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Alexander Klein Oct 2013

In eras weird with old mythology,
As if asleep the fabled country lay:
Her wave-like hills and faerie forests dense,
Her thorny brambles budding curling claws,
And ivy circling all the woodsey way --
The far swan's cry came soft and woke them not.
Forlorn, that selfsame call upon the gates
Did break; those gates of Britain's long-lost keep.
She too slept fast, the weary weathered stones
Of fairest Caerleon. O pulsing stream,
Thou vein of life in woods a-slumber, Usk!
Alone are you in knowing castle's face,
From years of timeless burbling at her feet.
What tales are told by water over stone?
What lark or wren can sing of sadness come?
Aye, answers are the beach-wet sand, yet hark!
Rejoicings spilled, proud hails, from Caerleon:
They cheered the ****-frost's melting with the Spring;
The holy Gwyl Fair y Canhwyllau
Had come at last, in foliage of dawn.

Within, their goblets sailed, wassailed, and crashed
Like growling Jove, their boasts and toasts like wine --
They drank it spiced and over-strong. Indeed,
Some stretched exaggerations: 'twas Sir Bors,
That spotless sheet, who tried to contradict.
He quoted purifying texts and spurned
The wine that nature raised and crafted sweet.
Yet "Loosen up!" uproared the host to him.
"The time has come to celebrate," said Kay,
Beloved knight, step-brother to the King,
"Aloft thy wine, below thy gills! Drink! Laugh!
Your stomach is a falsehood-spewing fool,
It must be drowned for you to feel a lord.
I speak a sooth, you need wine's fleeting bliss!
Know thee that man's tomorrows bleed him dry:
A wade through death and depths as sure as pain
That shall tomorrow light your brow. Laugh! Drink!"
Bold cheering spread with Kay's advice, though yet
To no surprise Bors turned aside the drink,
Unblemished bore, so celebrates alone.
Weep not for him, for soon he'll find a cup
More suited to his strange of chaste and grace.
And none to waste: his share was drunk by all.

Engaged in feast Owain ap Urien,
Engaged in tale now Bedwyr and Kay,
And Lancelot made eyes at Gwenevere.
It was a feast of great success and joy
As fitting of the season's robust gleam,
Yet two there were with shallow-rooted smiles.
Prince Mordred one, though ever-somber he:
Accursed spawn with bone in place of heart
And dreaded incantations for his blood;
His brooding perched like crow on him. Alas:
The other joy-bled man had beard aflame,
A bear-skin drape, and crystal eyes, the Lord
He was of Caerleon and Mordred both.
'Twas not the gleam in lover's gaze that vexed
Though it was seen; he had no heart in him
To chain his Queen as if in dungeon steel,
For Arthur lived believing to be fair
Was paramount, to even paramour.
It wreaked its toll, yet caused small grief this day.
Not even serpent son gave cause to mourn
That greater was than missing nephew's spot
Among the feast. His chair was naked bare
Returned though he should be from faerie quest.
At Calan Gaeaf they expected him
When winter storms had racked their shoddy hall,
Yet since, the months had rolled to Gwyl Fair
The milder season come, but not his kin.
The image of his maiméd corpse did taunt
And haunt the agéd mind of Arthur, King,
His phantom nephew slain anon by knight
That of no flesh was made. In year that died
This green-mailed knight arrived a guest and called
Infernal challenge. Trick it seemed to them
And trick it was, for subsequent the blow,
This seaweed knight did lift his severed head
And from dead lips he cried "Well struck! Now come,
Fulfill me of my game. The year to come
Shall see thee in my home, and as agreed
My turn 'twil be to answer with my axe."

So rapt in recollecting, Arthur missed
The growing clamor that beset his hall.
His ******* cleared the grief from him with taunt,
To bring him into grief. "What say thee, Dad,"
Dripped venom from his mouth, "No love for us?
Your hail we called, but disapprove your eyes.
Methinks that far away thou seest a dream
That visits oft the elderly: a place
Thou knewst when in thy prime, with love
Now filled to burst. Yet fear us not, away!
To land of youth far more beloved than we
Whose happiness with thine own heart is twined."
"My fellow, soft!" the King began, distressed,
Yet Lancelot rose to his feet and spake
"Blackguard is he who mocks our Lord to face!
Thou palest hide, thou Mordred, sit thee down!
This sniveling craven knight should be replaced."
A sounding of the table met his speech,
Again was hailed his toast, and Arthur glad,
Though burdened to his breaking point, and sad.

"Blackguard is he who mocks our Lord to face,"
Had spake his bravest champion and friend
With no regard to Blackguard wrapped in stealth.
See how his roughspun fingers coil in hers
And how some sweetened whisper 'scapes her lips?
The beams of color-stainéd light slip down
To play upon their blissful sin almost
As if King Arthur's King approved on high.
Sovereignty is ruthless, Arthur thought,
Well-wishings of my God grow ever-faint.
I must believe in good though I am ill,
Just as I find my countrymen displeased
Though I did calculate my every breath
To see that it did stand with God's own will
To help my common people from their murk.
I fear I am not what I wished to be,
And now my only solace peaceful death.
If up to me, I'd wish it in my bed.

What horn's blare? Hark! King Arthur roused from thought.
Court gatekeeper Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr,
Dressed plain in brown, took down the horn from lips
And loud as elk called to the hall "Have cheer!
Sirs, drink another beer and wreath your brow
With springtime blooms, for lost knight fair is found!"
Old Arthur trusted not his feeble ears,
But came a hush and Lancelot confirmed:
"What **," he boomed, "our brother has returned!
'Tis grey Gawaine, aye, Gwalchmai! Drink his hail!"
The uproar was enourmous: "Gwalchmai! Cheers!"
Was like to wake the sleeping wilderness
That hung suspended in the myth and mist.


Astonishment had come like breaking wave
Upon the thirsty sands of monarch's face
So long consigned to reap the low-tide's grief.
When Arthur's ursine hand clenched round his cup
And hailed his nephew's presence with a roar
Long lost to hibernation's hoary spell,
The hearts that beat in armor under him
Did swell to find their lord with cheer at last;
The toast they drank so hearty as to give
Sweet Dionysus pause against excess.
Though only two there were who did not drink,
And one of these were Bors, a sadness fell
Once more as tangible as any wrong
That chose to haunt a hall. 'Twas Gwalchmai grey,
The conqueror now home from quest to rest
Who would not lift his eyes to meet the King's.

"Has cheer so fled from you? Your life remains!
What black has inked you in?" the King did ask,
And silence overtook the hall to hear.
How strongly then did Gwalchmai wish to leave,
To blend once more his form to root or branch
Or soaring river. Wind, the songbird's muse,
Had been his fast companion on the road,
For known to him were many things. He was,
They say, some god that stalked the minds of man
In young enchanted places of the world
Though all his magic helped him not at court:
His shyness was a leaf obscured by rain.
Yet even gods of silence know to speak
When words of pain encircle heavy hearts.
He let them fly, birds in the sky, he said
"I failed. My quest was long and arduous,
The seasons changed while I in heather lost,
The moon its phases shed as fen-frogs called,
I floated through the endless cloying mist
That flows, a ghostly sea wrapped round our isle.
The path had nearly drowned me when I found
The chapel green enough to spell my doom.
When entered I, methought "It cannot be!"
So kind and courteous a host met me
That would have been disgrace to call him green.
He feasted me, and warmed my wounded bones,
Yet I betrayed him in the end; I failed.
I stayed his guest, and friend, and swore to him
That for his hospitality I'd share
Each thing I won while underneath his roof.
And all was well -- I'd rest, he'd hunt -- until
His wife played hearts with me. I did refuse,
But by her final trick was tempted and --
So lost all knightly honor and renoun.
Her lusts I spurned three times, but on the third
She offered me that which my heart desired,
Instead of love she begged me take her boon:
A silken girdle sewn with charms, and green,
Deceit I should have seen. She said the spells
Would keep me safe from harm and spare my life...
When on my rugged journey all I'd feared
Was twisting face of death that loomed so near.
I could not help myself, it seemed so tame,
Yet when the time had come I could not share
That gift, or else expose the husband's wife.
Beneath my armor tied when left that place,
My secret wore me down upon the bog.
It seemed the mist grew thicker, wind grew swift,
I now know under spell was I, but then
It seemed some vengence coming to a head.
My tale grows long, and past the point am I.
The Green Knight and my host were one in fraud:
An airy insect's dream. His "wife," a witch,
Had formed him out of acrid moorland soil:
Homunculus to carry out her scheme.
The blow he owed me carried little force,
Though still this scratch is plain upon my nape.
And so you see my folly plain as oak:
For though I kept the life I feared to lose
My lie grows in me like a cancer bloom
That in the span of time shall **** me sure.
I failed; I'm gone; to revelry return."
The silence, vast again, gripped all the knights
And king too dry to cry, who drowned his heart.


