(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)

(via phatphilosophers)
jeffrey-lebowski:

Untitled by Yayoi Kusama.
Acrylic on canvas, 45.5 x 38.0 cm. Signed and dated 1993
jeffrey-lebowski:
Untitled by Yayoi Kusama.
Acrylic on canvas, 45.5 x 38.0 cm. Signed and dated 1993
(via phatphilosophers)
“
These are the days that must happen to you.
Walt Whitman, from Leaves Of Grass (via violentwavesofemotion)
(via phatphilosophers)
18 HOURS AGO / LARMOYANTE
axiatonal:

Canola Flowers Field, China
axiatonal:
Canola Flowers Field, China
(via awaveofbliss)

(via awaveofbliss)

whatisadvertising:
What would modern technology and social networks look like if they were vintage ads
This is a post gathered Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, Skype, iMac, Nintendo Wii and Sony Playstation as if they were vintage ads.
(via thebronxisburning)
aplacetofindlife:

Someone Should Start Laughing
I have a thousand brilliant lies For the question: How are you?  I have a thousand brilliant lies For the question: What is God? If you think that the Truth can be known From words, If you think that the Sun and the Ocean Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,
O someone should start laughing! Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!- Hafiz
aplacetofindlife:
Someone Should Start Laughing

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
How are you?

I have a thousand brilliant lies
For the question:
What is God?

If you think that the Truth can be known
From words,

If you think that the Sun and the Ocean
Can pass through that tiny opening Called the mouth,

O someone should start laughing!
Someone should start wildly Laughing Now!

- Hafiz
(via cosmic-rebirth)

meditationsinwonderland:
Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche, We Should All Be Feminists
How could I not reblog this?
(Source: bakongo)
1 day ago – 234,004 notes

artismyempire:
gentledom:
A wonderful analogy.
What I shall do today.
(Source: boyqueen, via thebronxisburning)
1 day ago – 30,054 notes

(Source: maryhadalittleblunt, via awaveofbliss)
1 week ago – 81 notes
beachsloth:

SYNESTHESIA by Joshua Espinoza
                God watches everyone’s first kiss. Although God used to be an awesome God He’s been a bit lazier as the years have progressed. Long ago God felt that raining frogs on Egypt was cool. People were turned into pillars of salt for looking at the destruction of their towns. Now God isn’t into that whole vengeful thing. Rather He realizes the importance of free will and understands it is more important than any instruction manual.
                Dreams are the ultimate instructional manual. Sub-conscious hates being a sub. Sub-conscious wants to be dom-conscious. Unfortunately such things do not happen anymore. Drinking dreams from people is potentially delicious. Flab is the hallmark of a family man or woman. Their dreams have become realities. Mere impulses of creatures become vaguely self-sustaining then fully self-sustaining. Right in the heart is where the familial love lives. Floaters in the eyes are more than floaters. When one sees floaters they see ghosts. Floaters are ghosts for the vision-impaired.
                Afterlife is big into God. Death brings people closer to God. They live in God’s domain hoping for the best. From on high the angels live on the down low. Beneath angels are the exciting ones, the ones they can and do mess up. Humans are interesting for their ability to mess up all the time and somehow remain completely loved. Every human is made in God’s image. Once people come back to God they realize how much of their decisions were good, how the evil was more than counterbalanced by the good. Living in Earth tends to make people forget how fortunate they really are.
                The world hates leaving people behind. In Heaven everything is fine. From Heaven people can see themselves from light-years away. Such distance makes it easier to see what the right and wrong decision was. Death takes the people away. Online presences remain long after the body has left. Everything has a digital footprint entirely different from their real life footprint. Sometimes it is bigger and sometimes smaller. It depends on the lust for life.
                Kissing is a form of lust. Lips love each other. Lips like locking together. That is where the key to the heart comes from, from the lips. Words flow from the mouths of babes. Life means the words work well but the tones work better. Even babies understand the importance of tone. Words are meaningless. Tones are tender. People wrap themselves up in tones, in the environmental sounds that surround them for that is what it means to be alive: it means to interact.
beachsloth:
SYNESTHESIA by Joshua Espinoza
                God watches everyone’s first kiss. Although God used to be an awesome God He’s been a bit lazier as the years have progressed. Long ago God felt that raining frogs on Egypt was cool. People were turned into pillars of salt for looking at the destruction of their towns. Now God isn’t into that whole vengeful thing. Rather He realizes the importance of free will and understands it is more important than any instruction manual.
                Dreams are the ultimate instructional manual. Sub-conscious hates being a sub. Sub-conscious wants to be dom-conscious. Unfortunately such things do not happen anymore. Drinking dreams from people is potentially delicious. Flab is the hallmark of a family man or woman. Their dreams have become realities. Mere impulses of creatures become vaguely self-sustaining then fully self-sustaining. Right in the heart is where the familial love lives. Floaters in the eyes are more than floaters. When one sees floaters they see ghosts. Floaters are ghosts for the vision-impaired.
                Afterlife is big into God. Death brings people closer to God. They live in God’s domain hoping for the best. From on high the angels live on the down low. Beneath angels are the exciting ones, the ones they can and do mess up. Humans are interesting for their ability to mess up all the time and somehow remain completely loved. Every human is made in God’s image. Once people come back to God they realize how much of their decisions were good, how the evil was more than counterbalanced by the good. Living in Earth tends to make people forget how fortunate they really are.
                The world hates leaving people behind. In Heaven everything is fine. From Heaven people can see themselves from light-years away. Such distance makes it easier to see what the right and wrong decision was. Death takes the people away. Online presences remain long after the body has left. Everything has a digital footprint entirely different from their real life footprint. Sometimes it is bigger and sometimes smaller. It depends on the lust for life.
                Kissing is a form of lust. Lips love each other. Lips like locking together. That is where the key to the heart comes from, from the lips. Words flow from the mouths of babes. Life means the words work well but the tones work better. Even babies understand the importance of tone. Words are meaningless. Tones are tender. People wrap themselves up in tones, in the environmental sounds that surround them for that is what it means to be alive: it means to interact.
(via bluishtigers)
1 week ago – 74 notes

