"protocols" poems
Christmas Eve was coming
There was plenty to be done
There were protocols to follow
There were programs to be run
Presents needed wrapping
Elves had duties of their own
They've been doing it for centuries
They could call Christmas in by phone
Reindeer games were scheduled
Christmas Carols to be sung
There were toys to be assembled
There were bells that must be wrung
Christmas Cakes...no problem
For we all know there's just one
It gets passed around each Christmas
And that is half the fun
But, back now to the reindeer games
Donner wasn't there
But, neither were three others
It gave Santa Claus a scare
He called the elven vet in
Said "find out what it wrong"
"If I don't have all my reindeer"
"It'll ruin Rudolph's song"
The vet came back directly
Hoof and mouth was what he said
The reindeer must miss Christmas
They were all confined to bed
Santa couldn't take it
Reindeer home...what would he do?
He thought real hard about an answer
Where would he find something that flew
The vet said, "I've an answer"
"But, no questions...just your trust"
"I'll get your gifts delivered Santa"
"I just need your magic dust"
Santa said "do your best Doctor"
"We can't have Christmas end like this"
"Are you sure you have an answer?"
"We can't give Christmas time a miss"
The vet and elves went searching
They formed a team like none before
They went around to the animals
And then they knocked on Santa's door
Santa looked at what they'd brought him
His reindeer gone, but here they stood
A team had been assembled
It made Santa sink into his hood
Harnessed up before him
The vet had two dogs and a bear
A ****** goat, and donkey
And a bald, blind cat...stood there
He smiled and said "Dear Santa"
"They may not look like that much now"
"But, they'll get you where you need to be"
"And they'll be led by a brown cow"
If you hear some noises
From your roof, like bleats and barks
Some, meowing or some mooing
And other strange sounds in the dark
Remember, it's just Santa
With his new team for the season
Rex, Rolf, Billy, Ben, Bessie, Joe, and Mike
and a bald, blind cat who's freezin'
Merry Christmas to all and to all....don't look up!!
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 8:37 PM UTC
Communion of Soft Fingertips
speak, modern world
we are sketched in languages of digital bits,
parity shading certainty with probabilities of truth
giving us form and existence across distance,
distilled to series of warm, invisible numbers
frequencies divided step-wise, as Fourier found them
in noise amalgamated as information heterodyned,
left to be separated out, reordered
by advanced statistical protocols
that trace our borders with delicate, unseen fingertips
a description of new beings, relationships between them
uncertain at first in the short trails
of data they create
but there eventually - by the law of large numbers
or acts of successive approximation
we'll find them
revealed, like a pointilist painting
or seemingly random collection of string
whose elements are alone meaningless
unless we step back to see an entirety of mass
which we recognize immediately
as true love and intimacy
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 8:57 AM UTC
some say im cynical
satanical
that my minds mechanical
diabolical
spoken essence erotical
detestable
jaded imagery hypnotical
unstoppable
liable to solve the unsolvable
while prodigal poets drown in their nautical modules
im a criminal
a cannibal
storming the street like an animal
shooting cannonballs
through prison walls
splattering the generals
in bathroom stalls
hostil
leave you poppin pain pills in the hospital
uncontrollable
my temper is flammable
mumbles illegible
choking you with your pentacle
leaving onlookers speckled
the abominable
mental protocols unstoppable
the unfeasible constable
shooting up the card table
willing and able
to call your fables
and smash apart a label
i raise babies in unstable cradles
let you bleed out
like cracked ladles
engorged in unholy wars
exploring
the corruption of the core
deplored
uniformed for
the clash of the double edge swords
taking control of vocal chords
a meet of the hordes
of the horned
misinformed
adorned
in sunlight
trying to shine
just 1 line
at a time
until my life signs decline
almost time
light and shadow combined
Horus and set
by hindsight blessed
yet to contest
to the rest of this mess
by melancholy caressed
as i arise unrest
from the cess
of the un confessed
blessed
Jul 9, 2012
Jul 9, 2012 at 6:14 AM UTC
Medical Technologist you will be by next year,
As you do your best part then success is near.
Realization of your life's dream is not impossible,
Zealous dedication is what you do to make it possible.
Act now be a keen diligent intern to claim your victory!
Dawn has sparked so make the most of the opportunity,
Accept the challenges don't quit fight all the negativity.
Winning is not easy to achieve as it requires determination,
Nobody but yourself alone can justify for your own action.
Plan for your future and do it with the highest attention,
Insure that whatever outcome will help realize your ambition.
