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Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
abecedarian Jan 2015
Masters of the Universe,
tender me thy resignation,
if but for
a day,
a millennia,
no matter how measured,
any being,
you, purported supreme
or otherwise,
are tired in ways
hard to comprehend

tender me
thy responsibilities and dilemmas,
have studied your resignations,
solutions that provide no resolution...


I can do better.

Why?

not obligated by parenthood,
rules of randomness superimposed,
all I got is human kindness
the eyesight that
colors kindness,
tolerates no injustice,
milky white light,
no longer recognize

"there for the grace of God
go you and I"

have no name,
but if you need one for me,
call me
<human>
there's a guy
sequestered
someplace in a
secret location

his job is to keep
****** alive

since the purported
death of mein Fuhrer
this has become the
most important job
in the world

with ****** alive
and well, we know
what evil looks like
and it sports a
funny mustache

compared to ******’s
lip growth even
old Beelzebub’s
goatee looks
kinda cute

with ****** alive
nations churn out
industrial strength
collateral damage
on the scale of a
Fortune 500
sausage maker
wholly blessed
with the
moral impunity
of profiting on
the war on
terror

assembly lines
manufacturing
the stewed vats
of pink slime
soylent green
lays a wide grin on
Henry Ford’s face
watching happy
Chinese proles
grind through
the day’s
bleating stocks
grateful to have
a wage paying job

we are
the righteous
dudes,

hanging ten on
Malibu pipes
water boarding
the terrorists

pouring waves of
umbrellaed  
Coolattas down
the desert thirsty
gullets of
dead enders

and they don’t
even have
the decency
lay a tip on
their earnest
servers

freakin
barbarians

we are the
empowered
heavies
licensed to
dispatch
immediate
fast food
have it your way
justice,
with
drone strikes
on reprobate
Americans who
spent their last
bill of rights on
a Happy Meal
of Freedom Fries
leaving the
executioner
begging for nickel
change so he
can pick up
a dime bag
of the best
Afghan horse
after laying a
bullet between
old Osama’s
cross crooked
eyes

when civilized men
begin to wonder
if the modus operandi
of intelligence
gathering could be
construed as torture,
we point northward
to scurrying Koreans
sneaking briefcase
nukes over the the
southern border
cleverly disguised
as Chicano grape
pickers heading
for Napa.

in national
tantrums of
undulating
shock and awe
we launch
cruise missiles
to deliver the
news of a well
considered
Bush Doctrine
self conferring the
sweet liberty
to detonate
bunker busters
in noble strikes
of preemptive
interventionism

we hate war
so much
we initiate
warfare before
a war breaks out

we reserve
first strike
blitzkrieg
prerogatives
as an exalted
strength to
alleviate the pain
of enduring
the weakness of
protracted peace

we are firm in the
belief that the blasted
dust from our bombs
form the cornerstones
of future democracies

to serve the greater
global good, America
has dispatched a
humanitarian team of
Navy Seals to East
Africa to get Kony

we’re rooting out this
bad guy whose
trying to implement
his twisted version
of a Santorumish
10 Commandment
based paradise

Kony is living proof that
Islamo Fascists don’t
hold a monopoly on
terror and though
Kony’s got some
powerful supernatural juju
Seals got motion sensors
that can spot a
cantankerous poltergeist
through the darkest jungle
canopies

it also will minimize
the risk of friendly fire
casualties

they’ll have to be careful
not to wander into
the disputed oil fields
of southern Sudan
and they’ll need to
be mindful of Chinese
engineers building
pipelines and refineries

But thank goodness
that guy has kept
the touchstone of evil
alive and well.

we’ll always
recognize it
when we see it
and get hot
on the trail of
******’s latest
incarnations
when they
show their
ungodly face

civilized people
demand justice

and we will not rest until
Kony’s head is displayed
atop a spike on YouTube
buzzing with the hum
of ecstatic flies joining
the chorus of happy
tribesmen singing
kumbaya with
stirring gratitude
from the aboriginal
comfort of their
mud and
grass huts

****** lives
Osama is dead
Lets get Kony

Music selection:

Smash Mouth,
Walking on the Sun

Oakland
May Day
5/1/12
jbm
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2014
my love brought
me tranquility.
my love bought
me tranquility,
in a Manhattan bodega.

late at night in my city,
everything is for sale
where least expected
in mini marts, local delis,
greek coffee shops, spanish bodegas
pizza parlors, hardware stores,
all selling
salves for late night salvation

purveyors of
differential equations of
differing soulful sustenances,
certain imports that will probably never be
for sale in Walmart after midnight

all, readily available,
twenty four seven
in my miracle Manhattan heaven

My woman,
mapper of the byways
of my ****** landmarks
worn broad~ways,
his-toric foot trails of tears,
lines of laughters,
even a
purported dimple
I call a crevasse.

a sole survivor of
a mother's birthing skill marker,
duly recorded by her upon my visage,
in my miracle Manhattan

She knows, as do
some of youse guys,
that my poetry is
water born(e) and water soluble,
but Peconic Bay always
ain't right handy,
so bring on a
substitute teacher,
a hot bath,
helps me to enunciate
my verbal visitations

my love brought
me tranquility.
my  love bought
me tranquility
in a Manhattan bodega.

pour the aromatherapy,
my love brought me
for inspiration into and upon
my liquid writing table,
"Tranquility,"
a summer garden aroma

It soothes
my bad memories,
the herbs salve
accursed ancient wounds
that will never
ever fully heal
or be forgiven

my love brought
me tranquility.