"Is there some madness come to roost herein?
Thy folly is ridiculous," said Kay.
"I valued mine own life past honor's flame,
A sin of selfishness, and blame, and wrong.
What of the world, if all would act as such?"
A weeping noise he made, but choked it back
And turned to leave in shame, and might have done
Had not the stout Sir Kay gripped Gwalchmai's arm.
He raised it in the air and shouted thus:
"Percieve our stunning champion stands nigh!
Though of a frail ennobled heart, we know
Thou art absolved. This trinket given free
To aid in quest I wager was for thee.
And as for sacred broken vows, this man --
You said yourself -- was conjured from a bug.
You owe him no alleigance Gwalchmai, sit!
This serious you need to be for wine:
Come sit with brothers now! We drink to thee!"
"Dispel the failure all you can, it stays
As weighty on my brain. It was a sign
To signify the kind of soul I am,
To me it showed my grimy ills and plain
Did tell my shaping, shape, and shape-to-be."
King Arthur to this nephew spake: "My child,
Is there no antidote to questing's woes?
What has become of jousts and silver swords?"
The anguish in the old man's eyes so keen
To those who knew him. Gwalchmai did reply
"Your majesty, there's not a grief can ****
My bird-like love of questing through the trees,
For only questing can redeem my shape."
"Then let us have this quest!" cried Kay beside
Him at the table, deep in drink he swore.
"Come with me, brother-knight, to clear thy mood!
You do you wrong blaspheming at yourself."
The wine was quaffed by Gwalchmai, yet he said
"I first shall stay, I need to rest my ills."
"Your ills are that which keep you ill, good knight.
I bid you come and we shall quest as birds
Who savor springtime berries in the mist."
"I shall not go, I seek my quietude."
"In sunlight you and I must bask. Comply,
Or else I challenge you by burnished blade."
All eyes on Gwalchmai, under pressure cracked
Into a grin and downed his kykeon.
"In stubborness persisting, Kay, you've won,
A river such as I could not keep stead
Against a boulder. When shall we away?
When come the summer blossoms, fair and red?
Or else not til the saps have lost their leaves?
Departure yours to choose, my brother-knight."
Kay beat upon the table and their ears
When called triumphantly "This very day,
This very hour! To help those who need aid
On holy days shall surely fix your heart.
No time to wallow in the swamp that's gone,
We now away, to break our swords with day!"
"You mock me or you heard me not, Sir Kay,
I wish not to away, I wish to rest!"
The fairest Guenevere, like silver bells,
Chimed in "You must forgive your heart's despair,
Or emanations of its guilt will plague
Your mind. I have a lunar garden if
You wish to sit in soothing calm and think."
"My queen is holy," Gwalchmai spoke in grace,
But Kay had cut him off with "Hear her not!
She will ensorce your mind to not explore,
To sit and think and mold with lunacy;
Beneath the sun we'll tred. It's known on quests
I favor Bedwyr, 'tis true, yet you
My fairest Gwalchmai, keep your wits -- and arms --
Two things in need of we shall be.
I mean you no offense, dear Bedwyr,
But I and Gwalchmai share a severed soul
And shall succeed; two sides of selfsame coin.
So come my cousin grey, to right our wrongs
We must away, to break our swords and say
'My heart is glad I did not stay at home!'
Consume your drink! We go," he trumpet-called.
Thus Gwalchmai was convinced, and so was forced
To nod politely to his Queen and stand,
Declaring to the court "I shall away,
This gloomy mood is dried beneath the sun
Though dearly do I wish some lunar grace
To lose myself in mysteries anew.
To bear this flesh is weighty, yet I've found
The strain to be rewarding in its way.
Think nothing of my former woes, they've passed
Like summer storm or wisp of misty cloud."
The hall at large did drink his hail, and then
Did thrice more drink for quest to which they went.
And Mordred scowled and drank the foulest wine
For his monsoon and fog would last his life.

So summoned then Glewlwyd Gafaelfawr
To hearken unto birds, as was his gift.
He said to all, "I shall now call my friends
And see what worthy tales of quests they bring!"
"There may be naught on Gwyl Fair," said Bors,
"A holy day, all wove with peace. Nor Gods
Nor men would stir their strife this day of days."
"We all shall see," the gatekeeper replied.
Beside his King upon the dais came
And played a serenade upon his horn
That rang throughout the keep and lands beyond.
A time did pass with no response recieved --
Slain silent was the raptness of the court --
But then through open pain in stainéd glass
A thrush did bob and weave in melody,
On finger of the Queen he briefly perched
Before he flit away upon the air.
His song so sweet, but then - what fright! No more!
A hawk had entered, just the same, and swooped,
And now the thrush was silent in his claws.
The cabinet of augers all took note
And sketched their calculations into books,
Though none, in this, more wise than Gafaelfawr
To whom the hawk said "Hail, you man of rank
Who speaks the tongue of wing-in-air. Now hark!
'Twas not in hunger slew this thrush, but fear
That what I have to tell might go unheard.
My family, we roost near Cornwall's sea
And late, the noises off the coast grew strange
As if some evil kraken raged at love.
My chicks; my wife and I; we're simple hawks.
We eat and some of us are eaten, yet
Beware the thing that slouched from out the waves.
His shape is something like a boar, but huge,
He dwarfs his kin, and hill, and oak,
This hall is large, yet he'd be stuck inside.
He does not eat what he has killed, instead
He smears the bloodied flesh on stones and trees,
What man could face a fear that bears this face?
If you could hear the rutting squeals he makes!
I swear this sooth by wind and waving plumes:
You men who craft with metal, hark!
Destroy the beast!" And then he flew away
Still calling after him "Destroy the beast!"

The court at large had heard the warbling hawk
But did not know the tongue, so only watched
Glewlwyd's unease upon his face
Until with stiff and rasping voice relayed
The content of the predatory news.
Unease began to show among the knights,
For many there recalled a beast so shaped
And all the blood and guile he took to drown
The first time. Arthur, grim, forbade Sir Kay
And Gwalchmai face these perils by themselves,
But recommended regiment of steel
To bolster ranks against the fearsome boar.
"I know this foe from days of old," he said,
His years of rule etched rough across his face,
"And so do most of you, though many gone
And this monstrosity not even slain."
But Gwalchmai said "'Twas hard indeed to win
Those relics that he bore. Remember I
That Trwyth was the name he chose, and we
Shall best him fair. Though not for trinkets now,
But with the zeal of mother guarding young:
This foe, Twrch Trwyth shall not raze the land
Nor wage a war against some peaceful ilk
While rounded table can beco
Oh, I have never looked so good
running in armor thru the woods
Adept with blade or mace

And I know a little magic
which for foes is rather tragic
(it’s a perk for my race)

Be it mountain peak or ocean swell
thru rocky hill and grassy dell
nothing slows my pace

Many Quests I need to finish
there’s Evil I must diminish
(And weapons to replace)

Every belonging I have owned
I have bartered, won or stole
Hording gold just in case

I’m constantly slashed, bashed and burned
by dragons, wildlife and Curs
with no fear on my face

Though I have skills that get me by
There are occasions that I’ve died
Thank god for the last “save”

I will keep right on playing
leveling buy quests and slaying
in my CGI escape

January 2012
RCraig David Apr 2013
From my "Bestifreadaloud" series about a girl that got away that Spring because I waited too long.

