Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Words
"pulverised" poems
*i've become as lazy as composers when writing titles, example of tautology is as lazy as beethoven's ninth symphony... yeah, grand... but what a dull title!* so i was reading this article about bim adewunmi about the singer laura mvula... and you know how it goes... leftist liberals tend to write tautological spaghetti, likened to bim's example: 'short-haired, dark-skinned black girl', bim, we get it... could have said rancid cinnamon for all i care... tautology is a logic of adding more salt than the salt required so it doesn't taste too salty when it does... i could also proof-read other journalists... restaurant critics are the best laughs, esp. when reshuffled like a ****** cabinet of the labour party to the opinion columns... then it's not called opinions section but table talk... a bit like saying: do i woo the sea back into this oyster before i gulp-down-the-hatch-it? well what do you expect, free democracy and subsequently free journalism has a judas kiss / brutus stab at everything, why not laugh at it as a useless get up in the morning read a newspaper be pulverised by stories from kingdoms far far away and opinions of people who'd send ******** dubbed soldiers off to the slaughter fields of Flanders so they can keep erectile egos ready for a salary readied... journalists always divert the heat & fire to the politicians... while journalists get away with satirising themselves, and i dare say, they are the clumsiest satirists of themselves, the most wonky ready to dismantle itself noumenons in existence. - journalist: huh? - the public - (elvis') aha uh um (frolicking without the stiff upper lip).
0
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
example of tautology
*i've become as lazy as composers when writing titles, example of tautology is as lazy as beethoven's ninth symphony... yeah, grand... but what a dull title!* so i was reading this article about bim adewunmi about the singer laura mvula... and you know how it goes... leftist liberals tend to write tautological spaghetti, likened to bim's example: 'short-haired, dark-skinned black girl', bim, we get it... could have said rancid cinnamon for all i care... tautology is a logic of adding more salt than the salt required so it doesn't taste too salty when it does... i could also proof-read other journalists... restaurant critics are the best laughs, esp. when reshuffled like a ****** cabinet of the labour party to the opinion columns... then it's not called opinions section but table talk... a bit like saying: do i woo the sea back into this oyster before i gulp-down-the-hatch-it? well what do you expect, free democracy and subsequently free journalism has a judas kiss / brutus stab at everything, why not laugh at it as a useless get up in the morning read a newspaper be pulverised by stories from kingdoms far far away and opinions of people who'd send ******** dubbed soldiers off to the slaughter fields of Flanders so they can keep erectile egos ready for a salary readied... journalists always divert the heat & fire to the politicians... while journalists get away with satirising themselves, and i dare say, they are the clumsiest satirists of themselves, the most wonky ready to dismantle itself noumenons in existence. - journalist: huh? - the public - (elvis') aha uh um (frolicking without the stiff upper lip).
Continue reading...
51
I grieve for you in the cold quiet of winter My absent child, my long lost son Warming my hands over dying flames, frost covered smouldering clinker, By the wood where icy streams run Through the shrunken sedge, and barren fields Stretching for miles, empty of meaning. The landscape like a worn photograph yields Your tremulous smile, then nothing. Here, you ran with startled steps Through the yielding sheaves, yelling with surprise, Chasing indifferent spiders, and discomfited birds With hatred in their pebble pool-dark eyes. Querying awkwardly spoken words, small Tenacious fingers that caress and clutch Every passing object, loudly chuckling, wisely playing me for a fool A silly father who loved too much. On the anniversary of your leaving I required solitude Partnered only by memory Away from familiar crowds, the booming, barking fusillade Of the present day commonplace urban itinerary, Where only the crackle of snow And the fleeting trajectory of birds Distracts my slow Marshalling of comforting thoughts. The cottage where we lived haunts the shallow glade, A shrouded ghost swaddled by the half-light, Positioned squarely like an old man, its cladding beginning to fade, White branches like dead-fingers that gleam in the night. In the closet are your dust-sprinkled toys, a yellow plastic duck, A cheap skateboard, ancient video games, A guitar you never learnt to pluck A chess board on which you pulverised my endgames. In the preserved furnishings of your bedroom Your school work gathered into stacks Barely visible in the gloom, Our life together in disorganised packs Denoting year and level Development and academic achievement, If any, (but I mustn’t once again cavil) Indicating, even in your earliest years, a specific bent. Standing on the mantelpiece, propped up against the wall, Are brightly coloured, polished pictures Of you. Plump, blonde, agreeably small Dancing, standing, jumping, grinning, absurdly wistful mixtures. A bitter echo resonating from the shadows A cold thought darkening into memory The spectre of your voice disappearing in the meadows Having left all of us! Having left me!