my graces restored,
this poem offered in
grateful appreciation
with unlimited adoration,
something,
maybe even the
very one thing
**that can't be bought,
even,
in my miracle Manhattan
Oct. 16th, 2011
topaz oreilly Oct 2012
My house Wren shuddered
as the feast of St Stephen
passed by,
when I  dreamt  I sought Diana Rigg.
How I love Greek sounding names
But Ancient slaves
were never Di Vinci,
sometimes leaden smiles
lacks vocation
but will ring fence the loneliness.
sobroquet Apr 2013
So you think you are a master of techniques of persuasion?
You shallow pips-squeak, mediocrity is your mastery
the obsequious hoi polloi that surround you are the pitiable averageness of conciliation
Sophistry and subterfuge are your game of compromised facts
syllogistic  arithmetic conceptualizing  doesn't make anything so
your addition is flawed by your bungled bombast of banality and guile
fortunately for you, your crowd will never study logic
fortunately for you semi-literacy is  de rigueur

You pompous swollen grandiose mass of hyperbolic gas
Fear is what you offer, lies are what you sell
your rhetorical flourish is as the stench of a waste  dump
fetid, corpulent, fallow and febrile
toxic
half-truths, innuendos, ambiguities, conjecture and asinine aspersions comprise your specious fare,
fostering rumours,  manipulating facts, you are the purported Biblical brood of vipers so extensively reviled against
Your relevancy is attributable to the dull stupidity so profusely prevalent today
Your "success" is the stuff of taint and treachery
You'll probably choke to death on a stuck piece of poorly masticated  flesh
so appropriate  and  befitting the demise of a professional liar
Black Swan Oct 2010
Do not bother me with your absurd theories;
Reason, logic, and evidence have no place
In the heart of the true and righteous believer.
Faith in holy texts should be your guide,
Your faith should be blind, unadulterated, and quintessential, or
Risk a dreadful and eternal damnation.

If Einstein knew so much
Why do they call his premise the “Theory of Relativity”?
If Darwin was so sharp, why is it the most
He could up with was the “Theory of Evolution”?
The answer is simple, they really had no clue,
They simply did some scientific research and, in the end,
They came up with nothing more than theories.
And, what about all those archeologists
Claiming the earth is billions of years old, or
Cosmologists with their “Big Bang Theory.”
Everything is nothing more than
Theories, theories, theories.

Turn your back on these absurdities;
Trust, instead, the ancient, sacred texts
That offer immutable, unquestionable truths.
How ludicrous the idea that
The world is more than 10,000 years old,
(Carbon dating of fossil rocks is just mambo-jumbo)
The universe and all creation
Were made in six days,
God, tiring after all that work,
(Wouldn't you after working 24/6?)
Rested on the seventh day.
It's there in black and white,
For everyone to see.
(Assuming you've read the right version)
Men were created from a clod of clay,
(Or mud, but you get the point)
Women from the rib of man
(Which is why they should be subservient to men).

What nonsense from biologist and paleontologist
That claim we evolved from micro-organisms and apes,
This notion is total sacrilege, a blasphemy.
Life is too complicated, too complex to just evolve,
Intelligent Design is the only answer,
All the talk to the contrary is nonsensical hyperbole.  
God made everything happen.
Read the holy texts, the truth is as obvious,
As plain as the tip of your nose.
Everyone knows that all the anthropological data,
All the purported archeological digs,
With reports of dinosaurs and missing links,  
Are fabricated to fit nerd scientists' preconceived notions of
What they would like everyone to believe.

When in doubt, refer to the holy texts,
You will see all the unsubstantiated, ludicrous claims
For what they really are:
Trash, trash, and more trash.
Do not bother me with your facts, or
Your scientific data or findings;
In the end, everything boils down to more idiotic theories.
Have unquestioning, blinding, and total faith,
Read the holy texts and they will set you free.
So, the next time someone questions your beliefs,
Claiming there is no merit or facts to support them,
Remind them that to question the word of God
Will send them, along with their theories,
Straight to hell.

Amen!
Black Swan © 2010
Maybe
it's just the first time doing *******
in order to expand my horizons; gain perspective
in great company and knowing full well
the moreish nature, as it has been purported,
of such a vice;

but, you know what they say:
"When in Rome..."

but lest ye forget;

"Do or do not, there is no try"

all the while
still maintaining moderation,
partially by habit and partially by force,
for there is said to be
no such thing as quality
in that regard
from whence I come.
and thus, as if by providence,
"When in Rome.."

So,
'twixt that personally groundbreaking experience
plus lots of Caffeine and Alcohol
in some haphazard alchemical combination
helped Reno to be a good-*** time
on Halloween
after playing a sweet-*** Rock Bar
with some sweet-*** bands.

And, to boot,
having not slept,
this morning was a rude non-awakening,
as well as an ominous first day of November,
what with the LAX shooting;
our roadie and I watched it as it unfolded
with repetitive loops of footage
and dodgy claims with more qualifiers
than actual substantial language;
but the Media is just doing it's job as usual;
play on sensationalism
especially for ratings;
okay if profitable.