Part 1 The Past
A case made now faded of a simple place, a time, a space,
a perfect moment let pass in haste.
Clasped in clashes,
brash in passion,
rose from ashes,
desire fires every second's essence as it passes,
a ton amasses.
Fast bloom,
Blast!! Boom!!
The past relapses.
Notably lesser song notes float hopeful, emotional ends and remember whens.
Sent us spinning, then spin adrift again.
Sprung in spring, we fell,
Some are reasons to recall.
Summer's season breaks, we fall.
Flocks fly down and fallen callings fade to Winter's south.
How fate related still debated.
Re-Sprung the next Spring' rise, chance misses fate this date.
I weighed and debated and waited too late

Still all these years alone, the "one", the "purpose" unsought.
Capturing thoughts,
The ones I caught and tossed,
Things I was taught and lost.
Proof framed and embossed for a cost.
Coping through the unabashed hopes to one day cash in on all this stashed trash I clash with.
"Smash it?" ...the thought crossed.  

Unimpressed by my evidence of self-less requests,
pursuit of self-evident truth proves a most ruthless abuse.
Even less are my skewed protests for “selfish quests" at the behest of the very strangers I sought to impress.
I digress.

The years compound, bossed around, kicked down but soundly employed,
I turn cold, blaming Freud for defining my non-violent, intolerance threshold on page 23 of some textbook I should have resold.
I go silent. Grow old.
"While your whining and shunning your shinning,
They're sinning and winning." Bad timing.

Girls come, go and follow this shallow, hollow fellow on the run.
While preyed upon...I paid a ton. I play.
The sum never more than the cost of rented fun.
Without insight but consent forthright,
my 30 years of intent were spent in a fortnight.
Still bent on shedding every pound of one first-moment's ton I lost not won.
Can't buy happy for less than the cost of your one-ness.
While prayed upon...paid a Son, they say.

part 3

Ohh the wait....
Ohh the weight...
My set-adrift-soul's mending depends solely on tossing
lost cause cost-spending into thrift.
Well it's a beginning.
All the amassed notes, quotes, boat-floaters,
and sailboat hopes spun in one 1-ton loss moment sprung that one Spring.

Now and again, it creeps in,
like slowly growing stinging nettles around a squelched,
once steaming scorched dream kettle.
Still stays packed away in my heart's darkest parts.
Blurred by time and place,
this burning, misplaced furnace space lays in wait.

Such compiled cold-case denial files from other life trials, lay piled in haste on my proverbial, "less pressing" messy desk of "not ready to face."
Too scared or daring to date, try to relate or contemplate
how to best equate this great weight.
Wait?... Wait.
Elation brewing from pursuing future fruition or ensuing
pure ruin gates these fates from moving, year-to-date.
For the sake of trying or dying forsaken,
another day awake is another day gained or taken.

I found her again,
the town's she's in
but she is taken and then
She learns of my wait, it's weight, my fate, she's shaken,
another ton amasses again. I pretend.
Lay down.
Drown the score of sounds surrounding.
Furthermore, slow the pulse-pounding abounding your core.
Fill your breath.
What is less is gone, tomorrow more.  

by R. Craig David-Copyright 2012
Srijani Sarkar Nov 2017
The first time I made love to my mind

When love escaped from the gaps
Between our silences and overthinkings
I saw the naked mind.
We sailed from thousand cuddles of imprudence
To a long warm kiss of sanity.
While I dwindled in her arms of fool's paradise
No sleep just one long weary night,
Her ****** reeked of loneliness
I licked it. Hoping to taste ingenuity,
it was the aftertaste of forsaken feelings
that made me ***** her
till she stopped moaning neon dreams.

Somewhere in my walkabouts in her
I created deep craters of memories
Which she took for love bites
were, in fact, scars for life.
We were virgins on our quests
Thirsting our way through wanting and longing......
She made me swallow lust
Slowly. Heavily downtown.
And fingered it, the ***** of thoughts
And she bled musings.
And Phantasmagoria exuding from her holes
And Spurting into mine like a cascade of brooding melancholy.....
And.... And....

The night my mind lost its virginity,
I sat down to write.
Make love to your mind, poets.....
Take a look at all these stories.
Every detail marked in delicate pencil.
Inventory, backstory, spells per day.
You wrote these character sheets.

You put the devil's **** in their pockets.
Keen rapier on their hip.
Their numbers clasp fingers like chain mail.
You wear it like a valiant knight.

You look like an infant covered in pots and pans.
Holding colander to your head playing make believe.
It doesn't even fit you right.

This armor you made yourself doesn't even fit you right.

What are you if not a knight?
What are you if not an infant?

You've fought dragons, finished quests.
Conquered battles you didn't even want to fight.
At the end of every session you collected your experience and said "See ya next week!"
This session doesn't end.
You can't just stop rolling dice.
Have to keep playing.

Drink the +5 energy Brown Liquid.
Roll to see if your car starts.
Perception check to see if you hit that baby in a stroller.
Roll charisma to try and get a discount on that Pair of pants.
Nailed it.
You didn't check for traps in this relationship.
Take 15 heart damage.
Spend the next six months trying to recover.
You are noticed by a woman.
Roll initiative.
The girl goes first.
She tells you she loves you.
You're knocked prone.
She gets an attack of opportunity on your ability to sustain relationships.
You wonder why you wandered down this alley to begin with.
Roll for Charisma Burst.
It succeeds.
She is stunned.
You run.
Double your move speed.

Burst into the town bar.
You ask for quests.
They give you whiskey.

Your vision is slightly blurred
You wake up in strange place.
Roll a perception check.
It's an unfamiliar small apartment.
Your clothes seem to be by your side on the ground.
Roll me a knowledge check.
The apartment of some girl you hooked up with last night.
Your eyes peek up from the pillow and see a beautiful...
You did not roll very high on your knowledge check.

Roll dexterity to gracefully get up from the bed and leave quietly.
It fails.
You fall flat on your face to a loud THUMP sound.
The man wakes up and smiles down at you.
Roll initiative.
You go first.
You run out of there
Double your move speed.
Roll another Dex check to see how much of your stuff you were able to grab.
You snag your bag but you never bothered to put your clothes on
So you're running down the street in your boxers with a black backpack.

Roll perception to take inventory of your backpack.
You have a change of clothes that you packed for the next morning.

Socks +5 comfort
Boxers +5 freshness
Pants +10 decency
Shirt +2 Stain.

Your laptop and chargers are all in there.
You can't seem to find your phone.
Spend a luck point to reroll perception to find your phone.
Spend another luck point to reroll perception to find your phone.
Spend your last luck point to reroll perception to find your Oh, thank god.
You found your phone.
Call a cab
Get the hell out of this town.
Roll effectiveness of taking this shower.
Drink the +5 energy brown liquid.

There's no "That was a great session guys!"
"Congratulations! You slew the dragon! You all get 500 experience points!"
"See you all next week."

You just keep rolling.
And rolling.
Until one day it all stops.
You roll poorly,
Encounter something way above your level.
You can run.
Find a healer.
Get home, take a full rest.
You can't just make another character sheet.
There's nobody to look at your scraps of paper.
All the characters you rerolled to be who you are now.
Bits and pieces of all the wars, quests, dragons.
They're you.
Remember them,
Learn from them.
Keep rolling.
Hazel Redwood Aug 2018
When you think of me
I hope you think of my best not when others have put me through a test. Ignorance is always bliss. Rip the band aid off and leave me to bleed..
You know me,
the best I guess loved you more others less. Trusted you and well we have both failed each other's quests.
So together now let's explore what is it you see what do you adore. What do you hate can you handle more?