(Source: samsaranmusing)
1 week ago – 78 notes
maymonsturr:

My mantra.
maymonsturr:
My mantra.
(via cosmic-rebirth)
1 week ago – 568 notes
foxxxynegrodamus:

***
foxxxynegrodamus:
***
(Source: lnpfeed, via awaveofbliss)
1 week ago – 1,635 notes
cosmic-rebirth:

Live joyfully, make your life a dance, all the way to the grave.
cosmic-rebirth:
Live joyfully, make your life a dance, all the way to the grave.
(Source: cookiecarnival)
2 weeks ago – 22,305 notes
“The point is not to pay back kindness but to pass it on.”
– Julia Alvarez (via cosmic-rebirth)
(Source: amandaonwriting, via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 275 notes

(Source: diawf, via awaveofbliss)
2 weeks ago – 2,799 notes
bl4ckhippie:

Fly.
bl4ckhippie:
Fly.
(Source: rootsrukkus, via awaveofbliss)
2 weeks ago – 750 notes

(Source: lizzlizzcomics, via bluishtigers)
2 weeks ago – 110,456 notes
meditationsinwonderland:

ॐ flower child in Wonderland ॐ
meditationsinwonderland:
ॐ flower child in Wonderland ॐ
(Source: vegan-hippie)
2 weeks ago – 139,177 notes

(Source: jrich103, via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 4,848 notes

pleoros:
Helminadia Ranford - Guilin,China
(via hungryforworld)
2 weeks ago – 329 notes
designgather:

Oak Room
Andy Goldsworthy
designgather:
Oak Room
Andy Goldsworthy
(via cosmic-rebirth)
2 weeks ago – 286 notes
miguu:
don’t be afraid.
lean into your genius.
let your own brilliance support you.
you are something
we have all been waiting to know.
please.
(via bluishtigers)
2 weeks ago – 339 notes

odditiesoflife:
Amazing Jabuticaba Tree
This is an incredible tree that bears its fruit directly on the main trunks and branches of the plant, lending a distinctive appearance to the fruiting tree. The jabuticaba (Plinia cauliflora) is a fruit-bearing tree native to Minas Gerais and São Paulo in southeastern Brazil. Otherwise known as the Brazilian Grape Tree, the jabuticaba is grown for its purplish-black, white-pulped fruits. They can be eaten raw or be used to make jellies and drinks, including juice and wine.
They are wonderful trees to have and are fairly adaptable to most environments but they grow extremely slow. Jabuticaba flowers are white and grow directly from its trunk, just like its fruit. The tree may flower and fruit only once or twice a year, but when continuously irrigated, it flowers frequently and fresh fruit can be available year round in tropical regions.
Common in Brazilian markets, jabuticabas are largely eaten fresh; their popularity has been likened to that of grapes in the US. Due to its extremely short shelf-life, fresh jabuticaba fruit is very rare in markets outside of areas of cultivation. So if you are ever in Brazil, be sure to try the incredibly tasty fruit called jabuticaba.
source 1, 2
(via hungryforworld)
2 weeks ago – 1,462 notes

(Source: samsaranmusing)
2 weeks ago – 118 notes

(Source: rorycwhatsyourthesis, via samsaranmusing)
2 weeks ago – 130,113 notes
oecologia:

Star Trails over Matterhorn (Switzerland) by Felix Lamouroux.
oecologia:
Star Trails over Matterhorn (Switzerland) by Felix Lamouroux.
(via samsaranmusing)

burningveins:
multicolors:
benskid:
Know where you stand.
Wow
This is kinda creepy..
(via hungryforworld)
“
Do not think you will necessarily be aware of your own enlightenment.
Zen Master Dogen - (1200- 1253) AD (via samsaranmusing)
2 WEEKS AGO
101fuymemes:

COLLECTION OF awesome CLOUDS
101fuymemes:
COLLECTION OF awesome CLOUDS
(via roslynoberholtzerbddd)

itscolossal:
Planetary Structural Layer Cakes Designed by Cakecrumbs
“
Do not resist events that move you out of your comfort zone, especially when your comfort zone was not all that comfortable.
Alan Cohen (via raeraenjma)
(via awaveofbliss)
4 WEEKS AGO / THE-HEALING-NEST
so apt
so apt
(via awaveofbliss)

(via awaveofbliss)
treewellie:

