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Donall Dempsey Jul 2018
THE FLAMES EAT THE PSEUDO-GOTHIC HOUSE


He was an Action Man
minus a left arm and trousers.

A dog had chewed his head
almost off.

But - he still had thought.

She was a Lego Lady,
Built of red and blue blocks.

She was forever coming apart
trying to keep body and soul together.

She had only one eye
and no mouth to speak off.

Same dog who had a passion
for the chewing of toys.

But - she still had thought.

They met one night when
thrown together in the toy box.

A giantess' voice had screamed
"YOU TIDY UP THIS ROOM RIGHT NOW!"

He loved the Lego Lady's yellow block hair.
It was like a helmet...suited her face.

And oh that one little eye
and the way it would look at you!

She saw at once that he had no *******/
but then - neither had she.

It was a purely platonic affair.
They thought and thought at one another for hours.

They got on like a house
on fire but

one night the house
went on fire.

They held on to each other
both melting into a final embrace.


Mother always told me
"You shouldn't play with matches!"
A re-telling of Anderson's THE CONSTANT TOY SOLIDER in today's terms yoked together with a friend telling me of her early career as a child arsonist. "What was I thinking...?" she told me with tears in her eyes. "I loved that house...down to its mullions and final...but then...so did the flames. It was something I grew out of when I hit my teens....then it was all boys...boys...boys!"
“death everywhere, not age or ancient, just an infiltrated lack of life”

a puzzling, troubling line in a personal message,
instantly isolated for further review,
needy indeedy for a second medical opinion,
for it’s a description of two,
an actual place and a state of being

a place where death seems more commonplace,
not from agedness or honor,
but from a madness drunk from a special cocktail of
heat, guns and pseudo-rock stars, with beer chasers

imbibed by those who imagine themselves INRL  
in a movie genre of specialized urban cowboys,
subset horror flick,
self-appointed angels

part of a world view
so pervasive that it infiltrates the mental water supply
and modifies the pure children early on

demeaning existence, with a sense, a sendup,
life is unreal, cheap, so taking it-is ok,
justice delivered, for we angels,
are subset,
angels of death

in a country where
seven out of ten believe in angels,
and one in four confident that
the sun revolves around the Earth

look to blame
polluted water
the ever-overheated atmosphere,
bringing typhoon and storm,

I do not know

how be sun and water,
the essences, the originations of all life
today come to the planet days still
clear and warm,
yet can not infiltrate our personal mystery,
respire, re-spark the notion of the spirit,


the simple sanctity of life peculiarly human
call me by my other name
mystified momma
Jowlough Dec 2018
Sally, the wordsmith, Poet essayist
You’re the childhood road runner
Divine word receiver
Can I take your hand?
Let’s go for a dance.
I’ll carry your luggage, Towards the parking lot
You’re sober, romantic, Unapologetic.
Can I take your bags?
Let’s go for a trek?
Sharing is caring, But except for you Sally.
You’re demanding, free spirited
A flower in restraint
Never a cold day, warming sun giggles
Don’t you hurry, your childhood
Seven Year’s too short.
Don’t you get upset,
Until my eyes are wet.
Well everything’s just a glitch in my head
Time traveling’s a future scope.
You and him’s a proof of concept.
ali xoxo Nov 2014
life is tame
and i revel in
the mysteries and treasures
of being a sad girl
riddled with the same pain and psychological tendencies
you are a crack in the wind
a tumor in the back of my skull
cherry red on the other end of this cigarette
feeding me pseudo-sorrows and cancer so sweet
Nat Lipstadt Jun 27
strangely, I think that this
ought be, must be, responsibly,
be the best poem I’ve ever writ,
(though unlikely, as the best will always be the next)
that mine own eyes commissioned,
better be,
just got to be,
this holy-moly notion jeepers weepers,
conceptual rocks me deepest,
an awesome responsibility
to find away of saying
that this beyond conceptual,
coring, especially special sample

If there was to be a but one,
a singularity, a distinguishing feature
of what the human definition
innate contains,
how choice that we animals,
elevate ourselves to being human beings,
the only ones capable of wonderfully weeping

the implications are an astounding!

what a glorious burden,
what a wonderful decision,
the designer slipped in this microscopic checkmark,
somewhere in our cellular DNA perma-dynasty,
runs a common thread, these saltwater fears,
a residual global amniotic fluid hint,
from where we humans out-of-crawled

that empathy,
the signal of an elongated journey of eons,
the marker that says
show the caring,
a trait-ed statement,
us, unique

so often do I weep,
sometimes visible - in my poems listed, oft indicated -
so you could know its sharing was an absolution
that I granted myself,
that that particular  poem was a costly one,

womb bloomed, tongue taken, eye written

sometimes invisible  - even more, do they,
(nobody knows, nobody sees)
just well up, eye cornered kept, secreted,
only skin-staining the underneath-my-eyes
one more shade darker,
a reminder to all, to mirrored me,
that to forgive myself doesn’t
forgive forgetting

is this then my best?