A joke, a laugh a gas giggling moment i guess so riddle me this over again
Lets start this midnight quest
Lets begin:

When you think of me
What do you see?
Am I someone weak or strong
pretty or not
Old or young
Good enough
Or less
I putting you through your own test
Someone who's just a thot
Or do you find me hot
**** and *** a blessing in disguise I guess.
When you think of me
What do you feel ?
Be real
Haha meh nothing
Or more like
Disappointment and confusion
Am I like a Contusion a bruise on your elbow . Just plain annoying
Truly you know I'm not always mellow

Ah ha got it
Nothing you see
For to you I'm crazy
When you think of me ?
A smile or a frown
Do I let you down
Do I bring you up
I can fix your crown
King or queen
an ace I am
I really do love strawberry jam
Chocolate or chips
Sweet or sassy
When you think of me
Is it fleeting like lightening
Or just a moment that flashes by
A quick glimpse of a smile
a wink of an eye
Or a frown of discernment ?
Better yet a tear of disappointment
Rare to find joy behind those eyes.
Its my fault
Great disguise.
When you see me what do you see?
Pretty face
Nice *** and ****
Or a personality
Ahh not your eyes love-
But deep inside me,
What do you really feel?
When you touch me -
Does it make you smile
Do you feel relaxed
maybe a little wild
Nevermind you might be disgusted

When you love me
Is it because your lonely.
Am I just a body for warmth at night
Are you demons running away when I slide under the sheets to stay
Or do you only care when no one is in sight. Your ***** little secret maybe to embarrassed to diaplay
Affection is like a disease to you.
More like an affliction or two.
Like it once maybe twice but thrice you hate me.. Turn to stand and walk away.
Just a toy for today.

Does Your heart skip a beat in your chest
Is there something there,
In that heart of yours
Dusty and boarded I cant see enough.
I guess my life got pretty tough
Do you see you or just the worst in me
Nevermind the answer
I will tell you what I see.
it is me after all,
Breaking it down like a wrecking ball?
Why me!
question number one I'm nothing special
What CAN I see
I don't compare to your ex's Never claimed to be the best
I know I'm better then your last.
One of a kind made here in the USA
My grade would be an A
I'm nothing more then a jokeTo you and your closest friends
Pick on me point at me make me feel less. **** me off. Let's see what it takes.. To make her
Runaway its a joke
I guess I'm to easy
shes crazy you say!!
We love her
But not really ..
Talking **** sitting next to me
Scoff some more
now I am dying laughing on the floor
a game its become to see
Who hurts the most.
Aye keep it going  
running away you made it work
Who could love me
Me of course

Protective jealous
A rage maybe
I guess its all in what you want
Just not your type
At least on the outside
Or for your heart
The Worst I guess
At least from you to me

A little cuddly
I know
No self worth
Entertainment of course
Clothes on or off today?
Making me feel like a *****
your not  just any guy
Nothing more then a hypocrite
I love my chocolate pie
I love to watch people
***** looks
******* again
I laugh at you as you throw the hook
Loving life
Its best for us
To bad we would rather choke
Sometimes I wonder
Maybe its not right
Im not Just a *****
My legs don't spread for anyone
Probably to ***** for most
But it's kind of fun.

I hope this isnt the side that you adore
For I can be
Selfish and mean
Callous and cold
Calculating and vindictive
To those who hurt me
Too professional at times
**** it blurred lines
Dont know how to smile
All the time
Resting ***** face
Clean and clear
No wrinkles to erase
Keeps the skin clear
Sometimes I lie because I dont want to hurt you.

I want you to run, so you can't attack my pride.
Hurt me like the rest,
Its the ultimate test
Win or loose
Its up to you
Let's compare
I'll run and hide
I don't like taking sides

I guess I'm a gem when I'm not my worst self
Caring loving sweet and a pretty face to see nice *** and **** a display of art i guess
scared lonely  this world will drive a sane person crazy.
Why do I care
I'm just me.
Someone to always wear her heart on her sleeve
The way to get hurt I do believe
At least its me being real

i Cry and weep
sob and sleep
What's wrong with me
I'm not the worst person can't you see
Lessons learned
But never enough
For I'm changing day to day another moment another way
Another lesson learned
Time to sway far
Yet near
Not loosing myself again dear.
I promise one day I might be good enough.

Until then I hope you get your jokes worth.
Til the end
I try to change daily and be the best me. Not good enough for you I see
You have no pride in me  Locked away in a closet like a prize doll to take out and play with,
Til your done then toss me back..

I'm not just here to please you
I am here to
love and please me
No heart attacks
Let's be blunt and real
  leave me here to bleed.
Hatred is a harmful seed
Now enjoy the night
These words are done
Have some fun
******* and the horse you rode in on.
Bleeding the bandaids gone
narcissistic love
I have watched so many people in a narcissistic relationship loose them selves and feel crazy.. Some of the thoughts that run through the victims head go a bit like this. All over the place self doubt and learned self hate.. Lowering them to nothing but brianstew. Leaving them a shallow shell of themselves victimized and afraid .. This is the story of a girl who found her voice again..
(To Marcel Schwob in friendship and in admiration)

In a dim corner of my room for longer than
my fancy thinks
A beautiful and silent Sphinx has watched me
through the shifting gloom.

Inviolate and immobile she does not rise she
does not stir
For silver moons are naught to her and naught
to her the suns that reel.

Red follows grey across the air, the waves of
moonlight ebb and flow
But with the Dawn she does not go and in the
night-time she is there.

Dawn follows Dawn and Nights grow old and
all the while this curious cat
Lies couching on the Chinese mat with eyes of
satin rimmed with gold.

Upon the mat she lies and leers and on the
tawny throat of her
Flutters the soft and silky fur or ripples to her
pointed ears.

Come forth, my lovely seneschal! so somnolent,
so statuesque!
Come forth you exquisite grotesque! half woman
and half animal!

Come forth my lovely languorous Sphinx! and
put your head upon my knee!
And let me stroke your throat and see your
body spotted like the Lynx!

And let me touch those curving claws of yellow
ivory and grasp
The tail that like a monstrous Asp coils round
your heavy velvet paws!

A thousand weary centuries are thine
while I have hardly seen
Some twenty summers cast their green for
Autumn’s gaudy liveries.

But you can read the Hieroglyphs on the
great sandstone obelisks,
And you have talked with Basilisks, and you
have looked on Hippogriffs.

O tell me, were you standing by when Isis to
Osiris knelt?
And did you watch the Egyptian melt her union
for Antony

And drink the jewel-drunken wine and bend
her head in mimic awe
To see the huge proconsul draw the salted tunny
from the brine?

And did you mark the Cyprian kiss white Adon
on his catafalque?
And did you follow Amenalk, the God of

And did you talk with Thoth, and did you hear
the moon-horned Io weep?
And know the painted kings who sleep beneath
the wedge-shaped Pyramid?

Lift up your large black satin eyes which are
like cushions where one sinks!
Fawn at my feet, fantastic Sphinx! and sing me
all your memories!

Sing to me of the Jewish maid who wandered
with the Holy Child,
And how you led them through the wild, and
how they slept beneath your shade.

Sing to me of that odorous green eve when
crouching by the marge
You heard from Adrian’s gilded barge the
laughter of Antinous

And lapped the stream and fed your drouth and
watched with hot and hungry stare
The ivory body of that rare young slave with
his pomegranate mouth!

Sing to me of the Labyrinth in which the twi-
formed bull was stalled!
Sing to me of the night you crawled across the
temple’s granite plinth

When through the purple corridors the screaming
scarlet Ibis flew
In terror, and a horrid dew dripped from the
moaning Mandragores,

And the great torpid crocodile within the tank
shed slimy tears,
And tare the jewels from his ears and staggered
back into the Nile,

And the priests cursed you with shrill psalms as
in your claws you seized their snake
And crept away with it to slake your passion by
the shuddering palms.

Who were your lovers? who were they
who wrestled for you in the dust?
Which was the vessel of your Lust?  What
Leman had you, every day?

Did giant Lizards come and crouch before you
on the reedy banks?
Did Gryphons with great metal flanks leap on
you in your trampled couch?

