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False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
zebra Jun 2017
she loved thunder storms most of all
the crackle of white hot bolts ripping through the sky
the shear immensity of power
she always thought it was him
her beloved God
big boy
Thor
with his flowing blond hair
blue aquatic eyes
washboard stomach
and delicately curved *****
finally a man good enough for her
even if he was fly by night

when the heavens thickened gray
like soggy cotton
she could feel atmospheres shift
it made her ******* pert
her mouth would salivate
like a lurid peach
her ***** swelled and dampened
tears of adoration and enchantment
filled her eyes

no longer able to contain her self
she would strip naked
fling off her *******
and run out to the lush verdant meadows
calling at the top of her lungs
yoooooooooo hooooooooooo

as the cool rain descended
she ran thrilled to the mud between her toes
seeing great claws of white lightening  echo
through the sky

without hesitation
she fell to the cool earth beneath her
wallowing in the delicious sloshing ooze
positioning her self on all fours
head thrown back
*** up high
calling to the heavens
come on, come on big boy
ive been waiting for you
let me have it good
her clitoral lips
drooled with anticipation
her ******
a pulsating aching

the sky rumbled
with stretching streaks of fire
like a great freight train
spanning infinity
while the earth shook like a
hollow moon
she swayed her hips
rhythmically to and fro
whispering a love song

oh sir
i need a man like you
wont you love me
adorations true

i kneel before
my sweet Lord Thor
where's that hammer
come on and score

you are so big
and im so little
how about it God
just a tickle

hit it now
give it to me good
kisses baby
like you only could


tears of desire cascaded
down her pink cheeks
as she recited her love mantra
her mouth naked wet

suddenly
a great bolt of lightening
shot down from heavens throne
entering her ******
splitting her in flames
her head turned dark mahogany
sent careening fifty yards
leaving her mouth
a yawning twisted smudge
of fossilized obsidian
with eyes
blackened flaring hollows