"The area between Kluane Lake and Haines Junction, Yukon, skirting the great cordillera of the Wrangell / St. Elias Mtn. range, is commonly productive of these stacked lenticular clouds … In late summer, as the sun begins to set around 11 PM, it’s beautiful to see these unique clouds, which are higher in altitude than their surrounding companions, catching the last peach coloured rays of the sun."
treewellie:
"The area between Kluane Lake and Haines Junction, Yukon, skirting the great cordillera of the Wrangell / St. Elias Mtn. range, is commonly productive of these stacked lenticular clouds … In late summer, as the sun begins to set around 11 PM, it’s beautiful to see these unique clouds, which are higher in altitude than their surrounding companions, catching the last peach coloured rays of the sun."
definitelydope:

BBQ on the balcony (by fernlicht)
definitelydope:
BBQ on the balcony (by fernlicht)
(via awaveofbliss)

Birth by Alex Grey
Birth by Alex Grey
(via receptive)

(via bluishtigers)

(via awaveofbliss)
“
There is a time and place for decaf coffee. Never and in the trash.
(via 17yr)
(via hungryforworld)
1 MONTH AGO / MIDWESTRAISEDMIDWESTLIVING
surreelust:

Man with His Skin by Peter Zokosky
surreelust:
Man with His Skin by Peter Zokosky
(via cosmic-rebirth)
“
Oh soul,
you worry too much.
You have seen your own strength.
You have seen your own beauty.
You have seen your golden wings.
Of anything less,
why do you worry?
You are in truth
the soul, of the soul,
of the soul.
Rumi, from Who Am I?   (via bluishtigers)
(via bluishtigers)
1 MONTH AGO / VIOLENTWAVESOFEMOTION
xpudding:

xpudding:
(via cosmic-rebirth)

(via thebronxisburning)

(via cosmic-rebirth)
treewellie:

La costa de la luz by Francisco Mingorance
treewellie:
La costa de la luz by Francisco Mingorance

itscolossal:
Mirror City: A Kaleidoscopic Timelapse of Chicago, San Francisco, San Diego, Vegas and L.A. [VIDEO]

(via cosmic-rebirth)

awkwardsituationist:
gmb akash documents the 350 kilometre journey from dhaka to sylhet, bangladesh made by those who, unable to afford the price of a ticket or find room to ride inside, risk death by traveling atop and between train cars
(via suntochukwu)
purpleaggregates:

White Tara The female enlightened being of long life, wisdom and good fortune When I see the signs of untimely death, May I immediately receive the blessings of Arya Tara; And, having destroyed the Lord of Death, May I quickly attain the deathless vajra body. OM TARE TUTTARE TURE MAMA AYUR PUNAYE GYANA PUTRIM KURU YE SÖHA OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SÖHA
purpleaggregates:
White Tara
The female enlightened being of long life, wisdom and good fortune

When I see the signs of untimely death,
May I immediately receive the blessings of Arya Tara;
And, having destroyed the Lord of Death,
May I quickly attain the deathless vajra body.

OM TARE TUTTARE TURE MAMA AYUR PUNAYE GYANA PUTRIM KURU YE SÖHA
OM TARE TUTTARE TURE SÖHA
(via dancingdakini)

(via guerrillatech)
hungryforworld:

Monet’s Garden. Givery, France.
hungryforworld:
Monet’s Garden. Givery, France.

(via awaveofbliss)

(via cosmic-rebirth)
“
Internal and external are ultimately one. When you no longer perceive the world as hostile, there is no more fear, and when there is no more fear, you think, speak and act differently. Love and compassion arise, and they affect the world.
Eckhart Tolle (via samsaranmusing)
(via suntochukwu)
1 MONTH AGO / SAMSARANMUSING
malformalady:

The golden spiral of fungus. In geometry, a golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor is φ, the golden ratio. That is, a golden spiral gets wider (or further from its origin) by a factor of φ for every quarter turn it makes.
Photo credit: Devin Raber
malformalady:
The golden spiral of fungus. In geometry, a golden spiral is a logarithmic spiral whose growth factor is φ, the golden ratio. That is, a golden spiral gets wider (or further from its origin) by a factor of φ for every quarter turn it makes.
Photo credit: Devin Raber
(via deeperthansoul)
polaroidsf:

Welcome to Eden
polaroidsf:
Welcome to Eden

(via bouddra)
“
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of
meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for
your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me

Once it was garbage, refuse, trash.
A jumble of foul-smelling detritus hauled to the curb
And removed by sinewy men
Contributing a harder day's work
Than anyone else in the city.

Our energy now removes its entropy.
Sorted and classified into coloured bins,
We add order to our rejected matter.

Specialized trucks arrive to collect
The date-synchronized bins
Emptying them into functionally compatible mechanisms.

Most desolate is the black box of paper and cardboard.
Brochures and flyers, old magazines and letters.
Annual reports and cereal boxes.
Once these were enameled with crafted sentences,
Painstakingly typed, edited and debated,
On the monitors of copywriters.

Now they are just millions of words printed on flattened fibre substrates,
Jumbled into the bruised and scarred black box,
Entering into the recycling stream.

The nouns and adjectives,
Prepositions and gerunds,
All jumble together.

Fragments of precisely-crafted sentences and paragraphs
Are gradually broken, shredded and pulped.
Incomplete thoughts, broken phrases
Like those of a rejected stranger
In an lonely, unknown country.
Then words without context.
Then just disparate letters
Are all that remain.
Their  M  ea  N inG
G  r a Du all y
is re mov
e d
.