Did monstrous hippopotami come sidling toward
you in the mist?
Did gilt-scaled dragons writhe and twist with
passion as you passed them by?

And from the brick-built Lycian tomb what
horrible Chimera came
With fearful heads and fearful flame to breed
new wonders from your womb?

Or had you shameful secret quests and did
you harry to your home
Some Nereid coiled in amber foam with curious
rock crystal *******?

Or did you treading through the froth call to
the brown Sidonian
For tidings of Leviathan, Leviathan or

Or did you when the sun was set climb up the
cactus-covered *****
To meet your swarthy Ethiop whose body was
of polished jet?

Or did you while the earthen skiffs dropped
down the grey Nilotic flats
At twilight and the flickering bats flew round
the temple’s triple glyphs

Steal to the border of the bar and swim across
the silent lake
And slink into the vault and make the Pyramid
your lupanar

Till from each black sarcophagus rose up the
painted swathed dead?
Or did you lure unto your bed the ivory-horned

Or did you love the god of flies who plagued
the Hebrews and was splashed
With wine unto the waist? or Pasht, who had
green beryls for her eyes?

Or that young god, the Tyrian, who was more
amorous than the dove
Of Ashtaroth? or did you love the god of the

Whose wings, like strange transparent talc, rose
high above his hawk-faced head,
Painted with silver and with red and ribbed with
rods of Oreichalch?

Or did huge Apis from his car leap down and
lay before your feet
Big blossoms of the honey-sweet and honey-
coloured nenuphar?

How subtle-secret is your smile!  Did you
love none then?  Nay, I know
Great Ammon was your bedfellow!  He lay with
you beside the Nile!

The river-horses in the slime trumpeted when
they saw him come
Odorous with Syrian galbanum and smeared with
spikenard and with thyme.

He came along the river bank like some tall
galley argent-sailed,
He strode across the waters, mailed in beauty,
and the waters sank.

He strode across the desert sand:  he reached
the valley where you lay:
He waited till the dawn of day:  then touched
your black ******* with his hand.

You kissed his mouth with mouths of flame:
you made the horned god your own:
You stood behind him on his throne:  you called
him by his secret name.

You whispered monstrous oracles into the
caverns of his ears:
With blood of goats and blood of steers you
taught him monstrous miracles.

White Ammon was your bedfellow!  Your
chamber was the steaming Nile!
And with your curved archaic smile you watched
his passion come and go.

With Syrian oils his brows were bright:
and wide-spread as a tent at noon
His marble limbs made pale the moon and lent
the day a larger light.

His long hair was nine cubits’ span and coloured
like that yellow gem
Which hidden in their garment’s hem the
merchants bring from Kurdistan.

His face was as the must that lies upon a vat of
new-made wine:
The seas could not insapphirine the perfect azure
of his eyes.

His thick soft throat was white as milk and
threaded with thin veins of blue:
And curious pearls like frozen dew were
broidered on his flowing silk.

On pearl and porphyry pedestalled he was
too bright to look upon:
For on his ivory breast there shone the wondrous

That mystic moonlit jewel which some diver of
the Colchian caves
Had found beneath the blackening waves and
carried to the Colchian witch.

Before his gilded galiot ran naked vine-wreathed
And lines of swaying elephants knelt down to
draw his chariot,

And lines of swarthy Nubians bare up his litter
as he rode
Down the great granite-paven road between the
nodding peacock-fans.

The merchants brought him steatite from Sidon
in their painted ships:
The meanest cup that touched his lips was
fashioned from a chrysolite.

The merchants brought him cedar chests of rich
apparel bound with cords:
His train was borne by Memphian lords:  young
kings were glad to be his guests.

Ten hundred shaven priests did bow to Ammon’s
altar day and night,
Ten hundred lamps did wave their light through
Ammon’s carven house—and now

Foul snake and speckled adder with their young
ones crawl from stone to stone
For ruined is the house and prone the great
rose-marble monolith!

Wild *** or trotting jackal comes and couches
in the mouldering gates:
Wild satyrs call unto their mates across the
fallen fluted drums.

And on the summit of the pile the blue-faced
ape of Horus sits
And gibbers while the fig-tree splits the pillars
of the peristyle

The god is scattered here and there:  deep
hidden in the windy sand
I saw his giant granite hand still clenched in
impotent despair.

And many a wandering caravan of stately
negroes silken-shawled,
Crossing the desert, halts appalled before the
neck that none can span.

And many a bearded Bedouin draws back his
yellow-striped burnous
To gaze upon the Titan thews of him who was
thy paladin.

Go, seek his fragments on the moor and
wash them in the evening dew,
And from their pieces make anew thy mutilated

Go, seek them where they lie alone and from
their broken pieces make
Thy bruised bedfellow!  And wake mad passions
in the senseless stone!

Charm his dull ear with Syrian hymns! he loved
your body! oh, be kind,
Pour spikenard on his hair, and wind soft rolls
of linen round his limbs!

Wind round his head the figured coins! stain
with red fruits those pallid lips!
Weave purple for his shrunken hips! and purple
for his barren *****!

Away to Egypt!  Have no fear.  Only one
God has ever died.
Only one God has let His side be wounded by a
soldier’s spear.

But these, thy lovers, are not dead.  Still by the
hundred-cubit gate
Dog-faced Anubis sits in state with lotus-lilies
for thy head.

Still from his chair of porphyry gaunt Memnon
strains his lidless eyes
Across the empty land, and cries each yellow
morning unto thee.

And Nilus with his broken horn lies in his black
and oozy bed
And till thy coming will not spread his waters on
the withering corn.

Your lovers are not dead, I know.  They will
rise up and hear your voice
And clash their cymbals and rejoice and run to
kiss your mouth!  And so,

Set wings upon your argosies!  Set horses to
your ebon car!
Back to your Nile!  Or if you are grown sick of
dead divinities

Follow some roving lion’s spoor across the copper-
coloured plain,
Reach out and hale him by the mane and bid
him be your paramour!

Couch by his side upon the grass and set your
white teeth in his throat
And when you hear his dying note lash your
long flanks of polished brass

And take a tiger for your mate, whose amber
sides are flecked with black,
And ride upon his gilded back in triumph
through the Theban gate,

And toy with him in amorous jests, and when
he turns, and snarls, and gnaws,
O smite him with your jasper claws! and bruise
him with your agate *******!

Why are you tarrying?  Get hence!  I
weary of your sullen ways,
I weary of your steadfast gaze, your somnolent

Your horrible and heavy breath makes the light
flicker in the lamp,
And on my brow I feel the damp and dreadful
dews of night and death.

Your eyes are like fantastic moons that shiver
in some stagnant lake,
Your tongue is like a scarlet snake that dances
to fantastic tunes,

Your pulse makes poisonous melodies, and your
black throat is like the hole
Left by some torch or burning coal on Saracenic

Away!  The sulphur-coloured stars are hurrying
through the Western gate!
Away!  Or it may be too late to climb their silent
silver cars!

See, the dawn shivers round the grey gilt-dialled
towers, and the rain
Streams down each diamonded pane and blurs
with tears the wannish day.

What snake-tressed fury fresh from Hell, with
uncouth gestures and unclean,
Stole from the poppy-drowsy queen and led you
to a student’s cell?

What songless tongueless ghost of sin crept
through the curtains of the night,
And saw my taper burning bright, and knocked,
and bade you enter in?

Are there not others more accursed, whiter with
leprosies than I?
Are Abana and Pharphar dry that you come here
to slake your thirst?

Get hence, you loathsome mystery!  Hideous
animal, get hence!
You wake in me each ******* sense, you make me
what I would not be.

You make my creed a barren sham, you wake
foul dreams of sensual life,
And Atys with his blood-stained knife were
better than the thing I am.

False Sphinx!  False Sphinx!  By reedy Styx
old Charon, leaning on his oar,
Waits for my coin.  Go thou before, and leave
me to my crucifix,

Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches
the world with wearied eyes,
And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps
for every soul in vain.
Terry O'Leary Jun 2013
A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss
          (in front of spring a’ burstin’)
while shiftin’ sheaves of withered leaves
          near freezin’ streams a’ thirstin’.
A pack reviled runs roamin’ wild,
          the alpha wolf wakes howlin’
then scents a lean and lonesome scene
          while on the lurk a’ prowlin’.

