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Kemy Sep 2018
*** with me is so amazing      
Hey, I’m just Paraphrasing      
However, I was listening to the artist, Rihanna singing this song      
As the song kept plugging along      
Not meaning to come on too strong      
With respect do not get me wrong      
I’ve often wondered, is *** of the body more powerful than *** of the mind      
And no, I do not have a feminist ax to grind      
I will choose my words on this topic and remain kind      
Well, at best that I can      
From my perspective related to this issue between woman and man      
Making love to the female body its ******, it’s pleasurable, and certainly it’s thrilling      
But once nature’s release has been prefilled      
The mind needs a dose of endorphins to be instilled      
Are you still with me on that concept      
I’m speaking for me who needs the combined effect
      
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
With someone capable of emotional grazing      
Blind dates, we talk about our passions or dreams      
Clothes still on, however, he gets what you mean      
Do we take this night one step farther      
We slept together      
Heated and passionate under silk covers, yet, he knew nothing about the weather      
We were definitely birds of a different feather      
His arms were not even that strong      
His brain got duller as the night prolonged
      
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
Sometimes is not all about trailblazing      
Computer Dating      
Keyboard translating      
Breathless words of debate      
Soulful elate      
No physical contact to rate      
But wait      
You can type on computer keys from sunrise to sunset      
If you cannot be bipartisan with words than you can’t articulate      
A break to give since we’ve just met      
Between you and me it’s now mental Russian Roulette      
Spinning my mind landing on red      
Keep your mouth closed as you lay in my bed      
Enticing words danced across my screen      
Pulling me in was all a squandered dream      
We’ll never again experience emotions under the covers      
****** of no analytical bonding from a distance lover      
Once again, a horse of another color 
     
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
In the midst of me praising you as our eyes are glazing      
One night stands      
First of all, you’re taking your life into your own hands      
No commands        
Sedated and scented juices mingling of its passion galore      
Lust filled desires and so much more      
No demands      
Talking on the go, and making no sense, well I be ****      
What a waste of a slam bam and thank you ma’am      
Mental *** on the brain I know it may sound insane      
But my God, it makes me rain      
Intellectual simulations have always been such a turn on      
Take me to task and then I’m far gone      
Rainbow coalitions      
I do not have any petitions      
Never in favor of anyone’s competitions      
Just me, my words, and I      
Reaching for that academic all time high      
Coming at you as I’m ******* with you      
The next morning, I would have told you a thing or two      
Something old or maybe something new      
It all depends on if I’ve pitied a fool      
Not my game, not in my arms      
Not fooled by undercover charms      
Capture my mind until the ringing of my alarm      
Wow, did we really just talk all night long      
Arms were very strong, your mind kept me warm while we discussed society’s storms      
One night stands      
Never with an intelligent man      
He needs a briefcase or a blueprint plan      
He could execute with his own mind      
On his own time      
Using his own dime      
Then he’s ready for my mind      
No prophylactics needed      
Once you gyrate my mind you’ve succeeded      
Feeding me words from the depths of your cerebral cortex to the powers that be      
Lightening my mind up like a Christmas tree      
Now you got me down on my knees      
Thanking you, as I please      
Was it good for you as it was for me
      
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
Mind now resting in a dreamy phase, body has now been thoroughly praised      
Here comes the aftermath of sweet melodies to conversations      
Moaning out all kinds of pronunciations      
Affirmations      
Aspirations      
French words with exclamations      
Giving me perceptual palpitations      
From the knowledge of head ministrations      
Climbing the psychological throne once again      
While whispering words in my ear as my mind adheres      
Once mental energy has been locked in      
Slow dancing, and then a thrusting rush as we begin      
Words of revelations      
Taking my mind beyond the constellations      
To the height of my glorious crown      
I’ve created, rested, and now the essence of my intellect is winding down      
Mental capacity has once again been meticulously interrogated      
Hearts of the minds now segregated  
    
*** WITH ME IS SO AMAZING
Sweet words whispered to your male ego, minds blazing        
Perceptual notations moving inside of me      
Bending me over, as you lick up and down my womanly creed      
A passionate quick kiss as your mind sinks into my intellectual abyss      
From my mind to your fathom lips      
Seductively gyrating my hips      
Raising the nature of your hard ****      
Love and Hugs        
Soft tongue bathing your body, massage oil, and caressing rubs
Innovation comes out of great human ingenuity and very personal passions.

Megan Smith
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
variation in what's dyslexic in English:          roy-     (+)     -al - like Al Pacino - or? roy-       (+)        -all - a different slug for a tongue caged behind the 32; alternatively say: casino royal - two pronunciations of the same word, and no distinctive two-lane stresses added to say them intentionally with variance - basically one variation is missing an acute a (á) - alter to acute: dentistry's alphabet - say A - you end up adding an invisible hark of prolonging a sound from ~aye into ahhhh; the tetragrammaton is more than a noun, the Hebrews didn't see it coming, the two H variations are involved in how diacritical marks are asserted and used - i too thought it was something to do with déjà vu  - but it turns out it isn't that simple - how diacritical marks are asserted and used, or upon second suggestion: how they're not used, and what complications arise from omitting them.