In Benidorm there are melons,
Whole donkey-carts full

Of innumerable melons,
Ovals and *****,

Bright green and thumpable
Laced over with stripes

Of turtle-dark green.
Chooose an egg-shape, a world-shape,

Bowl one homeward to taste
In the whitehot noon :

Cream-smooth honeydews,
Pink-pulped whoppers,

Bump-rinded cantaloupes
With orange cores.

Each wedge wears a studding
Of blanched seeds or black seeds

To strew like confetti
Under the feet of

This market of melon-eating
Fiesta-goers.

Paper people crackling and folding
Under life's pressure
Blank pages, empty paper void of purpose
Paper flowers, swans, trees and cranes
Craning to find a crease that fits them
Brittle dry leaves waiting to be made into a purpose
Feint margins replace the wrinkles of a face
Origami organisms awaiting nimble fingers
To form features, emotions, life, purpose
Like a Samurai sword, the paper has been folded many times
Yet now blunted, pulped, set alight by a match, reduced to ash.

First, garlic.

Dig your nails into its flaking paper,
pink and beige like magnolia petals parched
in the gutter.
Peel back the skin and crush
the weighted bud
with the heel of your hand on your favourite knife.
It has been waiting for this.
The thick expectent smell sits up on the chopping board,
looks up at you like an old friend.
It has burrowed itself into the skin of your hands and lingers there

it will not be washed away, instead
it quietly clings to your fingers, flavouring
letters on your keyboard, the edge of the banister,
every light switch in the house.

The pulped clove is scattered into a scraped frying pan,
your grandmother's; it was never non-stick.
The stuck parts were always the best bit,
and so it goes,
the oil and creamy crumbs find the same spots,
engineered over forty years.
Some were accidents. All were happy.
Yours were ambition-led experiments.
The thumbs in the brown recipe book
were never your thumbs,
the dried-out sedimentary edges
were never your mishaps
but still it is a bible of sorts,
providing answers but never asking questions.

Later after dinner when everything is cleared away
and nobody can tell that you had been cooking at all
bring your fingertips to your nose
and inhale
the remaining relic of your meal,
a letter to yourself,
the end notes enduring but faint
now, lastly
lastly
garlic.

For all the goodness this screen provides;
for its instant gratification;
for the evolved digital relay of self-published creativity;
for the immediate responses and comments
from half a world away.
For its space saving mastery.
I long to hold all your words, verses and rhymes intimately
within glossy or plain protective coat of hard card
Your spine dunked in the cup of palm
headcap to tail resting in crux of arm
or nestled like a lover upon lap.
I could take you to bed.
I want to thumb through your pages
Pages once mashed and pulped and pressed to dry.
I long to feel the weight of words physically
to smell the freshness along each hinge crease,
and caress the texture.
To return to those most fond
charactered with dogear
underlined with ballpoint
and pencilled margin notes.
Even the mild smudge of finger tip dirt
when I simply could not wait to picking you up before washing.
If only this screen was a page
One of millions ever changing
I could hold all your work close
and fall asleep with your words
waiting in rest beside me
always
beside
me....

My Beloved,

Let's meet in meadows of yellow shiny buttercups,

dandelions,daises,lilacs and coloured butterflies,

Let's run till dusk  in  threaded fields  of hundred golden wheats,

lay down under the little lantern  light of million  fire flies.

Let's hold hands and  walk in  parks,sit on a  wooden bench,

and make a  rainbow wish upon the destined  shooting stars,

Let's  dance cheek to cheek,bathe naked beneath water falls,

and  watch enchanting  faries use their magic glittered wands,

As feathered silk white swans pirhouette in sparkling streams,

as we get lost in secret casting spells of everlasting  melodies.

Let's wake up to the music of a  golden harped string fire ball,

warming our  blue skies ,with every early  rooster's  dawn.

Lets run to open  fields,to the shade of  old mulberry trees,

Make a picnic on a carpet made of crispy bronzing leaves,

share a velvet peach,and eat pulped ripe  strawberries,

taste red satin cherries, as woodpeckers drum their beats.

Let's write the sweetest verse and many loving words,

listen to  the sound of waltzing crickets and chirping little  birds.

and when the  sun go sleeping,the crescent moon starts peeping,

in the ebony black sky,Its then we realise there are  billion miles

of distance between the 'You and 'i',It is there I find your heart,

as your heart searches  for mine,in the place of  never ending time.

It is our special place,where  whispered thoughts join in one space,

where my blood pumps your ardent name, deeply in my veins.

It is the cherished  place, where we  travel, in many many ways,

It is the place we live and love  as one,yet not seeing face to face.

when some said hello
some said ha ha,
said holmes without sherlock to signal a sighting
in signature of fingerprinting a shake;
but some said hello,
some shook some with stipend erased freezing;
after all... the doctor allowed a carcass to instil a freed numbness!
a clown frowned attempting to be picky with laughter
mascaraed, and then all hell ready to be hibernating yawned
ready from the hyperbole excused ******* a tadpole into thinking of frogs.
oh we loved the laugh the pouch of orange juiced pulled apart and pulped
into skins and skinny; we were all ready for a hajj there and then!
ha ha! make that scented with coriander!