her tender pink ****
a chard flower
smoldering
like a
petite
grilled
calamari
matilda shaye Oct 2017
SHAPESHIFTING
7/25/2014
in under two minutes
I could shed my skin
my limbs aren't my own-
to be in your presence
to feel the warmth
hearing breaths, chest moving
If your arms are around mine
the shift becomes inside
like the plates of the earths core
positioning right into each other
filling each other, filling me up
shapeshifting
I'm not me when I'm with you
I'm indebted to this feeling
take my skin;
my veins -
rip out my entire being
shapeshifting
for you
Yes, I'm a girl and I'm not trying to justify my body language nor am I positioning the rights of a feminist on the top, but
Yes, I was questioned always, even when I was right.
Subservience was legitimized as my trait ever since I felt this world.
Every time when I was buckled under by his lecherous eyes, I was asked to adjust my dupatta well.
Every action of mine substantiated the height to which I'll hold the name of my family.
I was asked to cross legs while sitting, speak amicably, yet not solitously.
Every time I'd to hide my period stain like a ****** blot.
I was asked to gallop my cramps because letting it out is a bitter sin.
Yes, I get my body scanned by their lewd gaze day in and out even when I put my baggiest of clothes on.
Yes, I'm a girl, and I have beautiful synonyms, call me maal, patola, bomb, *****, *** or a girl? May be, let yourself decide.
Yes, I'm questioned on the extension of the Roti's that I make and the smiles that I couldn't fake.
Yes, I'm a girl and I'll stand, and question your authority if it calls for, call me stubborn. Okay!
Remember, I'm a girl, and if you accuse me of being a feminist if I know, and can raise my tone up and against your authority, humanism needs to be checked then.
-APARAJITA TRIPATHI
"Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!"
                                                          ­Polonius (Hamlet)
~~~
read these words in a past, as a punk teenager,
back in the mid-you-wouldn't-believe-it-flintztone-age
returned to them, nowadays
when I am seven by ten decades squared, older not wiser

three people told me
what a lucky man I am today,


Even before the noon hour dare arrive,
a shocking delivered by an electrocardio telegram,
thus instigating a product recall of Shakespeare’s blessing season,
drawn from a stale teenage memory storage fast depleting

"This above all: to thine ownself be true"
which denies the false escape
of being false to any human

ingesting this thrice lucky man observation
into the internal inward-facing telescoping observatory,
where I map the true course of the
star-stories
well held in the constellations of my life,
never forgetting that this holistic ecosystem that is my
mind~body must evaluate the truth of this claim

its veracity will differ when assayed by
the big toe of my left foot from whence the poetry comes,
as well as those other interfering guys,
body, mind, heart and soul,
then re-evaluated by the internecine warring of those whiny parts,
the tongue, the hands, the eyes saying me, me,
that perforce means a dynamic constant changing
of every thing

in other words,
thine own truths are fluidity ever changing,
the mapping of your blessings,
best done in pencil with room
for expansion, reversal, and misdirection

have I lost you dear reader?

My Left Foot squeals,
fools, you just hammered
three more nails in the coffin of his depression,
where woes and toes know the inevitable repetition of the troubles he has already deemed, and now foreseen are yet,
ladies in waiting to take him to the tower

My Mind says
in obvious aspects people, you are 100% correct,
but the Inquistors are not fooled, patient in their queries;
My Body simply asks, err, does that make me look fat?
My Souls defers with a yada yada, not my problem, deal with it...

The facts tranverse and reverse,
Ah, the truths of my blessings
As much confusing and last defusing

The little drummer boy marches me in reverse retreat,
while shouting out in time a marching refrain:

Luck can be stored, used then, never more,
Its algorithm, a lifetime calculation,
Woe is me, thrice, deemed lucky,
But the map of my blessing reveals my positioning,
At the map-edge I stand, the last border be just ahead,
Seasons, maps, blessings must stop to journey,
What others see upon me outward, outdated,
All maps, all blessings are black-line bounded,
So too, am I, bounded, confused and confounded

The algorithm computes my nine lives are now radium depleted,
The shell, the shell no longer can be fired,
Even the half life has evaporated, used,
Though it looks fit, the luck has eroded, the feet now touching
My map edged in black, its legend, of use, never more


November 2017
Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame!
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,
And you are stay’d for.
There; my blessing with thee!

And these few precepts in thy memory
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means ******.
Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch’d, unfledged comrade.
Beware Of entrance to a quarrel, but being in,
Bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice;
Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,
But not express’d in fancy; rich, not gaudy;
For the apparel oft proclaims the man,
And they in France of the best rank and station