for someone as concerned with people's ****** lives
as *richard von krafft-ebing
was,
with his mangum opous: psychopatia sexualis -
i'm surprised he didn't throw a *** party -
stage an **** - richard brautigan apparently read
this Victorian - may i say trash? -  compendium
and giggles with friends; modernity has no stamina
for the seemingly idyllic *** lives of bowler hat
gentlemen - a sample from psychopatia sexualis:
homosexual feeling as an acquired manifestation
of box sexes (the androgynous stipend to exercise
all mouth **** and ****) - however you like it,
quote: almost every self-****** individual (originally
masturbator) at last reaches a point where, frightened
on learning the the results of the vice, or on
experiencing them (νευρασθενια), or leg by example
or seduction to the opposite ***, he wishes to free himself
of the vice and re-instate his ****** life.
you could say that, unless of course you're put off
when a girl reads you a questionnaire from the cosmopolitan
magazine, and you've seen too many Jame Bond movies,
or heard stories - or how you figured: well,
totalitarian governments aided heterosexual marriages,
championed them with the standard myths,
democracy doesn't really do that... democracy likes
the odd fetish... hence with the aid of science the fetish
marriages - surrogate prostitutes aplenty -
that's not ONE HOUR AT £120 A POP... THIS IS NINE MONTHS!
someone once lived and said: Jews and homosexuals run
the show - i think it might have been a Bukowski citation -
yeah, but who's the audience and not the puppets?
the politically, what's the word? ah, uncomfortable -
there's a strategic unit in medicine that's not the MI5
or the MI6 that deals with them under the alias P.S. -
not post-scriptum, but paranoid schizophrenic -
formerly known as premature dementia -
to me creative, to others worth sedating - meaning:
why would i write about western society in defence or
in apologetic language like C. S. Lewis and his love
affair with Christianity when i'm pretty sure i'm not
writing about utopia? why? oddly enough niece is also
said likewise for Nice - or 'aw, how nice.'
staged on the promenade des anglais - is this a clue?
anyone in touch with the security forces?
could be a pattern clue - now there are two fronts to be
worried about, the achoo right - boy, what a sneeze,
and the already involved actors -
mind boggling, how, ever, could, it, have, happened?
and i swear language was intended to be flexible,
like a gymnast - flex flex flex - which is strange that
the unimaginative always attack from their rat cages
bewildered at seeing a way out of a maze and then blocking
it (e.g. Ezra Pound, mm, the prime fascist of them all) -
it's called censorship, but in the west it's hardly a Stalinist
plot (believe, it's not utopia, i don't understand this
collective delusion that it is - somehow - and indeed,
somehow it isn't - it's called a superiority complex -
the same happened in Iraq - coverage almost zero -
subterfuge requests all over the media - now i have to live
as ethnically placed in close alignment with the people
that regurgitate all this hype - i have absolutely no reason
not to fake a clownish tear and whatnot -
it just is. so yeah, why didn't rich von krafft-ebing throw
an ****? a swingers' ball to cure all the pathology noted?
even now, or *** lives are hardly concerning -
why poets **** over the book of genesis
and leave the other books to themselves - reducing
the book of exodus into only one pair leaving -
it becomes harder and harder to relate to these books
and the people that venerate them after reading Don Quixote -
it really does - it's almost like talking to an illiterate literate
person - as agonising as it is to say it, it's exactly that.
i wonder if anyone bothered including the prefix in-
to all the scientific words in the dictionary - denoted:
in-pathology, in-sanity etc. - i.e. the first person accounts -
i do it because i would hate to go back to the gym
and complications of talking over a sunday roast -
my life in a nutshell? my laptop was so ***** that i decided to
clean it today - anti-bacterial wipes and dried with kitchen towels -
i thought the mouse of the laptop was broken,
ages ago i bought a mini-mouse with a USB port -
after cleaning the laptop, to my disbelief, the laptop mouse
started working (you know, that little touch-patch of plastic
towing two clicks) - that's life, uncomplicated -
a marvel to behold such daily problems - bound by choice
we choose what is to worry us - the next
chapter in my adventure with Kant?
the critique of all theology pouring out from the
speculative principles of the mind -
so for i've passed the ontological, the cosmological
and the theologically-physical impossibilities for the
existence of an absolutely necessary being - even if atheists,
we're all chipping in - basis? presupposition of such
a being and argued counter (cf. Satanic rebellion) -
not the agnostic quasi-supposition (basically speculative
tact) - at 274 (page no.) ending at 442 (page no.) -
oh i'll finish it - transcendental methodology should
be interesting - it's just a question of how much distraction
becomes fused with blank pixel pages and my irritability
as to how or why poetry ought to be stripped from
banal / predictable technique - rhyme is definitely go,
listen to BBC Radio 1 at any time and you can just hear
rhyme ****** - well, if painting could be stripped down
further than cubism - i don't see why poetry
can't have conversational overtones to it, one of the few
unearthed secrets of modern intimacy, just sitting there,
like ducks.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
long before the Greeks started applying diacritical stresses to their letters, the English should have applied them, following their European counterparts in the use of the Latin α-β sabbatical - but of course, they wouldn't, the English poker hand had a royal flush compared with the Greek pair of tens - the reigning delusion given the British Empire? we are the Romans reincarnate - sure, it worked to produce us the Canadian, the American and the Australian accents - but they really, really have to dress-up for the occasion - it just won't do leaving the alphabet naked without stresses that invoke a spirit of universal pronunciations, leaving it a mongolian steppe instead, a wild-west you might add, adding to the social hierarchies established when the hierarchy rests with someone seeing the invisible standards of elocution in that numerous number of examples ready on hand... this is a second English Revision, the first one was economic with Marx... this is another altogether different revision... to appropriate English into what other European nations have done prior... of course, not appropriating the stresses to the fall of the Roman Empire gave them the delusion as successors of the power established - but only for so long... they're not looking over at America with admiration anymore... they're wondering: what the hell is going on?! but i deem this project a half-failure in waiting - given that establishing a universal pronunciation system will not work miracles - Silesian Polish is one example in the making, but if you at least add necessary invocations to stress certain letters, you wouldn't write poetry using the word blah from time to time - it's still bewildering in the Copernican sense that English, out of all the European languages hasn't bothered to wear a cravat of acute vowel or a belt's worth of umlaut - straight out of Eden these people are, stark naked in the moonlight - obviously because of this lack of addition the power balance rests with them, but the English know that they were once occupied by Romans, the Americans can have the naked Latin... the English aren't so sure as to why not join the exercise of additional-revision... the polygamy of accents wouldn't disappear - but the orthographic revisions would aid the less concerned with saying certain words right... but then again, it might be too late, given that because no diacritics were ever ascribed to how the English encoded sounds leveraging toward a poly-phonetic-diversity on these isles alone (let alone North America and Australia) - adding stresses to these 26 popes will have no effect at all... but still! why did the Greeks decide to add stress and eloquence and the reincarnate delusional Romans didn't follow Greek suite?! one thing is for sure... start adding them... and acronym English / ugly English will disappear - people simply need quickly-identifiable stresses, they want linguistic calculus, to ably differentiate and integrate.