There She lay,bare,naked,
lost,in a decoupage of dreams,
Mesmerized by Faces,
Faces with the same eyes,
the same smile,His smile!
She dreams and She is happy.
She feels him,His touch!
His  Hungry lips on  Her soft lips
His cheeks brushing Her Own,
His fingertips playing  on her
slender neck in upward
and downward movements.
His  dry mouth ******* sweet  nectar
from Her milk honey pulped breast.
His thighs brusing her long silk legs,
He nourishes his prey,with effection,
tender care,love and protection.
He feeds her with his Warmth,
misting the cold glass with his breath.
The mosaiced glass which traps Her
soul in a lonely scared desperate world.
He breathes her in,He gives her life
He gives all  that He is, to Her,
Her flesh molds with his own,
She moans,they  sweat,He sighs,
making love to her,gently,
as She begs Him for more.
There She lay,bare,naked,
lost in a decoupage of dreams,
The clock tick -tocks the time,
and ,the dream soon gone.
He kisses her forehead,
wraps her in a red blanket
of passion and yearn,
till he returns,till he finds her,
and splashes Her life
with water colours
once again. . . . . . . .

Shepard in a field,
crucified upon  a wooden fence
Your grieving flock was scattered
worldly

Liberty's book was swiftly plunged into
the blood of bigotry
Fascism laughed in tones of red, white and blue

Land where our fathers died
Land where our bigots hide
I say to you Amen...

I love Jesus;
you must too
resounded these hollow
words

Hate is now the doctrine
intertwined morph-boiled into fear and hate,
being poured over enlightenment
in destruction of green lands
engulfing
youthful sprouts
in destructive steamy waters

The book of Leviticus
is the demise of reason
fractured from critical thinking;
allocated to the current pulped-swine,
swaying in hypnosis listeners of these pulpit-swine-beasts;
they embark with twisted trepidation's disdain

Shepard in other fields of life
into brute submissions
you will succumb being baptised
in your own red pools,
being smitten by the pulpit-swine-listners
of ancient prophets

The dirge, the slow dirge is heard
throughout our delicate land

Ooh sweet brilliant Oscar, we still suffer
as you had
my brilliant Irish lad

I love Jesus
you
must too
My country tis not for me
sweet land of bigotry
to thee I sing, to thee I sing...

Dishes served full are well laid on the table
prawns are glittering adornments
though only yesterday
their tentacles were tasting the river
not knowing they would be in another water
in the river of saliva
grinded and pulped for a tasty moksha.

The rain falls unabated from last night.

Who'll go out to feed?, asks a voice.

Does never being hungry feel the same stress
as being hungry most of the time?

The answer is in the clouded eyes
watching the eyes
joyful for one more chance.

I just got a letter from my old Uncle Bert
and I'd like to share its tragic contents
with you here today;
but I'll edit out the ***** bits
just in case you are shocked
that an old man could still
have thoughts along those lines
or so as you don't throw up on your cornflakes
when you read them over breakfast.

"Dear Edna (he wrote to me)
It's not all that bad in the twilight nursing home
if you can bear the stale smells and moanings
of the other ****** inhabitants
and their bad breath fumes
plus the mashed food which all is pulped up
into something not unadjacent to catfood
for the sake of the toothless ones
who **** it up via a plastic tube
provided for that purpose.

"At least I take a bath once a fortnight
even though I don't like sharing it
with that Pakistani fellow Mr Ali
who always reeks of curry
and lets off stinky air from his back end
in our bath causing brownish bubbles
with a touch of follow-through vengeance.

"That reminds me of what happened
only last week when the ministry
sent some ****** health inspector round
who might have been a homosexualist
from his mincing walk I thought
and he came into our ward
you could see his beaky nose wrinkle
in distaste which was tactless we thought.

"He asked what the toiletty smell was
not knowing it's what we have to put up with day in day out
(and I know say you can't really afford
to pay extra for a clean private room for me
and not many of the others families bother either
its not as though they're the ones who suffer is it,
so let me suffer here after all I'm only your uncle
and you aren't in my last will and testament
as I never liked your mother much
fat stuck-up ***** from what I remember).

"The male nurse on duty that day
(he's the one we call Old *******
because he's so ******* bossy
and full of his ******* self)
asked all of us who had let the side down
and wet himself (or herself, it's a mixed ward
which I dont approve of as I don't want
to see anything disgusting anymore).

"Well no one owned up so Old *******
went round sniffing at everyone's rears
until he came to Mrs Jones squatting in the corner
and the he said why the **** hadn't she owned up
that she had done one in her pants today
and Mrs Jones said it had happened yesterday
or it may even have been the day before that
she couldn't really remember.

"You know, Edna, I still love miss my dear Linda
I even wish she was here
in this hellhole of a place
waiting for death's release
and not mouldering in her grave
but at least she avoids the squidgy mashed up food
which goes in one end and out the other
barely stopping for a rest halfway down."

You know, I couldn't stop laughing
for a full five minutes after I read this
as I knew, just knew, the old *******
had cut me out of his will -
well, let him rot is what I say
and that ******* about objecting
to sharing a bath with Mr Ali:
Bert's problem has always been
that he's allergic to soap and water
how well I remember the miasma
following him around his old house
before we had the **** certified.