Needless to ******* say,
it's been a crazy ******* day.
Needless to ******* say,
it may be a crazy ******* month.
We stayed the night in Reno
so we could party like a proper ******* rock band.
allen currant Oct 2014
damp roads at night pushing and pulsing light
whip soiled water onto pack and *** from back bicycle wheels rotating furiously out of purgatory out of bleary eyes of incandescence and towards the same eyes lit by patriotism or in another sense incarceration
wheels spinning straight and directionless
sore legs denying illusion of purpose purported by a between eyebrows headache only achieved through a blindfolded walk down memory lane keys jingling from a carabiner and a misplaced confidence self corrected before it was too late to realize that reality is difficult to handle with all 5 senses and a distinction between right and wrong and being left handed but not leftist because the only thing worse that being dumb is being spineless invertebrate vampires killing sheep in the prairie and funding proxy wars while fighting for who?
wheels spinning round and round keep insisting on idealism
Originally from the Ancient Greek word 'empatheia', derived from "en" & "pathos" ["in" & "suffering or passion"]. Here we find the root of empathy's definition. Empathy is in emotion, feelings evoked from the animal in our psyche, the purported soul. It is sensation born of mirror neurons, not necessary under our control.

The Empathion is the empathetic dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind through which emotions are created and thence expressed.
Empathos is the corporeal manifestation of said dimension, expressed through the medium of a body.

Alexithymos [without-words-for-emotion] is an unaccepted dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind comprised of irreconcilable notions, it is proportionate to our own limitations rather than lacking in "actual compatibility". If a noumenon cannot be processed by The Empathion then it is relegated to Alexithymia wherein we cannot accept the inability to understand/emotionally analyse it at present, given the current pretext.

Alexithymia was constructed from a-lexis & thumos  [without-speech & soul, seat of emotion, feeling and thought]. It is a failure to integrate mirror-neurons into our own gestalt of consciousness, possibly because one does not yet possess the schema required for integration.

The Entheon is the actual dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind which is as according to reality (if/when aligned correctly).
The Apotheon is the elevated dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind which judges objects and thereby separates them from reality.

The Empatheon is the emotio-judgemental intersection of the psyche, The part of the mind where emotion can be comprehended, reflected and resonated (rather than merely sourced, determined and asserted). As a faculty The Empathion is intersected by both The Entheon and The Apotheon. Things-in-themselves may move through The Empatheon but their movements correspond to a generative dimension which cannot be known by the human psyché.
Illuminated ones move through these dimensions silently.
JDH Jun 2017
Some introductory food for thought...

"Manufacturing and commercial monopolies owe their origin not to a tendency imminent in a capitalist economy but to governmental interventionist policy directed against free trade and laissez faire."
  - Ludwig Von Mises

"Bureaucracies are inherently antidemocratic. Bureaucrats derive their power from their position in the structure, not from their relations with the people they are supposed to serve. The people are not masters of the bureaucracy, but its clients."
  - Alan Keyes


The European Union as the New Eastern Bloc?
The Eastern Trading Bloc of the Soviet system had it's origins in the tail end of the Second World war, where, through the suppression of the whereabouts of Kremlin manipulation, had purported itself as democratic agreement, initially giving itself the appearance of a 'bourgeois democracy' as the Soviets called it. Though, inherently was, and clearly became an imperial establishment of control from the Soviet Bureaucracy. Likewise, the European Union, when originally advertised to the nations of Europe was propped up in a similarly unassuming manner, despite having been previously discussed and having the concepts of such a union already organised further back into 1948 at the Hague Conference. The parallels of such such unions (Eastern/Euro) are that they garnered the consent of the public through their foundation being merely upon an economic transnational policy, and not a political one, and therefor their basic parallels are that of deceit.

The Eastern Bloc formed what was essentially a symbiosis of the state and the economy, something that naturally would be inherent under a Communist regime. However, the European Union, too, follows a similar reciprocal foundation, for it binds the state and economy, removing the separation of powers by Capitalistic enterprise, and instead, Centralises governance in a more oligarchical, corporate and bureaucratic apparatus. Operating through a complex arrangement of multitudinous committees and boards, whose members form a body of non-elected representatives. Essentially the European Union, on the guise of an economic market, has formed a centralised, quasi-private parliament akin to the Soviet style hegemony of the Eastern Bloc, and through soft-intimidation and misinformation, keeps it's members bonded. Lest it be forgotten that the Union is allegedly one of 'free trade', yet, when discourse begins to brew of leaving, as it did in Britain, why are we met with threats of economic disability and ostracization? That shows more the signs of a protection racket; of bureaucratic gangsterism, than it does of a voluntary cooperation of national markets.


The unification of Germany and the amalgamation of the European continent?
In a more predictive sense, the European Union shares similarities in it's unifying policies, as it it does to the unification of the German states circa 1871. Spearheaded during the Bismarckian era of the late nineteenth century, Germany, well within a period of two decades transformed from a collection of trading states, to a fully amalgamated nation under Prussian dominated rule, but by what means did this occur, and in what ways does the unification of Germany share similarities to modern Europe?

Of course, the chief processes of German unification lied in the economy, the political structure and culture, the political structure I have already covered. The establishment of a newly amalgamated economy among the German States was created through the breaking down of trade barriers between the previously independent states, one of which ways in doing so was the introduction of the single German currency (the Mark) along with a centralised banking system that allowed for both monetary control by the state and the removal of currency exchange between regions. Likewise the European Union brought with it the introduction of a common European currency (the Euro) and too, a European Central Bank. The new Germany also extended its unification to the creation of a common German culture that evoked a sense of nationalism, for instance, the establishment of a new national anthem and German military, to be paraded with pride. Too, the standardisation of the school system to create a state of coherent socialisation among the German generations. What we see with the European Union is also the creation of a common European national anthem and a cooperative European military (though a centralised European military is still developing) and through policies such as the Bolonga Process, the education system of Europe as a whole has been standardised to the specific image of the European Union, even a single European emergency number (112) is under proposition.

