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L Meyer Oct 2013
There once was a proper noun,
who started hanging with the wrong crowd.
With alluring adjectives who handed out compliments like candy
− gob smacking gossipers with an opinion on everything.
And with thrill-seeking adverbs,
who buddied up to the most dangerous of companions;
crash, dive, hurl, and gamble (to name a few).

Until the day the sentence came rambling into town,
planting punctuation in the form of kisses
on the noun’s eyelids, earlobes, and collarbone.

Provoking such admissions as, “My thighs stuck
to the black leather seats under the hot, cloudy skies
of that August afternoon, and my hair whipped
like willow branches in the wind,
when I rode on the back of his motorcycle.”
or, “He greets me every morning with a sun-drenched kiss”,
and, “The tulips were picked fresh from the ditch of
a curvy, country road, but now sit in a
vase by my bed, and are slowly wilting away.”

It would eventually be made clear
that the sentence had a nasty habit
of propositioning prepositions,
only to leave them hanging,
and to place things in parenthesis,
that simply did not belong.  

And so, the sentence would wind up leaving town,
or “run-on”, as the noun liked to tell it.
Went chasing after some particularly provocative expletives,
eventually trailing off with a faint set of ellipsis...

And the kindest of adjectives
came cooing after the noun,
calling to her; lovely, lustrous, listless.
And the adverbs brought with them
their gentlest of friends; comfort and console,
to speak with the noun:
softly, tenderly, lovingly- all witnesses.

But it was of no use,
and the noun whispered quietly:
“I have been enchanted with a single kiss
which can never be undone,
until the destruction of language.”