after your required reading - *what did i miss?!

with the classics - you look at your contemporaries
and become slightly peeved off -
what ontology can't explain is the instinct
criticising the coal-miners of words -
you rarely see awe when the obscure nugget
of some precious metal is chiselled out -
like the αρκενστoνε - but tmesis will not be
akin to a precious stone (tmēsis - why did the Greeks
insert necessary diacritics and the Anglophiles
were so lazy reducing Aphrodite to Prostodite?
it means e.g. ex-*******-aggeration of something) -
with such a paradise some of us become
coal-miners of words, precious vocalisations -
20 carat with that ontology of yours;
poetry ought to make philosophers like heroes
of Homer's day - give the battlefields shifted to
libraries rather than pecking menus of crows
in muddy Ypres - after reading the book reviews
comparing Saturday reviews with Sunday reviews
i get the picture - it's not a beauty, it's just there -
money is not the dirt people speak of hoping for
a win on the lottery and an escape -
money invoked a necessary loss of tribalism -
of excess labour when no labour in what area was
prescribed earning was necessary -
offices hoovered like hospitals, but then hospitals
incubating super-bugs, resistant to antibiotics ***** -
a baby held captive in a cupboard -
since Hippocrates' times sadism crept in -
people are so sane they perform it automatically without
knowing - until their time comes;
every time i read Bukowski i feel i'm at home,
the latter Bukowski, the posthumous writings -
i too wish i wrote with the sensibility of philosophers,
limited vocabulary, the so called systematic approach -
they simply said: 100 words, written to the volume of
1000 pages - systematisation in philosophy involves
a limitation on vocabulary - they want to see how
far their stressed limit of vocabulary eats away at
the potential sigma of potential - poets on the other hand
rarely systematise - they'd rather jump in with
as many words as possible, and leave anyone reading
their word bewildered, because their vocabulary is
not drilled in, it's not perfected, it almost looks like
a prosthetic limb - the moment when you see a dictionary
in action, the odd word from them all, breaking
the fluidity of a poem that could have been a waterfall -
there are plenty of dictionary moments in almost all
poetry - there's no ticking clock event in them, there's
pause, reflection, revision.
for me this poem started in thinking how ridiculous
using certain words can be - Roman Empire, pseudo-Christ -
i mean, in poetry at least, such words and compounds
look ridiculous in poetry, there's no dogmatism in poetry
to allow such words a serious use - esp. when
compared with what philosophy practices -
a systematisation / containment of a particular vocabulary,
stretched to its limit, dismissive of synonyms of words -
(variations of particulars), i.e. the founding principle
of establishing universal meanings to words:
on that rainbow canvas: red is red, blue is blue,
green is green... all together they're white / mirage of paper
and sclera - the so called invisible -
systematisation in philosophy is a rejection of multiple
meanings of words (deviating 2nd through to 6th meanings
for lying / ambiguity) - and limitation of what can be expressed
with a border on tongue - after all borders exist in
landmasses and in seas -
yet i still don't think poetry is all about music -
those days are long gone - poetry started nibbling at
philosophy - they are heroes to me, i mean, Francis Bacon
died after trying to invent a refrigerator (hypothermia -
hyper-thermal? perhaps a variant of hippo or the trait
of the lizard - the lizard disease - below thermal acceptability
for mammal, true indeed) -
yet after reading the crunch (2), mahler, sometimes even
putting a nickel into a parking meter feels good-,
and esp. am i the only one who suffers thus?
i just
think of C. G. Jung - i don't know why - that little
book of his i have: the undiscovered self -
i really don't know what there is to discover -
when you start writing you never actually think from
the beginning that you have it in you -
you never do! it's a lazy beast, writing is -
even a poem a day can be a welcome presence -
for me it was never something undiscovered,
discovering that i started to smoke cigarettes aged
21 after being so anti-cigarettes coming from clubbing
stinking of tobacco - the self i discovered was a bit like
a portrait of Dorian Grey (great book by the way,
better than an adaptation on screen) - that self i didn't
expect - although less ****** and definitely less
fetish spandex clubs - i don't know why i'd mingle
the abstract simplicity opening doors and corridors
to walk on that poetry is (however mutilated due to
a lack of respectable technique like some English teacher
telling you to coordinate yourself with metaphor, pun
or imagery vectors - modern painters can paint
******* and their expression is still art, but when it
comes to poetry... everyone suddenly needs old
Chaucer dungeons or Shakespeare with whip to tell
you it's poetry - a ******* black square on canvas isn't
Raphael!) - i just realised that it's not about discovery -
this is going to sound ridiculous, but it's how it goes,
i don't attack too much significance in examples as these,
i know the meaning of such example, but the meaning
is shallow due to the peddle-stool that C. G. Jung
ascribed the compound: the undiscovered self -
with poetry it's always the inner self that introverts
and shuts up when the world never bothers -
the crucial moment comes when that basic unit of life
(of course, vary it with existence or reality and the matrix,
whatever) reacts to a world it can no longer understand -
poetry then enters the realm of the individual,
the undiscovered self is found, once a healthy individual
weighing 75kg, now a drunkard at 115kg and somehow
still content (the invisibility shroud from back in school,
as with Plato: 18 through to 21 - beauty is a short-lived
tyranny
- and 3 years is enough) - and the self begins
digging, and digging and digging (yes, i know, it's
how pronouns interact with each other, the ~self is never
self said - old Germanic - the telegram technique -
self said that self would - funny how all psychiatric theory
or psychology is so ****** obsessed with pronouns and
no other category of words - that's where the sharks swim
sniffing out a drop of blood from a cubic mile of sea water) -
and by digging there is no actual stasis of an undiscovered
self - there's only the continuum of perpetuated inner
and more inner; but what is discovered is not what
is necessarily categorised as zenith, an undiscovered potential,
for that's motivational speech - that little book is
about motivational talk, therapy to craft an illusion of
self-assurance... never mind... after reading
the book reviews from Sunday, most notably the biography
of Philip K. ****... i found that English is a language most
beautiful, but also a language most dismissive -
as with the late acceptance of existentialism -
the slow nibbling at the walls of English utilitarianism -
for that could only be an English product of thought -
and the results? well, teenage suicides and too much
pill-dropping to cure depression: nothing that hurts.
it was hanging in the air, like a guillotine blade -
too much faith in English sensibility and that bloodied
doctrine that utilitarianism is, it's not about big words
these days, when behind those big words there are crude
actions - talk about really inventing a blanket to cover
the crude actions behind what was said in variation of
the supposed vaccine program to make people immune toward
crude actions.
Butch Decatoria Aug 2018
1.
Lively out of tune,
Songstress with liquid courage
Croons, frogs in her throat.