It is said that history repeats itself, and perhaps what we are living through today is the amalgamation of the European states as transpired nearly 150 years ago within central Europe. And that the non-representative, self appointing parliament of the European Union, resembles almost a kind of bureaucratic Kaiserreich; a kind of Prussian hegemony of the modern day.


- a short essay by JDH
Reece Jan 2014
In nature, as in civilised homes, there is evidence of conformity
      That only significant study would make apparent,
      but his studies were suspicious and neighbours would talk

The nose is bleeding and his pretty song is skipping
on the jukebox by the bathroom door
Anhedonia now is constant, the pathos inherent
As their mother went missing years ago
While they read Proust by the window,
and the day was drawing closed
Their father was sick with Absinthe shakes
whilst little duck starved in the pond behind the house

On disagreeable days,
profound introspection
becomes not more than
subversive ******-babble
and the words he speaks
are dust on the tongue
a bother and little more

Purported to be perpetually depressed, his cool demeanor left an impression
on his sister, as she would gaze upwards at his face, displaying world-weariness
So Weltschmerz they called him and his cool was palpable
but only her smile could bring colour to his fa-
*Writer grew disillusioned with this particular piece and decided to commit a literary suicide
Sammi Yamashiro Aug 2020
What do my memories taste like? There lies on my tongue—
An atomic bomb:
a purported speck, with no chicken pox skin situated upon such.
I spat it out; I wobbled on and on, stomping the microscopic intensity into the sludge.
No one sees; how pleasant…

My shoe’s underside slit it— a paper cut broiled to the infinitude degree—
Preposterous conundrum! Slam!
I fulminate! I screech, the needy baby I am!
My guttural heave strews in the wind:
deformed limbs on the newer generations, an abysmal thread.

Supposedly bland, but then: a guzzling bleed from you and I gushes on and on; but oh, was it needed!
Listen to my writhing! Soak in my curdling roaring!

I am the mafia mastermind, but I plead to guilt!
The vandalism cannot be grated, but I will
revamp, spot clean, and hunt for a vaccine.
I cannot cure a scored scar, but rest assured:
I will endeavor to solidify the clot.
Meg B Jun 2014
There's something so
delicious
about getting caught
in a summer storm,
the chilled water droplets
penetrating the outer layers
of clothing,
soaking the overheated body
with unexpected
refreshment.

I heard all the squeals
and screams,
cries toward the sky
to close its open mouth,
to stop spitting down
on them
as they ran,
ducking cars,
looking for a rooftop
makeshift
umbrella.

I chortled
not so discreetly,
extending my arms
side to side
to catch the droplets
on my bare skin.

The rain felt so ****
as it slid down
my forehead,
slipping
slowly
across my lips,
sneaking down below,
into the crew cut
of my shirt.

Two blocks away from home,
most of the runners had run by,
the rest huddling below
the entrance to various shops
and bars,
I walked by, paying the stares no mind,
sporting a purported
half-crazed look,
while I truly exuded
exuberance,
ebullience,
liveliness.

The pouring
turned to
pittering, pattering,
gentle kisses from the
beads,
letting up just as I
approached my door,
like the universe knew,
and it let me
dance home
in the rain
before the sky shut its
wide-toothed grin,
and the storm was gone.
Anais Vionet Jul 30
My Grandmère and I have long, gossipy conversations,
where we fall into our own chatty, slumber party rhythms.

She’s met or knows everyone important, and people tell her things.

They DM her or whisper secrets of lives ordered but loveless,
of careers choked by excesses and indiscretions.

She gets stealthy, leaked business reports of purported fortunes gambled and lost or of innocence wasted in bittersweet embrace - delicious, tangled narratives that expose the gaps between facades and realities that can’t be purchased.

Sometimes we pop popcorn on our private ends of the Atlantic,
watch Netflix, share secrets and laugh conspiratorially.
.
.
Songs for this:
Us by Regina Spektor
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge: Purport: A claim that may not be true.

Grandmère = Grandmother, in French.
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2015
21 hours ago
received the message below,
from a fellow poet, here,
now somewhat, more disappeared,
resting in the shady quietude of
Elliot's servers

a mere 21 hours ago,
a thunderbolt telegram
of virtual dots and dashes,
well received

she,
whose name
you have forgotten,
even if you knew it back when
and,
I shan't knowingly now reveal...

perhaps if you were
one of the
multiyear variates,  
still here, still seeking
solutions
to the
equations of the
human formulation,
one of the veterans of the
early word wars,
when the line between fellow poet
and human being was full of
invitational openings,
tween those dots and dashes,
we all eagerly entered those places,
crossing over into
those human openings,
making poets into friends,
yes,
if you webbed here back then,
you may have known her too...