0
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
stanley-wilkin
LOST
I grieve for you in the cold quiet of winter My absent child, my long lost son Warming my hands over dying flames, frost covered smouldering clinker, By the wood where icy streams run Through the shrunken sedge, and barren fields Stretching for miles, empty of meaning. The landscape like a worn photograph yields Your tremulous smile, then nothing. Here, you ran with startled steps Through the yielding sheaves, yelling with surprise, Chasing indifferent spiders, and discomfited birds With hatred in their pebble pool-dark eyes. Querying awkwardly spoken words, small Tenacious fingers that caress and clutch Every passing object, loudly chuckling, wisely playing me for a fool A silly father who loved too much. On the anniversary of your leaving I required solitude Partnered only by memory Away from familiar crowds, the booming, barking fusillade Of the present day commonplace urban itinerary, Where only the crackle of snow And the fleeting trajectory of birds Distracts my slow Marshalling of comforting thoughts. The cottage where we lived haunts the shallow glade, A shrouded ghost swaddled by the half-light, Positioned squarely like an old man, its cladding beginning to fade, White branches like dead-fingers that gleam in the night. In the closet are your dust-sprinkled toys, a yellow plastic duck, A cheap skateboard, ancient video games, A guitar you never learnt to pluck A chess board on which you pulverised my endgames. In the preserved furnishings of your bedroom Your school work gathered into stacks Barely visible in the gloom, Our life together in disorganised packs Denoting year and level Development and academic achievement, If any, (but I mustn’t once again cavil) Indicating, even in your earliest years, a specific bent. Standing on the mantelpiece, propped up against the wall, Are brightly coloured, polished pictures Of you. Plump, blonde, agreeably small Dancing, standing, jumping, grinning, absurdly wistful mixtures. A bitter echo resonating from the shadows A cold thought darkening into memory The spectre of your voice disappearing in the meadows Having left all of us! Having left me!
Continue reading...
48
*oh, and advertisement, καπριτσιολογια's natural ******* offspring works well with the perfectly pitched representation of the dynamism on the scales of cross-parallel social strata (i.e. "psychology" / social standardising en masse): a new york grid system: square square square, rectangle, square square square: shoeshine popsicle goldfish pig's trough.* i found the investments of psychology all too unfathomably capricious, where the ratio of theory to full-extent concrete proofs is a solution: in that when one theory fails another two emerge, and so on and so forth, in that great existential ****** of dream interpretation, the golden cockerel of freud glees with anticipation to sprout a gigantic volcano gush of microscopic life to enter the great **** eye that cannot peer into itself and consider both being and nothingness, as the great ego eye of man does from the fully formed foetus nimble footed and thumbs on the ready in the grand coliseum of life - just a great fishing net where once the mighty fisherman st. peter caught fish, now herr anti-sanctus freud catches foetuses of frogs - the womb the water of these paradoxical amphibian representations; psychology, the study of dreams, the extinction of soul - apparently even asthma is unaccounted for, the way in which thinking becomes what thinking always was: a malignant capricious medium pulverised by five vectors, and the sixth a form of two selves: the selfless and the selfish... dragged down to the molecular degeneracy of explanation using genes, but not protons neutrons or electrons - that's reserved for the sun, the planets and the cosmos. indeed, if psychology is the study of breathing and not the study of thinking: imagine what a hot snarling and wet breath raising a voice in anger does to a cosy psychologist sitting in his office, surrounded by ******* figurines and african voodoo masks... sends him running... the inverse form of asthma, asthma with words, the angry asthma, of uninhibited thinking, pure vocalisation of emotion... no, i think less and less of psychology... i think i'll just call it καπριτσιολογια: the study of caprices, the study of whims - e.g. a guy walks into a McDonald's, orders a big mac in the following way: - yes, but no lettuce, no mayo, no cheese, no   onions... just the bun the meat and ketchup.
0
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 7:34 AM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
καπριτσιολογια (kapritsiologia)
*oh, and advertisement, καπριτσιολογια's natural ******* offspring works well with the perfectly pitched representation of the dynamism on the scales of cross-parallel social strata (i.e. "psychology" / social standardising en masse): a new york grid system: square square square, rectangle, square square square: shoeshine popsicle goldfish pig's trough.* i found the investments of psychology all too unfathomably capricious, where the ratio of theory to full-extent concrete proofs is a solution: in that when one theory fails another two emerge, and so on and so forth, in that great existential ****** of dream interpretation, the golden cockerel of freud glees with anticipation to sprout a gigantic volcano gush of microscopic life to enter the great **** eye that cannot peer into itself and consider both being and nothingness, as the great ego eye of man does from the fully formed foetus nimble footed and thumbs on the ready in the grand coliseum of life - just a great fishing net where once the mighty fisherman st. peter caught fish, now herr anti-sanctus freud catches foetuses of frogs - the womb the water of these paradoxical amphibian representations; psychology, the study of dreams, the extinction of soul - apparently even asthma is unaccounted for, the way in which thinking becomes what thinking always was: a malignant capricious medium pulverised by five vectors, and the sixth a form of two selves: the selfless and the selfish... dragged down to the molecular degeneracy of explanation using genes, but not protons neutrons or electrons - that's reserved for the sun, the planets and the cosmos. indeed, if psychology is the study of breathing and not the study of thinking: imagine what a hot snarling and wet breath raising a voice in anger does to a cosy psychologist sitting in his office, surrounded by ******* figurines and african voodoo masks... sends him running... the inverse form of asthma, asthma with words, the angry asthma, of uninhibited thinking, pure vocalisation of emotion... no, i think less and less of psychology... i think i'll just call it καπριτσιολογια: the study of caprices, the study of whims - e.g. a guy walks into a McDonald's, orders a big mac in the following way: - yes, but no lettuce, no mayo, no cheese, no   onions... just the bun the meat and ketchup.