Zest you have will inspire you to perform well with integrity,
Allow no negative vibes to degrade your courage and dignity.
React professionally to whatever trials that may come your way,
On whatever duties you do always follow the protocol don't sway.
Be tactful in your actions follow laboratory protocols,
Read and understand fully the procedures before using the tools.
Avoid mistakes in running the tests so you won't give false results,
To the patient's doctor such act is a taboo and you will get insults.
On to your internship my darling do your best and make us all proud.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 12:47 AM UTC
recently in a women's magazine
I read an article
about the Duchess of Cornwall
being most ungracious
toward Princess Mary of Denmark
*the Duchess can be a very catty *****
especially when Charles
is eyeing something of more appeal
but Camilla seems to have forgotten
her come hither days
when she was conducting
an affair with the Prince of Wales
under his wife's nose
the protocols in royal circles
have become less civil
and it is about time
she on her high horse
was more convivial
where the crown
and matters of state
are paramount
the Queen should avail
her son's missus
of a polite dismount
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 8:37 PM UTC
Shhhhh - Titanic was Sunk by a Bilderberg
Albino rabbis, the Illuminati,
Protocols of the Elders of Zion -
The evidence seemed a little spotty
‘Til a radio guy had us wonderin’ and sighin’
Fluoridation by the New World Order
Backed by the Trilateral Commission
A scheme to open our southern border
To crop circles – that’s his suspicion
Area 51, the Templar Knights
FEMA lurking in the Bohemian Grove
Perfidious Rothschilds through menace and fright
Guarding a Jewish-Viking treasure trove
Poor Newfoundland is Occupied by ****** rats
Who scheme in secret tunnels beneath St. John’s
Brewing magic potions in Macbethian vats
In Rodentian rituals from the Age of Bronze
The Priory of Sion, runes, swastikas, the Vril
Roswell and the Thule Society
No wonder the air is darkly chill:
We all live in a conspiracy!
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
Guess I'll be postponing December's reconstructive surgery
There's nothing like being delayed from your own burglary
It had potential too, well maybe if it wasn't so ruthful
I'll still tentatively deem it as successful
I started to shed the lingering fatigue
I began to think of my completed protocols
Triggered the realization I need the reconstruction after all
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 10:05 AM UTC
I could remember the cycle.
I could remember the movements..
So simple yet so complex.
The series of activation protocols.
And the unknown science the brings life to them..
The Astra auras and the elemental mixtures..
The hike into the light and dark wilderness..
The other side of the other side..
The calling of shadows and reflections..
The tones of outer world..
The songs heard past the stars..
The convolution of me and my memory..
The moment I remember..
What was forgotten..
On how to combine light and darkness..
On how to Weaponize my imagination.....
Feb 25, 2022
Feb 25, 2022 at 2:42 PM UTC
Chapter 1
-
two aspirin
a coke and bed pan
puzzled a chronic ********
and an upset stomach
Chapter 2
-
a thirteen year old Jewish boy
gets ****** off
by his mother, sisters
and the ladies in the neighborhood
to celebrate
just bar mitzvahed
Chapter 3
-
her blow jobs are Shangri-La
while sky shadowed eyes flutter
a slumber party ******
shimmers lips of **** confetti
finger ****** good
hoping to marry
eight inch packin
tattoo boy
Chapter 4
-
she married a stingy man
and her hopes of love
turned into a book of
instructions
protocols
and
standard operational procedures
Chapter 5
-
she masturbated
eyes bulging
into a scrapbook of horrors
thinking you're so handsome in a mask
with that rusty blade
her **** burned
like hell
Chapter 6
-
the amputee pouted
your knives
look great in a stained basket
go ahead
take an another arm
and a leg
as she sold off her
last gloves and footwear
Chapter 7
-
a starved crocodile
has his belly pierced
by an annoyed lion
turned
the meaty peach abomination
into cat food
Chapter 8
-
God and Satan
makin deals
for souls
burning cigars and incense
just more backroom politics
and strip-poker
Chapter 9
-
a mantra
on a subsonic level
liberates from the ravages of nature
beats back the ugly
of home made sin
when tragic turns magic
-
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 2:20 PM UTC
A city with a split soul
Once sat high on a hill.
The city was split:
Higher and lower planes.
The higher plane was for
the fortunate,
the powerful,
the wealthy,
the elegant.
Only the best were allowed.
The lower plane housed the
Outcasts,
Forgotten,
Clumsy,
Abandoned.
The society deemed them to
Belong in the sewers;
To be deserving of the worst
Humanity had to offer.