21 hours ago -

"there's a reason
I got to know you,
even though that might
sound silly.
In a way,
you saved me
two summers ago..."
~~~~~~

this message,
teaches me to remember
the power of words
supercharged,
be careful what you
write,
you just might save a
soul...

didn't not ken, well enough
the pressurized curve of her bend,
though read all her private journals,
her thesis academic,
her private ascetic analysis
and poems that milked & masked
the angst of a life
really real hard

today
reread,
tried anyway,
two years of messages

could not feign
the pain
unintentionally recovered
while looking for
clues to myself,
this purported savior


all I recall is
a woman near her ends
woman near no means
but knowing the meaning of
the power drink meaning of
"just going on"
that was dug deep in between,
and how we traded poems
for each other,
and I called her,

daughter

but from now on and within,
when I see a message
time stamped
21 hours ago
I'll be
better ready
for the
explosions of myself
21 hours ago
"However long I don't talk - for whatever stupid reason I never have the courage to talk to others when I am lost in my life-- I still think of you and I hope you know that. I still think there's a reason I got to know you, even though that might sound silly. In a way you saved me two summers ago..."
Dana Sep 2012
when i was younger
and thought myself clever
i mused that the owl,
in all her purported wisdom,
was asking the wrong question.

if one is to stay up all night ruminating,
shouldn’t her mantra be a bemused and heartfelt “why?”


now i am older.
and the questions leave me wanting.

except for maybe “who?”

(and perhaps “what?”
because there is something to be said
for caramel mochas
and shades of apple green
and endearing little love poems.)


but these days it’s mostly “who?”
Mahima Gupta Jan 2014
12:39 a.m
At first I was trying
To make it rhyme
With no reason
Pushing them together
Those words
Those meanings
Drifting apart
One by one
I made everything
Sound spurious
Pretentious
Fabricated.

12:41 a.m
Two minutes later
I realized
There's no complication
It's me
Who's the stonewall
Preventing those
Words
From making sense
Creating a rumpus
An unnecessary altercation
Casting cement for my own bridges.
It was illegitimate.

2:41 a.m
Two hours later
I understood the power of words
I proposed an adamantine will
Purported to it  
Maybe
But things were now clear
I wasn't lying to myself
I sounded reasonably correct
In my mind
Unconsciously pondering
Consciously oblivious.

1st January,2017
Now, it has been years
It was me who acted like a can of worms  
All these years
Now it goes with the flow
It's difficult to tread the boards
Now my words
Are prepotent
Adequate
I stopped rhyming
Now the arrow hit the spot.
Vanessa Nichols Nov 2012
When the memories of your half bloomed love
Shake me from the ribcage out,
I comfort myself with the thought
That there was never really an us at all.
(It must have just been my own narcissism-
What a greedy ***** I was, asking you to love me)
But when this conclusion is less than palatable
And fails to satisfy my heart-hungry belly –
As it always does, it always fails-
I leave the soft haven of my own bed sheets
And venture out onto cold concrete and asphalt.
….

There I become small and carnivorous
Like some half starved rodent or gorging reptile.
I salivate at the scent of even common affection.
….

My heart,
Ravenous and infinitesimal,
Will find another to take your place.
And these others- this golems of a men, these interlopers in our warped affections-
Are easily devoured through hands and mouth and ****.
….

The walls of the hollow space where an ‘us’ was purported to dwell
Churn and roil uncomfortably with pangs.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2016
no more morning glory

the cells want to refuse,
purported pseudo-deniers
of the man's compulsion

not yet six am,
the old house,
the summering congregation of birds,
correspond with each other,
their words unintelligible to the man-ear,
no doubt talking about the interlopers,
the come-and-go humans,
or perhaps,
just the lousy weather

the sunroom's lace curtains,
a patterned flower filtering viewer,
another impediment to what is out of sight,
for the fog surrounds but can't suppress,
the exterior & interior
combo of noises,
birds uttering their morning prayers,
accompanied by the sabbath choir of chorusing
groans from the untrodden, creaky floorboards,
complaining of aged back pains
from forty years
of desert wandering
and over use

they confirm the man is not alone,
and perhaps, even,
among the living

the bay's water's color,
a small hint now comes visible,
colored from the same paint can
as the surround-sound from which the
fog's discoloration was morning-drawn,
wider brush strokes cover this,
the man's small world

the brains complains, not again!

how many times will you compose,
drawing from the molecules of
this view,
no one cares,
but composition compulsion,
****** for what makes
the man breathe,
denies the deniers,
praying in the loudest thought voices,
to the principle that best defines
the moment,
(him?)

human, give thanks,
on this, the seventh day,
for the feast of life provided,
(even the reasoning atheists go respectful, humble silent)
as the man-poet acknowledges here the

One,

who remembers,

is faithful to,

fulfills the covenant and promise,

by making fresh daily,

the works of creation




Silver Beach,
Shelter Island
5:30am,
June 4th, 2016
Nat Lipstadt May 2014
For most, a cruise speed,
with an occasional disruption,
tap on the brake
then reset the cruise control with a
finger flick, all it deserves

and on and on

then there are the points of inflection,
when the trend direction resets,
you know it too, it's not a
"when did this happen to me"
sadly, most oft, not of our choosing

then there are the oft, silent, self-reflection moments,
when you think cruising, it's ok,
but rumbling around, mirror bound,
you see in the fear view, I mean,
rear view, the direction is
the one you just came from,
and you purported poet,
chooser of each word you write
so carefully,
thinks only,
*****

and on and on

not quite right,
but what ya gonna do?
give up?

Whatever,
the new maybe,
Whatever,
the new who gives a ****

here I am
falling over the double-edged
borderline,
another alone morn in a hotel bed in
not-my-city,
slipping over both sides,
unattractive new direction tracks piping up,