Let not yesterday torment tomorrow
Promise pulped
Vision prescribed
Voice strangled
Hearing echoed in fallen leaves
Opportunity thwarted before dawn breaks

Let yesterday slip gently
Loosen the weave of tangled mesh
Let today inform, not dictate, tomorrow
Basque in absent inhibition
Don’t look back
Your choice, your will

He was flying
midair like a bird on its
first glide
his wings about
to break
from the current that wanted
to stop him
a sweet sensation in his mouth
about to roll him over,
freedom enslaving his body
Alas!
He went back to the earth
to the ground
to reality so atrocious
only this time with a heartbreaking crash
and crash and crash
and blood and bones separating
soft flesh pulped
muffled voices, shocked riffs hanging
like his vision
his life, his story!

*Oh but that was to be the end of him...

the  death of a bold quest for meaning

Paper friend.
You flew away on the breeze.
Once that scribe, wrote loving words.
Deep into flaking bark.
Bark stripped off in preparation.
For serious pulping.

For silent he became.
Once was awesome.
When on the grass, we laid and held.
Where, so tenderly curled in luxury.
Needing nothing, no other than the other one.
Beneath primeval oak.
As a pair of skylarks, we played in the park.
Spirits of trees, dissected and pulped.
Re-modelled, created as love letters.
Perhaps, maybe a book.
Or maybe made a plane of paper, just so you could fly away.

By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

And expression, oh expression
The truth, the lie
From my pen flutter, in cathartic flourish.
These thoughts trapped you might release
These bounded philosophies, between
The unbreakable wall of my skull
Set free, through the tendons of my hand
Unto the pressed, pulped tree.
Humanity, caged, has but one freedom
Infinite, boundless, mind surpassing matter
The words, in stream, resolving truths
Dissolving lies, fantasy and reality in one.
Those who express, know its true value
To nurture empathy, sharing the journeys of others.
The future is neither bleak nor hopeful
Like the cosmos, it is an unwritten page
For our minds and imaginations to jot
And scrawl, and pen, and scribe, and articulate
And write, and write, and write!

A flame
soft, unmanned
free to flicker
in a capsule

Intrigued
how it melts
but I'm
**** caught
in my middle

Breach the boundary
light blue colour is
patent source of
our futality

Pulped to desire
a deposit of
labour tides
that flow on the outsides

Stimulated by
awful timing
I am gentle,
courted fuelled
toxicity

Burnt wrist
blatantly lying
hostile for hearts
in respiratory

Returned to
the bone of light
illuminate my
skeletal plight
among the dark

Young reader’s lit is a lucrative gig;
Feeds slop to learner like waste to a pig.
We love to get them reading.   Ah . . . but what?
Such open-minded offal as would shut
The hallowed sluice of Wisdom in a blink.
Grand waste of authorship, paper and ink
Noble trees pulped, and presses run—for this?
Distasteful tales and messages that miss
By so far they ought never have been told
Let alone color-printed, bound and sold.
Grotesqueries and morbid cultural rot
Raw ugliness (intentional or not)
Drips forth from this modern infantile lit
For any reasonable end unfit.
Behold P.C. fluffery, ethnic vibes
(Half of it scribed by lost Israelite tribes)
Global fables for our brave new deviants
Multi Kulti nonsense; non-experience:
Mafupe’s New Ungwa, Tano Means Five
Sho-Sho Goes the Wira-Wira.  Such jive . . .
My, such juvenile literary news
Serving to propagate progressive views:
Tia Fulana the Red Agitator
Grand Dad’s a Genderqueer Instigator . . .
Frida: Surrealist Queen of Misfit Art
Smelly Joe’s Super-Duper Stinky ****
Pages that dribble like a sneeze-filled rag
Well-pitched witchery, spelled out by some hag:
Diego the Dinosaur Reads Karl Marx
Trani the Modern Mixed-up Kitten Barks
Volume on volume of frivolous trash
All New York Times-reviewed (for kiddie cash):
Zombies Want Candy, Jimmy Has Three Moms
Snot-fest For Sassy Sue (Special Ed Bombs).
Manga mediocrity, attention-span killers:
Useless mind-wasting library-fillers.
Humpy and Fluffy Hunt for Chocolate Eggs
Barrels of froth (more like the tepid dregs ?)
Squirrel’s Fall Harvest Festival Goes Nuts
(Death by a thousand cutesy bookish cuts):
Useless reams of mindless marketed waste
With effete tribute paid to vilest taste
A globalist ghetto hype-o-rama
Party that starts and ends with Obama;
Covers flush with myriad fake awards
Encouraging our failing culture towards
The darkened depths. And who should bear the blame?
Publishers who mutually stroke for fame!
Such propaganda aimed at your child
After being mocked, ought to be reviled.
To hail such shameful writing as diverse
Actually serves to achieve the reverse;
Revisionists (more like demons than elves)
Have loaded your local library shelves.
The smoldering wick of so-called children’s lit,
Foolish lamp of decadent light, unfit
To illuminate or to froth about
Thus wavers, flickers faintly, and goes out.

