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.
;
when,
all fine people come around you,
its proofing,
that you are the fine one.
when,
all good people stay behind you,
its proofing,
that you are the best one.
-
Marisa Habibie
Just be the best version of yourself.
RebelJohnny Jun 2014
Synchronicity -
It means all of the events
flying, WHIZZING!, d-r-i-f-t-ing by us
as we ourselves float through the world
are related, connected, entangled,
and emerge from some kind of
divine symphony.

The sounds of laughter, tears dripping,
hearts BREAKING, SMASHING, SHATTERING,
the scraping knees crawling through the rubble,
hands SLAPPING TOGETHER as heads turn
towards heaven in prayer-

The warm embraces, -sighs- of comfort, lips smacking,
bodies pressing together in the hopes of being
reunified for a few moments, the glances,
the poems, the letters, the rings exchanged
and matching cemetery plots-

The triumphs, WOO-HOOS, celebrations,
toasts, clinking wine glasses, bottles, mugs
bumping fists, patting hands drumming
confidence into chests-

They are all supposed to be
one godly plan.
Like high notes, tragic sonatas
and joyous fingers plucking
heavens strings into
gracious cords and
silent pauses between tracks
are all one concert that we're conducting.

But doesn't it all feel so fragile?
One broken instrument, one
distracted player, one missing page in
your play book, a hand swished too hard,
eyes-too-penetrating or overly
aggressive dismissal of your
prized pianist
and the whole orchestra
falls into chaos.

What's it mean? What was that lyric?
What key is it in? What is the right tempo?
Do I emphasize the earthy drums that provide stability?
Do I drag you along on a magical carpet ride of echoing
falsettos, throats tugged like the handle-strings
drawing across my violin eyes on an exciting journey?

Or do I sink into the minor keys of my pain-
Songs that I don't share, playing on headphones
now I want to blast them, sob them out, sing them in whispers
at first, let them grow in me like my apathy, swell into tumors of
fear, and hurt and eat me from the inside out!

I want to shout songs of suffering. Have my piano keys
spin you into my anxiety, guitars raising the key like water rising
one floor at a time in the Titanic that is my beating heart.

I want to watch the drummers sweat as they beat out the rage
of having my most precious friends, objects and opportunities
snatched away - over and over - despite the progressive movements.

I want to draw you back into my finale with my fear. It will have to be so disturbing that each note raises hairs on your neck. When I drop my baton, leaves you with my night terrors - so foreign from the concert I'm playing that I'll need

electric guitars, wild wind instruments, theramin and a chorus of sirens and banshees to scare you back into your seat. Songs inspired by fear, pain and sadness, anxiety and misery are all you'll find at this concert. Songs that make bowing an act of submission and never respect or adoration. My forums lack fan clubs. Covers of my songs don't exist.

Please - leave your hearts at the door. Chances are that fate,
the ultimate conductor, will rip me out of this black-and-white
universe that traps me like a suit made from
straightjacket fibers, anyhow. Because life, no matter how unified they tell you it is, LIFE doesn't get remastered. There is no deluxe version, b-side, or re-recording.

No one can auto-tune my words. The dangerous, raging guitar solos of insults and fury that have wrecked
all of the men who really cared at one point.
The friends who survived the mounting anxiety of watching me
skip like a CD in the broken walkmen we had as kids. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! I meant to! Mean-! Mea! Meant, Meant, Meant, Meant <silence>, SLAM "Meant to call you,"

Or maybe ([SARCASM] IF YOU'RE LUCKY!) you'll hear track 4. I'll sing, "I need your help!", "Wow, *****, just come over!", "This *****!", "I didn't mean it", "Don't get like this again!". Against the anxious, building, manic tones, my panick blares while "I'm not good enough", "Can't do that", "my disease makes that hard", "Do you like me?", "**** this!!!" blares like an infernal choir pressing you to madness.

See, human symphonies aren't coherent - music theory isn't a predictive corpus. Experience shows that you can't make it come together. Too often, we don't get any rehearsal time. The death dirges that have stolen away my family, one at a time, creeping up from a silent, whispering stocatto'd-doom drown out any of the romantic, epic harpsichord solos that I still only dream of.

The angry, head-banging, 'where's that mosh-pit for grown-up children with kneepads?' beats don't motivate me anymore. They break down the walls to the studios where I was writing expert concertos. The earthquake-like blasts of my self-loathing fear have already torn down too much sound-proofing and the record studio collapsed because noone had the credentials to get in. My only dance consists of turning off the lights and yanking up the covers. Being a one-hint wonder isn't happening. Then again, can you blame me for not stopping? I don't pass this after I hit it.

In the end, the musicians don't always show up. It's like, - We've all been to that concert. Ya know, where everyone feels the awkward energy of a 4th grade Christmas Carol musical? Where, the costumes weren't convincing. Of course neither were the conductor's falsehoods, lies, omissions, or the promise that you'd enjoy this show. Cover art, like my critic's ratings, just don't do me justice . "Smart, engaging, relatable" the new listener's proclamation that "I'm falling in love! I can't get enough!" are marketing gimicks that just don't last.

Synchronicity, like destiny, has revealed itself to me as a fantasy. Reality's crumpling threads don't always find their way into skilled weaver's hands.  These strings have all snapped. In the end, I'm left smashing drums with trombones, crying over the rusted saxophones that can't croon for other hearts anymore. Just wait, my closing number is a Celine-Dion covered effort to stay afloat in the monsoon that I've been summoning for over a decade. When everyone leaves my audience, the program is either left behind or taken only by the weirdos who resonate with this kind of tortuous tune

I end each night walking the aisles of my darkened auditorium-soul now. I like to follow the echo and chase "coulda!" "woulda!" shadows across walls. I find your ticket stubs and nostalgia pulls me away from the dimming lights. In the end though, I can't counter the reviews that my show has no point. The tragedy isn't teaching any lesson and the cacophonies I birth don't generate fans. Plus, requests for autographs have become suicide invitations for an artist who can't release a polished track.

Synchronicity:A word invented and popularized by psychologist Dr. Carl Jung in the 1950s.  We all no better now that this is not a word that exists. Yet, the potential leads us all to chase after seasont tickets.

Synchronicity, defined as the false hope that it all means something. Synchronicity, the hope that you'll get to be the big strand in something special. Synchronicity - the promise of a heavenly choir, or divine symphony; of course we've already fallen from grace too often to question our unfulfillment. Sync-ro-nic-it-eeeee, like an old worn-out cassette tape, rarely comes with the equipment and support needed to hear it. Synchronicity - The jagged, little red pill that I can't take. Synronicity: the seemingly fate-driven world that we all stop believing in when the silence sets in.

Synchronicity: a series of seemingly random events that promise you a long night of unsurpassed concert sound. At least it's not alcohol I'm left lacking

Synchronicity, the artists that't leaves us entangled in distractions. Like scratched soundtracks. Synchronicity: the band I quit that has since left me wishing for buttons:

Pause. Stop. Repeat. Shuffle. Fast-Forward? Rewind!.....
..... Skip.

...................Eject.
Brother Jimmy May 2017
And when the end of days arrives
And we are queued and cattling
Oh we can praise the Lord for death
For then ends all the prattling

The soreness stiffly settles in
So sit and stew and ponder thus
If there were anything to sin
Why would we wait here for this bus?

The scale is so at odds with us
Morphing, shrinking, chasm-crack,
The only way is on the bus
The driver, bless him, takes us back

My thesis is almost complete
I stayed up late to edit it
So would you read it in your seat?
It may be crap but could it fit?