boy,
"bond and band with me,
me, me, take me"

every day every word mine
I question,
you see the cruising on the surface waters,
underneath the propeller, churning,
what is it all worth,
when crap and rap and rant
rule the day, and you rue the day,
you thought you were a poet
amidst the undiscerning,
you the solitary sock,
washed (out) but useless

it could be an inflection day
or just another internal investigation way,
report issued and recommendations ignored,
and it's back to the side views mirrors applauding
a ten round bout ending in a no decision

just when you are found out,
by yourself and his friends,
Me, myself, I and buddy depression,
that its time to shed the proposition
that you can write to pleasure the world,
be a cut above, something special

more than

and on and on

and this pesky little message
comes and changes everything
someone tells you in a sentence
a saving grace that you added quality
to their lives and you gather the crew in
the corner of the ring,
for a huddle, and say let's go for it all
on this our last round,
cause if we don't,
we've lost anyway

You read, disbelieve, but here you are
writing again and the chest is gladden,
the words, like they used too,
arriving fedex,
and you put aside the naggers,
asking who cares,
for the eyes see this,
Re one of your very own
poem~children:

"I think of this poem so often, some days I find myself
reciting it at work"


and the sprinklers in the
yellow stucco ceiling of room 1531,
sudden spilling rain tears,
and tho showers not in the forecast,
here you are again,
scrivening, writing, scribing,
giving hope another say,
giving hope its due, it's day

maybe you are an uptown boy now,
from downtown,
but today it's ok,
being in midtown,
direction,
but more important,
the choice,
in the making,
still unknown

cause in the mid,
that means that today,
you will

*go on and on
I am a hairs breadth away from quitting and...this pesky appears as if someone knew what's in my head
though strictly Fermi, and oh...(en Rico) plus sun
dre other parvenues, a rapture
     surges thru me,
     when audibly communicating, enunciating,
     and speaking English words

as if hi ken run
a marathon, or zip to the moon,
     (take as cheesy tong in cheek)
     from this pun
gent, who relishes reading for my eyes and ears
     asper myself, which purported nun

sense ink reese sees learn'n
     den earn an award,
especially wash'n black board
den breathing intelligent dust
     from eraser head could awk cord,

I utter Hieronymus Bosch, bing enamored,
and aye actually confess
     tubby a model United Nations chimp
pan zee, and/or other
     type of survey monkey hook can huff ford

Old Rotten Gotham horde
sliding down into the behavioral sink...
     exclaiming "oh me jack lord"
and getting rescued then getting less on,

     sans get'n taut how (muss elf George Eliot)
     tubby comb moored
     flossed, milled, and taut
     tubby trained for Operation Ready Date

     by a coop pull oof oot standing chap,
     named Adam West, who poured
salty epithets (reminding me, as they roared
that life iz brutal, short and nasty),

     part tickly ne'r the end
     wharf hew scored
and majority got de toured
until emotionally, physically,
     and spiritually enlightened
     By Rabindranath Tagore and Burt Ward.
watching purported heads of state
stage their pr shows on their national television
     aired internationally
for very obvious purposes

makes you wonder
whether these so-called politicians
really believe they speak to total idiots
or have just lost the ground under their feet

in the end, though,
*** do I worry

the results are the same
Julian Jan 2016
The ineffaceable stain
Allegorical refrain
Dictates the wily antidotes for a newfound sane
They hector from a distance
Muted but militant resistance
magical hobgoblins the lifeblood of their persistence
Heterodoxy enters the stage
Cognizant of ignominy, a potent repressed rage
Succor sought, corporate media bought
A pyrrhic limelight is certainly not what was sought
I defer to dignified exemplars
I confer with callous company at vapid bars
Concluding thereby the inverse proportionality of authenticity to success
The articulations of divinity imply rigidity
sweltering soul burgeoning with light sweating an evanescent humidity
If blind before, partial and total sight reconstitute the core
omnipresent paparazzi deplores
Past pities insuperable even with pithy witty
Future pieties irrelevant to ineradicable ignominy and purported dignity
Cupid and cupidity must be related
because gold-diggers alerted to my fair share would be elated
Begrudged at every tick, tantalized by a slow torture lurid flit
I cast my ambitions into the fathomless depths
I amass provisions for a restive hibernation, enduring schlep
Redemptive powers yet articulated
Should ease the prospects of being matriculated
But is cloistered suffering an inexcusable plight
When the deep coffers derelict a modest gesture of making grievous inequities once again right?
Must I swim to distant shores
Past the barnacles beneath and the urchins on submerged sand, very sore
Landmines at the beach, pantomimes and their garbled preach
Past scattershot invective fortified by intransigent misers of conscience, the balmy resort out of reach.
Bleak bleats, meek feats, good eats
I think it is about time for a tyrannical psychology to let me off the incapacitating leash, letting me focus on actions rather than on incomprehensible speech
Tom McCone Feb 2013
Humanity, the island
I swum round, circles made eventual stone,
'til I'd learnt that I'd learnt nothing,
-know nothing-;
for all the purported wisdom,
accumulated with such great care,
I was none wiser than
the first breath I had taken,
adorned with the sterility of hospital pine- or lemon-scented antiseptic.

I know the world, now,
I know the hair on disappearing creature's skin,
I know the strands of broken bamboo,
I know the endless breaking, upon the shorelines,
I know the words of lovers,
dead and alive,
the words of enemies,
and of those impassive.

I've known the grand vastness of the empty above,
the crawling complexity of the unceasing below,
the burnt haze of day,
the dead silences of night,
the spaces between lips,
the lonesome tied in white sheets,
the rending denial of mind,
the sardonic acceptance of heart,
the weight of life,
the light of whatever comes after.

Yet, still,