Continue reading...
47
How they flutter through the air, those feet; like a butterfly’s wings; though it is said in Science an action so small as the flick of butterfly wings may cause a catastrophic disaster half-way round the world, were the newscaster to announce today that an earthquake has pulverised Tokyo, or that another tsunami is invading the Indonesian coast, or that, so long now quiescent, Mount St. Helen’s is spouting down once more on Washington, for their beauty, I could not wish the quelling of their flight; could order no net cast over them, not those feet like a butterfly’s wings.
0
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 3:34 AM UTC
ghazal
ballet girl
How they flutter through the air, those feet; like a butterfly’s wings; though it is said in Science an action so small as the flick of butterfly wings may cause a catastrophic disaster half-way round the world, were the newscaster to announce today that an earthquake has pulverised Tokyo, or that another tsunami is invading the Indonesian coast, or that, so long now quiescent, Mount St. Helen’s is spouting down once more on Washington, for their beauty, I could not wish the quelling of their flight; could order no net cast over them, not those feet like a butterfly’s wings.
Continue reading...
25
My depression is a transgression against me, and mine. I never asked to be contaminated with this strife. My depression is a possession of evil, of illness. I never thought I would be rife with highs and lows. My depression is a progression of good and bad thoughts. I never wanted to be violated with cries and lies. My depression is a weapon against all who suffer its woes. I hope the afterlife takes this repression and nullifies it's effects. My depression is mine but suffered by many. We are pulverised, neutralised and modified by our own minds and medicated to keep sated. My depression is Legion a wickedness to the self. A circle unending, unbending, curving toward suppression of oneself.
0
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 9:50 AM UTC
Camellia-japonica
Transgression
My depression is a transgression against me, and mine. I never asked to be contaminated with this strife. My depression is a possession of evil, of illness. I never thought I would be rife with highs and lows. My depression is a progression of good and bad thoughts. I never wanted to be violated with cries and lies. My depression is a weapon against all who suffer its woes. I hope the afterlife takes this repression and nullifies it's effects. My depression is mine but suffered by many. We are pulverised, neutralised and modified by our own minds and medicated to keep sated. My depression is Legion a wickedness to the self. A circle unending, unbending, curving toward suppression of oneself.
Continue reading...
24
Under the dim setting of, A forbidden dwelling of pleasure, He sat and stared hard at her, Brushing off other exotic dancers. Her amber skin shined, Her golden curls waltzed, While she tantalised, The men with gold-filled vaults. He sought her attention, In pain and rage, Desired to seize his possession, And to get her out of their cage. Sensing his fiery gaze, She turned towards him, Leaving behind her forced play, To end his unceasing whim. “I am in misery, let me go, I am not worth you, let me go, You deserve better, let me go” Her words hit him with a strong blow. He shuddered, broken into pieces, His world collapsed in front of him, Dominant hues of blackness, Sadistically smothered him. Unable to see him pulverised, She leaned in closer, To savour his lips one last time, And secure closure. He delved deep into her mouth, Demanded every inch of her soul, But the timeless fire spoke out loud, T’is the last kiss their destiny doled.
0
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 1:02 AM UTC
Srishti_Mundhra
The Last Kiss
Under the dim setting of, A forbidden dwelling of pleasure, He sat and stared hard at her, Brushing off other exotic dancers. Her amber skin shined, Her golden curls waltzed, While she tantalised, The men with gold-filled vaults. He sought her attention, In pain and rage, Desired to seize his possession, And to get her out of their cage. Sensing his fiery gaze, She turned towards him, Leaving behind her forced play, To end his unceasing whim. “I am in misery, let me go, I am not worth you, let me go, You deserve better, let me go” Her words hit him with a strong blow. He shuddered, broken into pieces, His world collapsed in front of him, Dominant hues of blackness, Sadistically smothered him. Unable to see him pulverised, She leaned in closer, To savour his lips one last time, And secure closure. He delved deep into her mouth, Demanded every inch of her soul, But the timeless fire spoke out loud, T’is the last kiss their destiny doled.
Continue reading...
32
i’m such a terrible artist, i hardly use my imagination, i figured: we’re already pulverised by too much advertisement and copyrighting words as if they were images. i’m such a terrible artist because of this, i write from experience, and because my experiences would be taken for mundane by the millionth sheep in the snooze i write disorderly purposively, and in the night, i roam the house admiring the moon changing everything into werewolf diet krypton (i.e. Ag), talking to god by talking to my hand, warming my fear of shadows laughing at my own with kant, boxing my liver then thinking about my bladder. those socks worn for two days straight really gave my bedroom a proper scenting i wish i was without.