It charged us
Breaking through the enemy's ranks
Scattering men like toothpicks
Theirs, then ours
It was mad, but all war is mad

Some of us stood our ground
As it shook from its furious rage
Shoulder to shoulder, brothers
Hacking the enemy,
Sliding swords deep in to their skins

Until their ranks parted like the sea
And our phalanxes shattered
Whether men stayed, frozen
Or ran, ******* themselves in fear
The enemy now brought brother from fear

I watched from the vanguard
King's Own, Pride of the Empire
Our ranks splintered, trampled
Beneath massive, mad feet
Thrown by this four tucked beast

Solace might be found
Maybe in that both sides lost
This creature gored and pulped
Either with abandon
Whipping it's fury forward; blood blind

Scant twenty paces from me
I stood my ground as soldiers should
Memorized by its horrid beauty
Sword half drawn; paltry effort
To stem the storm, hold an ocean

It's massive head, tossed, twisted
The smallest figure, it's demonic handler
Astride its sinewy thick neck
Holding only a mallet
Riding it to the ground

Skidding, skidding the mass of flesh
A trickle of blood running down
Slipping down a behometh's head
A tear staining its rider's cheek
The creature, lungs heaving, just last

Finally, this nightmarish charge
Ended by its handler's love
A chisel driven deep into its brain
Berserker's stained rage
Stilled for want of war

A single moment's pause
Before I brought my own beast up
Charging up massive flesh
Hooves digging deep for purchase
Stooping deep, cocking arm
Deliver my own stroke
Long blade taking that mans head

I am off, my horse bellows
Lungs like billows, frosted breath
In this morning's war torn cold
My furs, now soiled red
Eyes just as red raged rimmed

Across the war machines back
Legs dancing to bring me next
Closer, nearer; exploit this pause
Turn the tide, bring chaos directed
I know my brothers are at my side

Hacking with strength unthought
No glance unnoticed, I simply know
Every move around me, everyone
My warbeast awakened, alive
Perfectly calm in this wake

The Bone saw pulped on its intended,
Sedations mulled over a mirrors
Reflection, our laughter ensued.

I cracked your mind and played with your
Introspection, rouge fingers played inside.I took
Your mind and pickled it in a jar,

Thoughts now taste like vinegar,

On my way home I saw him,
a tubby man with blazing face,
his face was gnarled and twisted,
his nose, seemed to have been pulped,
a few times too many,
sat on the floor outside the station,
everyone else looked at him as if he's discarded,
a piece of  simple trash,
he talked to me,
he said,
you been to work today?
he looked hungry,
not sure what he was actually hankering for,
I couldn't see a heart inside,
his eyes blankly struggled to even raise a smile,
he looked like he wanted to be in the pink,
but he was red,
more read than a cheap tabloid,
seen by many passers by,
without an ounce of attention.
(C) Livvi

There were black shoes, black shadows
white cuffs, white clouds
black shirt, black boards
white belt, white butterflies

You tell me, your world is black and white,
but,
I ask you,
"Is that all I saw?"
What more, my dear pessimist, you jeer,

So, I say,
Well, of course,
there were blue skies, blue scorpions
white doves, white daffodils
red roses, red blooded hooligans

You tell me, typical American -
so patriotic,
you bleed the colors you fly,
and die draped in your pride,

but I see you
in your myopia,
your dull diatribe of patriotism

I understand you

you are blind to the mind of your soul
you only see
what I tell you
you only see
what you consume
you do not see
what is between
the slats
of your window

when they shut
you do not peek

when they open,
you imagine night has turned to day
when they close
you prepare your bed for the night
despite the noonday sun
you are a prisoner of shallow waters
drowning
while ankle deep
hollering
believing no one hears you
shrieking - how the world has changed!
unaware that the shores move
in ballroom dancer rhythms
sweeping back
and forth
along the bay
because the seas are alive
but you are standing still

not even the earth
beneath your feet
is still,
despite holding your entire reality
safely,
motherly,
in the insurmountable expanse
of its grasp

Yet, should the earth shake
and rock you
should the hurricane blow
and displace you
should the mountains tumble
and smother you
should the sky open its celestial gob
and expel you
should the mother open her subterranean maw,
and swallow you deep
deep
would you, deeply, care
that the possibility of it all
was an open invitation
a sealed letter
that was never
at your behest
to open
and display its contents

I, too,
have bequeathed upon you
a sealed invitation
to the worlds I paint
with these jigsaw vignettes we call words
and all
you had to do
was open the seams

not with a file

a file to cut the purse
the bounty
of the promised speech
no
I ask you
that you but pry open my soul
with curiosity
and peer within the tattered layers of my story
my lives
unlived & overwritten
letter by letter
slip in that noodle protracted by your pineal eye
and taste the essence of the realities
you have failed to purchase
that meander about the words you,
selectively,
chose to ignore
like the milk around alphabet cereal
or the broth around alphabet soup
or the fine-grained blank spaces
the parchment
the canvas of woe
around the words that comprise
a stack of divorce papers
or an exam
or the dread of a long-awaited raise...

Imagine,
for a moment
ignoring the obvious
the letters,
the sentences and paragraphs,
the divorce papers
the exam
the pay-bump,
and just look
at the parchment - the fine-grained,
thin sheet of sophistication

touch it
taste it, maybe,

run your hand along it
the surface of it
or the edge of it
***** your finger on the corner
slice your finger on the edge
the paper has a malice that invites
your masochism
curiosity is power
but also
despair
peer deeper

turn your head about
lower it, sideways
all
the
way
down, and
press your ear,
left or right
against the parchment
the paper
the papyrus
the product
hear its screams
the CHURN-CHUG-GGGHGGHHGRRRRR!!!
that chainsaw
like a thousand hatchets
splayed out
dancing on the circumference of
a taught merry-go-round of death
cutting into the mother
the father
the child
the tree
cutting it open
that it may be cut again
again
again
tormented
pulled apart
pulverized
tenderized
pulped
poured
pushed
pressed
preened
­glossed - maybe
matte - possibly
the choice is yours
harvest the living
for the living death of your divorce
your exam
your raise
massacre those families
not just the trees
the bears, the deer, and the little fox, too!