I know nothing.
Joseph S Pete Sep 2017
Indianapolis bleats and blares and protests too much
that the Hoosier state is an idyllic business paradise
with low taxes, low costs, low unemployment, low everything.

Indiana’s the Walmart of… wait, don’t fret about those woefully low wages,
the Indiana Chamber of Commerce reassures struggling, undernourished souls.
The low cost of living means that scant pittance isn’t really as bad as it seems.

Yet, all the blather and palaver and ideological would-you-rather
somehow fails to stem the ongoing, bleeding, gushing
exodus of the college educated out of state to scattered scintillating cities.

Propaganda engines like the Indiana Economic Development Corporation
trumpet all these purported jobs at some factory or warehouse or call center,
yet years later, a TV reporter stands in an empty field that never got developed.
judy smith Mar 2017
Veteran fashion show casting director James Scully has taken to Instagram to call out the fashion industry, specifically the Parisian contingent, for its treatment of models.

Taking on the role of whistle-blower, Scully named and shamed slew of brands contributing to the mistreatment of models during the casting process.

“So true to my promise at #bofvoices that I would be a voice for any models, agents or all who see things wrong with this business I'm disappointed to come to Paris and hear that the usual suspects are up to the same tricks,” Scully wrote on the social media app, before going into a story of the poor treatment of models waiting to be cast in the upcoming Balenciaga show in Paris.

“I was very disturbed to hear from a number of girls this morning that yesterday at the Balenciaga casting Madia & Ramy (serial abusers) held a casting in which they made over 150 girls wait in a stairwell told them they would have to stay over three hours to be seen and not to leave. In their usual fashion they shut the door went to lunch and turned off the lights, to the stairs leaving every girl with only the lights of their phones to see,” Scully revealed.

The casting director, who has worked with the likes of Stella McCartney, Derek Lam, Nina Ricci, Jason Wu, Carolina Herrera and for Gucci during the Tom Ford era, is a well-established and respected member of the fashion community and a long-time advocate for diversity in the modelling community.

“Not only was this sadistic and cruel it was dangerous and left more than a few of the girls I spoke with traumatised. Most of the girls have asked to have their options for Balenciaga cancelled as well as Hermes and Elie Saab who they also cast for because they refuse to be treated like animals,” Scully continued, adding that, “Balenciaga [is] part of Kering it is a public company and these houses need to know what the people they hire are doing on their behalf before a well-deserved lawsuit comes their way.”

Scully then went to touch upon the diversity and age issues the industry is also facing, noting that houses were turning away women of colour and attempting to use underage models.

“On top of that I have heard from several agents, some of whom are black, that they have received mandate from Lanvin that they do not want to be presented with women of colour. And another big house is trying to sneak 15 year-olds into Paris! It's inconceivable to me that people have no regard for human decency or the lives and feelings of these girls, especially when too, too many of these models are under the age of 18 and clearly not equipped to be here but god forbid well sacrifice anything or anyone for an exclusive right?”

Scully’s post has racked up over seven thousand likes and comments from models who found themselves entangled in the Balenciaga stairwell.

“I was one of this 150 girls waiting in this stairwell, Hopefully, I'm 27 now, and it's not my real job, but if I would have been younger and more into this, I would have been so destroyed by this kind of people or treatment. Personally, I decided to leave the casting, just before it was my turn. Just after I saw the casting director screaming at us to go out — outside, in the dark — and told us that we are like groupies in a concert, and how incredible and unbearable it was,” commented Instagram user Judith Schiltz, who purported to be in the stairwell.

Models Joan Smalls, Doutzen Kroes and Candice Swanepoel have also commented on the post.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
jeffrey robin Nov 2014
O
/\
/\

_

They have found what is purported to be the

first Poem

ever written

(about 5000 years old )

//

There are 2 possible translations

The first one is

I LOVE YOU !

the second one is

**** ME !

I ' M YOUR ***** !

////////

A very acrimonious Argument has ensued
amongst the linguist/archeologists around these 2 possible translations

and many say there are deep political attitudes at play

///  
///

She said

I LOVED YOU AND YOU CHEATED ON ME

AND BROKE MY HEART !!

I looked at her in astonishment and finally said

BUT

I DON'T EVEN        KNOW YOU !!!

////

THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH !

she cried aloud

///

OH !

I said

NOW                            

I UNDERSTAND

ALL THEM CHEESY " LOVE POEMS "

ON HELLO POETRY !!

:/:

It's just that sometimes I get

Disrespectful of disrespectfulness

///

As far as the poem is concerned

I was fortunate enough to see the original

And can state that BOTH translations were wrong !

Because I a true expert on these things could tell right off

that it was written by

BERYL DOV

and in his own eclectic ,elliptic manner he was saying

RAY ' S PIZZA ! - THE GREATEST





Eventually

Science can explain everything

Albeit

Most times incorrectly
betterdays Mar 2014
what was nothing

becomes reality

it happens momentarily

a thought creates an action

which sets the heart alight.

then reason takes flight

on wings of  purported glory

we skim the stratosphere

oblivious to gravity

we soar in graceless ecstasy


until .....        until....       until..................
betterdays Apr 2014
what was nothing

becomes reality

it happens momentarily

a thought creates an action

which sets the heart alight.

then reason takes flight

on wings of  purported glory

we skim the stratosphere

oblivious to gravity

we soar in graceless ecstasy


until ..... until....
(minor correction in the shape of a overlooked