0
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
mozart's laugh in da house
i’m such a terrible artist, i hardly use my imagination, i figured: we’re already pulverised by too much advertisement and copyrighting words as if they were images. i’m such a terrible artist because of this, i write from experience, and because my experiences would be taken for mundane by the millionth sheep in the snooze i write disorderly purposively, and in the night, i roam the house admiring the moon changing everything into werewolf diet krypton (i.e. Ag), talking to god by talking to my hand, warming my fear of shadows laughing at my own with kant, boxing my liver then thinking about my bladder. those socks worn for two days straight really gave my bedroom a proper scenting i wish i was without.
Continue reading...
18
found in Styron's darkness visible... he survived auschwitz... but said adieu to life: by throwing himself down a flight of stairs. millennial, generation y, huh?!     also called the: bearable heaviness of non-being...    say: survivors of auschwitz, and apart from Kundera, i'm fudged into this stealth-culprit      hangover...    and when i speak the native tongue i use double emphasis... everything suddenly becomes italic...     gówno... or **** teutonic: gavron, ja, ich habbe schtabbe ga ga, magpie on               a licky-sticky schtaisse: vroom bog-tie boom boom...    everntually language is just that:    magnifique sounds, mein herr,     be that a cello i hear?                       nada... mindlessly i too   feigned a farting brigadier, farting into        a brass horn: worth a gingerbread / pumpernickle        marching rhythm. yes, double emphasis in the native... kosz (koš)... bin...     trza błagać... błagać!         o śmierć... beg for death...              but hetman cossak said smerc... and it sounded altogether better.    a household argument,    after prawn-pasta was cooked throughout an afternoon of general bewilderment:         a heap of pebbles makes more sense than the Orion constelation...               given the mathematical approach to the situation, and subsequent mapping...    because they really did drop a bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki...                 and that's why 21st creativity is trapped in a hamster's routine...     karaoke is standard...                          this insissting plagiaristic zeitgeist! so i said: you really think you conquered yapan?            jesus, je suis, zeus, yesus, jamaican                               jah jah *** buck...       rasta root mon, rasta root.     battered and bruised...                someohow this whole dating scene passed me by...                      and what happened to me aged 21... is strangely becoming the norm                        of giving the circumstance:   i can't remember being of any age, particular.   the quicker argument would coincide with:     give me a machinegun, and march me into a Latvian forest...                    because, right now, it's a scenario of being coerced into donning a leash    or more like a leech,                          and an afternoon spent pulverised by a pneumatic tsunami                      of adverts... calling it a job done, with a siberian brew: cow juice in                        tea...                      liquid werther's original.
0
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 7:32 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
liquid werther's original
found in Styron's darkness visible... he survived auschwitz... but said adieu to life: by throwing himself down a flight of stairs. millennial, generation y, huh?!     also called the: bearable heaviness of non-being...    say: survivors of auschwitz, and apart from Kundera, i'm fudged into this stealth-culprit      hangover...    and when i speak the native tongue i use double emphasis... everything suddenly becomes italic...     gówno... or **** teutonic: gavron, ja, ich habbe schtabbe ga ga, magpie on               a licky-sticky schtaisse: vroom bog-tie boom boom...    everntually language is just that:    magnifique sounds, mein herr,     be that a cello i hear?                       nada... mindlessly i too   feigned a farting brigadier, farting into        a brass horn: worth a gingerbread / pumpernickle        marching rhythm. yes, double emphasis in the native... kosz (koš)... bin...     trza błagać... błagać!         o śmierć... beg for death...              but hetman cossak said smerc... and it sounded altogether better.    a household argument,    after prawn-pasta was cooked throughout an afternoon of general bewilderment:         a heap of pebbles makes more sense than the Orion constelation...               given the mathematical approach to the situation, and subsequent mapping...    because they really did drop a bomb on Hiroshima and Nagasaki...                 and that's why 21st creativity is trapped in a hamster's routine...     karaoke is standard...                          this insissting plagiaristic zeitgeist! so i said: you really think you conquered yapan?            jesus, je suis, zeus, yesus, jamaican                               jah jah *** buck...       rasta root mon, rasta root.     battered and bruised...                someohow this whole dating scene passed me by...                      and what happened to me aged 21... is strangely becoming the norm                        of giving the circumstance:   i can't remember being of any age, particular.   the quicker argument would coincide with:     give me a machinegun, and march me into a Latvian forest...                    because, right now, it's a scenario of being coerced into donning a leash    or more like a leech,                          and an afternoon spent pulverised by a pneumatic tsunami                      of adverts... calling it a job done, with a siberian brew: cow juice in                        tea...                      liquid werther's original.
Continue reading...