*based off of the poem Permanently, by Kenneth Koch
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i like the thought of the dynamic between words such
as presupposition  supposition and proposition -
i'm holding a book of philosophy is one hand
and a newspaper in the other: one certainly feels heavier -
   so many lives are documented
daily, without a fail, and it's sad to say: they don't
matter... but that's what it feels like
holding a book of philosophy and a newspaper:
         people get degraded into
things:
             res absquecogito (a thing
without a thought - actually
a thing without the verb of thought,
what with thought being the crowned
prince of nouns):  some do say that
thinking if the doing part or not doing
anything...
     sometimes i write and think i do not exist,
such is the overpowering stance of the people...
     but you're still left with newspaper in
one hand, and a book on philosophy in the other...
  the reason that philosophy doesn't solve anything
is because philosophy is a word of practiced
misanthropy - it just says:
i'm here, my thinking is hardly utopia:
but i don't want you to experience my problems
and make them real or phantasmagorical
as the sold solution: you avoid me,
i avoid you: we'll be fine.
  hence the juggling of of presuppositions,
suppositions, propositions and
      trying to keep your mouth shut
with enough pronoun surgery to an out-dated
Michael Jackson face and enough prepositional
leeway to protest for an amendment
to protect and: altogether losing that freedom,
readied for shouting as is the case.
what a difference though...
        a literary medium "siding" with the people,
and a literary medium "siding" with itself...
         what a disparity between the two...
       such is the shitstorm:
presupposition(s), suppositions,
   preposition(s) and propositions -
      the a before a god,
suppose there is a god,
     then let us presuppose that suppose / supposedly
so?          proposing something also works
with the same dynamic, a proposition has
to be grounded in a preposition -
                           presupposition dynamics are fun though,
you have no propositions for them,
        all you have are prepositional shrapnel itemisation
a- (without, by way of indirect)
     and           -the (bad mannered pointing at it, or by
way of direct)         articulation: summed with an -ism.
         prepositional dynamism has nothing suppositional
concerning god, hence it has no propositional
      about the most economically franchised / effective
variation of philosophical expression: lost the narrative,
ergo we encourage aphorisms and maxims.
       language needs systematisation to reveal to us
individually what words we'll be juggling systematically,
perhaps it's the re- and re- and and re- res
             reflective reflexive repetition thing...
or it might be throwing a guarding prefix
into the argument: akin to the already stated
within a framework of the pre- vs. pro- attaché
that comes prior to the suggestion...
    supposing there is a god vs. presupposing
  the supposition that there is a god... zenith: what's god?
nadir: propositioning that there is a god vs.
         prepositioning that there is a supposition of
god...
         equilibrium? propositioning a presupposition
vs. the supposition of a prepositioning:
the arguments will never end, it's just a question
how you make peace with the shared experience of
internalising sounds and encoding them in 26 characters
that are, to be frank, underdressed in terms of formalising
a standardised accented basin...
at its height language can become akin to
arithmetic, philosophers are, actually, brilliant arithmetic
artists, they can't write you a Tolstoy,
or a Camus... but they can write you a great 1 + 1 = 2...
  it's not even being economic wird words,
   it's more like Robinson Crusoe was stranded on
a beach, his tools included a coconut and a matchstick:
build me Philadelphia! obviously it didn't happen
overnight... but it somehow happened.
           that's why mathematical orthodoxy has
nothing to do with mental or signatured arithmetic,
              philosophy meets that disparity too,
obviously this stance isn't a Lady Gaga moment of
cool populism: it's shadowy and obscure,
because why would it not be so?
                  philosophers are the great arithmetic
conglomerate of spell-checks...
           hence no Napoleon invading Russia
and courtesy talk of privilege over a samovar session
and more of the odious rubric:
                 and nul scores for coherency and
creating an imaginative rekindling from a mistake made...
nul scores!
     mathematicians are bad at numerical arithmetic,
philosophers are only good at alphabetical arithmetic
(and yes, it's a kind of arithmetic:
made really difficult by babel-compounding
of non-distinct units due to the missing diacritical
marks): and in the Crimean chimera sense?
      mathematicians are good at abstracting arithmetic
in their stance on isolating symbols,
whereby π is designated the 3.14 bubble...
       and pretty much all of the Greek is scientifically
prone to encourage a stabilisation...
     people like us, working from such heights into
wording everything in an alchemical format of
lodging and connecting things together have to necessarily
spot obstacles... i know that i stress the Edenic
circumstance of the English language without
diacritical marks, but are serious journalistic outlets
suggest: about 14% of English girls are vaguely literate.
       the existence of the "other" arithmetic is
quiet poignant although remotely acknowledged...
it appears rightly asserted when someone actually has
a competence with a language (encoding an obscure number
of variations of sprechen): but still faulter / flawters /
                 ah! falters on what's otherwise, clearly
a very easy arithmetic puzzle: 0 1 2 3 4
                        a b c d e
calculator                       hence put       b d e
together into a coherency passed down to others...
cul de sac, i.e. bed.
                    a bit like the alphabet cut into three:
0 (a)     z (26):
         it emerged from the lost clarity of English ponce:
or keeping onto power, spellcheck had to be invented,
along with algorithm search engines to correct
what would otherwise be non-distinct correlatives:
had they been properly attired with distinct barriers -
  could have been worse,
we could have had Arabic as the tongue of globalisation,
but then again, as the myth goes (according to
cradle of filth within her ghost in the fog):
                                 an arabian nightmare probably
doesn't envision an alien invasion.
Jordan Frances Apr 2014
I promised myself
I would not say a word until I am 18
In 1 year 4 months and 8 days from now
But who's counting?
Then I would be able
To make my own decisions
About prosecution
About who to tell.
When we're all off
In our independent fantasy worlds
Everyone's at a different school
So the focus will not be on me.
He will probably still be living in his mother's basement
Talking to girls online
Propositioning them for ***
Meeting them in a stairwell
Bullying them into doing what he wants
And leaving if he doesn't get it
Or once he's been satisfied.
Keeping them awake at night
Beating themselves up over questions like
"Can I even do anything about it?"
Causing them to panic
At the sight of his face
When he still has the audacity to
Say hi to them in the hallways.
Wondering how to classify
Some of the darker things he did.
Were they assault, exploitation, coercion
Or a mix of all three?
And when their friend starts dating him
She heeds warning to her.
The friend doesn't listen the first time
And gets hurt.
Two months later,
She wants to get back with him
The young girl again warns against it
But she doesn't tell her friend why
Because she is protecting herself.
She gets backlash for this
Harassed for being insensitive and horrible.
That came like a slap in the face.
So what will she do now?
Will she speak out to prove herself
Or keep it under lock and key
As she had planned?
What will I do now?
I thought I was getting better
But now it's haunting me
As the situation gets more and more potent
And someone gets hurt either way.
Amelia of Ames Oct 2017
But

You make me smile and laugh
I think of you when I am in a mood
I know seeing you would make it better.