To fall from the upper plane
Was the ultimate shame
Because you could
never go back.
You can fall from grace,
But never rise to elegance.
Upper city was once home,
But, then they learned how
Clumsy and ungraceful I am.
After spilling the soup
Too many times,
They cast me down
To join the lower city.
Home is now among
The lowest of the low.
After fumbling along
Without any sense of direction,
I learned why I was lost.
Upper city was where
Pomp and protocols
Dictated every move.
Now free from that,
I had no way of knowing
The path before me.
The confusion, however,
Came from me,
From my being
unaccustomed to making
My own decisions.
Finding my own way
Was hard, but I learned
That my fall from elegance,
That my fall from grace,
Had been a blessing,
Not a curse.
Free from the rigidity
Of elegance, there was
The vibrancy of clumsiness.
In the stumbling, faltering
Manner through which I
Guided my life, I found
A sweet freedom in
The possibilities.
It is because of this
Wild sensation called
Freedom that I love
The lower city
And pity the upper one.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 10:24 AM UTC
At first a few ornaments shook in the apartment
in that modern city block.
Complacent the warning ignored by the people
then a more violent shudder.
Running out fearing the buildings destruction
outside was total ruction!
Not from an earth quake they had first thought
but there had been a crash!
The unrecognisable craft fallen from clear skies
huge of an unknown design.
Fire and flames spread along a devastating track
there was no going back.
More appeared firing weapons into the fleeing crowd
masonry falling crushing many.
Helicopters gunships and fighter planes approached
being of no match to the foe.
On the ground weird creatures herded those unhurt
driving them precise and covert!
In those early days man had nothing ready to fight
to stop this alien massacre.
These battles were coordinated around the globe
an unprovoked desecration.
Secret protocols had been formulated by governments
on the possibilities of such events!
Satellite signals had been disrupted the attack a surprise
but the resistance had been planned.
Now to be implemented the fight back had begun
hidden basis and weapons brought onto line!
Powerful nations telling us aliens didn't really exist
yet were prepared for the time to resist!
The people don't really know what's going on!
The Foureyed Poet.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 11:04 PM UTC
Call me a dreamer because I get caught up in my dreams.
Elevate above reality restoring my self esteem.
In between the hard times and struggle I find my drive.
It's no wonder they say through hard times we thrive.
Stuck inside the belly of the rough.
Deceived by thoughts of what's granted isn't enough.
It's up to me to take control of my mind.
The prior is history no need to rewind.
As I meditate I'm reminded to live every moment like my last,
Instead of getting hung up on moments of the past.
Who knows what the future beholds,
Better act on action rather than have stories told.
Contemplating as my true self awakens,
Expressing gratitude for things that were for granted taken.
Most find distractions to avert the need to deal,
With issues arising from values that make them real.
Safety protocols cease the ability to feel.
Still traumatized from the last time the heart had to heal.
Evolving through the years you come to realize,
The burden only gets bigger while pilling up the lies.
How much longer will you let yourself compromise,
Start digging deep and seek where you must rise.
Growing through external accomplishments is barely effective.
Real growth comes from a place that's rather reflective.
All you you really need is to gain some perspective.
You'll soon find how you perceive something is only subjective.
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 1:11 PM UTC
Maybe the Prisoner was Already Dead
“...he stepped slightly aside to avoid a puddle on the path.”
-George Orwell, “A Hanging”
Evening. Maybe he was already dead
Dead long before the State boys strapped him down
And a functionary started an I.V. drip
Left arm? Or right? In a cinder-block room
Fluorescent lights
With windowed faces posted on both sides
Testaments to the protocols of death
The liturgy of falling away because
He and the lads murdered a helpless man
Fluorescent lights
He breathed. And then he didn’t. His bowels let go
And did they put a Band-Aid on the wound?
Fluorescent lights
But now
Let’s go outside and feel the wind
We live
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 4:01 PM UTC
May the itinerary of the day
Be necessary towards May
Tempest to drought with slumber
To ironic thirst for summer
Winter delicacy and calamity
Snows falls amidst humidity
Thwarted before leaders,
And solely present to be there
Finally with protocols complete
And words rested, drama just won’t delete
Saturated is all we all become
Just a breaking point of pressure, could succumb
Suddenly all repeats, clockwork till night
Morning beauty wakens us and soothes us by tonight
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 7:23 AM UTC
It's quiet except for the humming
of the machines.
Do we call them machines or instruments?
Do they do or do they measure?