2.
Sake’s bad English,
Raw fish / pronunciations,
Glad songs for drowning.
Revised
JAM Jul 2013
Would you say my words express possible realities
Resulting in different mentalities ?

Or

Are they just written/verbal fallacies
Resulting in abnormalities of letters and words hoping to avoid any literary casualties?

How about both

Sadly, here you can only read it,
So you don't hear it, you just see it, but it's something I'd love for your ears to meet with


Nothing really can compete
With vocal manipulation of speech or how certain pronunciations can proceed

Living through a zub-zero temperature year is what it took for me to be able to reel in my minds cable and see clear
Avoiding a fatal crash I quickly grabbed the wheel to steer
Away from hitting a metaphorical deer

It's not a black cloud that hovers above me
It's god and the devil playing rugby
Every time I try to watch they just stare back and mean mug me

Two opposing forces going head to head?
More like a sorcerer and a sorceress sharing a bed

How many times can a bee sting if it's already stung?
None, it has a single stinger that's the only one
After that, the songs been sung and that bees life is done...

An answer to a question avoiding any deception just so you can understand the expression and find your own reflection

-J.A.M
i.
how can it be that they simply walk by,
while I, in contrast, stand stupid in awe.
cliffs veiled in fog
the lights of Geneva
mountains framing mountains framing valleys.
when did they forget to look?
when did they become accustomed?

ii.
when I'm lonely I stare at the pictures on my wall.
the same faces are repeated often,
and I try to memorize them so that next time I'm lonely
I won't lock myself in my room.
but I can't.
I can picture the faces of people I met yesterday,
but not the faces I've looked upon for years.

iii.
my mind struggles to wrap itself around new grammar,
words,
and pronunciations.
I'm supposed to be learning a new language.
instead it seems as if I'm forgetting two.

iv.
head pounding,
heart racing,
lungs burning,
legs aching.
**** Le Saleve.

v.
cycle of loneliness:
something you see, or hear, or do,
reminds you of something you know, or knew.
thinking of something you know or knew,
especially if it's not there with you,
will make you dream of it a time or two.
which makes you think of things that you
used to see, or hear, or do.
which reminds you of things you know, or knew.
in turn reminding you of him, or her, or them.  
and we all know what that means...
chocolate.