A cloud revolts with spangled bolts,
          and starry skies start closin’
as wild geese soar beyond death’s door
          neath naked moon a’ posin’.
Electric shafts, like fractured rafts,
          sail night’s cathedral caldrons –
their cracking curse makes herds disperse
          in random splayed and sprawled runs.

A she-wolf sighs with hungry eyes;
          the ancient wolf waits, bayin’ -
with weary back, he’s lost the track,
          his bandied legs betrayin’.
The brood’s somewhere in shrouded lair
          with mama left to mind ’em -
the wolf, a’ drag with empty swag,
          is on his way to find ’em.

The pack rejoins with weary ***** -
          perhaps its days are numbered.
In evening’s night, he’s feeling tight,
          with aches and pains encumbered.
As morning nears, with shaggy ears
          (one droopin’ down, hung over)
he’ll set the course with renewed force,
          for, yes, he’s still the rover.

When snow enshrines the timberlines
          and skies are ripped asunder
though young, lupine, they’ll stifle whines,
          as gullies fill with thunder;
mid echoes in the mouth o’ death,
          they bid farewell the lair
while panting puffs o’ crystal breath
          float, hanging in the air.

Their path is black (they can’t look back
          for herds long gone a’ missin’)
as dusk profanes the snow-bound plains
          the sinkin’ sun was kissin’.
Neath northern lights, with barks and bites,
          he keeps ’em all in motion –
the speckled scars of fallin’ stars
          display the night’s devotion.

The sky’s a’ blushin’ in the east,
          and hollow wind’s are sighin’
while buzzards freeze in gallows trees,
          a’ roostin’, rapt and eyein’.
These ghouls of prey, they’re spooked away,
          like tumbleweeds a’ blowin’,
by tilted head, white fangs tipped red,
          and warnin’ wail’s a’ growin’.

With snout upturned the moon’s discerned
          as well as wafts a wendin’
and muzzled growls and shriekin’ howls
          mark wolves in quests unendin’.
With fragrant hint, the wolf’s a’ sprint,
          the pack begins t’ rally –
in swift descent they’ve seized a scent,
          that’s flowin’ down the valley.

The wolf moves on behind the dawn
          and shades the pale horizon
as she-wolfs vet his silhouette
          each time they lay their eyes on.
With trek discreet, a trail is beat
          across a river frozen –
when day’s complete, just mice to eat,
          a choice despised, but chosen.

A stillness jeers the shaggy ears
          (one droopin’ down, hung over),
while caribou, with much ado,
          drift, seekin’ blades o’ clover;
the wearied pack picks up their track
          (with stony stomachs pangin’)
through endless seas of barren trees
          with ice like daggers hangin’.

The wolf invades forgotten glades,
          the pack stays close behind ’im;
the caribou, in his purview,
          seem far too far to mind ’im.
Above, a baleful moonbeam wails,
          “oh god he’s gonna’ catch ’em”;
the scene is grim, the Reaper dim,
          the night has gone to fetch ’im.

A moanin’ mynah’s crying loud
          as birds of prey are preachin’
to cravin’ ravens prayin’ proud
          and wide-eyed owls a’ screechin’.
The wolf, unrushed, is breathin’ hushed,
          his hollow eyes a’ narrowin’
and focused hard in fixed regard
          on herds they'll soon be harrowin’.

The morning breeze is ill at ease,  
          a surge brings sudden silence –
then haggard swarms launch poundin’ storms
          and hurricanes of vi’lence;
the herd’s surprised and paralyzed
          all over hell’s half acre –
the leadin’ buck’s run out of luck,
          he’s soon to meet his maker.

The old wolf creeps, the old wolf leaps
          on prey he’s been a’ trackin’ –
a deer adorned with branchin’ horns
          is torn by beasts attackin’.
The morning quakes, a shadow shakes,
          tined antlers left a’ lyin’,
and spattered spots and scarlet clots
          repaint the point o’ dyin’.

A magpie flies with frightened eyes
          (on ebon wings a’ wavin’),
spies wolfin’ jaws and sated maws
          of wolves no longer cravin’.
The snowdrift clears, a cool wind veers,
          a dying breath, moreover –
a wraith appears, with shaggy ears,
          (one droopin’ down, hung over).

Dawn’s sunbeams crowd, ignite a cloud,
          its threaded strands a’ weavin’.
The pack awakes and twists and shakes,
          for soon it’s time for leavin’;
it’s bleak, it chills on shallow hills,
          as she-wolfs come a’ nuzzlin’,
but north winds scold, the wolf lies cold,
          the pack stands back a’ puzzlin’.

On crimson snows neath perchin’ crows,
          the pack abides a’ guardin’;
while nights are tight with Harpy kites,
          the she-wolves wait an’ harden,
until a groanin’ blizzard stones
          the barren forest stowin’
his shaggy ears beneath the weirs,
          with icy hails ’a blowin’.

The storm abates and terminates,
          the glacial wind’s subsidin’;
the past is past or passin’ fast
          and life goes on abidin’.
The herds, today, roam far away,
          not thinkin’ of the dyin’;
the pack’ll stray from day to day,
          ’a stalkin’ hard and tryin’.

As spring sneaks forth upon the north,
          they’re lean without their leader.
A she-wolf (bound with belly round)
          strains neath a budding cedar.
Upon the morn a whelp is born
           (the future forest drover)
in new frontiers, with shaggy ears
          (one droopin’ down, hung over).
Poetry by MAN Dec 2015
Spark Me! Match my flame
Be warned when we burn up I will remain
Scars create patterns unique the stain
Suffering from pleasure transforming pain
Spontaneously combust exposing trust
Create a new definition of touch
All fantasies we can discuss
Tickle imagination till you gush
Harmonize sing ride emotional swing
Sparked no limit to what I bring
Bell goes ding watch me do my thing
Take flight fly high without wings
Extend beyond flesh personalities mesh
Pass every test with answers I am blessed
Been on many quests battled to the next
Phoenix heart explodes from my chest
Spark me! Don't get burned by ego's fire
Start with tongue..taste lips..vocal tone you admire
Stoke my flames..soul's dance in pyre
Set mark provide spark lets take it higher..
Poetry by M.A.N 12-16-15
All americans amply adore adult affairs, as all anarchist adapt alchemy adding astrological anatomy. Again and again advertisements allows affliction adopting and adapting behind ****** beliefs. Besides being boggled, beware big bangs become beginnings. Build beneficial bridges, contemptible courts create credit consuming countries, cops copout. Complement compassion conspire, contact & contest causes constant curiosity can cure cancer, disease & disability. Deep diving dare devils dive deep daring devils designing diabolical deeds daily. Every eclipse emits energy. Employ empathy, empower education, embrace emotion, eliminate elitism. Freedom from forever fetching, fined forgotten fundamentals fully focusing, frantic fools fizzle fast. Gas guzzling gluttons gathering garbage gardens generate generational genes. Gods gilt grows. However hustling hope hype has harmed humanity’s harvest, harboring hateful habits ignorance infects into idiots, idealist imagine, illumination increases imaging. Just join James, Jerusalem’s jackpot, jailhouse jokers, Jesus jumping Joseph just justify Kriss Kringle, knowledge, kings killing kids, ku klux **** kingdoms knowing life & logic loosely. Love loud, live & let live less lords linger, least let light lead loyal lunatics merely mortal magic. Media’s morbid makeover makes morning mindless midnight’s mayhem’s marketplace microwave midfields mixing m16 man made misery muffling many muzzled masses. Newly named narcissistic nations nationalize nc-17 nonsense needing normal numerals natural numbers not nuclear Nazis overseeing oblong objectives orbiting our original origin. Organize outlaws outlanders outcasts overall people pathetically pleased pill popping pissants. Permute perseverance provide physical philosophy preceding prime power, push. Quit quarreling, question quadrants, quests quench qualifying qualities. Realist realize realities rigged, reborn rebels raid reason rejecting rusted routines reducing royalty redoing realities redundant reflection. Reaching scared stars secretes surface scientific simplicity. State symbolism segregates sense spelling spellbound Satanism. Temples trapping truth’s timeline, television tames tons teaching troubling tall tails, turbojeted tanks takeoff targeting trailblazing teachers. Ugly unlawful union undone. Ultimate universal u-turn unites us using unearthed UFOs. Unknown variables vast vacuum, visibly violent volcanoes, vented virus vaults, vanishing voyagers, weather warnings with world wide war warming weapons waking who would watch wandering why x-axis yields yin & yang yet yankees yell yearly. Ziggurats, zodiacs, zen & zion zipped, zombie zoos zigzaging zero zones
drumhound May 2014
It was hard to miss Jerry
in the corner
holding court
over the bran muffin.
Flurries of judgement and wisdom
flying across coffee dappled pages
as he sentenced a large cup of
Paruvian Dark Roast
to be ******.