They're little helpers who organize
thoughts and time, blocking
hours with workers, friends and
family.
A list manager of sorts.
It's easy -- something like:
>Monday, 5:00 pm - family.Christine
or
>Tuesday, 12:00 pm - friend.Giorgia
And when we miss an appointment
our helpers are fire-walled
from disappointment, sorrow
and lost.
They stay functional.
It's easy for their electronic hands
to <strikeout>
meetings held in an hour
past.
-- something like:
>Sunday, 1:00 pm - family.Dad
to
<strikeout>Sunday, 1:00 pm - family.Dad </strikeout>
-- something like:
>Saturday, 7:00 pm - family.Aunt
to
<strikeout>Saturday, 7:00 pm - family.Aunt </strikeout>
It's done-- changed from a living one to a final zero,
binary absolution.
Our stream continues,
released from obligations
that I hold tight
still.
We're not Protocol Droids.
We feel Ghosts in the Machine.
We see Apparitions in the Rituals,
and Sprites in the Protocols
running through our network
still.
There's no clemency for us.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
The mouse in the maze is very weary.
It’s way too much concerted effort
Just to earn a grain of corn.
The route is always changing
And someone turns off and on the lights.
The music plays the same song, over
The humming of the ventilators
And the shutter bangs incessantly.
The mouse is tired of stupid games.
No one cares which way it runs,
Or how much corn drops into the bowl.
The smell of *** in the far back corner
Makes the air unpleasant to inhale.
The will to win another piece of corn
Battles with the need to find
The exit that is at the other end.
Notes have to be written down
Measurements and timings
Fill the logbooks of the staff,
As bored and weary as the mouse.
Protocols must still be followed
Finally the time clock in the hall
Clicks over to the magic hour
And mouse and men can all go home.
ljm
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 7:42 PM UTC
Huck: a perfect example
Of the effect bio-mechanical
Protocols have on the human mind,
Saludos, amigo!
“Hats Off to Larry!”
DEL SHANNON- " HATS OFF TO LARRY " (W/LYRICS ...
▶ 2:03 www.youtube.com/watch?v=nXpJVmxHXc8 Nov 7, 2009 - Uploaded by rwells47 LYRICS: “Once I had a pretty girl, Her name it doesn't matter; She went away with another guy-- Now he won't...”
(That’s right, another commercial ad right in the middle of a freaking poem. $Ka-ching, Ka-ching!$)
Or, “That's Some Bad Hat Harry.”
“Ever notice at the end of shows there are those cards that fill the screen with names of bizarre production companies, sometimes animated and sometimes with sound (“That’s some bad hat, Harry.”)? Those are called vanity cards. When writer/creators form their own production company (and they all do) they’re entitled to a vanity card.”
Case in point?
Forgive my self-promotion but
The sheer freaking brilliance of
The character that is HUCK,
Simply overwhelms me
Now, there’s a secretive dude.
It took us 5 freaking seasons to
Get his real freaking name.
Diego Muñoz:
What else don’t we
Know about you, Huck?
Huck, you perfectly twisted,
Psychotic, psychopath
I’ve grown so fond of.
Of course, you have always
Been acting a part,
Playing a role,
To wit: Guillermo Diaz.
You’ve come a long way,
A very long way, from Jersey,
Memo.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
Your bruises fail me.
Your clinics and doctors fail me.
Your out-dated policies, lack of tribunal protocols
fail me.
Your guidelines, endless forms, paper guzzling rituals
fail me.
I owe you nothing. You will receive whatever it is that I choose to bestow upon you with either love or discomfort.
You have no choice.
The time has come for a systemic revolution, starting with the Self.
I owe you nothing. You cannot change me nor hinder these evolutionary processes.
Your scalpels fail me.
Your nip-and tuck, ****** relocations
fails me.
Your aesthetics fail me.
Make room for me in this ocean, or I will drown you all alive.
Your triumphs fail me, too.
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 10:23 PM UTC
A black cat hesitates.
With my friends filtered, cascading sheets of Jameson, the path fills me Warning the porch of presence.
Continue to sleep. I will go away to the city and work in the folded webs of my skin.
Is it you who functions when I sleep?
A breakfast for champions, my dear remove the flakes of sincerity.
With your hair hidden by my hands away from the window's critics, my boots loosen and the knots twitch less against the thin layer of resting protocols.
Tools to sedate my neuroses.
The glitter of chrome fails in my camera's lens. A failure to assure my hopes not to climb into my throat.
Answering machines. Counting few pennies which were several.