sufficient to breech your
reserves of pseudo-cool,
that correct boundary pretense that keeps us as
mismatched separates?

you be the judge, you be the jury,
you be the prosecutor and the defender,
for it is all of us
standing in the dock,
on trial,

for in our lifetime
guilty of the inhuman crime,
of not crying enough
https://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/archived/bodysphere/features/4837824
Ivan Brooks Sr Jan 2018
Some people have time and some have money.
Other people have money and no time left.
Many people have the time but have no money .
Some people haven't money neither time left .

Some people have money and no time for love .
Many people have no love and neither any money.
Few people have money so they get pseudo love.
Some people have love that costs maintenance money .
Love used to be free but the maintenance costs a lot..
Anyone Jul 2018
The scars on your arms
Form the box of my jail cell.
I'm serving a pseudo-voluntary,
Compulsory sentence for someone
Else's hell.

I guess I chose this fate
Despite it being ****** in front of me.
But the illusion of free will
Is a broken façade of
Immaturity.

I suppose I do like you,
But be with you? I don't know.
Your unblamable desire for
Love and affection is something
I can't show.

Because while your world may be Torture, mine isn't heaven either.
With heart flutters,
Stomach aches,
And leaving class for breathers.

The help that I can give,
Is reaching its end.
And whisperings
Tell me to leave,
From nefarious, bitter friends.

Yet when I entertain departure,
The only things that I'm left with are

My thoughts in the shower,
My tears joining the water,
And I remember looking in the mirror
Trying to figure out where I am.
From an ex's perspective on me.
I shouldn't even
say this but I'm
in love with you because
of your pseudo intellectual abstractions.

Might I scale the escarpment
of your heart with quiet nods?

Sara Fielder © June 2019
Lydia Oct 2018
I’m going to relapse tomorrow.
So I’m going to breathe in this moment where I am not in pain
I am going to touch and feel and understand right now
Because I can,
Right now, for the next few hours, I can be an entire human being

I’m going to relapse tomorrow
You’d think it’d be relieving to get a warning inscribed in your genetics,
Building patterns,
To “prepare”
But I cannot be prepared to open my eyes in the morning and see television static
To get out of bed and leave my arm behind
To fall off the leg that can’t hold my weight anymore

I’m going to relapse tomorrow
All I do is dread the pseudo-pain that creeps in when I can see again
You want to talk about fake?
Talk about nurses blowing veins
Talk about nightmares about hospital gowns
Talk about being afraid to ask for a seat on the subway because your illness isn’t real enough

I’m going to relapse tomorrow because that’s how this goes
This in and out like the ocean got angry again
Like I will never run marathons
You can’t run on a numb ankle
You can’t run on exhaustion and giving up
I can’t run on missed birthday parties

I’m going to relapse tomorrow, and I’m terrified
Because I’ve given up on my body before
Because the rest of the world can touch without pins and needles
The rest of the world runs on people can run constantly
I’ve been rusty since age seven,
I was built like an iphone
Meant to break and be thrown away so you’ll buy a new one

I know that I’m going to relapse tomorrow. I know, I know, I know,
I know.
This is the first time I have ever written about this because it I think that it is completely impossible for me to be okay with it. It refers to my chronic migraines that follow these very predictable patterns.

Please comment :)
My arms are open
Like my mind

My love is receiving
Like my heart is empty

I am as critical
As I am in search of a pinnacle

Yet I do not chase my quarry

I seem to think she will just fall unto my midst

How lazy
How repugnant
How laughable

Naive

I preach of self reflection

But caught between two mirrors of my own hypocrisy

My vileness reflects back to me.

Blinded by my selfish lust for connection with one not of my disposition

I miss the blinding double standard

I continue to lie.