Within the mediocrity
The realm in which we write
So early in the hour of tea
Or later in the nerves of night?
#greatdivorce
Nonsense hiding in an autobiography,
Starting down dusty roads,
Where you truly found yourself,
Daring the mountains and questioning the cold,
To high rises with coke that guy you didn’t know too well brought,
She was there naked and gleaming,
Maybe she had od’d but ****,
She’s great at acting,
Just ask her mom,
You saw her face before,
In flashes of hot breath playing against,
Folk songs and guitars in a punk bathroom,
You didn’t know the faces then,
But you will,
Trust me,
You will,
Weren’t you there at the great protests,
Arm bands and water riots?
You saw what they saw,
But really,
“it’s poetry, not an autobiography”
Spelling errors speak to those who are deaf,
And you say it like it’s fact,
What else do you got?
You remember staring down a gun,
That didn’t belong to you,
In fact it wasn’t aimed at you,
It was aimed at them and all you could do was shake,
But the shakes don’t change when you,
Wake up the same,
You cant shake you,
You told me that while we layed in the sun,
Pointing out constellations,
I said,
It’s morning,
Why talk?
All I heard was a sigh,
But through the onomatopoeias,
I heard things like,
You cant see the stars but the sun still shines,
Whatever that means,
the rest of the day didn’t matter,
and you traveled again,
where’d you go now?
Maybe your letter will help,
Or maybe the call you sent is the way you,
Tried to send a pick-me-up,
Or maybe it’s just *******,
Either way,
Yea,
Either way,
We’ll answer.
For my father.
Marshal Gebbie Nov 2015
Sparse grass adorns the hillside
Thinly green against the grey,
Where lurking bull ant wolf packs
Hunt where chirping crickets play.
Way too thin to waft in breezes
Way too thin to really count
Like bad dealerships in Chevrolet
Mostly struggle to surmount.
Like thin pacifists in fist fights
Race, back peddaling for the door,
When, in fact, the convenience
Is a bullet through the floor.
And hot starlets jiggle **** jobs
Strutting carpet, red as rose,
Imitating, superficially here,
Whoredom wishing to impose.
Those roaring Russians, in denial
As their cheating athlete’s pale,
All denied their right of entry
To Olympia’s Holy Grail.
And insipidly they all collapse
In fracking’s blatant wake,
Leaving gloating, fat Americans
Gorging merrily on steak.
Whilst the oceans are advancing
As the ice floes dissipate,
And the clamour is ignored
Though Island nations inundate.
Fractious currencies do vacillate
In global bouts of greed,
Where the rich are fatly richer
And the rest in desperate need.
Where all truth is but a fantasy
Which everyone ignores,
Where expediency is the answer
And future proofing snores.
Black distrusts the whiteness
Islam hates the Jew,
East and West at loggerheads
What hope now…. for you?
Oh sparse grass adorns the hillside
Thin green against the grey,
Where the morrow is a vaugary
And worrisome it’s way.

M.
Friday 13th November 2015
Thomas Maltuin Jun 2015
Is
Is not
these two
no more

Actual

Fact is
There are only
two types if people  
those who believe
and the zeroes

ity

On
Off
True True
It's skewed really
False False
By its own nature

Exhibit A
was it G?
everything exists
evident in hard lines
proof

Even backholes

What if

proofing
God
equates
proving
Art
Clarification
I'm a Christian
Viewtifulink Nov 2014
Flashing lights....

Invade my sights
when my thoughts
are like...

Divorced thighs..
lips Swelled prepped
to resist my
goodbye...  

Constricted hello's
while I play peek aboo
with her insides... her
breast dance to the melody's
played when satisfaction stops
to say hi...

I love her music, encouragement
for our momentary desires to
continue fusing..... Her ******
brewing, intimate temperatures
beg sensation to convert into
fluid, her appreciation
oozing...

waste that demands
a volume increase
in her music while
her legs mimic the
speech of someone
in need of a pronunciation
improvement... Her stomach
too friended that stuttering
movement.... Excitement's
introduction to the lungs
is a bit confusing altering
the amount of air needed
and what the body loses

I love her music...

Soundtracks of lust
play from our bodies
as we continue this
bonded movement...
her tones, multi pitched
moans mixed with the
bathing sound of her ocean
cruising... our boats collide
lending us such blissful
bruisings,
smooth sailing.....
her unlimited supply
of friction proofing

I love her music
Day dreaming

© 2014 viewtifulink
Cameron Godfrey Oct 2013
It's hard dealing with not being accepted
But it's worse when your thoughts are always intercepted
By a screen, by a door, sound-proofing your brain
By that "censorship" **** that drives you insane

And it's hard, concealing all those stray thoughts
Being force to think something you do not
It's worse being locked in a cage
That immediately closes when you have something to say

Something to say that is said to be wrong
So you suppress that **** thought until it seems fully gone
It's hard when it comes back, it's hard when it returns
When you're raising your hand but it's never your turn
Nat Lipstadt Sep 2015
~~~

as we lay beside each other,

about twelve long inches apart,
both tablet-engrossed,
human flesh coffee cup holders,
I proffered this rejoinder/rejoin her:

"if you were closer,
I'd kiss you hard,"
but for now,


be satisfied with this my darling:

distance makes the heart grow fonder"

then she looked up, up, up,
removed her sound proofing earbuds,
asking the ceiling,

"what's that you said?"

~~~

as we lay beside each other,

the symphonic orchestra struck up
"The Human Cantata"
the sounds we frailties issue,
when thoughts course
throughout our bodies and minds,
sounds of melodic purring,
foot stomping, jumping for joy
drums and timpani,
violins cry soaring and moaning
and this particular vignette
of music never-ending
has never been recorded

till now

~~~


as we lay beside each other,

we lay inside each other,
the vines of new stories shoot
every which way,
and you contemplate
a poem title emendation,
why a mere three,
perhaps,

endless vignettes?


~~~
August 2015

one early morning
Nolan Patterson Dec 2019
You are a monster
Is what they said
A raging disaster
Left for dead
No hope left in sight
Might as well fly away like a kite

But hear you are now
Wading through the sea of broken glass
I don't get how
I think it's cuz of your cute sass
Now the glass has come together
To form a picture of sunny weather

No more shredding of good thoughts
No more painful stabs of regret
No more tight knots
No more hopeless bets
Because I am finally seeing a new perspective
And my mind has become passive

I feel safer in my mind
I feel happier in my body
I feel like being more kind
I don't want to be haughty
It's all thanks to you
And shaving away the sharp edges.
I wrote this as a two month anniversary gift of sorts to thank someone who helped me a lot and means the world to me.
Lindiana Mazari Aug 2017
Let me love you
He said
Directly looking at me
⏳⌛
He wanted to *play

Like with any other girl
⏳⌛
He wanted a game
That's what I gave him
⏳⌛
I looked him in the eyes
And saw the hint
He was nothing but a liar
⏳⌛
No-one likes a girl
Like me
My heart as cold as stone
Something he could not see
⏳⌛
In the name of the ones who suffered
I will make his life miserable
⏳⌛
From me
He had gotten time
For proofing himself
⏳⌛
But
Before walking away
I told him to
*Let the game begin
Hopefully you will like it
it´s always: your eyes are so pretty,
never, I love the way your eyes light up when you talk about your dreams;

it´s always: your so cute,
never, I love that little smirk your nose makes when someone compliments you;

it´s always: your hair looks so good,
never, I love the way your hair feels through my fingers;

it´s always: I like the way you smell,
never, I want my sheets to have your scent;

it´s always: you sound smart,
never, I am fascinated by your mind;

it´s always: your teeth look so perfect,
never, your smile illuminates my day;

it´s always: I feel I can tell you everything,
never, I promise to never leave;

it´s always: you are so pretty,
never, you are beautiful;

it´s always: them saying I love you,
never them proofing it.
Anais Vionet Nov 2021
Have you ever lived in a tall building? Dawn strikes suddenly and irradiates these glass-walled, high-rise rooms. Lisa showed me how quickly the thick windows - if you press your face against them - go from cold to warm in the morning's stark glare.

On the streets below, beneath the horizon, darkness remains
as if there were, briefly, two worlds separate but side by side -
one, a night place and the other bleached in fierce sunbeams.

The rooms have no curtains, just motorized shades that go up and down as needed - but in reality, they’re always up. Central Park is the only thing across the street and we’re so high up (50th floor) no one can see in. It’s odd, dressing in uncurtained, glass lined rooms or bathing in curtain-less bathrooms - there’s a titillating freedom to it.