64
Insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results, right? So what should I call it if I do this one more time and get the different answers? Someone forgot to factor in the unpredictability rate of females. But I didn't. I recognize how you do, what you do, so please don't underestimate the things done to or by any of us. We are the angels of heaven, the gods of rome, the royals of England. Shall I go on? It seems needless if you get the points I'm making. SO to start off, how are you today? Sure, I see you everyday, but that's the point. I wanna give you your deserved space, so when I stay at my table as you walk passed, don't think I'm ignoring you, I'm just trying to give you the space you are due, for I want to preserve this romance like strawberries in the winter.We are what you seek, but I believe you seek more. WHat is it? Please, be straight with me, my heart cannot bare another user nor another usery. DO you see what I see when we lock eyes in class? Do you understand the concept of MY love? For my love, regardless of long or short, is different in comparison. I know I've spit this before, I know you're tired of the same words to describe a different game. This isn't me anymore, it's us. This isn't courtship anymore, it's love. Actual love, I've never felt it before, never had it's taste on my tongue nor it's thought in my head. But you've put it there. The chance for a real relationship!!! Am I really ready? Are you? then get ready, get set, let's go!!!!!!! The race is on, now I realize what the true effect you have on me is. Now I can tell you how much I love you and how much I care for you, even if it's just a telepathic wish, you will feel the presence of it in  your forethought. You make me want to overdose on love music, chillin on the bed in complete darkness, just marinating on the words and anylising there meanings, yes you, my heart and soul, sold to me by an unlikely vender, your soul. So we traded, bartered actually. your heart for mine, a likely trade. But what are the expected drawbacks? No, I'm no skeptic, but I am real, so what are the real intentions of so magnificent a spirit? I will be yours, for you are mine, but don't hurt me, please. I stay on my knees in prayer of an unbroken heart, yet so often it is. Alas, you are the one, so will my heart be safe? So often I asked that, so often it was answered with the same words, same attitude, yet at first chance they pulverised me as if I were a stone on a stone crusher, so all I ask is for you not to do that to me, my love. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, it's all on me. Why try to fool me again? My heart's already withering...
0
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 9:10 PM UTC
Poeticjustice
IDK
Insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results, right? So what should I call it if I do this one more time and get the different answers? Someone forgot to factor in the unpredictability rate of females. But I didn't. I recognize how you do, what you do, so please don't underestimate the things done to or by any of us. We are the angels of heaven, the gods of rome, the royals of England. Shall I go on? It seems needless if you get the points I'm making. SO to start off, how are you today? Sure, I see you everyday, but that's the point. I wanna give you your deserved space, so when I stay at my table as you walk passed, don't think I'm ignoring you, I'm just trying to give you the space you are due, for I want to preserve this romance like strawberries in the winter.We are what you seek, but I believe you seek more. WHat is it? Please, be straight with me, my heart cannot bare another user nor another usery. DO you see what I see when we lock eyes in class? Do you understand the concept of MY love? For my love, regardless of long or short, is different in comparison. I know I've spit this before, I know you're tired of the same words to describe a different game. This isn't me anymore, it's us. This isn't courtship anymore, it's love. Actual love, I've never felt it before, never had it's taste on my tongue nor it's thought in my head. But you've put it there. The chance for a real relationship!!! Am I really ready? Are you? then get ready, get set, let's go!!!!!!! The race is on, now I realize what the true effect you have on me is. Now I can tell you how much I love you and how much I care for you, even if it's just a telepathic wish, you will feel the presence of it in  your forethought. You make me want to overdose on love music, chillin on the bed in complete darkness, just marinating on the words and anylising there meanings, yes you, my heart and soul, sold to me by an unlikely vender, your soul. So we traded, bartered actually. your heart for mine, a likely trade. But what are the expected drawbacks? No, I'm no skeptic, but I am real, so what are the real intentions of so magnificent a spirit? I will be yours, for you are mine, but don't hurt me, please. I stay on my knees in prayer of an unbroken heart, yet so often it is. Alas, you are the one, so will my heart be safe? So often I asked that, so often it was answered with the same words, same attitude, yet at first chance they pulverised me as if I were a stone on a stone crusher, so all I ask is for you not to do that to me, my love. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, it's all on me. Why try to fool me again? My heart's already withering...
Continue reading...
13
as was assured, leave our medium of communication to images, for images are more provocative and easily translated, well sure... given that phonetics has become so ugly you are reduced to :) (smiley) and ;) (smiling with a wink of assurance), and the acronyms by the number: CUL8R (see  you later)... no wonder then... defiling a mode of communication so dear makes me wonder... when will the era of abstraction end, to end the splashes of colour without definite contorts of a visage cease to be? take a dollop of **** and smear it on canvas ought to be revolutionary, by now, i'm sure... because it's just that; it's like we're illiterate again, first the clergy governed the literacy rates and made people idiotic, maximising on the electorate with Pope Erasmus, now they're pulverising us with images to sit, calm and comfortable with a pair of underwear filled with ants... pulverised by images we reduced phonetic representation of writing letters to no avail, instead shortening our acumen to representation of being pulverised by images: like c and see... sea... set sail...but there's no land ahoy!