Are of a most select and generous chief in that.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be;
For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all: to thine ownself be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell: my blessing season this in thee!
Steve Page Feb 4
A TEAM SPORT

[In the voice of your favourite over-excited rugby commentator.]

We're inside the final quarter. We've seen a bone-cruncher of a contest today and there's no sign of a let up, the prayers gather for the next engagement, positioning themselves with practiced confidence, skillfully supporting each other, ready for the push.  You can see every knee and each hand bears the marks from this long muddied pray, red and brown staining every inch of their entwined limbs; - arms and hands holding fast.

Front row.
Second row.
Back row.
Digging in for the big push.

The opposition has played an intelligent game, taking advantage of any lapse in concentration, any sign of tiredness, looking for any weakness to exploit.  The prayers know they can't afford any slips now, they need to keep up the pressure, maintain their advance deep in the opposition's half.  Every yard of gained ground needs to be defended.

The prayers' Coach looks on - look at his smile! You can see the pride he has for his team, he's schooled them on every tactic of the opposition and now that training, that practice has paid dividends. This is a team of prayers that so clearly know each other well, supporting each other every step of the way. You can see their co-ordinated pray, their sustained effort and the sheer pleasure they feel when they are praying together.

The prayers drive on.  The sound of their groans and deep breaths merge into one. There's a rhythm to it, a cadence as together they push and PUSH. 

The opposition's footing is slipping, the prayers' momentum gains pace and, YES! the resistance collapses.  Oh, that must have hurt!

But there's no time for complacency, the prayers re-form their line looking for the next opening, the next opportunity to push forward.

This is a joy to see.  The Coach shouts his encouragement - this was never going to be an easy struggle; you can't dismiss the opposition - they are a seasoned though sometimes disorganised team and they can take you by surprise.  But as we've seen here today, the Coach knows that if his team of prayers keep to the plan and pray to their strengths, the opposition are surely in for a hiding. The prayers will triumph and they will take the winners' crown.
- Back to you in the studio.
Inspired by the Six Nations tournament
Forget about the face,
My ears are question marks
And oddly placed.
Everything that can be said, they say -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

The eyebrows too I think,
One of them's a caterpillar
And clearly out of sync.
Some say asymmetry is beautiful in its way -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

At 66 my lips are thinning,
Squinting sideways when I smile
In effect more akin to grinning,
My English teeth a little grey -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

The right positioning and number of limbs
Does little to improve
The overall slackness of bones & skin.
Indeed, I don't walk so much as sway -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.

So there it is, my mirrored Self,
Companion in my ageing days,
Heir to generations of rich genetic wealth.
Self Portrait, posed to flatter, as displayed -
I'm a DNA Man Bacon Sundae.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
'Put my hand in the hand of the man from Galilee,

that song keeps playing in my memory, and I recalled

Or I thought I did, I imagined he'd walk with me
and talk with me
Along life's merry (or was it narrow?), way

a light touch, his arm around my shoulders,
as boys are wont to do,
I axed 'im,
help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which I think may have been blind, at that time,

I have memories like that.
packed away in old memes. That mean something...
Gold-something...
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom.
Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, Howard Bloom,
where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but these,
heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Here a seeing being done, words appearing...

fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made,
and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble collapses by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tension-power-loss collapses the bubble?

You should think, you know atoms work, this way.

Touchy bubbles disappear when their form is disinformed,
the wall of a bubble,
one quanta of power thick,
vanishes
as the charge that formed it flees.
That bubble,
not cloud-based, random super positioning,but
elect
tric-magi-tech, a touch screened
at the quantum accounting point of real-ification,
but, probably,
a bubble,indeed,
powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
(I charge thee, son Timothy, go)
That's all an electron does.
It goes, as soon as any sense can be made of it,
outa here, oughta hear it, clear,
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...
No, ah, when I think about that..

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin musta hapt one time,

but ya'll take no heed, this voice,
m'fallin angel, Tantan, droppin' in ol-fren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth
found in wines that moved themselves aright,
slurry tongued, and laughin' but pisstoff.

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Old story, God damened 'em, not me, I just
built the box.

Who told you I was naked? Noah queried Shem.

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe could be forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.
Forgot can't be forgiven it seems, sometimes...

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

I've looked so long through that lens,
that I began to see the bubble formed around me,
charged powerfully with fear,
'yond my bubble monsters lurked.

But, my bubble bumped another,
purest of happenstance,
the bubbles merged and merged again,
their power building to a wave,
crashing to the shore and no more
was I bubbled in my safe place.

I found this trail up from the beach.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
Did you regret the defeat at Ai,
or were you
Aachen, bold?

No, irrelevant, obtuse allusion to Yahshua,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Information unformed begins to boil deep in me.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick. Elect trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening as an event, in the Deep Field,
is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  
Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,
to learn. Fifty year'r longer.

Everything that's old and still works is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the potential worth of all your eyes behold,
behind the curtain,
lies the prize.

If, if, if you are a luckywinner and
you arise when I call your name
to come on down,
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, 'smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize, what's the diff?
How comes a thing to be worthy,
in your estimation? Tell me no lie.

A feeling? What's it worth?
Depends.
Safe? Priceless! Don't shout. There's money to make.

'Got a busy-ness pre-positioned high above the rest.
A super-positioned superstion. The darkness.
See, safety is a human right.
So we sell walls, impermeable. It's always, lights on
within, then
We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened
by those we make
feel safe, from the dark unknowns seeping in.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we saw the Power in Myth and
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Within these walls workers will work for food and a feeling.
And Facebook.
They choose a place and stand, and do what comes to hand.
Heartily
grip what's easiest for you to hold on to,
they are told.

Attendants bring the meds, settling every disruption
of the peace the patient craves in his comfort.
The price ain't right, m'mouthmumbles...

You are absolutely co-rect-allatime, tekayepeel.

There are wishes being made,
on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters.

If wishes were askings, what if
connecting to the source of haps which,
every expert knows, haps are
all happiness can possibly
consist of.
Oh, consist.
That sticky, gluteny idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand.
Sistere. Shield-wall and all that. Turtles all the way down.

A disruption!
Day room Now! Granpa's shouting,

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!
I'll drop it. I swear.

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted... in my meander.

What if, nothing is immaterial,
as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
If nothing can go wrong, it won't.
Ask the pilot flying by faith in his checklist.

What if,
asking for help helps?
Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea? An answered prayer?

Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore,
quoth the raven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories,
telling eventualities that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,

Stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
Grandpa made some sense and we built a fort, of pillows
This is a reworking of Good news from a far country, I am attempting to rein in my scattered mind. Let me know if you see improvement or parts in need thereof.
Once you feel the urge, heaven stands
Be it a plan to pray or a plan to fast
Like soldiers positioning themselves in combat
All in heaven is set, prayer is merely a demonstration of faith & trust

The urge to fast sets explosives on barriers and obstacles
Prayer becomes the detonator blasting open all walls

Emerging in silence, it shows up readying itself to burst like a bubble
Each word uttered already whispered into the ear by the Holy Spirit
Like a network of trails already created by preceeding elephants in a jungle
Each declaration is a succeeding footstep having all trampled thorns to the ground sticking

Authority was already given to those that lack or need, but want or desire
Like the talents from a Master to all men but only invested by those that to greatness aspire
This weapon an untouchable but intangible
Yet in any season accessible and readily available
Prayer and fasting, mountains move and things change
Megan Dec 2018
You held me down.

You forced my body into submission.

You grasped my hips, effortlessly guiding, gliding, my small figure across the examination table, paper crinkling angrily underneath as you slid me towards you.