I find myself imagining that we’re angels floating in the clouds,
looking down upon man and his creations - but then I’m reminded,
by vertigo or by digging a charger out of my luggage, that I’m just
a mortal, sporting a temporary visa to this high-rise heaven.
.
.
*ps
In proofing this before posting it, I had to smirk at how,
of all the qualities of high-rise life, I wrote about the
curtain-less feature and I wonder if that paints me either
a perv or a *****. I even debated deleting it, but *shrug
New York reminds me of Shenzhen China
Faye Feb 2022
I went a little storm crazy,
spurred on by the fears felt by my dad
and mom.
"You’ll have to go inside at one,
that’s safest."

To shed some light on this,
give a little more context,
I live in a shed in the garden,
it’s idyllic.

They got to me
and Twister has always been one of my favourite films
and I used to love reading about storms and hurricanes as a child,
I have only myself to blame really.

I started packing things that were
most important to me; the home videos
of my sister and me, I’d brought my photo books back inside
a long time ago,
and I brought the USB-stick on which one of my stories still existed,
sadly deleted from all other devices when said devices broke down,
I took my birth announcement card in its pretty frame and left the pacifiers
even though I would mourn them if I’d lost them,
I took my notebooks filled with poetry and left the many gaming devices I grew up with,
thought I’d be sad to lose them.
I left the Barbie doll of Little Bo Peep from Toy Story, which my mother adores so
because I might damage it in my bag,
but I would feel eternal guilt if that was lost.
One part of me could let things go
realized their material worth
the other saw all the times I used them
or all the times and days I was going to use them.

I packed my stuffed animals,
them being almost as old as I am
and having gotten me through a great number of bad dreams
and painful sleep.

But with a heavy heart I left Blub Nemo Rex (or Bruce)
the stuffed animal shark my sister gave to me once I’d passed
all of my first year classes at the university, like she had promised she would
if I kept up my end of the deal, because it was too big.

I grabbed my laptop because if ****
did inevitably, or so it would accordingly
to the latest forecast,
hit the fan,
I’d at least have the stories and other snippets
of earlier writing present with me.
Of course, it is also the mature and responsible
thing to do: take your laptop with you
so you can at least do your homework
for next week’s classes.

I don’t have to tell you about my id
or my student id cards or things like that,
they are always in my bag,
tucked away behind a zipper.

I would miss all of my books so gravely,
it was painful to have to force myself to
think “oh I wouldn’t miss you when you were gone”
which was a lie, even those I haven’t read,
I’d miss, and the ones I hated, too.
I suppose I am far too sentimental at times.

Then when I had come to this selection of things
I very well couldn’t do without,
I walked into the garden, my dad was
storm-proofing his plants and garden, his greatest pride,
and I felt guilty because I hadn’t even stopped to think
about the five plants in my room, Sancho Panza, Streep, Doris,
Diederik de Droogbloem, Baby and the one
that my mother named but I always fail to recall.

My dad looked at me and said
“it isn’t until five that Eunice becomes cumbersome”
and I was relieved
“And you can stay in your room until then, no harm done.”
so here I am sat,
back in my room in the shed in the garden again,
realizing that I was over-reacting
and far too materialistic.

Just to be safe,
I did return my mother’s stuffed animal to her bed
and gave my sister back her Winnie The Pooh teddy bear
which my mother got her (I got a beautiful stuffed animal version of Piglet)
when we were at the Victoria and Albert Museum, my sister’s
favourite museum she hopes possibly to work at one day,
back in two thousand and eighteen.

I also briefly considered
all the diaries and letters
I had written to myself when I was younger
and if I should take them inside
in case something completely terrible happened
(Eunice had turned into Eunicezilla in my mind and I’d already imagined that my lovely little shed would be as wrecked by this storm as Aunt Maggie’s house was and everything would be ruined beyond retrieval)
but I decided not to, to leave them in my room
because I don’t know if I am as attached to them
as I would like to think I am.
after all, what’s a few scribbles from ages
nine to twenty-one when they’re all mostly
just thoughts about insecurity, puberty and anxiety?
brian mclaughlin Apr 2016
Man, placed in a box of rules.
Tolerated as long as he behaves
and doesn't wander outside.
His growth limited by its walls
with no room to add anything that might be new.

Is the world afraid
to have a new dessert,
one that may tickle the tastes
of those who see themselves as inmates?

Bound within this box,
their faith and beliefs are squashed.
The box dwellers are deprived
of their choice and preference of their own
likes, dislikes and that which makes them who they are.
Their individualism stolen.
Their personal freedom denied.
Their voices silenced by a sound proofing
created by the approval or disapproval of the elder.

There is no freedom within the box
when forced to live by another mans creed.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2020
”Well, my friends are gone and my hair is grey
I ache in the places where I used to play
And I'm crazy for love but I'm not comin' on.
I'm just payin' my rent every day in the Tower of Song”

Leonard Cohen lyric from The Tower of Song


§§§

this lyric hits, it’s a ten fingered cheeky ****** marking,
fits like a new white t-shirt, clean~perfect in every aspect,
I’ve just changed song to poetry, so nobody’s complaining

axiomatic, slept less a than three shambolic hours last nite,
don’t ask what I was doing or even a simple why, even the
vultures grew tired, helplessly hoping for solutions to start appearing

water pressure ok, poem spigot strong but the words desiccated,
it’s time to revisit roots, back to where I’ve come-begun, bury losses,
seek no consideration, write in isolation, a-quiet niche, a shhh! beach

my silent reverie owns me and the angels, biggest fans, just can’t
get enough, know their faith is strong, never proofing reads required,
content to wait till find my lost chords, comforts of only fresh truths

so arrivederci, until we meet again, when cadences have resumed,
rolling in unbroken, won’t need other’s words recirculating my blood,
till my slip sliding over, direction from arrows stabbing new openings

rented a storage unit in nearby woods, empty shelves greet ya with a
‘ready, willing, and able,’  many open arms looking for fulfilling, a job, that don’t even pay minimum wage, but the benefits are just fan-tastic


So:
should you spot a man ungainly wrought,
weighted down by a harpoon cross, resting,
‘pon on his cursed Cain-marked back, fingertips,
you need not move to the other side, or hide,
'tis only a make-believe poet, no longer believing,
with his recording device, seizing your rhapsodies
to rhyme with his own collected artifacts, your crinkly
smiles are his meat, his metier, his chosen career,
to be again a comfort caresser of your illusions into
a shapely sculpture of words be-loved, keeping-worthy,
tokens of a reexamined self worth, a new girth, leaner,
a celebration for the keeping, dug up with pail and shovel,
a best left hid on his treasured island, in a treasure chest, only his new-no-good-best-most-satisfying-new-no-good-best-mystifying-sati­sfying-cursing-muses-who-got-two-knee-on-my-soul-I’m-
howling...
­
Monday Jun 1, 2020
self-explanatory but if you don’t get it, then:

“there is no “better” in poetry

mine yours theirs, alive or not,

just gasps tears and blood
whimsical smiles and isles
cuts and burns of pained revelations,
hidden in fog,
that words try to delete away,
through the shrouded mists of
human tissues,
unconstrained by the
bounded shape
of the human cell,
our first, our own
self-imposed jail”
Love-evans May 2018
Rental down payments-
Moving van-
Rental debt:
  N-
  L-
Debt to parents: 25,000
Mac-external hardrive
iPad -accessory  
iphone-
     Oloclip-Lense
     Selfie light -phone case
     Selfie stick
     Heavy duty case
Mattress/ Boxspring/ Frame
Cat stuff
Dresser
Lights (Plants/ Photography)
Sound proofing
Microphones
Headset-beats
Garageband
Mic ****
Photography camera
Lenses
Vlog camera
Sewing machine
Patterns
Cactus
Backdrops/green screen
leona chaput Dec 2017
How great, how great is my God
How great is the wonder and beauty
The awesome glory that my God
Is power to shine in glorious majesty
Reigning purity,  justified through mercy
My God, My God greater than any power
Showing the way we should follow and live
Resplended in the way that God reigns
Proofing that He is the only God for me
How great, how great is my God to me

