negative reasons , our respondents argued that  ladies from the university are not controllable,neither are they prepared to be controlled come even the marriage. Further argument for these behaviour by male  graduates is that the University ladies are sexually exhausted,As they usually stay with a man in the hostel or in the cube during the four or the five years of their live at the University. Some even live with different men interchangeably, after which they divorce those many on the graduation day.Another response is that University ladies have a proclivity towards social hangout behaviours like smoking ,pinching or revving in the wine spree and loving the pocket but not the owner of the pocket.
This social phenomenon have imperative concerns that there is high level of genetic mismatch through marriages in east Africa or any other part of the world which east Africa can be socially generalizable to in such particular socialization.Graduate ladies are often forced to marry as second wives , or marry non graduate husbands or stay as a single mother but playing a mistress somewhere, a social behviour described as mpango wa kando or chips funga in the the east African Kiswahili parlance. Such social encounters have a long term consequences of fettering the genetic potential of the family in terms of  academics.When we conform to a warning by an eminent American psychologist that ; ninety percent of academic brilliance is contained in the genes but not influenced by environment we then obviously concur with the findings of this study that if a graduate marries a graduate there is a guarantee for academic performance among the offspring , but where a graduate marries  a non graduate ,  academic performance among the offspring is either mediocrous or probabilistic.The findings of this study also fall in technical tune and intellectual tandem with the observations of Lee Kuan Yeow in his book; From the third world to the first world in which he pointed out that; failure by the male graduates from  Universities in Singapore to marry the fellow female graduates was an impeachment to development as the ultimate consequence of these social behaviours is unnecessary inhibition of good genetics at a macroeconomic level.
The conclusive position of this study is that University leaderships in Africa, with a particular focus on east Africa, must inspire new University culture that has a turnaround effect on this behavioural status quo.The reality is that male graduates behave like this out of a dominance syndrome not out of anything technically worthwhile.Kindly , let our graduates change their marriage behaviour so that we can substantially protect our genetic advantages.

References;
Lee Kuan Yeow; From Third World to the First World
Alexander K  Opicho, is a social researcher at Sanctuary Research agencies in Eldoret, Kenya.He is also a lecturer  for Research Methods in Governance.
Rob May 2014
The station Tannoy’s so polite,
Train’s here but late; commuter’s plight,
Doors opening, pushed to platform’s edge,
As the herd of bodies forms a hedge,
Will she be there?
A gap, way in, a scramble of feet,
The desperate scans for a vacant seat,
With a jolt and a whine we move away,
Packed with the faces of one more day,
Did she mean what she said?
Past fields and cuttings the city nears,
People gaze blankly, no smiles, no tears,
Blurred names on platforms pass with a rush,
London workers in etiquette’s hush,
But where to meet?
Slowing through tunnels, lean and rock,
Roll under the canopy, groan to a stop,
We pour from the doors like arterial bleeding,
Swept in the flow, haemorrhaged carriage receding,
By the trolley, she’d said
Moving fast, with their own motivations,
The eddy of souls takes me out of the station,
Pull out of the crowd, out of the flow,
Onwards they march to the tube lines below
But we just hold tight under J.K.’s fake signs,
And expression finds space,
Between the lines.

RD@2009
This is a repost of one of my old poems but "Between the lines" just felt it fitted next to "Inbetween the words". Maybe it'll be "Woven between the Chapters" next :)
Jack Rosette Apr 2011
I have ye to thank,
all ye actors and poets and marvels
(and DCs and everything in between)
for I have lived with ye, and amongst ye,
and ye have gently inspired genuine genius
in all ye holes in the wall
and all ye pens and strings and voices.

I thank you for the endless memories
of conversations of unnecessary furor and consuming hysteria
of brilliant surprises from elegant unknown talents
of tossed salad people and places and history and interaction
of a night lost in glowsticks but preserved in pictures
of a time my time in between periods of blank walls
of a blinding bolt forward in presence of mind.

For was it you
who told me about your grandfather
a man so brilliant that a mere conversation with the dean
at sixteen granted him admission to Columbia?
who told me of Canadian interlocutors
intimately engaged, only after your party had left?
who told me of amazing cliffside adventures
in education and nature's nomenclatures abound?
who discussed my heritage against that of a concrete world
of exploding dreams and collapsing stars at once,
where you take a bite but might get the proverbial worm?
or you, against that of a simple hicktown
where tractors run tandem with buicks in school lots?

Might it have been you
who watched with me psychedelic documentaries
and named canaries after variations of drug store medications?
who gallantly tolerated my most obnoxious outrageous disgusting
interesting unaffected out-of-their-mind friends?
who took me to absurd spots at absurd hours to breathe absurdity,
then churted we'd go, back the building we'd known?
who brought me in groups to feast on uncomfortable meats,
but between the awkward and networked gossip pipelines,
were enjoying the food and friends and flattery?
who drunk on dreams, droned on into darkness,
and dripped into ears of a man in his cave,
a man playfully perplexing you by pondering preposterous?

It must have been you
whose beautifully woven music reached my ears,
enveloped my being, seldom alone, and even when solo,
scattered brains with banter and brilliance combined...
who, with an open door and wide smile,
welcomed me to the mind's great opera house,
and gave audience to my own logical saga...
who in the weekend's weak end became crazy dazed amazings,
lazing in listless lack of activity, or senselessly celebrating
sins and kinship, all ways seeking erasure...
who gave me so many names against the grain,
jrosay or nerp or j or jackattack or just plain jack,
your classmate hallmate roommate or just plain friend...
who sat and sang and slew, dragons myths, moods,
and hit and clicked and ripped and spilt, toxins, guilt,
and hurt and failed and walked with me...


at least i hope it was you
you who paved platforms and bridges to raze amazing
and left vast caches of spectacular aptitude
or you who spread brilliance like plagues defined loosely,
grossly self-aware in great stares of embarrassed arrogance
and defeated demons crying freedom and bleeding love
you gave worlds great engravings, new meaning
to be me in new worlds new dreams new things
nooses spread shredded across mind fields
you lovingly led leaders over languid anguish
dangled carrotsticks and heritage bringing peace
you found you finding a place in space in winding time
under universal roofing aloof of stinking sewage
found a truth around music and beauty

shopping cart hearts that gather dust and poetry
blissful obituary tears splashing across my memory
loco rangers of brilliant oblivion armed with toothy news
slaying my molded upbringings refreshing genius

fair chance soul trade and daylong flatlines
double barreled shotgun roulette
blank charge buckshot
noisemakers both

that trigger
firing
you
?
I dedicated this poem to the people in my freshman year living-learning community at the University of Michigan. There are many references to specific moments from that academic year, but you certainly don't have to understand them to understand the poem's message. It is structured to mimic the progression of the academic year, and then beyond.
Maggie Emmett Oct 2014
For my brother, Martin

I'm going to sling your memory
over my shoulder
back pack you round the world

slide you on to station platforms
alongside the passing panorama of footsteps
that echo on that slice of cold cement

tuck you into airplane lockers
overhead the sleeping flyers
in that metal coffin in the ice cream clouds

nestle you among bus luggage
beneath the picture windows
and the ribbon racing road

I will unpack you in every village
every town and every city
in every land and nation

on every continent and land mass
crossing the oceans and seas
catching every wave and tide

circling the earth on winds and breezes
following sunsets and solar eclipses
and every cycle of the moon

until I find a place of resting
until I find a place of peace
until I find a place of peace

© M.L.Emmett
Written for my brother, Martin.

— The End —