You dictated how close we sat, pressed flush against each other, authorizing yourself permission to caress my bottom with your arm stretched behind my slender midsection.

You constrained the position I sat in. Placed at your convenience, I was incapable of moving as you curtailed any movement, whether subtle or obvious, away from your outstretched hands, which connected to a cruel and unforgiving skeleton of a man.

You governed the arrangement of my legs. You tugged my body across your bench, positioning yourself in between my legs. You hauled my legs over your own shoulders, granting yourself access to my ******.

You arrested my body, firmly planting your unbearably hot hands upon my waist, allowing yourself to connect our sides, flesh against flesh.

You controlled what I wore when I was with you, demanding articles be shed with a flick of your wrist.

You limited my motion. You loved to establish your claim over my young body, resting the palm of your hands in between the warmth of my thighs, squeezing in warning at any action that could potentially change your stake.

You restricted my hands from getting in the way of the roaming of your own. You liked to cup my ****** while I squirmed in discomfort and embarrassment, shrinking backwards into the material stretched the length of your table, wishing I could vanish, melting and becoming one with the plastic texture that lay beneath my slight figure.

You repressed my cries of anguish, shaking your head and shushing me, repeatedly promising the pain of the treatment would be worth the relief following. Now I understand that relief was sexually driven, and was not for the purpose of my pleasure, but for yours.  

You prevented my torso from lifting, arching off your board as you slid your finger inside of me. Your large hands firmly pressed down on my sensitive hip bones, ensuring I stay stagnant, giving you the opportunity to toy with my anatomy.  

You subdued any chance of my mother recognizing the signs of abuse. You skillfully hid my frame, placing your dominating figure at the perfect angle to disallow her view of the horrible actions you performed on me.

You structured the schedule of the appointments. You decided the duration of each visit. You kept me locked in your cage, in your presence, for hours and hours. You hid the key, confining my body and mind to your enclosure.

You killed any confusion I had when you referred to me as “sweetheart.” Your words put me at ease, knowing you doted upon me, and strived to do your best to provide care. Even at an inexperienced age, I recognized the discomfort you left me with, both emotionally and physically, tainting my view of men for years to come, yet your kind reassurements and long bearhugs kept me silent.

You restrained me.
TRIGGER WARNING
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
I put my hand in the hand of the man from galilee

Or I thought I did, I imagined he would walk with me
and talk with me

and help me fill the darkness behind my eyes,
which i think may have been blind, at one time,

I have memories like that guy, Gold-something
color maybe, Goldfarv? Bloom. Right, my augmentatious savant
looked it up and I sorted what I recalled

Google The Global Brain, where he named a kind of
category of knowability. Memes, he called them.

And I thought, memes mean something more,
not Dawkins's, nor Bloom's, but
these, heteromemes bubbling out my belly button,
look real close.

Fractally featureless by the time a clock could have been imagined,

the point of the story was made, and there is no end in sight.

Pop. Another apocalypse bubble eclipsed by mortality. Whaddyaknow?

What remains when a bubble pops at a positron level,
after the charge is touched and
the tensionpowerloss collapses the bubble?

You should think you know atoms work, like
not a cloud of super positioning, elect-
tric-magi-tech, touch screen at the quantum accounting point,
not that, but
a bubble, powered, one way or another, with a single charge,
Go, that's it.
What an electron does. It goes,
as soon as any sense can be made of it,
oughtaouta hear
ping. No charge, no bubble, but next sure as...

Hell,
somethi' from nuthin must ahapt one time,
but ya'll take no heed, m'fallin angel droppin' in olfren, tricky hybridbast...

Noah was a tellin' Ham the truth found in wines that moved themselves
aright, slurry tongued, but pisstoff

The idea of somethin' goin' south in a family,
that started up again when
ever Noah started drinkin' old wine, sayin' sbetter'n...

Who told you I was naked?

-- aye, ye know, Noah was drunk,
No excuse, but you know.

Things were said, that maybe were forgotten, after a while,

But those father wounds a man imagines worst
are the one's his son's forgot.

The story being told is complicated. See,
the Bible is a lens,
not a map.

It got me much farther than this, should you ever
visit me.
No,
that's not in the stack,
that card's about as relevant as McLuhan's hair of the dog.

Somethin', ain't it?  All them three meter dishes shrunk down
to the size of a spoon, a teeny weeny spoon, a coke spoon,
like on Miami Vice, back when.

Satellite TV changed the desert, fer sher, but 4g, brohan,

that was the trick.
Future, on demand, where outhouses are still de rigueur.

Before you know it, country kids,
too poor for any but outlaw dreams,
can audit courses at MIT,
if somebody
shows him, it can be done, prove t' him
it works, faith can make things happen,
but