It is not you or the grey cat stealing from me.
In cups, I plot the orange cat's plans.
Visiting his memories this way for answers about a future.
Revealing to us all, my ideas should stay in your stomach.
I loved you for seven seconds.
My heart stolen on the eighth.
Weeks passing and bringing the rosary to a withered end.
The work-day is over.
I walk. Fainting on the bridges, on top of stone pathways once glowing
Blinking my eyes. Only the impression I close them, it hangs in my head.
My hands fumble for the lives I've touched correctly.
Night falls, I notice it. My eyes close and open in the aluminum.
Yeast and a burred edge meet me in reflection.
Parallel tragedies. You heal mine and I see yours.
Raise your hand. Show me how it moves against the ceiling.
Very sedated. Insane to feel so happy without proper dosages.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
She was playing with the rim of her glass. Running a finger. She wasn’t fully aware, it wasn’t really on purpose. As if the glass was playing with her, not the other way around. Her fingertips went down on the glass, caressing its stem. There was so much happening in the back of her head that she wasn’t completely present. She dipped her finger and got a taste. Just the tip, she thought. Just a drop. Why? There was no “why”. Something was going down. She wanted to break the ice and make him forget about protocols and small talk and all the boring stuff. Her clock was already ahead. Her lips weren’t kissing the glass. They were elsewhere. Kissing the tip. She wanted that dip. She wanted his lips on the rim of her glass. Sipping from her. Something had spilled somewhere. But not the cool of the wine. It was warm. Who knows where it had started to trickle. Somewhere behind her eyes, would be a good guess. But it was inevitable where it would end up. It would part lips. It would not be contained. Here thighs were clenched shut like a vise. Her tongue craved new flavor. She wanted to excuse herself but she felt a bizarre excitement in walking on a razor-thin edge of a boiling sensation. The tease. The pleasant torture. He had stopped talking. He was focused on her lips. How long has it gone like that? Her casual gestures couldn’t mask anything now. She was all color seeping from behind the makeup. She suddenly caught his stare just like she would his hand. But she would not deflect it. She would guide him. And this realization exploded in her head… and everywhere simultaneously. She closed her eyes briefly and exhaled. She climaxed.
“Are you okay?”
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 5:18 AM UTC
some have totally rejected
the protocols that were
carefully written down
choosing not to heed
their intent
taking the approach
of we'll follow
an unconstrained
bent
the conventions state
in a transparent glass
never of our purpose
should there be
any unpermitted
pass
adhering to terms and conditions
isn't an arduous task
they're so concise in respect
of what they ask
some enjoy free wheeling
though it will come at an expense
for not to remain within the parameters
means a quick despense
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 6:42 PM UTC
knock, knock, knock
I open my door
and am immediately
greeted by
three 19 year old elders.
They want to talk to me
about Jesus and
their version of
a sacred text and I want
to talk to them about: God,
Philosophy, Religion,
Art, Music, etc.
but I just put a greasy
pan on med-high
heat to cook some
bacon and it's
filling my apartment
with smoke.
Yet, my curiosity of
these creatures at
my door temporarily
supersedes kitchen
safety protocols,
so I start to oblige
them and even
entertain some light
discourse in the
hallway.
I begin to explain my
perspective when
my attention skips back
to the pan
and the hot metal
smell tickling my nose.
-protocols back in place-
I decline their invitation
to visit their temple, now
or any time in the
future, then shake
their hands.
I accept a pamphlet
from the last one,
"The Plan of Salvation",
after he scribbles a
phone number on
the back.
I wish them luck
and close my door
without locking it,
stride over to the skillet
and take it off
the burner.
Good thing I removed
the batteries from
all the smoke
detectors.
Jun 17, 2019
Jun 17, 2019 at 8:25 PM UTC
It was that fateful dream when I closed my eyes,
And was met with a sheer vast nothingness.
It was within that abyss that a flickering light emerged.
I reached out, hoping it was sentient, but I was playfully deceived.
It was a mere candle, burning bright and bleeding its waxy exterior.
My hand rested above the slow burn, anticipating some sort of pain
to offset this dreaded abyss that encompassed my peculiar unity.
Fortunately for I, the light only burned brighter with increased intensity.
The illumination continued to dance around my body in a mesmerizing display,
But was abruptly interrupted by a soft tap on my shoulder.
A silhouette of a woman whom I couldn’t seem to pinpoint, stood before my gaze.
Although the flickering candle seemed to dim, a hand outstretched could still be made out,
As if anticipating for my palm to meet hers.