vi.
yesterday, a beautiful golden boy sat by my side at dinner.
he smiled at me with his bright blue eyes,
and he winked when he said my name.
today, I hoped that he'd sit there again.
I even left a chair empty. (just in case)
but today, he sat by the girl with the hair.
I always knew I didn't like her.

vii.
together we sit at a bus-stop.
we missed the 10h25, so we'll have to wait an hour.
you gave me your coat because I was shivering.
the sleeves are so long they reach the hem of my skirt.
you rested your head on my shoulder a few minutes ago,
your hair just brushes my cheek.
it smells good and manly, just like your coat.
but all I can think of is that I have to ***,
and there is nowhere to go but the woods.
little things i've written down over the 3 weeks I've been in France so far. all from true experiences. more to come.
Coral Estelle Sep 2012
I leave the door open
I make plans for you
An imaginary correlation, an absent importance
I revel in the moment I catch your eye
And lasso it in like a blue rose in the desert
We smile
Reserved, empty of ambition
We silently say,
I know your there.
And I know your there.
I acknowledge that you exist

Even from far away,
I can tell you smell like fresh air
Time beneath the western sun
Has contoured your face, and lit up your hair
You sit back as if you’re a portrait,
A wild horse I would never restrain.

The little fact that you exist excites me
Please stay somewhere on this Earth
We leave space in between us
Somewhere for our thoughts to go
You send me waves through the dry air
Wordless pronunciations
I will never touch you
I just like to know you’re alive
Indifferent, yet completely saturated in your image.
David Barr Sep 2015
This ceremonial façade is likened to an ancient folklore which has been dipped in forbidden secretions, even though my arts are sincerely darkened to unfathomable depths of surprised and ambidextrous naiveté.
I have constructed the choreography of this metaphysical dance, which lingers on the brink of sociological pronunciations, and where the liberty of gargoyles spew their fluid projections from lofty heights across the four directions of our moralistic city walls, where magnetised needles ***** my soul with the earth-shattering clarification of true north.
I love to sit in the dark and to be enlightened, as the eerie silence bellows her validity across trans-national sanctions, where the fallacy of liberation is juxtaposed with a socio-political and fetishistic confinement.
I believe that classical infidelity is like a beautiful Gothic cathedral where silent rage has an ebb and flow which is not easily ascertained amongst our sub-cultural and contemporary cohorts, where dynamic equilibrium truly encapsulates the co-existence of opposites, which are said to attract.
So, as we gather in the menacing serenity of the dark forests, where geography marks her ancient alignments from sunrise to sunset; can we now pray and give homage to the spirits of history, in this underground finesse of paradoxical equilibrium?
I love democracy, as she gyrates her sensual community wantonness on this conveyer belt, where the vital functions of our organism slink into sleepy cessations of universal structures where causality releases her excitatory expressions of organic physiology.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 20
thus concludes a text
from a dear friend whom
I have never met, but this a,
concluding statement is
both convulsing and
uncontained

autumn is a her, a self-selected
gender unique, that picks its
own pronouns, pronunciations,
for women greet us with
warmth+chill skill
combinatory, to
make ordinary
our daily green
reform into
a multi~variable aristocracy of colors,
a forest of expressions,
each a statement leaf,
stating look at me,
I’m transformed, resurrected, disguised,
though essence unchanged, for
I am the possibles of ad
infinitum and I am:
not-nearly as potent
as the sparks of god
within a human being


3:58am
10-20-24
CM Nov 2015
stoop side you sit
fallen angels with broken knees,
40 ounce amber galaxies &
palms of prayer on an open mirror.

The benefactive is Columbian is
endless stairs on roofless buildings, is your
cracked knuckles of powdered meaning —
metallic shifts in the parking lot holy
begging thunder to threat everything
at once,

so then you can forget.

You prayed for all the wrong pronunciations
& when you sleep demons graffiti epistles
on the walls of your exposed chest.
Originally published in Electric Cereal
Bill Higham Mar 2016
All my words fail, out here on the edge,
In cataracts pronunciations plunge
Onto the rocks of shattered sounds,
The meanings call and drag,
Unable to explain the inexpressible you,
The mental scraps congeal,
The ten thousand half-attempted lines
All erring, marred,
All leaving me here alone again
In the insurmountable anguish of love.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
after two visits, once seeing Werther another time seeing Don Quixote, i realised that poetry is the perfect tool for the claustrophobic surroundings... Kant is too much custard and like all philosophy books, always reminds us of being anti-social and park benches... movement and philosophy don't mix, all they did is posture with two essentials so far removed from each other (time & space), that it's almost impossible to imagine the two colliding to create movement, which is why reading a philosophy on the tube is so ****** daunting - next time it's Ezra's kind optometry (as any other poetry) to make the journey quicker - from Hainault St. to Holborn and then Covent Garden? about an hour or so... via the murk of East London... into the glittering heights of the good life, where everything essential is turned into non-essential bling and peacock boast; a girl could walk past with a Gucci dress and i wouldn't even know or care... but she would.