   By:  Leona Chaput
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2021
even i'm surprised at my palette...
i shouldn't be enjoying this...
this being a Bohemian absinthe liquor...
some strange pellets at the bottom
of the bottle... coming in at 60% proof
(read, past participle, i.e. "red":
not, reed, to)
my guess was... coriander seeds...
but no...
        it tastes like absinthe does:
few things put me off... easting or drinking-wise...
szechuan pepper: certainly turns me off...
the spice with the added tongue numbing...
evil food ingredient in the wrong hands...
but... aniseed? **** me... even i'm bewildered...
why do i appreciate this flavour?
well... it's absinthe...
it's a long way away from herr whiskers
and ms. amber of the whiskey...
or sweeter, finer than silk:
the greatest thing to come out of
the u.s. of A... bourbon...
this Bohemian absinthe "liquor" has all
the aniseed: Annie... not ANY: seed...
but an added twist...
the bitterness of an IPA: indian pale ale...
bitterness... that's another dimension
i appreciate...
mr. Joshua was defeated by a Crimean
Cossack... a balance of racial-baiting
has been achieved...
long distant cousin... actually:
no cousin at all...
   one's a Slav the "other" (me) a Slav...
lost the supposed attached E...
Germs & Germans in Berlin...
in London... once upon a time...
i much prefer etymology to Darwinism...
i like the history of words...
"like"... faux pas...
        ooh! ooh!
touchy-feely...
           my ooh to your: ouch...
lick some ice...
        it's an implosion of the burning
sensation...
humanitarian aid for
lobsters... it's apparently humane
to freeze them... first...
rather than boil them: outright...
and such are the concerns of English politicians
these days...
if i were asked... relatively speaking:
freezing something: alive...
is... more time spent on the same sort
of agony jested with boiling them
outright...
the usual Hapsburg absinthe: 90+% proof
tended to be sweeter...
i even allowed myself the whole
ritual of soaking up a cube of sugar
with the "stuff" and setting it alight...
i'd roam in havoc while displaying this
burning sugar-cube to
inanimate things in the kitchen:
catching a 2nd tier better shift at
proofing myself for bones & tendons:
and... ****** expressions that
i could turn into cold lamb poker...
etymology rather Darwinism...
Darwinism is big in the Anglophone sphere
of the world...
it's like... Copernicus in Poland...
a... an... ahem: a "national treasure":
a bit like Judie Dench...
but outside? history killer theory...
like: living in stasis: living with static...
from the ape to the current man:
the same old boorish ******* excuse:
but it's the 21st century...
                                                    and?!
everything was to be solved in...
the, 21st century?
everything was to become apparent...
clearer... rainbow lights flickers: "better"?
the excuse of all excuses:
but it's the 21st century...
it's a century not distinguished from
all the others that have passed...
well... there are some additions i wasn't
expected... electric bicycles...
moi... i like the idea of generating my own
momentum... it's not enough
to just press a foot on the peddle
of a oil drinking dachshund / horse...
i'm Pontius Pilate when i'm on a bicycle...
i've washed my feet clean on the matter
of having a carbon footprint...
count one of my awkward farts
as loosening up constipation:
not one with the cow brigade...
holidaying?
Havering County Park...
trees... forests & ****...
deer... foxes... horses...
the one time i visited Kenya i lounged...
and fed greedy macaques bags of sugar
and tea... and we lounged on the balcony
while security guards on site aimed
at them with slingshots...
- hardly think that the piano (only)
rendition of Wagner's:
Valhalla: the gods' entrance into...
is somehow anaemic...
then again... if Chopin or Debussy
or Satie were to be orchestrated...
just this once piece...
it's not anaemic... it's profound:
as ever a piano is... crashing down
in metaphors... it's not Ysaÿe
with his violin... you'd need a Westminster Bridge
for that, mate...
and a stray cat to keep you company...
you can reduce a Wagnerian
symphony to a mere: ahem...
ridicule on the piano...
but you can hardly make a Chopin out
of a Schopenhauer (shopping hour,
joke... like there's no joke: ha ha,
to begin with)
- my my... what happened
to these native folk... who told black comedy
jokes... it's like... they have been
stripped bare-back backwards....
and can't tell a saucy... acid proof joke
these days!
ah: i guess the imagination also dies...
a certain death: not the sort of death
associated with memory:
that fickle creature to begin with...
i guess it comes with the grounds to
make one's effort in...
the dodo undermining project of
the most schematised of men...
i guess i'm trying to posit a +1 scenario...
in a way that... Bukowski was chased for not
gearing up to the suicide squad while
Edward Hopper spent his days...
******* joyfully in Mexico...
- one of my pet peeves is...
how the English shorten names...
Edith becomes Edie...
Abigail becomes... Abs...
Matisyahu... Matthew becomes... door...
Matt...
Peter becomes Pete...
Thomas becomes Tom...
Jacob... well i like this one...
Jakub in ****** becomes Kuba...
you could even write this in katakana...
i abhor how the English shorten: "pet"
the most crucial nouns associated with a person...
i like the fullest of the full of the noun...
like... an apple is... not an app...
start off with yeast: end up with the Zeppelin:
ist...
for ****'s sake!
i'm chasing Zeppelins in my mind...
all the psychopaths are already leash-free...
i'm the schizoid... "problematic": üns...

your language is all tatters... tartan...
churns & chores...
if i were a closest neighbour:
geographically or / and historically...
a Spaniard... a German...
a Fwench-man...
ha ha... English being so unanimous in the lingua
franca domain could be obliterate
on the focus of nuance...

you can: rather: you could have had all the pride
that comes with the implosion of Empire...
but...
no luck... no here: not right now...
how the cards folded how...
so little of England actually remains at its
epicentre... das kapital...
frivolous women who... can... will...
cats have it all...
i like these bonsai specimens...
a dog is a creature most associated with men:
i don't like leashes...
cats allow me the leisure of:
no walking the **** out...
no leash... why would i want a substitute for...
ahem... "company"?

Edith should not be Edie...
write me that one... phonetically...
E-D... ****'s sake Edith!
Abigail becoming: Abs... is it... "cute"?!
i like the name: Abigail...
why a shortening "comparison"
with a six pack of Fosters?!
not matched up to a 6 footer of prospect
dating material of a man in the torso region?
- i abhor this sentiment in English...
shortening names...
one wouldn't shorten the noun:
trousers... trou?
pet names me not like...
apes are for us!
       Darwinism didn't simply bother a vanity
of man, according to Freud...
while Marx based his ideology on...
Hegel's lecture notes.. it's not like
he read the phenomenology of spirit...
                          Darwinism for me kills the concept...
nay! more the concern for history!
Darwinism doesn't **** off a human vanity:
what does Darwinism present:
everything has a purpose..
nature abhors vacuums..
physics, satellites... Newtonian projectiles
might like them so much...
in nature everything has a purpose...
there is no "room"... cube worth of "thought"...
how romance biased to suppose:
Devonshire had anything original to
posit... Darwinism in a nut-shell:
nature abhors vacuums
all is used to use...

what's allowed in the Anglo-sphere Empire
implosion: dicta...
curry curry curry...
we're all supposed to taste the food of
a superiority complex... prior to what happened
when Genghis Khan reached...
Crimea?!
squint eye:: BAL-WA-RUK...

i have here... a list of ingredients of the absinthe
i'm drinking


my foremost mistake was...
associating females within the confines
of deities..
i sketched them...
one: young... peering into a mirror
seeing herself old...
some others... i didn't have a **** of envy
for i sketched them...
too bad..

like the mythological drive for the will
of the Nazis...
sourcing their fakery in Scandinavia...
me?! Aryan... Samaritans...
pleb as whole...people most grieved...
start to chant in katakana...
in a makeshift of...

no... purely...  consonants...
the vowels extend the breath...
the consonants give base...
CHANT CHANT CHANT...
  
the list of ingredients of "that" Bohemian absinthe...
i'm aiming for the coriander pellets...
no chance: ****'s sake:
i'm not reading Czech... no ******
with a second name like
Conrad....
   how about Lothar....ever... would?
yew...

              awry: you: this... yew... yes?! no?!
whichever... right about... now!
Ken Pepiton Mar 19
A moment's attention to an hour's raw worth.
This is the mind ****** experiment, last try...
back and forth until it breaks,
touch the edge, feel the heat.