You peel away my shields,
I spill my heart
And you listen intently

I listen too, to your stories
Neither of us conquering the conversation.
We are too two distinct characters.

You are a type I know will not work
I've said this to you,
As we go to the gym, walk, eat together.

In one of our talks, you asked my stance on friends with benefits
Just in general, not propositioning explicitly
I explained no, that's not who I am.

But here we are two planets captured in elliptical orbits.
I brush past your back as I walk away
You hold me from behind to show me a video on your phone

In my head, I think:
You are too young to understand this
This is me being lonely
This is you being a fair option
This is a stupid idea
This is destined to fail
This is destined to happen
This is waiting waiting sweet aching anticipation.
Danial John Mar 2018
You tell me that you ain't ****,
You tell me you're not my type.
Well, only one of those statements
Happens to be right.

However, that's what makes me so confused
It ain't that you ain't ****
It's that you're not my type
Yet I still love you.

You say you love me like a brother
And that's fine.
Just know
That love is not entirely the same as mine.

I'm not propositioning.
That's not my intention.
I just feel that there's something we're both missing... Could help each other with,
And perhaps we once met in another dimension.

Sorry, not sorry for my feelings
They can be hard to control
"Why hide who I am?"
That's something I was recently told.

And maybe your afraid of losing,
Ruining what we have right now.
I get it. I'm ready for risk.
Possibly you're not right now.

I have a sneaking, creeping suspicion
We've meet at an interesting intersection of each other's lives.
No coincidence. Listen to life's mission,
Use your soul. Don't see with your eyes.

I've felt many things,
Interpreted there meaning.
They come and go,
Yet not this wonderful, lovely, strange feeling.
Bo Tansky Jul 2019
Now
Sugar and a little cream
Palliative potion of comfort
Elixir of coffered considerations.
Contemplated and envisaged
Morning brews,
Propositioning sunsoothes
Particles.
Helios sweeping mightlight across
The metallic movingmorn
Undulating nightlight.
Topaz infused
Daydreaming muse
Stirs the digested amnesic night  
Drinks to
  
Apollo offline
Drinks to
The empty holy grail of evening,
While Helios slept.
Hallucinating prophecies of fleeting images,
Succulent hopes of happinesses
Drunken inhaled trippy
Folktales
Of lore
And lay.
Oracled god of prophecy
God of healing
God of poetry
Healing lyrical music medicine
Hear my poemprayer
Hear my prayerpoem
Drink to
Elixir of life
Elixir of love lost.
Drink to
The elixir of a childless day.
Quash David Rockefeller's C.F.R. & New World Order mobocracy
Reject the totalitarian 51-over-49 rule that's modernized democracy
that sets in stone by presidential directive this American plutocracy,
through indoctrinating pederasty & lesbian *** to beget pornocracy
N.W.O.-owned corporations promote the freshest of youthful faces
having Hillary F. Clinton lesbian relations in crowded public places
Moral citizens must subdue these shrub-scouts with military maces
then bind them together with cheap lamp cord, twine & shoe laces,
before scrubbing the scene clean to obliterate all ****-diving traces
from mobs bleeding the white-funded black & sallow yellow races,
they take up  phony causes in nine of ten clinically-disproven cases
running Manchurian patsies & *** kittens through menticidal paces
During 1 bowel movement it was Martin Luther King, Junior's day
Quickly I finished a bowel movement as I worked for neighbor pay
These broad swords are no bowel-movement match for slim sabers
as all mates in the throes of bowel movement sing like Jim Nabors
on steroidal ointments that haven't made normal pigs into gay boars
sashaying along wharves in the guise of San Francisco Bay ******
soliciting gay Rabbinical Jewish mariners on sight-seeing day tours
while propositioning ******-hating, Jesus-loving Christian sailors
Butch Decatoria Nov 2020
C inch the boys in their place,

O bjectified / at attention,  indecent propositioning

C rows those proud chicken hawks loudly.

K illng the blood-flow, *****, at a stand still.

R idgid hoses, denying it

I rrigation or relief

N either giving it room to breathe

G orged on ***,  in a pulsating noose...
The Acrostics

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