I'm green with envy,
thinking about all that potent pulp
coming your way
the smell of it
place yourself in its abundance
the smell of industry
its factories
academies of excellence
an office
a school
a registrar, magistrate, Corporate HQ,
the Pentagon, the Taj Mahal,
Big Ben,
the daily mail of any place where
the morning paper
is LAW
and
should this be the first time
you heard the screams
just imagine being a tree
coming to pay respects to your family
smell that death
as you creep in
watch
look about you
at the carcasses
strewn about
in neat, pedantic stacks labeled, A4, A3, letter,
fax or snail mail?

My world is plenty black & white
& white & red & blue,
but it's also got screams,
and the stench,
the carcasses of the forest's children
fit for your pleasure
to tear up,
chew up,
gum up with saliva
and shoot through a straw
into the neck of a fellow butcher
and laugh
laugh and snarl and howl and cackle

Laugh
because,
you never dared to kneel down
pay reverence to the
screams
in the parchment
you let the blinds close
you dared not peek through
you let yourself rot there
in the closet
of your mind
in the dark
and when I say, I'm sad,
you say,
"That *****."
You don't ask,
what's around the sadness,
what came before and what could after,
what's in the folds of sadness,
guilt, regret, and loneliness kneaded in

no,
you look at the sadness,
the dull blue,
and you say,
"Yeah,
that's blue alright,"
then you close your coffin
and go to sleep

Thoughts of my woes never  really were contemplated
upon reflection, this thing we are all do is fated
to fall on our laps. I was opened armed, I was blind
even though I could see, finding myself easily confined.

It was like I was strapped to a tree and then pulped
reformed to a thousand paper cuts. I was sculpt
in to the form i see now, I was a servant
while those that were calculatingly observant.

Less is more on the thoughts of a subliminal message,
could one even see that which was feed,  a presage
of there controlling. we are woven into this false
motion, confused by the continuous waltz.

I wore no chains no mark upon my supple flesh,
but this was a different kind, woven in unseen mesh.
I was drowning in air, i was sinking in depression
I'm enslaved with no evidence, only my confession.

I have witnessed mankind pulped by weight
Gleefully stepping under it, believing those
Neat, powdered men rabidly licking
Drunk on blended bodies in glass tumblers
Addictive increasing unquenchable thirst
One sip is the end of the world
Yet the world exists for its very creation
First the ******* begins, and then vomiting
Now it pours out of every orifice of the body
Half-digested ****** juice, beautifully flowing
Over spongy bodies and perfect nails
Ending only to train the fornicating masses
To crush themselves and each other

Spielberg had his scary jaws
Hitchcock filmed his crows
Lucas serialised Star Wars
As rocky balboa came to blows
Tarrentino pulped his fiction
Oscar Schindler built his ark
hammer house scared us shitlees
pet cemetry had left its mark
Di caprio sailed with his lover
Gone with the wind,was just a sham
Titanic would never  ever recover
633 squadron aimed to break a dam.
Eastwood never been unforgiven
et never did return back home
The long short and  tall of it
Private Ryan was never alone.
exorcist the omen, scary movies two
hills have eyes,spit on your grave
Elvis Presley's film Hawaii blue
Aliens predators,King Kong on a tower
Papillon catching  Hoffmans butterfly
As the triffids begin to flower,
****** and the ****** shower scene
the beauty and the beast
Snow White and Hannibal lector
Joining us for the annual feast
Having breakfast with Tiffany
Dancing on the African queen
Spartacus oh Spartacus with
Tom hanks brilliant mile green
John Wayne died at the Alamo
The film an all round total flop
Eddie Murphy made millions
as Beverly Hills finest cop.
Little shop of horrors
blues brothers darken pair of shades
My personal view is
Toy story was the best film ever made

I am a poem etched onto pulped-up trees,
Or did wandering taps on keyboard keys release me?
Or had it been rushed, late night confessions
That tore my shackles off and torched inhibitions?

Regardless, I’ll hold you. Down hallways or in bed,
I’ll shield your burnt soul from the fire in your head,
And if you’re out of breath—beaten, bruised, tossed aside—
You can find reprieve in between my lines.

I am the poem you press against your chest,
And to your scrawled thoughts and poured dreams I attest.

The Woods in January


I have a photo that has no colour, of
a forest and a black, wet road rolled out
as waiting for a presidential visit, that
will never come, trees have no vote.

This is not an old forest, the trees, are
winter dark with snow on, those near
the road, look like dangling youngsters
grumpy by enforced idleness;  

but there is a hidden passion, snow has
thawed around the trunks, intense root
touching, and sometimes unwelcome
groping is going on.

It isn’t easy to be a tree if one is placed
amongst siblings, and its roots can’t
touch a loved one, across the road, for  
the future must be bleak indeed    

Yet, trees can take comfort in its versatility
It can be pulped and made into voting
slips or made into paper on which poems
are written.  And you call that solace?