0
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
a little bit of censorship goes a long way
as was assured, leave our medium of communication to images, for images are more provocative and easily translated, well sure... given that phonetics has become so ugly you are reduced to :) (smiley) and ;) (smiling with a wink of assurance), and the acronyms by the number: CUL8R (see  you later)... no wonder then... defiling a mode of communication so dear makes me wonder... when will the era of abstraction end, to end the splashes of colour without definite contorts of a visage cease to be? take a dollop of **** and smear it on canvas ought to be revolutionary, by now, i'm sure... because it's just that; it's like we're illiterate again, first the clergy governed the literacy rates and made people idiotic, maximising on the electorate with Pope Erasmus, now they're pulverising us with images to sit, calm and comfortable with a pair of underwear filled with ants... pulverised by images we reduced phonetic representation of writing letters to no avail, instead shortening our acumen to representation of being pulverised by images: like c and see... sea... set sail...but there's no land ahoy!
Continue reading...
29
I've never felt so alone before A room full of friends but strangers Breathe in it'll all be fine The breath burns like a menthol hitting my chest That little glimpse of hope that just kinda gets pulverised by reality
0
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
Lb1808
Elephant in the room
I've never felt so alone before A room full of friends but strangers Breathe in it'll all be fine The breath burns like a menthol hitting my chest That little glimpse of hope that just kinda gets pulverised by reality
Continue reading...
5
*yes, i understand the politics, or so i thought, that biology will never spawn a humanism, that darwinism will only spawn generic attempts via disregarding existentialism sweats.* when was the thought ever conceived, that dialectics needed a mediator? why would a mediator be needed when the only mediator is a park bench in athens, and two people speaking? i get the foul animals' existence, i get the whole wild heart, and shrinking eyesight, i get that animals are given pristine materialism, being incubated by overt-sensual impregnation, i get that they're impregnated by pure sensuality (over-use of adjectives is like quantifying things, as many qualities to the legions of ants as attributes of the sun, ending with deity and beginning with geometry), animals are plagued by sensuality, they are overly given the pentagon, while man is given the hexagon / star of david, animals are overly sensing, man is overly thinking, when the only phobia of wilderness animal is huger... man's is spider, enclosure, open-spaces... animal is pulverised by the senses and things it roams among... man is pulverised by thought and nothing, roaming ingenuity by the Libra dimming sight with hearing for classical composition, dimming hearing with sight for pablo picassos.. the wild animal in fright of hunger... and man abounding in it to reflect clocked chicken press of the laid eggs clucks a sudden diversion rather than adding to a diversity... change the poetic gimmick of rhyme... don't end with synonymous spelling, intertwine rhyming elsewhere, lie: 'a sudden diversion' and 'adding to diversity' as engaging to lines without an a# a# end of both to reveal a missing echo, after all echoing is like rhyming, but pitiful rhyming, because it's written down and never plotted to decipher plato's shadows and candle in the cave entered... defeated first-step defeated to claim the colour of defeat, the page that dangled in the odds of waving like a signature digitalised... all in all... animals are overly sensual, and man is overly abstract... hence man mediates symbols and thinking... while animals mediate onomatopoeias sounding a bit like touch on wood, and the parameters of allowed petting: we blink thrice and think we spotted a thing only once, when in fact thrice.
0
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
Darwin the Historian
*yes, i understand the politics, or so i thought, that biology will never spawn a humanism, that darwinism will only spawn generic attempts via disregarding existentialism sweats.* when was the thought ever conceived, that dialectics needed a mediator? why would a mediator be needed when the only mediator is a park bench in athens, and two people speaking? i get the foul animals' existence, i get the whole wild heart, and shrinking eyesight, i get that animals are given pristine materialism, being incubated by overt-sensual impregnation, i get that they're impregnated by pure sensuality (over-use of adjectives is like quantifying things, as many qualities to the legions of ants as attributes of the sun, ending with deity and beginning with geometry), animals are plagued by sensuality, they are overly given the pentagon, while man is given the hexagon / star of david, animals are overly sensing, man is overly thinking, when the only phobia of wilderness animal is huger... man's is spider, enclosure, open-spaces... animal is pulverised by the senses and things it roams among... man is pulverised by thought and nothing, roaming ingenuity by the Libra dimming sight with hearing for classical composition, dimming hearing with sight for pablo picassos.. the wild animal in fright of hunger... and man abounding in it to reflect clocked chicken press of the laid eggs clucks a sudden diversion rather than adding to a diversity... change the poetic gimmick of rhyme... don't end with synonymous spelling, intertwine rhyming elsewhere, lie: 'a sudden diversion' and 'adding to diversity' as engaging to lines without an a# a# end of both to reveal a missing echo, after all echoing is like rhyming, but pitiful rhyming, because it's written down and never plotted to decipher plato's shadows and candle in the cave entered... defeated first-step defeated to claim the colour of defeat, the page that dangled in the odds of waving like a signature digitalised... all in all... animals are overly sensual, and man is overly abstract... hence man mediates symbols and thinking... while animals mediate onomatopoeias sounding a bit like touch on wood, and the parameters of allowed petting: we blink thrice and think we spotted a thing only once, when in fact thrice.
Continue reading...