To spread pseudo-self exploration

Pseudo-self understanding

So my arms may be as open as I say my mind is

And my love may be as receiving as  my heart is empty

But my soul

My soul is as yellow
As my teeth.
Incontinence of Pseudo-emotion has engulfed us from the 3rd grade.
It festered dormant for a little under a decade before it’s vessel popped.
A pore filled with ***** media which dehumanizes and objectives human beings
While making a spectacle and esteem of being promiscuous.
All that Dirt
Lathered in an oil of misdirection. A misunderstanding of affection, empathy and apathy.
Those who contrive the most emotion are perceived as actually possessing the most emotion.
Nothing can be farther from the truth.
This is the death of morality. A birth of Nihilism.
The miasma of the rotting corpse of ethos and emotional connection.
Is one that sits in the stomach and contracts illness not curable due to our understanding.
We have been taught that promiscuity will bring us happiness, and yet it is the most depressing.
Without understanding of that we are incurable from this **** affliction.
Momentary bursts of relief chafe the most sensitive areas of our skin. Without treatment.
We will be encased in our handmade carapace which will indefinitely block us from emotion.
Luckily someone invented lotion, soft tissues, and silicone.
Ivan Brooks Sr Oct 2018
I cry very hard every night
For the land of my forefathers.
Once called Africa's golden child
Woe unto them that hurt you.
Like a child gunned down,
Somebody shot you in your prime
Your soul cries out for help
Purging the nectar of hate
Joggling the sack of opportunity
Looted out by pseudo politicians
And devoured by corrupt wolves
Who talks as revolutionaries
Paid with very huge salaries.
Hungry kids with sad eyes
Eyes stained with tears line
tears lines that know no tears.
Dried lips and Weak bodies
That can't stand neither walk.
Even if the did, where will they walk?
For the roads are now no more,
Washed away by corrupt erosion.
Ills of yesterday, void of compassion.
Look beyond everything, see the poor
Stuck in the black muddy ponds.
Those real victims of poverty, poverty
Tattooed on the souls of the poor.
Poor people who went en-mass
To the ballot boxes and voted,
For a change that's yet to come.
Waiting From the mangrove swamps
Squinting from the shines of the elite,
Dwarfed by brand new mansions
Gift from the country giant to himself. I'll pray every day for the masses,
Wishing the real Massiah would come.


IB-Poetry©
26/11/2018
For those still in the struggle.
Leslie Thielen Nov 2018
the realization overtook the delusion
not overnight, not like a light switch
but like a gradual suffocation,
liquid black spilling in
it’s a futile gasp for tainted air

i am the anti-hero of my own autobiography
the protagonist that gains nothing
and by the end of the 400-page novel
the reader understands, they’ve wasted their time

because the story was never about me to begin with
all wrapped up superficially in a soft cocoon
immersed in a pseudo-nobility that shielded me
and convinced me that there is a right answer
to every wrong thing

one of the most painful and crippling experiences
is forcing yourself to unlearn everything you thought you knew
and resigning yourself to the fact that
not everything makes sense
not everyone gets a happy ending–

and there’s beauty in nature, but devastation in ours
serendipity in our structure, but chaos in our hearts
nothing deals in absolutes, and pain does not subside
we hide behind small comforts, but these are often lies

humans aren’t built in black and white, so i’m drowning in the gray
flailing and failing to understand why certain people cannot stay
over two decades on this planet and i’m still trying to decide
if the tragedy is hiding elsewhere or somewhere trapped inside.
i just want answers
Mark Robins Aug 2018
Inspiration is scarce.

Masculinity ravages like a
starved beast on all
that's pure and painless.

Upon my life it clings and
departs not now nor never.

In hours of weakness it strikes
and pseudo power creates a
pleasant bleakness.

When all is over I lay in sweating
idleness. Womanhood must hate me
but sometimes I hate it too...

*** is a *****
Bruce Levine Aug 2018
Upper East Side
The Hamptons
Aspen, Colorado
The plastic people
Follow each other
Moving in herds
Like cattle to the
Slaughter

Drifting
Floating
Shifting focus
From one charity event
To another
Whatever’s trendy
Whatever’s fashionable
Whatever’s happ’ning
Whatever’s the need
Tainted new artists
Society’s rejects
The film-maker who fits in with
The flavor of the month
The disease or the cause
That captures the moment
Stigmas overlooked
Deformities relieved
By one hyper exertion
By one pseudo good deed

Changing bedrooms
Changing partners
New alliances
Noblesse oblige

Mrs. Astor’s
Four hundred
Reinvented forever
Reinvented with fervor
On the edge
Of hypocrisy
Keeping up with the Jones’s
Maintaining the houses
Paris, Rome, Cote du Jura
Malibu, Palm Beach
Couture fashion
Madison, Rodeo
Worth avenues united
Avenues of the liege

Location, location, location
The right address unspoken
Dinner in the right places
Sporting events to be seen
Three martini luncheons
Halcion evenings
Business is business
Where money’s retrieved

Look to plastic people
For fashionable guidance
No matter the moment
No matter the need
Remember to catch them
While jetting to Santa Barbara
Saint Maarten, San Troupe
San Marco, warp speed
They live in their milieu
Can’t function outside it
Can’t follow a shadow
That others believe

It’s easy to find them
They leave behind footprints
But barely a mem’ry
Or singular creed
Other than finding
The latest in fashion
The latest persona
Or new plastic breed
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