i should have mentioned a third book on that
shortlist - but it's not really a book,
but a method - if it was in Greek
(and i am playing ping pong with the New
Testament using the prophetic methods
kept hidden by rabbis) it would
resemble something aesthetic, not noun related,
meaning it would probably look something
like σ                        ς      
                                ­        θ                 φ -
that's in ref. to the two haystacks in the tetragrammaton -
although these two variations do not
have the same meaningful connotations as yHwH,
because both sigmas and theta and phi are referring
to an aesthetic, not an actual name - but you
get the picture - two completely different
approaches as to why man decided to grant two variant
encodings the same pronunciations -
only aesthetic reasons, after all, art can be art
and be pretty pretty and all theoretically relevant
once the job is done, but writing is not exactly
a job for a calculator, we don't write for functions,
in essence we write for beauty, in essence that's
what writing always required, variations
of what some would call kinship to third person
or first narratives, 2 dimensional expressions
and 2 dimensional expression, i.e. theta and phi,
but only in Greek, that being *th
e point of it all -
Fe is in Mendeleev's speech denoting February -
yes, behind the iron curtain... god, you just have
to make it painfully obvious sometimes.
that said... Kant is really bad when commuting,
i've had two visits to the Royal Opera house recently
and i took Kant with me, the critique will be read
fully, i promise, i can spin 40 pages at a sitting
in a chair, but on the tube? can Marquis de Sade please
take the podium... it's horrid... this time i'll be
taking Ezra to see the Bolshoi le corsaire -
which will add to the spectator sport of one -
if you ever go, to that brick ****-house (last time it stank
of raw trout, but still the wankers sat at their restaurant
tables trying to invert the paparazzi epilepsy
of ogling them like tourists in a zoo of materialism -
i'm half of that would-be quarter-knitted-plonker -
it's mostly polyester and 1% Afghani cat-****-smear) -
or those looking "cultured" with champagne flutes,
of coffees, look all excited... Hazlitt, this one's on you...
and all you do it walk around with a book...
you're wearing cheap clothes that nonetheless
look presentable, and then you start shooting ducks...
thump... another one... puck... another one...
i'm sure you'll begin to notice that hate is a perfect
cure for egoism... your posture changes, your body is
there among the sardines but you turn into a shadow -
you end up watching lonely girls on their would be dates...
and it just hits you like a pharaoh's acid from a tomb...
you're strapped on hallucinogenics of some sort from
the mere topography of the surroundings...
but then the lights dim, the music comes on,
the sadistic dance begins... and you forget taking Kant with
you... and just enjoy the show.
Taking a stance, strong as a mountain,
would you hear me, carried on echoing
shoulders; silent are the drums of indifference,
that fall on deaf ears of invisibility

Trembling unnoticed, a tightrope vibrating
with unseen footsteps; a bird flawlessly glides
catching the drift of words on a wire,
follows its winged direction to a fuller

climate of interesting twitter and leaves
me speechless. Impressions of sound drown loudly,
parallel pronunciations of an endearing nature
cough up smarter sentences, those that are heard

on street corners fighting for listeners choosing
to pause and grant the unheard an audience
to be proud of.  I bow to their fame in that one
moment, devouring their words, sifting the debris
Ross Kirkpatrick Feb 2016
It started when I asked her what she desired
She told me she wanted to understand why the world has not loved her back yet
So I wrote her a map of everything she is:

Her eyes sing like sparrows on a Sunday morning
Tongue so soft her words asked to be returned once spoken
There is a serenade in her hands each time she touches a pen and
A lullaby in her fingertips

Plush red lipsticks do not know who she is
Beauty has not met anyone like her
Long stalks of wild grass are playgrounds for her summertime sandals and
Singing songs that hadn’t been loved in 30 something years
Summer dresses with last year’s flip flops forming an eloquence around her

She speaks with a purpose and it is to make you listen
Only bards and poets know what to call her
Words do not speak to who she is

200 year old Willow trees bow to her like a queen who has ruled with grace
She strolls slowly and steadily to places which indefinitely await her
She is a statue already built and a book already written
Complete

Eyes follow her figure like a fire burns through a forest-
Steadfast, sudden and swift
unable to comprehend the complete creation of all that she is

Many hearts pulsate with a plethora of pronunciations and proclamations of love,
Her name runs through your veins like secrets that get buried in cemetaries
You will die before you can forget her
https://deathknowsyourname.wordpress.com/
wordvango Aug 2017
to y
to z
to that fetish I have for the alphabet
and letters
words and pronunciations
Time gone by e'er since being quiet natured boy,
more so nowadays declare exhausting countless
hours expending, extolling, and exuding prufuse
joy, no surprise, asper experiencing passion, sans
reading (select age appropriate material as a lad in

make believe world) still bespectacled bright eyed
and bushy tailed, (most absolutely definitely agog)
accentuating, expanding vis a vis jabbering (within
privacy afford double one bedroom apartment B44)
erudition enthusiastically verbalizing printed material

in general, and exercising vocal cords aloud, not cuz
I admire krispy, raspy whispery voice particular, but
hearing and seeing appealing genres (mine, though
morse *** published authors especially informational)
purportedly not "FAKE" news incorporating sounding

out plus seeing words supposedly reinforces learning,
yet another less obvious pleasure (exclusive domain
availed primarily thru thesaurus brethren i.e. yepper
alphabetized lexicon, otherwise known as dictionary)
offers insight learning esoteric etymological minutiae

(just as quickly forgotten), which historical evolution
finds me temporarily linkedin both audiologically and
visually regarding forebears, (essentially transporters
thru numberless centuries) unwittingly, unknowingly,
unequivocally mumbling, modifying, massaging ever

evolving pronunciations sustaining communication as
living entity sustained throughout avast misty age pre
seeding impressing symbols (whether twenty six letters
of English language) upon tangible medium spurring

linguists to surmise aural and oral characteristics, and
no doubt searching complex edifice contemporary alive
tongues exhibited taking page from legacy of lingua
franca no longer extant.
Since adopting the guise
of Norwegian bachelor farmer,
I may as well fabricate genetic stock
lock, and barrel linkedin to Celtic legend.