53
oh man, abba is like prog rock made simple; and there's so much cheese too... i could start a factory producing edible shoe laces - but then the hot flush butterfly of puffed up cheeks of smiling... and what, today's hit single will not get the same treatment? we don't remember cavemen and dinosaurs these days, we're stuck remembering the 20th century, as the fashion industry makes a testament of on a catwalk of designing a wardrobe no one would wear... art-house tedium with skeletons in an open closet... they mind the logos, so people say Versace! Dolce & Gabbana! they really look out for those signature stilettos and handbags... the poor ***** just get the logo printed on their shirts so people can learn reading once more, gimme gimme sweden's weather at midnight so i can chase those Nike blues away... the new signature of the illiterate, once the X, now the tick; tick tick tick... clocking into a system of being educated to decipher a - z like a cabdriver, then pulverised by images to buy spend buy and become dyslexic when oiled up ***** **** became a slogan of trademark & copyright of a certain style of writing C in cocks-in-cockle-doodle; cola.
0
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 3:08 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
abba and prog rock
oh man, abba is like prog rock made simple; and there's so much cheese too... i could start a factory producing edible shoe laces - but then the hot flush butterfly of puffed up cheeks of smiling... and what, today's hit single will not get the same treatment? we don't remember cavemen and dinosaurs these days, we're stuck remembering the 20th century, as the fashion industry makes a testament of on a catwalk of designing a wardrobe no one would wear... art-house tedium with skeletons in an open closet... they mind the logos, so people say Versace! Dolce & Gabbana! they really look out for those signature stilettos and handbags... the poor ***** just get the logo printed on their shirts so people can learn reading once more, gimme gimme sweden's weather at midnight so i can chase those Nike blues away... the new signature of the illiterate, once the X, now the tick; tick tick tick... clocking into a system of being educated to decipher a - z like a cabdriver, then pulverised by images to buy spend buy and become dyslexic when oiled up ***** **** became a slogan of trademark & copyright of a certain style of writing C in cocks-in-cockle-doodle; cola.
Continue reading...
37
A silent trap ensnared my life, my head felt pulverised, a stolen voice and lifeless limbs, left me perplexed and paralysed. I sat in frightened endless wait confused and petrified. I could not shout nor dial for help I simply lay and cried. I woke, still broke, to a familiar call, with sense and rhyme inverted. No indicators flashed this change, life's path strangely diverted. But this was not a yellow wood, For I never had a choice. If I had, I'd have called their names, rather than mouth in silent voice. They looked at me confused and shocked, a mother disconnected. No thoughts, could escape this shell with mind still unaffected. Shuttled there in flashing blue hospitalised intervention, with medicated urgency, testing a failing comprehension. But I'd lain long in darkened time, and missed that magic hour, the minutes gone forever, tick-tocked in rescinded valor. My symmetry from right to left, had left muscle withered fading. I felt their gentle massaged touch too late for caressed salvation. I've seen their hurt at losing me or that part of me that mattered. My life has been frozen still, but theirs has sadly shattered I lie here, long night and drawn out day, moving, unfortunately assisted, my internal struggle to communicate leaves doubts I once existed. The years this stroke has stolen and drip-dried a mother's tear, has wounded deeply, this mortal coil, filled my tomorrows with shades of fear. A silent trap ensnared my life, no one could interfere, but when you visit, please talk to me, lest you forget, I'm still in here.
0
Jul 1, 2014
Jul 1, 2014 at 3:59 AM UTC
ciaran-cunningham
I'm Still In Here.
A silent trap ensnared my life, my head felt pulverised, a stolen voice and lifeless limbs, left me perplexed and paralysed. I sat in frightened endless wait confused and petrified. I could not shout nor dial for help I simply lay and cried. I woke, still broke, to a familiar call, with sense and rhyme inverted. No indicators flashed this change, life's path strangely diverted. But this was not a yellow wood, For I never had a choice. If I had, I'd have called their names, rather than mouth in silent voice. They looked at me confused and shocked, a mother disconnected. No thoughts, could escape this shell with mind still unaffected. Shuttled there in flashing blue hospitalised intervention, with medicated urgency, testing a failing comprehension. But I'd lain long in darkened time, and missed that magic hour, the minutes gone forever, tick-tocked in rescinded valor. My symmetry from right to left, had left muscle withered fading. I felt their gentle massaged touch too late for caressed salvation. I've seen their hurt at losing me or that part of me that mattered. My life has been frozen still, but theirs has sadly shattered I lie here, long night and drawn out day, moving, unfortunately assisted, my internal struggle to communicate leaves doubts I once existed. The years this stroke has stolen and drip-dried a mother's tear, has wounded deeply, this mortal coil, filled my tomorrows with shades of fear. A silent trap ensnared my life, no one could interfere, but when you visit, please talk to me, lest you forget, I'm still in here.
Continue reading...