letter "t" after the partial non word "ves.)"

while atop the surface of planet Earth humanity
     all abustle skittering
     to and fro, hither and yon
engaged in self important activity yielding profits,

     sans blood, sweat and tears won
full throttle industrial
     manufacturers quaking unstoppably
     only intermittently pausing,

     where managers standing arms akimbo
     asper quizzical looking hue cree ton
megaphone blaring orders to underlings
     so "Boss" tweed can line pockets
     for his/her daughter and/or son
Head Honcho most aggrieved,
     when red ink doth run

undermining the bottom line,
     thus farming out labor to distant places
     (where wages amount to pennies on the dollar)
     locals such as Lake Woebegone, Qum, Timbuktu,
     et cetera where pun
gnashing working conditions tantamount
     to slave labor,

     yet scare other options open
hence able bodied men,
     women and children scramble,
     despite back breaking grueling physically
     exhausting grunt job accepting second to none

with nary any rest for weary
     long as workweek includes a mon
day, where bloodied bare hands claw
     purported Mother lode with feigned frenzied zest
enterprise bolstered via executive bank ministers
     financing lucrative scheme

     attended to by majordomo
     attired in expensive vest
corporate investment project elicits
     quaffing, imbibing, and chugging elixir

     produced from heavily guarded recipe
     qua electric kool aid acid test
where coeval business men/women rest
assured bonanza forecast upon

     former green acres hiding treasured quest
marginally concerned such nettlesome
     pillaging, ravaging, torturing ranks
     wealth driven vanity as deleterious pest

shortsighted exploitation money making embarkation
     glorified as investment nsync to feather nest
retirement funds despite leaving the environment messed
up, whereby future generations saddled with

     poorly bandaging gentrifying, resuscitating
     gaping wounds upon Gaia at best
shortening quality of life
     for all (poetry) Earthlings aye attest.
Wk kortas Apr 2017
Such children, our playwrights;
They labor under the sad misconception
That, having written their labored little prose,
They shall be presented wholly unfiltered by the performers.
From God’s lips to their ears, they say, ostensibly joking
While their features and inflection bear full witness
To how deeply serious they are in truth.
The poor souls have no idea
(Really, no more than infants, every last one of them)
Just how little their tottering little farces have to say
Concerning the profundity of suffering, the fever of desire,
(How could they know, locked away in their rooms with nothing
But their parchment and quills—truly, from whence will come
The Moreto or de Molina for our age, artists yet men as well?)
And yet the trained performer is able
With no more than the odd inflection,
The certain insouciance  in the crook of an elbow,
The telltale arch of an eyebrow
As another actor declaims his lines,
Provide blood and marrow to the sad scratchings of the purported author, Create meanings never conceived of by the dramatist.  
How many nights have I shot glances
At these poor men of letters, wringing their hands anxiously,
Huddled in the wings on the opening night of their turgid set pieces.
What performances (however involuntary and unconscious)
They would give, faces contorting with surprise and fury,
Fists clenching with rage or grabbing at their tresses
In frustration and stupefaction at what had been made
From their foolish idioms, their labored clichés.
And, after a surfeit of bows had been taken,
They would come before me,
Bowing slowly, stiffly, mechanically in an effort to keep their anger
From virtually surging from their bodies,
Meekly saying Truly, Senora, I did not know
What effect your legerdemain could have
Upon the audience and my humble words
,
But, for all their politeness, their hatred is palpable,
For I have thrown their cherished natural order on its head,
As I have usurped them as the creator.

Still, one should not be so harsh with these hijos;
The error is a common one:
So many viceroys and kings, so many priests and archbishops
Have tried to fix the yoke of man’s poor misapprehension
Upon the forces of the universe,
Forces which would brush them into the abyss
With no more forethought than they would rend the web
Of the poor, innocent spider.  
I have, on several occasions,
Accompanied many a man of means to the gaming table,
Have seen them win handsome sums
And seen others lose those every bit as spectacular.  
I have found the victors to be men
Who do not try to ascertain the hidden mysteries of the deck,
Nor bemoan the fact that they are denied the deal,
But rather treat the cards as simple things
(No more than mere bits of paper, drabs of colored ink),
Minute stages provided to display one’s craft and wisdom
In the pursuit of pleasure and profit.
Senora Villegas appears courtesy of Thornton Wilder's The Bridge of San Luis Rey.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2018
“I do none harm, I say none harm, I think none harm.”

-Thomas More in Robert Bolt’s A Man for all Seasons

And yet how schadenfreude to imagine
The purported Melvin from Mumbai
Tipping the executioner for good service
(To Melvin a concept previously unknown):

          “Be not I understand afraid of your office I need your major    
            credit card and your date of birth you but send me I
            understand to that Limited Offer 30G in the Sky I
            understand.”

Or the executives of ISPs
Their eyes blindfolded with their own insolence
Standing before a new Customer Care Team
Drawn from a list of eager volunteers

Now look upon each techno-high-flyer

And

“Customer Care Team – Ready! Aim! Fire!”
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Pearson Bolt Feb 2017
dry
Tolstoy purported,
"the purpose of life
is to serve humanity."
but an empty cup
cannot fill another
and i've long since
been drained
to the last drop
dry as drought.

cottonmouth, hoarse,
blue-in-the-face
from screaming
my lungs out.
a mime beating
bulletproof glass
until my knuckles bleed
and streak.

three words
bloom like heliotrope
petals on my tongue:
"i love you,"
a refrain on endless repeat—
a broken record
covered in motes of dust,
skipping on the turntable
stuck in the same rut.

— The End —