On knowing, first taste, it is believed,
mankind's first mother made all mankind,
all from first mother
on to logically, eventually,
us;
You and me,
as we slipt the Matrix and uttered
the first breath wail that clicks the post womb life.

First thought that death ought be feared
has not yet been given the beguilement needed,
to make a slave to the mission revealed by truth's
spirit form, wind form, mind form, time formed point.

Knowledge, forbid my ignorance, but should one,
such as I, not die before my **** hair thins,
to lay bare the scalp that covers holy access
through the window in the top of the skull;

well, then, a certain respect is due me, a love, proof
that my reasonings were honed sharp enough,
early enough to form hooks to hang strands
of fullered fibers of gnosis from.

Prepared stitching thread, twirled intwining line
of reason, plumb weighted to hang straight,

perpindicular, swinging when to when, then
to now, to day from night, to ready after letters
are fitted to let us take thought, while attempting

contemplative temporary causal agency,
mediating meditation's worth versus daydreaming.

--------------
Standard transmission, clutched, loosed,
engaged to catch a spark and start the process

rolling presently from past instances of learning.

Motivational motors of minding one's busyness,
catch a spark mid sequence, in a valved chamber

whooshing to push to shove to pull, and push
to displace and **** and shove to push and roll,

extending any individual's reach, confining
one's attention to inner reasonings, efforting
to steer the convenience compelling consciousness,

paid attention to terminii in reality set by science,
acknowledged used to increase the mobility of our kind,
mind you, promotion demands hands and eyes,
coordinating coy and ardent wills worth observation,
as will to be useful as  arms and necks and nerves
and muscles and ligaments to tie bone frames,
to controls allowing fingers to steer,
as tongues do, as rudders do,

as my will being done may do,
we imagine as children watching adults work wishing.



---------
the efforting, effectual, fervent umph
applied to being useful on the whole,

the efforting made good by limitation
on liberty, free-state of matter, under
gravity and velocity, bound and determined,

to obey the binding force realized in thought,
leveraging aging winding springs force holds,
cogs to stop grinding gears, catchments,
mind hooks with torque converting aspiration

grasping reasons to resist inertial entropic
good enough reasons to sit still and wait.

------

guaged goodness, measured mind width
comprehended, held with thumb and fingers,
in our combined ready writer mind, manipulated

muscle memorial cause confirming, progress
toward our common, shared joy strength

winging lift up from least useful of creatures,
unselfsustainable --nidicolous, nest bound,
bald baby birds, or pre-birds, evolving
into functional forms for use in life
as we, the best form
of life we have conceived.
-----------

We have, behavioral autonomy, only
to the degree, the measured
parental investment, we need to have
and keep hold of having grasped, as
behavior becoming to beings of this kind.

Word smiths, mind adjustment experts,
fed from stacks in libraries so vast, that

now, we know, no mortal mind can hold
half of all we have experimentally proven
good for any word using cluster of us to have

to hold and use to make might be rights.

May might used right take thought, aye, may
be the will to have right use honed to one point,

new known pastless place, farthest edge
of ever after all we think or ask has proven,

patient stasis, waiting is, suffer it to be so now.

Some times and one times,
revisiting the process, producing me
and you, the processors of our realif-ications.

If as a condition,
in an ifery state, sticking to any matter realized;
we think as if one of us thought first, in time passing

now, from then, in your mind, my mind leaves reproof,
constructed to prevent the falling back into doubt,

two heads, four minds, one wind to share
in time passing as when one now meets a then,
when all attention ever once paid this now, turns

this time into a part of ever after all,
as words speak to heart felt conscience use proven
good, clean, pure state of first interest bearing lent
ears, hearing entertaining causing agents taunting troof.

Prove me now, herewith. Have I not filled your lungs,
have I not granted science right use of knowledge needed

to keep your nidicolous naked soul inspired to continue,
sowing kindness, same mindness, ag, agrimental agreement

we think, we thunk,
we thank our lucky stars, time and chance,

taut twang strangs of our hearts and minds, "chu-hoi",

big hugs, evahboty be nice like G.I., open arms
sự đầu hàng

bring before us the machine gunner called Whykill… begin
judgment near the incident, sự kiện, 29-02-01968,

There we was, me and Frenchy and Culpepper or something,
I forget, and now, I'm dead and all you all have are artificial
memorex versions of things I said I was a witness to, as a liar,
-nothin' but a houn'dawgnosis
picking old scents of sense we made in conversations,
so far past the point of no return, that none on the other side,
can contain innocense, livery of consci, where in our uniformity,

protrudes through old time religious linking thinking, wonders if
we might imagine living on in other words, after all's been
said and done… Whykill's dead. Hohlenstein's dead, and I am not.

Can you hear me now? Earth, earth, can you hear me now?
I hear your brother's blood crying out,
what now, this
now,
you know,
all those idle questions, you know? Did you
feel me lie and tell me no, no, man,
you can't do that.

And be not deceived. Single mind dominance, flat
left and correct, right, right, create an ifery wasery when,

then, let us form a means to use this ifery wasery when,
now, let us form
in time as realizable, vision, written plain,

set in new fangled fonts unicoded
common computable convertible
to bits in math-mental fundus corpus us,
beyond infinity through absurdity to us
becoming these thinkable thoughts,
living words all googly translated on demand,
rethinkable, as entertaining shapers of our kinds
of minds, keyed to constant news alerts, looking
for spots on the walls we pass along, hedged betting

this land is Nature's God's land, and this pasture,
green and lush, this leisure time, as advertised,
mine, my last wish
combination running streams of hot and cold water,
memory foam souls in my Adidas, as I did, assume
the role, Balaam's ***, or donkey,
if your public ***** word filter
hides ssscertain ifery essence
as sounds shuffled schitteringshits.
saint's accuser user rights assigned, runs
Phunky muse, ish bin, dasein, by das zeit, okeh
become alright already, done did done, done, indeed,
desired right to design, knowing already
the idea in the seed, was in
the virus first, and some say
long before long now,
in long then when nothing was a thought.
Knowledge was used to expose us all to living words.
Such as =
U can hold, as a mind let be formed
from mere wish it were
so easy
to fall in love, silly, blessedness
sensing mothering wombed men,
led astray with stories as wild as Theresa wannabes can conceive,
barren womb conceptions, dared define this penetralium,
esoteric guts of all sacred oxen processions, announcing
****** births reportedly
become motherless *******, and such
become outcasts, who often as not,
survive and thrive on wilderness.
Day and night, seedtime and harvest.
Learning from wind and sun and water and dirt and stone,
presoil granite, lime
from primordial sealife eons
on eons awaited, according to Devine wedoms
aspiring to some day become those cities of marble long ago
- replicate forming a marble pillar,
- from seaformed life forms turned to stone,
- in the kidneys of the world.

slow sea settle the white cliffs, pile
on pressure from megatons
of solid ice, firming fractious soft muds
at the bottom
of ancient land locked oceans,
frozen, squeezing solidified worths
weights of rainfall reacting first time
to climates constant changing
pulls from lucky stars and
guiding stars and
disintegrating
ancient's land marks, Casa Bonita,
those Bhuda reps
in the basalt, reminding
remember nothing is real,
blank slate, po' preserver of first impressions, lasting
lifetimes in words never given a reader's added weight, but

by a kind of more than once might wish
to ask, effectuality try
proofing insulation umph
opposing imposture syndrome,
with functional Dunning Krueger
inate cognative imbalence, valenced
within the pre pancreatic failure gut neurons bias…
burped bubble perception, whole self tuning
entire being concept, repenting ignorance begging
truth be known, make me unbelieve beloved lies,
other wise
make me
Art
Intuited, as a weform lifeform,
a we of three neuronal territories,
thinkers reading doer's reports from ports far afield, out there

where shapes of things that were some time ago,
can be translated into two dimensions fitting this window,
using these letters whose sense we all may use to think

translate me, the living word reminds the daydreaming monk,
consider really the stars, for number, now, and take that,
knowledge, a ledge on an oblique inleaning facet of us,

and walk along it not looking down
on or as, may be
the we form of one ready
to be reading ready we state,
in a punctuated equilibrium *** *** ***
Drums
Timpanis, Phrigian rhythms boom boom booming,
Zildjians , krashing and rolling into boingingnodes, domes
of dones, tells holding long forgotten legends for a time.