Sentimentalism invariably swelled me *****
regarding how grown former bonny lad,
essentially mutely surfed, finagled, and coursed
one existential nihilistic wave after another
nearly getting drowned in the process

Any non American English
exotic pronunciations in general
and dialects predicated
with United Kingdom in particular
held me spellbound.

Debate ensues that the term brogue comes
from Irish word barróg, meaning
"a hold (on the tongue),"
thus "accent" or "speech impediment."

An alternative etymology suggested
that brogue means 'impediment,'
and that it came from barróg
which is homophonous
with bróg in Munster Irish.

Saint Patrick's Day, or
Feast of Saint Patrick
Lá Fhéile Pádraig
invoke even non Irish to proclaim
Éirinn go Brách
translated as "Ireland Forever."

Juiced tin he nuff tame afore
thee 2023 Saint Patrick's Day,
(hens this faux written accent
donned to sail hub berate won big todo
fur those peep pull o' Eire rush deuce cent)

aye pretend, and thence make oop
duff fallow wing vary minor event
harkening back e'er sins this generic gent,
hooped tubby imp poet hint wannabe,
(who hapt tubby absent

without leave from Brogue kin home
since a lil whippersnapper, and accident
boot tappin), when me note holler than
garden variety leprechaun, advertisement
tuff hind miss elf, no major ailment -

good red ants tomb ma late mum,
which fair re: creatures, no argument
booth us, iz moar rare than
finding far leaf clover,
and eek will coz fur astonishment

eef hoodlum (caw zing
bedlam) sought atonement
Yukon bull heave or no,
how life on the lamb
as a Dublin street urchin met belligerent

scruffy geezers old looking and bent
till kind ole soul named C. Clement
took yaws truly as apprenticed
Baron without complaint,
though kept ma lidded concealment

secret til search abandoned confident
gnome hissing pipsqueak,
would be sorely missed
giving fresh start with help to coinvent
patois, and be comb real estate magnet

ne'er no wing want oof
basic needs - yea content
in due time making pile
moan hee tall as Taj Mahal
kicking back during Lent

gerrymandering convalescent
old age spinning yarns
for modest copayment
total tubular tales with
nary a Harris Boss Tweed stitch of truth.
Travis Green Aug 2018
There is a smooth beat of lucid highs rising in the sky
a breath of smoky vowels sifting in the cool breeze
magnifying in a frame of fluid languages
it’s soft rolling pronunciations a vivid thought
bursting into brilliance across the scintillating landscape
the way it’s magnetic force slowly eases into a threaded mix
of funky melodies
a lasting drum vibrating within inner and outer worlds
swirling in repeating rings and recreations on the surface
of luminescent leaves from transparent trees
the way it’s fragrant and compounded creation stands on a mountain of sacred grace
a humming sensation speaking volumes inside a riverbed
a reflection of golden hues coming alive in magical sparks
serenely bliss and leaping in delight
a profound text stunning in symmetry
gleaming in geometry
an astonishing acrylic masterpiece demanding praise
I don't want to speak
I can't
Not like I used to
Everything seemed so seamless
Now my lips are pierced shut
Some may say for good reason
Well good riddance
Gone gone gone girl
So wild in nature with glare that cutthroat
Lies high five, smile, and dance in eyes
Beneath the pain beneath the dilation of past and mind
These values inspect and spy
All eyes on me in faces and reflections
Aiming at others
To find reason
Cause I guess somehow I got a lot to say
Are you being heard? She said. First session.
Argue in my ear

But, I don't want to talk
I can't
Not like I used to
That was then
There is no evaluation and perfection in wholeness of vowels nor pronunciations
My mistaken words slur showing character
My voice and tone
Low of the past
Forgiving it all
Mumbling and tumbling
To find a point
The humbleness grows true beneath my feet
Used to scream confidence
I used to believe a lot

So I don't want to talk
But , I can
But not like before
When I do though
Hear the child
Who yarns, learns, and grows
Painting on the floor
Saying a sentence again and again in many different forms
Until you hear the beauty in the impeccable disaster
I carry with desire and exquisite grace.
Chapter Three: The Whistleblower
Robert C Ellis Apr 2022
“Ever look up pronunciations?”

Stripped of their fleshy chests, words are
just bones and gristle threading teeth that eat them.
Feel time, in its natural twilight, run over the words until
they are just beads at the bottom of a good sleep which  
is all childhood is anyway.
Why you had superpowers and different worlds
and falls and bee stings didn’t hurt,

not really /ˈrē(ə)lē/
Flourishes amidst freedom
once invisible (alice in) chains shucked
when soul no longer kept linkedin
to jane's addiction
with corporeal duty, entity, fealty...
while formerly shed body electric
gendered as former googly eyed hotmail
actually a prodigy, whose outlook
arouses suspicions regarding him
as person of pinterest living social
in a webbed, wide world of uncertainty

precariously perched atop pinnacle
pirouetting at light speed,
nevertheless defying the laws
of centrifugal and centripetal force
as spirit blithely ushers forth
along a straight line
of orthodox dogmatism, idealism
opportunism, and volunteerism
hemorrhaging, purging, and xing
staunch archconservative
punishing outdated edicts.