happening is sorta hard to nail down to one thing,
until the very last
Planc-sec.  Astrophysics is part of the metagame, fer sher.
But
there's some stuff that takes some patience,

everything that's old is only old, not rotten.

Olde time religion, at the oldfo'k dayroom,
where the clock runs the whole show.
It's another game show. Saint Bob Barker takes a bow,
and declares the worth of all your eyes behold,

If, if, if you are alucky winner and you arise when I call your name
to come on down
fall on your knees and declare the worth...

pure gamesmanships required here, golf whispers only,
worship, smuch more difficult to aim for than praise.
I agree.
Praise, appraisal, worthyness, worthship, prize,
how do you declare such a thing worthy,

A feeling? What's it worth? Depends. Safe? Priceless. Don't shout.

So we sell walls. We'll be rich and powerful wallbuilding,
citi-zen warriors fed and fattened by those we make
feel safe.

That's the idea. It's worked for years, at least
since
we
capitalized Campbell's bliss and Sagan's billions and billions of stars.

Workers will work for food and a feeling. And Facebook.
They choose, believe what's easiest, they are told,
you are absolutely co-rectallatime, tekayepeel.

There are such wishes being made, on all manner of stars
for happy ever afters. If wishes were asked for, whatif
connecting to the source of haps that are
all happiness can possibly
consist of...
Oh, consist is a sticky, gluten idea stuck in my daily bread.
It's related to resist, desist and the command to stand. Sistere.

This is that bomb, this is a dam buster Jesus H Christ Bomb!

Something's bound on earth to go wrong,
ever since Eve bit that apple, if she'da left that apple on the apple tree
Nah, that ain't how it went down and
songs about it don't change it none.

But, maybe this is me interrupted..
Whatif, nothing is immaterial, as an idea, it can't go wrong,
and Murphy's law, obeyed, is good, all the time.
Ask the pilot. What if,
asking for help helps? Was that a message? A touch by an angel?
Spirit, the idea?
Are you familiar with its role in reality?
Something makes these bubbles spin, y'know.

Ignoring is bliss, nay,
No more,
precisely, nevermore, quotheraven, shall the man who can read
be locked away from all the stories of all the things that
men, wombed and un,
have told and tested for ever, it seems,
when ya stop
striving for perfection and let patience have her way witcha,

whatcha learn can change the world.

Look back. Good news from a far country come our way.
In my younger days, I visited folks in county homes, the rest homes that once were called the po house, and sometimes I'd just sit and watch Jeopardy, and hold her hand, while listening to conversations with angels, all around me.
Eleanor Sep 2018
An aspect, really is what? a particular part or feature of something.
The positioning of a building or thing in a specified direction.
(of a planet) form an aspect with (another celestial body).
"the sun is superbly aspected by your ruler Mars on the 19th"
And aliens? a foreigner, especially one who is not a naturalized citizen of the country where they are living.
"an illegal alien"
Oh the end of a hypothetical or fictional being from another world.
aspect. ... nature; quality; character: the superficial aspect of the situation. a way in which a thing may be viewed or regarded; interpretation; view: both aspects of a decision.
Personal? an advertisement or message in the personal column of a newspaper; personal ad.
That is it. That is us. Social ties.
Rim Aug 27
Where should she turn her gaze?
Her uninvited past relentlessly knocks on her door at the early hours of the morning, without any trace of harmony between the thuds.
They sound like the deafening footsteps of the colossal creature hiding in her bedroom which she was petrified of as a toddler.
She begins to panic as they approach faster and faster, louder and louder.
She shuts her eyelids, covers her ears and prays to the intervening god she does not believe in.
In that very motionless moment, her mind and soul are paralyzed as she becomes the gullible child we once all were.
She becomes small, positioning herself like a fetus in its mother's comfortable womb, yet comfort is what she is desperately longing for.
Just after the last thud, she feels a breeze gently graze her frigid wet cheeks.
She reluctantly opens her soaked eyes and sees it.
The white dove.
It sits peacefully on her reaching arm and looks at her weeping face with curious eyes.
The bird ***** its milky wings and flies away to neverland.
The child falls asleep after what felt like an eternity.
At last, the same white dove leads her to neverland where she can finally embrace solace with her untouched arms.
Psychopathology
1/3

Depression: a projection toward the past.
Chelsea Rae Oct 12
Where is my hippie soul?
Who preaches peace in every scenario.
Who loves with no limits
Or conditions.

Fighting the good fight.

He'll lay against the grass and scry the clouds with me.
Positioning flowers in my hair
To make a colorful arrangement.

His gypsy soul never settling down.

His eyes never leaving the stars.
I almost want him to love them
More than me.

Finding passion amongst the trees.

Look for me.

I'm twirling in between the trunks
And if you stare just long enough
You'll see me dancing with them.

Shaking the leaves
As the Earth
Makes love with me.
We await your return my love.

— The End —