Nineveh, the repentant city, eh,
to the level
of its labor class things, fasted an acceptable fast,
miracle of miracles, the city did not fall, the miracle
of Jonah was that the city changed behavior
to such a degree that the God who had used Jonah,
made him a story in himself, used to glorify truth,
and someday make gourd growers
proud to be shapers if Meerschaum puff clouds,
made him a creature with no comprehension of mercy,
to use him in a great sorting out testing of spirits,
in the great game of the being edge overlapping gains
taken as granted grace, readers rule non readers,
see the images on the wall, hear the actors in the back,

break a leg, bad luck magic insiders hold true good,
encouragement to fret nothing, as a dancer does,
when listing with the breeze through new chance,

on the page, a pause,
a breather taking lax laze lize guessing others wise,

we suspect ourselves of hubris, as if the other wise
reason for the functional faith in goodness is done,

sneezing phase is past, if you've read this far, by now

you are infected, and as you know, knowing too much
can **** a mortal bent to believe an institutionalized PR
Q-code/ begging oppositional support,
for the dam whence the boy pulled his finger and stepped

back to be blown downstream in time to let the last salmon
spawn and bring worth back to the rain always falling,
mainly on the plain,

Habakkuk habit, artistic intuition patterns of stroke, for luck,
let role in lines intending to hold the slightest smile,
thinking I know, this is not the same vale,
this is not the same current, nor same opinion worth a look,
streaming, not rowing, life
at the moment
is a day taken
for daydreaming equivalent
to a koan ridden
to its vanishing point
on the horizontal insistence
of our mutual peculiar leanings off center,

in a phi mark pattern pearling things think through,
doing words a proper spin,
to hit the nail on the head,
pop.
Stop/ now. Taste the pudding,
is there proof now from then?
D'he, ahe he he - didja ever have the ware withal
to make up
your own mind?

-------------
Yes, walk away, daydreaming boy,
location and possession of means,
for deciphering Emperical runes,
put into my craft and trade in
Calabash pipes, seen, but unseen
gourds employed as smoked ****
and fine tobacco investigatory oral
fixations prominent during the nicotine
DNA adaptation,
{took five generations}
from popular pastime
of blowing smoke, after effects
took on global societal ruling lines
of taut strict reasons to keep smoking,
keep on, keepin' on, minding solo scriptura,

in smoke filled rooms whither whole new forms
for holding mental tyranny enough to wage war,
took shape to govern those who must fight for
the cost of power contained
in a concept with kings,
and us, or Gods and men…
opposed to, leaning against, acting
as scaffolding holding old dams destined
soon to break,
"and at that time thy people shall be delivered,
every one that shall be found written
in the book."

Johnstown flood, was a true historical news worthy event,
unlike the name of any person whose name is in a list
of souls departed from the frail shell of mortality,

ready or not.
Fret not, and naught, aye, no thing or thought
Christmas angel say aight, be not afraid of knowing,
good new things to know, whole old truths put to rest.

Here come Jubilee, one last time,
big time, big time revival of the truth conception

creator of the whole shebang.
Biggest to infinitile insignificance, in fancy other words.

But thou, O Daniel,
shut up the words, and seal the book,
to the time of the end:
many shall run to and fro,

Assisting intelligences shall seem as guides,
Michael models will seem like second comings.

in implodelusive spurts… as can be imagined
reviving old lies for new carnal mind tweaks.
Thanks for your patient investment, the cost of your attention ags me on.
Walter Alter Jul 2023
we knew capitalism had turned ugly
after the first lemonade stand drive by
children denounced their parents
when their eyes were opened
to supply side economics
and demand side criminal enterprise
plunging on in a premeditated stupor
they floated between the tables
a jackpot here a jackhammer there
a cartesian Bingo bonanza elsewhere
going on but the scantiest of gossip
it's a fill in the blank world
where a suitcase full of dead mockingbirds
found on the late bus idling at the terminal
against the smell of ***** nightmares
constituted a reunion of the ever faithful
filling the night with interrogation
we had some exceptional men in our unit
dropped into trouble spots too hot to touch
setting up sensors and detectors and bait
scholars statesmen jurists bishops
and a bent maggoty reeking poet
a sleight of hand magnum opus abuser
surrounded by the burning bodies
of everyone he ever knew
yet all is not a ham bone up the ***
I had just cleaned up my syntax and grammar
with maple syrup and golden dairy butter
so I'll put off proofing this mess for another day
too old to dig up reliable proof anyhow
my brain's already in a specimen jar
it lived a mythical fairy tale life
worth a transfer to the end of the line
to the ancient carnival of phantoms
so I sent in my manicurist security guard
from the tropical hammock islands
their scissors going snip snip snip
rattling the bones of the dead
if this is just a make believe universe
I'd hate to see the real one
but I'm pretty sure space is continuous
and spewing rhyme out of the hearts of stars
but what the hell do I know
it all sounds so fresh and dewy
assuring me that people of greater densities
the beautific the anointed the the sanctified
**** up real stupid just like we do
forgive me but my thoughts have all been stolen
the end point is eluding me as a point
as an area we'll eventually get there

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
SURETICE TONGUE Jan 2021
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IRRESPECTIVE OF ECHO

SAMUEL DAVID <believingvirtue@gmail.com>
Tue, Oct 20, 2020, 2:47 AM
to drmikemurdock

Hi in the existing pursuits,  beyond the reigning of induction

Galore triumphing in the dreaming unannounced  the altar  of praises- stepping

Ideologies its embark in the Presbyterian  floating by the hitherto  to flaring

Quarrysflying  cloudensation only reflamed  its tasking the unparalleled  to its summon of loyalty  treasury in the unfathable uproarings-replenishing  craven

Roof  in rejoining yonder  by the black indigeneous  flaring pursuits by thye hitherto  aqbthem  injh the inhabitant sown  into  metaphysical  refilled the priviledge  to  surmountable  of  repositioning  reclaps  in the photostream

Cooking inches to  irrespective of echoes , paramount  so deeply  troops stirring

The potentiary eyebrows in the vigorously  pillar beyond  the quarrysflying

Took  the virtues by the arguably  uproaring zests /  uproaring  in the  parachronically  stardom  ofd subtly virtues so intellectual proofing  in the

Soiling clothings , paqttern the rejoining  into praying knees in  the

Blueprints ideal  cracking by the idioning  strawl pertches to presiding wealth

Of  weathering  stoodly vasts of flaring in the glories of orchard...’ in the over immovable  oneness  raqve injh the greatness of implementation  so fulcrum  of pointing  glory of galories…’ in the  wrist of eternitry  in the  unequalledled  of changing tide prophecy  of photostreaqm nof black inh the desk of knowledge

Al;tering in the sonship to eternity column…’

Triumphing in the  echo of  surmantable.