I obliged the offer.
Memories, past and potential, were so vibrant that materialization became second nature.
Former lovers greeted me with a genuine smile, but soon dissipated,
while two manifestations of my preconceived identity stood before me.
One of a child and one of a near distant future, each possessing a poisoning barb,
that carries with it, an omnipotent plague I’m self-burdened with.
A nod is all I could muster, to signify to these unhappy souls that it’s okay to suffer,
and more importantly, to have acceptance from what has already happened.
You cannot change the pain you once felt, but you can change how you feel now.
A blinding light emerged and I was met with a mirror,
that defied the standard protocols of how a reflection should be portrayed.
The reflection sat while I stayed standing, and he smiled while I remained inquisitive.
Brothers held the reflection’s shoulders while friends stood beside in succession.
The final curtain of truth finally revealed: I’ve always been loved.
The silhouette faded and I was left with only a puddle of that once bright candle.
The wax may have fully melted, but it can always be repurposed.
A restructuring of the same foundation, but perhaps with a fresh style or scent.
You don’t have to conform to the same specification you once were at.
The pain and suffering has passed and a new candle is upon you, so
burn away the toxins that you’ve left behind and retrieve that which you lost;
The inner peace that has always been a light against life’s troubled abyss.
Jun 24, 2021
Jun 24, 2021 at 6:11 PM UTC
Phrenic prospectus imagination's immaturity. Dimensional delineation protractive analysis. Zoomorphic zoolatry's social contiguity's demagoguery. Elan vital's apotheosis, oneiromancy's vicariously recalcitrant futurity fatidic. Prescience clairaudience clairvoyant, astral projection's distance traveled-time spent to dynamic progressiveness, objectified manifest's diminutive minutia iotas, exponentially extemporaneous. Flirtatious flamboyance extravagantly exorbitant laborious beleaguerment's hypercritically meticulous tedium. Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma's incarnate. Fabulist facade fantasia, tesseract, exserted protuberance trapezoidal quadrilateral, rubato rhombus. Swarthy ******** swath swizzles, unicorn railway nails, down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue-ness, estranged ensemble orchestrations and all. Accidence ambience acoustics, diction's enunciation repartee's rhetoric. Retrospectively retroactive aorist actuator's attenuating arbitration's eidetic amendment. Biologism beholden corporeally preternatural's alluvium aloof impunity. Extremity's adjunct juxtaposition's transpositional interlude's prophylaxis protocols. Transcendent nimbus nimiety exorcist. Proximity parameter perimeter peripherals, harpy harsh hast propinquity habitation's harbingers of harangued. Exude emote imbue. Impetus intrigue's intuitional intrepid, transcendent translucence and opaque opulence.
Nov 6, 2020
Nov 6, 2020 at 1:43 AM UTC
we live behind palace walls
“I’m in love,” I said, sighing into the fall-like, Paris afternoon, “I have to admit it.”
My 85 year old uncle Remy, gently stirring a pitcher of American martini he was conjuring, said, “You should marry an insignificant lawyer - if you’re going to have a cross-class love affair.”
Uncle Remy was a lawyer, of sorts, once.
“I think you’re leading the witness,” I said, looking down at my shoes.
“I’m in love with my Havaianas,” I clarified - my new, white, square-toed flip-flops.
“Besides, no one thinks in terms of class any more - and Peter and I are NOT an asymmetrical match or relationship or whatever.”
But it got me thinking. Half, or more, of what Uncle Remy says is politically incorrect. And I don’t judge him harshly..
I wrote, last week, about a guy who
(gasp) told me he found me attractive
like it was some crisis.
Hadn’t I schemed to get with Peter? (my bf).
And hadn’t he admitted that he’d schemed to get with me?
Was I ready to diagnose this guy as a walking red flag
- for a gentle admission of interest?
Because he's a big, intimidating guy?
What are the small, social rituals
we’re allowed to use - to signal desire?
Sure, buying someone a drink at a bar
- but what else? It’s a Catch-22.
Must every comment face the court of
public opinion, verbal consent protocols,
uni regulations and the behavior authorities?
Should we ban serendipity and spontaneity too?
Monday morning came and I didn’t ask to change seats
I moved my pencil back - a little.
He actually could use a bit more room than me.
I smiled a little, asked him about his weekend,
there’s no use in being unfriendly.
His name is Jacques (Jack).
.
.
Songs for this:
So Sorry by Lola Young [E]
The Hardest Part by Olivia Dean
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 5:13 PM UTC