50
oh, no the weight she bear is not that of the entire world but that of her own everyone carries the weight of their world on their shoulders well most we can share our weight with others but both have to wish for it or the weight of one's burden may crush the other if one can see the weight of another beginning to crush them they will not worsen their burden by dumping their own on top her surroundings are so fragile everyone around her could be pulverised by just one more pound so she keeps it to herself shuts her mouth puts her sorrows deep inside inside the safe under lock and key so that no one ever has to bear her weight
0
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC
thoughts-with-anna
Weight, part II
oh, no the weight she bear is not that of the entire world but that of her own everyone carries the weight of their world on their shoulders well most we can share our weight with others but both have to wish for it or the weight of one's burden may crush the other if one can see the weight of another beginning to crush them they will not worsen their burden by dumping their own on top her surroundings are so fragile everyone around her could be pulverised by just one more pound so she keeps it to herself shuts her mouth puts her sorrows deep inside inside the safe under lock and key so that no one ever has to bear her weight
Continue reading...
19
. i love being (the) third party iniciative... i romance the... romance of: i do not remember... it's almost like... life... limited to having to stage, being, pulverised... became limbo-staged for my peruse of; necrophylia-esque. the american accent... sim not *** michael... and i start "thinking" of...        ha ha!        twinky! because i came to boor you with an alligned circumstance of 'floyd....   what?   pwetty pick'ah piq- toor? oh... right... i too hate being reintstated by someone not being boxed for a haemorrhage's worth... oh... did i forget to tongue slip the part of licking the postage stamp? i did? oh...    well... to recompase... 'ere's my shadow... happy 'oo 'p' eeeeee! oh but i want, michael...    like... exotica...    ***** name... marph... thew!     i too was a golden 'aired boy waiting for a ******* hamster! no? not good the wait? good... i like a screaming quasi suffocating ***** like any ukranian ought to want... i suspect that... the people... who tease... become the most ridicule ridden middle-people of a worth of an escapade for the worth of adventure: they will never have... you are... my most... anticipated... feeble. ...       and i... squint eyed, and... oh so many variants.... and... prior to a ****** a psychology...           to ingest a replica feast of intelligence for...       ich...    schattenkind... ich:      wollen zu töten... it's when there's a narrative readily available... that...    things... become... "apparent"... i have forgotten being a res cogitans... like the observation of Kant.. i am a res per se... with a hiccup of an undertaking of Berlioz...                ich    bin die         dieselbe                      blondkind                                         ja... ich heben die ketzere'                      zu töten wie...                               w'rden                    z' 'eben... i almost wish... what if Michael was not Matthew? dead-end... buying vinyl.
0
Feb 6, 2019
Feb 6, 2019 at 10:09 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
the american accent
. i love being (the) third party iniciative... i romance the... romance of: i do not remember... it's almost like... life... limited to having to stage, being, pulverised... became limbo-staged for my peruse of; necrophylia-esque. the american accent... sim not *** michael... and i start "thinking" of...        ha ha!        twinky! because i came to boor you with an alligned circumstance of 'floyd....   what?   pwetty pick'ah piq- toor? oh... right... i too hate being reintstated by someone not being boxed for a haemorrhage's worth... oh... did i forget to tongue slip the part of licking the postage stamp? i did? oh...    well... to recompase... 'ere's my shadow... happy 'oo 'p' eeeeee! oh but i want, michael...    like... exotica...    ***** name... marph... thew!     i too was a golden 'aired boy waiting for a ******* hamster! no? not good the wait? good... i like a screaming quasi suffocating ***** like any ukranian ought to want... i suspect that... the people... who tease... become the most ridicule ridden middle-people of a worth of an escapade for the worth of adventure: they will never have... you are... my most... anticipated... feeble. ...       and i... squint eyed, and... oh so many variants.... and... prior to a ****** a psychology...           to ingest a replica feast of intelligence for...       ich...    schattenkind... ich:      wollen zu töten... it's when there's a narrative readily available... that...    things... become... "apparent"... i have forgotten being a res cogitans... like the observation of Kant.. i am a res per se... with a hiccup of an undertaking of Berlioz...                ich    bin die         dieselbe                      blondkind                                         ja... ich heben die ketzere'                      zu töten wie...                               w'rden                    z' 'eben... i almost wish... what if Michael was not Matthew? dead-end... buying vinyl.
Continue reading...
111
lips embered sizzling awaitance where are you when i seek to soothe ache ? skin splintered time speaks to me incredulous i quiver do you want to watch ? this lustrous mist this autumnal whisper i transpose it on my body. tighs a thundering wind gust, back arched to catch the rain. it hurts when im not my own, it hurts when no-one can hold this pulverised alienation. trade me some patience. you would, wouldn't you ? this world does not exist beyond our conscious perception lay your head down onto this wishbone heart, onto this carbonised solar plexus. don't you crave this silence? don't you?
0
Jan 15, 2023
Jan 15, 2023 at 6:42 PM UTC
stranger_poetry
a slave to my own desire
lips embered sizzling awaitance where are you when i seek to soothe ache ? skin splintered time speaks to me incredulous i quiver do you want to watch ? this lustrous mist this autumnal whisper i transpose it on my body. tighs a thundering wind gust, back arched to catch the rain. it hurts when im not my own, it hurts when no-one can hold this pulverised alienation. trade me some patience. you would, wouldn't you ? this world does not exist beyond our conscious perception lay your head down onto this wishbone heart, onto this carbonised solar plexus. don't you crave this silence? don't you?
Continue reading...
24