Your  conquering  absurd,



Samuel Churchill Omale

Wrist  Of Eternity Rejoining

www.hellopoetry.com/SPEAR­­_LEGACY

+2348131914240
Thescientist Jul 2019
Dark times
Coming around again.
Wet face
The only way to sleep again.
My heart has traveled in
Dark waters
Coming up for air,
Nothing but rain again.
Afraid of the silence
Lonliness back again.
This never ending road.
Aching soles again
Taking shots
Shooting pains through me
Bullet proofing
Vest wearing days again
On my knees ,
calling out
Time to repent again
Throwing rocks and
Ruptured housing
Glass in pieces again
Soaked up the gin
Im so so lost again
Trying to get out of it
Too late
Sinning again.
Bryant Aug 2018
Heaven Has No Room For A Heathen
Chaotic embolism eyes
Surmise gray soot saturated skies
Tapping toes; itchy holes
Minutes dwindling proofing infinity

Grueling gastric grumble
Cringing clamy canvas
Death without a salesmen

Visceral view point; pale vacancet vogue
Familiar visage vague
Exiting velvet underground

Hoodless executioner; happy harbinger
Hyperglycemia's candy courier

Fidgeting digits
Crackle crinkling plastic shroud
Drawing desperately; whistfull twist
Pinched crimped; lonely confections
Toothy chatters clamour for their just deserts

Hungry Hanzel, ginger bread grotto
Gentrification exemption; horrid horde haven
Sensation slave station; indentured intravenous interjection
Wicked witch black tar water
Gradual plunger rise
Magma solidification; red algee bloom
Expelling crucifix prik
Shuttering sclear
Purple lips muttering

Securing salvation
Ana Habib Nov 2020
Dead Ringer

As Janey’s coffin was lowered onto the ground Adam Graham looked away. The funeral had a been a small affair, twenty-five people showed up. An 8 year relationship was now over and buried into the ground, along with his dreams. No, their dreams to move forward. There would never be a white wedding in the Himalayas now or a  house made from wood and glass in front of the beach. Adam did not want to talk to anyone so he decided to excuse himself and search for his car. He just hated funerals.  

Adam picked up the pace. Once he got in, he began to search for a small flask filled with something called “fireball” a warm orangish liquid that burned the throat. Adam took a few quick sips to steady himself and put the metal flask back into the glove-box. After what seemed like a long time his mom knocked on the window to be let in. She took off the black feathered mess that sat on top of her head, buckled up and was ready to go home.  Flora lived in Veudreuil-Dorian,. A suburban in greater Montreal. It was home to approximately 38,000 people and was a great place to raise a family. It was a small looking house that had three bedrooms, 2 baths and a newly renovated basement complete with sound-proofing walls, and a bar. Flora got out of the car and quickly started for the steps of her house. After fetching a brassy looking key underneath a false rock, the old woman walked inside.  
She shed out her clothes and locked herself inside the bathroom. Water and wine always made her feel better. Her son opted for the same thing except he hid another flask, this time full of Jack Daniels. No one felt like cooking that night so Adam dialed for pizza along with other fried favourites, in an attempt to eat away at his sadness. It did not help very much but he went to bed around 1 am while his mom stayed back. Flora sneakily  logged onto Adams navy blue HP laptop  and surfed the net for a bit. Tonight she was not looking through her emails or shopping for planters Flora was going to make multiple profiles of her son on various dating sites like Ok Cupid, eHarmony and maybe even Tinder. She could not find too many that suited her but his had to be done. She uploaded a recent picture of Adam, one taken during her 55th birthday party. She had typed out the following onto his profile

“ A scorpion 38 year author looking for friendship romance and fun in a woman who loves to go out long walks, eat thai food, read religiously and save the world one day at a time”

It was 4:42 AM and something went “ding” multiple times in his room. Adam sat up in bed and reached for his Iphone.

“ What the—’’ Multiple requests were coming in from Ok Cupid, Tinder and something called the Escape Adam rubbed his eyes and dismissed everything. He was not ready to date! not even the women his mother approved of.

“Good morning mom, Is there anything you want to tell me” “

Flora had her back to him and was busy frying something on the stove. The kitchen smelled like fresh batter, fruits and coffee”
Adam got straight the point.

“ I do not want to date any time soon Ma, I am going to take this time to work on my latest manuscript and see where that takes me, so don’t bother introducing me to any of your friends daughters or nieces.

Flora sighed and piled his plate with food. He ate in a hurry because he wanted some peace and quiet. He was going to drive to the nearest Starbucks and spend the remainder of his day there.
Adam walked out of the house and towards the car. He was about open the car door, when a 5’4 amber haired, doe eyed woman blocked the way.

He had no time for this but she looked like she had all the time in the world.

“ Hi are you Adam Graham? ”

“ Yes I am and I have no—”

I am  Nicole and I noticed your profile on Escape this morning. I was hoping that we could talk or go out for coffee”

“Get in” Adam gestured towards his car.

Nicole squealed and talked non- stop till they got to Starbucks.
Niciole was 29. They had gone to the same high school. She completed university in Toronto in Psychology, masters as well and was now working as counsellor for people who suffer from eating disorders, addictions and ****** trauma.  She ordered the drinks and he found the perfect table but something told him he was not going to get much writing done today. She was very talkative and made him laugh. Over the course of the next few hours, well until closing time. Nicole and Adam talked about everything. There was just something about her that put him to ease, she was very insightful and pretty too… Adam got to know that she was into water sports, loved to travel like he did, had fostered a kitten and wrote in her spare time.  

There must have been something in the coffee because Adam let Nicole know about Janey. She didn’t say anything but left him, her number. It was 10pm when they departed. Adam was feeling better and he had agreed to meet Nicole again the next morning.
Flora was no where to be seen the next morning, She left a note saying that she was busy with a friend and hoped that Nicole was worth his time. His mom had done research on the girl after she pried every detail out of him last night.

Nicole decided to see him that morning. She wore no make up and had on a lilac coloured dress. Janey loved lilacs. They had brunch at “Allo mon Coco” Adam settled for crab cakes Benedict and she happily munched her way through a tower of apple and cheddar pancakes.  Janey loved the combination of apples and cheddar too.. after brunch Nicole and Adam spent the next few hours at a flea market looking at bits and pieces of practically everything.
Adam went straight to the booth that sold movies and books and Nicole was skimming through romance novels and necklaces. At the end, Adam bought all the DVDs to underworld and she a necklace made from black pearls.
Adam paid for the necklace and dropped her home.

Nicole and Adam had become a couple at this point and they spent as much time as possible. Date night now happened 3 times a week and she was slowly helping him overcome his grief. Adam believed that he will always love Janey, but it felt nice to have her presence around.  Nicole in return hoped that he really and truly liked her. She never liked Janey very much but she was determined to become a better woman then dead Janey. Nicole paid attention whenever he spoke very fondly of his wife with that look in his eyes and took notes on what she was like.
Nobody liked it when she was herself, but maybe Adam will like it if she was more like Janey.

After 6 months of dating Nicole texted Adam to meet her at Le Colbert, An Italian restaurant.  He did not ask any questions. Life was great, his mom finally stopped pestering him, she approved of her and his book was really coming along. It was about two lovers who died a tragic death but meet again in the afterlife. He dedicated it to Janey.

Adam got there at 8:00 and she walked in at 8:05. Adam did not know what to say. Nicole had changed into somebody else. She dyed her auburn hair black, wore grey contacts, had on a leather dress that brought attention to her assets and walked around in a pair of black platforms. Nicole looked exactly like Jamey when he first brought her here six years ago. He was suddenly feeling very nervous but she looked confident as hell. She kissed him on the lips and opened the bottle of wine.  She had already ordered “Surf N Turf” for him

She filled up his glass with Sauvignon Blanc and then hers, repeatedly.

“Do you like it Adam?” Nicole asked

“ I have liked you for so long but I couldn’t tell you that night, you brought Janey in here and I served you that evening. You were going to ask her to marry you and all I could do was just watch.” So I left Montreal that same night and decided to only come back after I’ve made something of myself” I’ve lost all that weight, people notice me now and I know you like me too” This was how it was meant to be …

Adam gulped down the wine in seconds and felt very dizzy, he was suddenly experiencing chest pains and his heart was racing

“Are you alright darling?”