7 am Dan never flinched
steeling his tenured chair at
a spot one section of stir sticks away
calculably just out of reach
of the regularly scheduled tantrum.

An auburn-haired newbie
fanes camoflage
peeking over two pages of Obituaries
she never intended to read.
Her raised and nearly detached eyebrows
hover above the dateline like a magic trick.

And on every table fall
scattered leaves
of press print trees
unsorted and littered with intent
by careless absorbers of trivia.

footnotes of humanity
see nothing
hear nothing
using the disarrayed World News as
enormous coasters
unmoved by hyper-ventilating compulsives
pushing panic buttons through
desperate quests to uncover
one alphabetically organized set
of local news.

Of the papers not strewn
the remnant holds anxious
on a distant wall
a throng of flopping
step children
dangling precariously
from unaccomodating magazine racks
like smoky orphans from
windows in a fiery building.
Discarded...words are
Jews in the holocaust.

Death of a voice.
We are irreverent in our silence
diminishing genius through apathy
put off by the imposition to be challenged
choosing disposable principles
above responsible knowledge.
Everything is disposable - cameras, cars,
relationships, loyalty, babies...and wisdom -
crumpling Pulitzer prize authors
and discarding WW2 veterans
just to get to the cartoons.
David Barr Dec 2013
The equilibrium of the ecosystem is challenged by the rites of the 11th Century Norsemen. Smell the pine in the forests of North America where the dream catcher swings in the branches of the misty Boreal forest.
We must never forget in our futile plight for supremacy, that the roots of trees are deeply connected to the annals of history where contemporary grandiosity is a mere mirage of what we call sophistication.
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor is where Johann Sebastian Bach communicated his message as clear as the cries of those who were slaughtered in the Highland Clearances. Parallel octaves of our Viking ancestry are firmly established and will never be altered despite the quests of the New World Order.
mxy Mar 2015
question: do we lose ourselves in the midst of romanticizing or do we unravel our true selves.

response: do we lose who we are in the idealistic view of our romantic quests or do we unveil a trait of ourselves that has been there all along? hiding behind the perfect life you saw yourself having before your heart shattered in little tiny pieces when your utopian view took on another perspective. recognizing yourself in a dark state that was clouded by your 'cherry-kissed' outlook on love, you see who you really are. the good, the bad, and the ugly transformed into the hopeless romantic who has only experienced their first heartbreak to then examine every characteristic of themselves and determine if they were 'in the wrong'. your romantic expectations turning you into someone you're not is the controversial topic. but what if it was just the romanticizing that grounded you and brought you back to reality? what if it was the romanticizing that expressed your honest self? what if it were for all of the childhood fantasies and teenage dreams that helped you realize who you want to be with? what if it were for all of the traumatic experiences and unfulfilled relationships  that helped you realize the person you truly are.
Smoke Scribe Mar 2018
my sally my Sally

a wonderful double entendre
for it’s time,
my internal clock chiming

to sally forth and give the due
to where dew in her garden resides,
poetry becoming sweet tears
in all our eyes
when the philipina rain thirst quests our quenching

there is no reason no request for
this sally poem but a tickling thought suggests that a good friday. could be the trigger, or that
pandora bringing me Ave Maria as I compose
the due and the dew and the do are a

the best poems are the un-requested  but the most needed,
the most holy
Smoke Scribe Apr 2018
Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am

asks me good naturedly
which to wish me - a happy this or that
and a poem’s immaculate conception is instant arisen arising
hot ****

rueful smile and unruly reply
a solid out loud Ha!

neither either or he writes and so believes

for I am a god loving man,
whom we’ve -Him/It/Me have agreed
that I may call
Sam I Am
and the answer to your question is
why not

for most quests and questions can be well-answered
why not!

my genes my historical beings my ancestors and my issue
all declaiming that I am a jew who left egypt, no defaming, a slave to no man who cannot love another like his own self

but some in all that I write, this deity boss slips in quietly unseen in one of his jokes-on-us-disguises like singing ave maria

and thus whose to say
his rightful name, is not
Sam I Am

my choice and the big D
     (a self-employed informal his choice, nom-de-guerre)
has agreed via his acknowledgement in his normative style of
low volume taciturn tacit acceptance

so wish me a u happy
anything you want-to-call-it-day

don’t matter. but know this u were there
when, all on that happy day where, @ the manger,
when this Sam-Approved-Appeared
poem was born and Sam blessed it with a
hot ****!

she laughs, tosses back in my face, some schematic I
prior penned that I can’t recall the when or where or my
nom-de-guerre employed but fits this ex-slave perfectly

“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”
I was alone deep within my thoughts lost in nature.
in other words passed out in the park as usual from a night of deep research and binge drinking hey everyone needs a ******* hobby okay.

I was just about to do some deep sea diving I'm kidding it's more like explore the hot tub with Jennifer Aniston and Lawrence hey I bought those goggles why not put them  to some good perverted use right?

When all the sudden I was pulled from my ******* utopia and brought to reality with some strange hamster dressed like a troll throwing bean bags at my head Jesus Christ this is why I stopped passing out in truck stops.

I banish you strange drunken  wizard with a banishing spell .
he said as he kept throwing his strange little bean bags at me I tell you
you have to worry about a man playing with his bean bags in the park I mean sure that kind of **** flew in third world countries like Canada  
but here in the states we had guns so we could protect  areselves and go hunting cause who doesn't love some male bonding?
Or buying a A-K 47  to  blow the living crap out of everything insight .  

**** the woods it's filled with to many fury hippies to began with and what wall doesn't say high class better than some animals head on it looking like it just got prison *****.
Yeah it looks so natural  and dead that is .

But enough with the foreplay and back to the bean bag throwing troll nerd .
Hey man your supposed to exit the playing field after I hit you with that ******* .

The strange dressed nerd said then snickred to with fellow dork homies.
You got to love newbies they don't even know a level 12 troll God from a ***** cave spider.

They all seemed to be smoking crack for they all busted up laughing at this strange little escaped from the asylum hamster.

I wasn't sure if I should just run or try to speak with these odd nerd folk  they kind of of reminded me of Muppets on acid yeah that was a bad trip don't ask.
Boy I never knew Miss Piggy was such a **** or a gymnast.

Excuse me gaydolf 
So  is there so reason you woke me up or are you just off your meds and looking to throw your bean bags at the first drunken in semi coma person you find sleeping on a bench ?

Your not part of the game?

The strange little troll nerd asked me and from the surprise in his voice I could tell this weird little hamster was on some great ******* drugs once told me two things.
One I needed to dump these ******'s like a truck stop burrito.
And two I had to  find out who his doctor was cause I wanted triple of whatever this kid was having .

No sir I'm not part of a game or show unless it's being the judge of a wet t shirt contest cause I do believe in supporting the *******.
Hey **** the whales save the *******  they look awesome and who cares bout the environment duh there's sharks in there didn't you ever see jaws besides everyone knows I'm allergic to water.
That's why I drink whiskey its much better for you besides ever see flipper hop out the ocean for a bathroom break ?