When after the final countdown
to the global apocalypse,
(according to Doomsday Clock
January two thousand twenty three  
ninety seconds to midnight)
one beatle browed, foo fighting nebbish
departs the land of the living
and joins rank and file
among the grateful dead,

he (more specifically
the physical and spiritual
embodiments incorporating him
will separate) at long last,
thence latter day sainted essence
can freely exit from the cares
and concerns of an uncertain tomorrow  
no longer plagued by earthly travails
particularly the necessity of money.

Within heliocentric/ Copernican theory
broached sixteenth century promotion
sans scientific paradigm
dogmatically hefty, kinetically lofty,
and poetically thoroughly,
xyz beliefs misalign
wherein mechanistic Ptolemaic,
static venerated yin yang benign
choreography describing elementary forces
governing heavens inviting jinxed, kooky,
loopy measures necessitating

normalization, pacification, rectification,
transformation, validation
to guarantee spatial objects remain in line
which notions trotted out
a cosmic deal with invisible ink
omnipresent, omniscient omnipotent
benevolent creator linkedin
synonymously affixed terrestrial
firmament (planet Earth) nsync
with bedrock as Fred Flintstone
beatified, certified, deified,

edified, fortified, glorified Gibraltar
until undisputed supposedly
figuratively hermetically sealed
fostered religious (church) fathers
to do more than blink
when inquisitive minds (undaunted
though invoked as heretical martyrs)
blaspheming solidly entrenched
blind faith no more functioning with charm
mingly quaint association
with amulets, churinga,
exquisite fetishisms guiding humanity

innumerable journeys kickstarting
legendary modus operandi initially harm
less lee sounding out,
what manifested into a schismatic alarm
regarding millennial questions
undermining liturgical moorings
strong lance heaving arm
irrevocably toppled geocentric mindset,
nonetheless this oblate spheroid dance
sing with the stars redoubled
devout hangers-on fixed

with barnacle cleaving
devotion stalwart stance
populace behooved
(as would be expected),
when Doubting Thomas'
(Paine) revolutionary screeds
threatened (prior to unending)
universal schema just by chance
and despite proclamations pronunciations,
and provocations roiling status quo
hashtagged as evil rants

eventually zealous warfare between
growing heliocentric individuals  
with sacrilegiously blatantly deranged
fiendishly gnarly heathens –
perhaps the Renaissance own
groovy, nutty, and trippy Timothy Leary
the dawn of a quantifiable, explainable theory
(minus all those concentric
embedded orbital paths)
diktat preachers eventually became weary
to challenge recalcitrant

(purported hell raisers
****, I would have fit right in
as a rebel rouser)
whereby agents provocateurs
spout vestigial claim
to Gaea remaining front
and center of galaxy
on par clubbing with Mother Mary.
phoebe Apr 2020
you have winter in your veins
and i know at point i lived for the glacial temperatures.

i lived for the ice covering my bones
and you filling my body up to the brim with your filthy mistakes and careless words. how much do i have to pay you to hear you say those three little words again?

i keep replaying the vhs tape to our movie even though i always know how it ends.
i know how it ends, yet i watch it like a deer watches the headlights because i long for the familiarity that was once us, even though it makes me want to purge my guts out until my throat is strained and scratched.

i got drunk off your finger-crossed promises that the light at the end of the tunnel was right ahead and we needed to keep our head up. i sipped from your cup of honeyed words as if your delusional paradise could quench my thirst.

i’m slowly breaking down and distinguishing the pronunciations of safety and comfort, and they no longer sound like your name. they don’t sound like your name at all.

all you ever did was visit. you never stayed. my heart and ribcage was a home to you inconsistently inhabited whenever you feel alone and weak. but when the time came to renew the lease, you left me to sit fully furnished with your bad intentions; all the weight of your baggage that you were tired of carrying on your back was unloaded onto me. i reached my full capacity a long time ago, but you were blind to see that i was overflowing.

i would rip my lungs out if it meant it would quiet my screams that cry for you

i bite my tongue because i know my words never meant anything to you.

when i walked away from you, i left behind a universe filled ecstasy and unwanted come downs.

and i always tried to make you sure you were safe and had something to hold onto so you wouldn’t go flying away

but i guess you loved being high more than the firm grounding i put you on time and time again.

we found comfort in the chaos
but i’m no longer your lovebird
i’m ready to be set free from my cage for good.
Dennis Willis Sep 2020
Don't come and ask me for money
and tell me you love me in the same breath
tho
you think you would never -you would
its the circumstances the narrative making you
keel over an' belly up belie your belly full
and some lies own everything with deep hooks
and cascading nuances of cheap surrender
to ice cream to grocery stores to mexican joints
spent time before you ran off and came back

its time for a remake of the popular organization
of the state its time for a subjugation of subjugation
and letters bringing smiles and pronunciations of joy

— The End —