Her voice sounded very distant and then everything went still.
Ryan O'Leary Feb 2019
Sounds like perplexed, but
in fact it is worse, because
if Arlene Foster decides to
cross over and abandon
The Toe Rags, the backstop
will need double glazing
reinforcing, bullet proofing,
but invisibly see through!
Kurt Philip Behm Jan 2022
I hate the business of writing
the commerce of word craft
the tedium of publishing
the deadlines imposed

I hate the word count
the editing and proofing
the book signing travel
and agents exposed

I hate the promotion
each workshop and fair
the reviews and the podcasts
the bookstores that sell

But I love the writing
when the words come together
releasing my spirit
—my fortune to tell

(The New Room: January, 2022)
kfaye Nov 2019
my long belly fills   with air and moisture as the door closes
.pushing currents into the hallway_ disrupting dust and heat

     the hair on my limbs is matted and hidden
behind layers of world proofing,
about to be shed

Home.dead

the windows shake as I look through their ghost bodies
     the floor is silty and
     cold  t o  freshly shoeless feet

the lights come on and all is shown
and that’s it.

     the furniture will be rearranged tonight  .
Aw shucks, I did sustain
moderately serious injury
series of unfortunate events
ludicrous and quite insane,
yours truly did previously explain
while crouching (think

Tony as papier mâché Tiger),
aye fell backward, where sharp
desktop corner didst train
ground zero right side rib cage domain
punched thru L.L. Bean Autumn jacket
zapped, tattooed, lacerated... bloodstain

proof positive bow tocks sing
arrowing, fletching, notching,
piercing, searing targeting ... pain
prestidigitation went awry
courtesy "fake" legerdemain,
yours truly incapacitated plain

vanilla and simple
found me mortally slain,
more tortuous than spelunking thru
eye of needle size tunnel,
no bigger than sand grain,
and/or trumpeted by suzerain

arrogant, boastful, contemptuous...
arid, barren, cerebrally desolate brain,
a definitive liability,
(not just from Ukraine
stormy din yelled brouhaha), profane
but..., I wholeheartedly ascertain,

the commander in chief
an absolute zero inane
purpose twittering acrimonious, disdain
calamitous, egregious, gangrenous..., arcane
rumbustious, venomous,
zealous... carte blanche

bigoted, misogynistic, racist..., inhumane
blathering, excoriating, insulting...
seeding, planting, muckraking... dogbane
demanding obeisance till
henchmen verstehen
unwittingly declaring himself
jejune bloodhound August huss

preening, primping, proofing
orange-blond mane
more attentive to applying
gray matter to strain
Midas coated self
important fiery propane
verbal quid pro quo

explosions inevitably spray'n,
nothing but antisemitism, barbarism,
demagoguery, hatred...
diatribes roiling the masses
til rabid rantings attain
intolerant decibel threshold
usurping totalitarian refrain.
No stuntman/woman showed up,
albeit intervened in timely fashion
to thwart mishaps experienced
courtesy me I bemoan,
and poet lore re: yet of Perkiomen Valley
Pennsylvania, United States of America
never suffered major illness nor broken bone
(specifically life and death health crisis,
nor compound fracture respectively)
cuz guardian angel intervened,
though aim of mine heretofore
forthwith literary endeavor
merely expressing, exhibiting, examining...
a painfully ****** mishap,

where Lady Luck gussied up as crone
perhaps female spirit of  
Matthew Scott Harris
in the guise of wizened older woman
himself affecting doppelganger
as grotesquely personified...
well lemme cease written jibber jabber
without rhyme nor reason
nor sense and sensibility
analogous to being subjected to annoying drone  
and describe and elucidate
how stunted man (me) amazingly graceful,
nevertheless, yours truly accident prone

The following bonafide poem
fleshed out ~ October 2019
I did accidently revisit
painfully suffering with silent true grit.

Aw shucks, I did sustain
moderately serious injury
series of unfortunate events
ludicrous and quite insane,
yours truly did previously explain
while crouching (think

Tony as papier mâché Tiger),
aye fell backward, where sharp
desktop corner didst train
ground zero right side rib cage domain
punched thru L.L. Bean Autumn jacket
zapped, tattooed, lacerated... bloodstain

proof positive bow tocks sing
arrowing, fletching, notching,
piercing, searing targeting ... pain
prestidigitation went awry
courtesy "fake" legerdemain,
yours truly incapacitated plain

vanilla and simple
found me mortally slain,
more tortuous than spelunking thru
eye of needle size tunnel,
no bigger than sand grain,
and/or trumpeted by suzerain

arrogant, boastful, contemptuous...
arid, barren, cerebrally desolate brain,
a definitive liability,
(not just from Ukraine
stormy din yelled brouhaha), profane
but..., I wholeheartedly ascertain,

the former commander in chief
an absolute zero inane
purpose twittering acrimonious, disdain
calamitous, egregious, gangrenous..., arcane
rumbustious, venomous,
zealous... carte blanche

bigoted, misogynistic, racist..., inhumane
blathering, excoriating, insulting...
seeding, planting, muckraking... dogbane
demanding obeisance till
germane henchmen verstehen
unwittingly declaring himself
jejune bloodhound August huss

preening, primping, proofing
orange-blond mane
more attentive to applying
gray matter to strain
Midas coated self
important fiery propane
verbal quid pro quo

explosions inevitably spray'n,
nothing but antisemitism, barbarism,
demagoguery, hatred...
diatribes roiling the masses
til rabid rantings attain
intolerant decibel threshold
usurping totalitarian refrain.
Walter Alter Jul 2023
we knew capitalism had turned ugly
after the first lemonade stand drive by
children denounced their parents
when their eyes were opened
to supply side economics
and demand side criminal enterprise
plunging on in a premeditated stupor
they floated between the tables
a jackpot here a jackhammer there
a cartesian Bingo bonanza elsewhere
going on but the scantiest of gossip
it's a fill in the blank world
where a suitcase full of dead mockingbirds
found on the late bus idling at the terminal
against the smell of ***** nightmares
constituted a reunion of the ever faithful
filling the night with interrogation
we had some exceptional men in our unit
dropped into trouble spots too hot to touch
setting up sensors and detectors and bait
scholars statesmen jurists bishops
and a bent maggoty reeking poet
a sleight of hand magnum opus abuser
surrounded by the burning bodies
of everyone he ever knew
yet all is not a ham bone up the ***
I had just cleaned up my syntax and grammar
with maple syrup and golden dairy butter
so I'll put off proofing this mess for another day
too old to dig up reliable proof anyhow
my brain's already in a specimen jar
it lived a mythical fairy tale life
worth a transfer to the end of the line
to the ancient carnival of phantoms
so I sent in my manicurist security guard
from the tropical hammock islands
their scissors going snip snip snip
rattling the bones of the dead
if this is just a make believe universe
I'd hate to see the real one
but I'm pretty sure space is continuous
and spewing rhyme out of the hearts of stars
but what the hell do I know
it all sounds so fresh and dewy
assuring me that people of greater densities
the beautific the anointed the the sanctified
**** up real stupid just like we do
forgive me but my thoughts have all been stolen
the end point is eluding me as a point
as an area we'll eventually get there

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
preservationman Jul 2023
I am who I am
Born to live and breathe
No stress but being relieved
Sense of feeling don’t belong
It’s a situation of no get along
Clothes identify a person
Distinction
It’s not a fashion statement proofing a point
Its clothing taste being unique
One doesn’t have to have a physique
Yesterday relished with a tomorrow setting
One’s moment
Committed no crime
Not asking for a dime
Hourglass time after time
Secluded with one’s own enterprise
It’s only one’s realize
Fallen knee deep within the cries
There are no lies
Simply emphasize
Clothes don’t say a person is different, but stand proud of who they are
No one can take that away
Standing solid with no getaway
No ride
Only what the inner soul can provide
Echoes from what words derive
Living to fulfill
Strength with a will
This day
Every day
Inherited name
One of a kind
A name genuine
Accomplish
Establish
Distinguished
Inspired beyond
A tomorrow here
A moment in time to preserver

— The End —