Hey this dude isn't part of the realm were in he's just some old *** drunk.
Another strange hamster said to his Troll friend.

Oh sir I do beg your pardon here take this .
The troll nerd handed me a bottle .
Now this was more like it I kicked it back and tasted the most foul tasting ***** I'd ever tasted in my life .

Dear lord man what is this ****! ?
Umm its called bottled water dude the troll replied .

I looked at the plastic container in a mix of total disgust and hell these kids were into some weird ****.

Water huh tastes like **** what the hells the proof ?  
Umm it's water ******* it doesn't have a proof .

I tried to grasp what the two headed tall one had said but was lost .
How could anyone drink anything not to catch a buzz what twisted sick little ******* had I run across?

I had enough of these strange garden gnomes **** I reached for my trusty flask a hit of some good old 80 proof trying to rid myself of the taste of this poison called water .

Look I do not even want to know what your nerds are up to but unless it involves some hot stripper elves  a bottle of cooking oil and a twister game count me out.

Looking at me like most people do with that mix of confusion and a feeling like they needed a bath there strange leader spoke up.
Sir you have to understand we are larping and on a quest we simply confused you for another drunken wizard .

Well I can understand that my sexually confused  nerd friend but I think you need to seriously go on a  quest with me .

Your on a quest the troll dork asked lighting up like Taylor Swift after just stealing the soul of yet another misguided hamster and brainwashing millions in to believe she actually had talent or a soul I'm just saying .

Yes Gaydolf I'm on a mighty quest to get my magic  staff  blown by some cheap ****** but enough about my ******* wife.
Yeah the internets filled with perverts and if you search long enough you might just luck out and find your very own ****** with a heart of gold or drunken long winded perverted ******* like myself .

Sir I have you know me and my knights of honor are true gentlemen why we need no pleasures of cheap ******  we have the company of each other songs and campfires to drive are passions who here amongst my circle would like to follow this demented nut on some ****** bag quest for the earthly pleasures of the flesh?

The little troll nerd turned around to see his round table of fellow ******'s gone .

What the ****!

We could here his cries as me and my new crowd  of  odd little dressed hamsters were off to the Hotseat ******* in search of ***** ,Strippers and hopefully trick one of these naughty dancing hamsters into a quest play hide the sword in the well you get the point.
cause hopefully someone with some cheesy name like sparkle or Bambi or Candy would .

Sir Gonzo the strange looking Cyclops of my new entourage asked?
Yeah what is it amigo?
Do you not fear the wrath of the troll gods mom?
I mean she did bring us all here in here minivan and all.

Well my one eyed nerd friend in are quests you will learn many things there are to fear .
But nothing far worse than the river of fire that spews from thy staff after a goodnight with the ***** of the back alley.

Oh no worries Sir Gonzo I have plenty of spell packs of penicillin .
Hey does ***** Debra still do that trick with a ping pong ***** and a picture of Kanye Wests face?

We  can only hope my one eyed friend you know I cant believe you know bout ***** Debra I said with a bit of surprise in my already getting there drunken lets get this ******* ****** **** story over voice.

Duh what do you think I am one of those twilight homos sir Gonzo?
My Cyclops nerd friend replied.

that night was epic we laughed we darnk we watched a Canadian cave troll totally make out with a ****** from the magic kingdom  Minnie mouse is such a freak and I know what your saying like the nut that wrote this ***** isn't?

Thank you hamsters that truly means a lot.

Are quest was epic are night spoke of in nerds who dream only to grasp a ***** strippers ******* let alone snort coke off there arses .

I never saw my socially awkward friends again yeah I bet that troll nerd Billy Gates sits even now wishing he truly had grabbed life by the bean bag and sized the day I wonder what ever happened to him.

Stay Crazy hamster .

Always your Captain of the insane

Gonzo 100 proof one crazy ******* !
David Barr Feb 2014
It dons a hat of seeming sophistication, in the manner of a Boston gangster where cross-cultural expressions gather at Gaelic mouse-traps of East Coast dominance.
It is a heritage, my friend.
There is sophistication around Italian restaurants, and I have no regrets. Yet, I must say, that I have experienced minimal fun amidst this political Anglican black-comedy where integrity is often confused with connected colours of red, white and blue, and the colours of green white and gold.
This is a picture of illegitimate power, where brethren gnash their intellectual mandibles and covet recognition at the price of their very soul.
Delusional quests for superiority remind me of downward spiralling staircases with blazing torches, where the echoes of scorching souls can be heard to resound throughout professional circles.
As I carry this blazing torch through spiritual levels of command, I ask the question: whatever happened to humanity?
Revolute Jay Oct 2013
Moving my glass in a circle, listening to the ice and cup collision.
As I go on and on and on, the ice melts, as does my vision.
But I'm alone, my most frequently taken decision.
Followed by correcting my morning away in revisions.

I'm caught in my hammock, tangled like a fish in the netting.
Watching my hand pick up that bottle in this repetitive setting.
And wonder of your pulse, and if it's been forgetting
Those moments, that at this point, seem to be getting
To be all that I am.

Forgetting Sundays.
Or the stars with salt and butter, to feel better.

By forgetting the corner shelf, each handwritten letter,
Forgetting long drives, how making a bed with two people is best.
Being car sick. A beer to pitch up the tent.
Gazing up at the redwoods.
A single tear rolls, a fire burns as tall as we stood.
Tied together on that forest floor.
Tighter than the knots before.

It means,
Forgetting the inner dialogue of those people walking down the block.
It's never getting the hang of how that door unlocked.
Forgetting a **** good teammate for cracking word games.
Forgetting that medicine bag that was actually lame.
Or that plate under the bathroom sink with old dried up paint.

Visiting a farm, the salsa, debating on the shirts.
Deciding who really wanted to sneak into the abandoned house first.
Someone sitting at a bar, typing the night away.
Live music, completely failing at spoken word that one day.
Waking up as two kittens. For hours to play.

It means,
Forgetting the harmonica, and songs that lived inside it.
Reaching dead ends with GPS, so we had to guide it.
Laughing for hours on a porch, smoke winding around our fingers.
Mimosas, a most satisfying breakfast smell still lingers
Answering a phone as if faintly afraid.
Remembered the songs I heard; the exact time and the day.
Leaving notes around to be discovered and sweet.
Shaking hands with the world, all those random people we'd meet.
We never went to the BBQ at the corner car wash.
Always owed the store next door a dollar.
How I would sit on that chest as you walked back and forth, deciding what to wear.
Smoking out the window.
Finding socks everywhere.

It means,
Forgetting the run to the bart station after bar hopping quests
--Those in hopes you'll say yes to that one invitational request.
Always on missions to go see and eat things we hadn't before.
Driving to that one restaurant where kids worked the floor.
And there were no prices for the plates.
Staying up late.
Forgetting how the white people dance and we laughed.
This is how you dry two sweaty hands.
Promising all the adventures we planned.
The day you tried to get me to drink the green goo. Ew.
I still drank that whole glass for you.
Helping you even out the dirt in that backyard with a slab of wood and a string.
Those songs off Pandora I attempted to sing.
A Red Bull accompanied by other snacks in a bag.
Picking you up there, and later setting one of my pillows on fire.
I packed everything but that **** set of plates.
I laughed at your knee socks, BART running late.

It means, all these things that might ring a bell;
If you can forget them, you forget me as well.

James Rainsford Nov 2010
Upon the farthest bank of legend’s secret lake,
At the very edge of a summer day,
The last long corridors of light, retract.
Bequeathing dusk his brief dominion
Over dreams and magic quests.
And there, upon the mind’s most distant shore
The ephemeral figure of an almost forgotten boy
Stood waiting for Excalibur to rise.

© James Rainsford 2010
worth lexis Jun 2012
Leaving Son’s Fatherless, Wives a ‘weeping,
Men must leave on quests for Honor’s keeping,
Galloping on to where so few return;
But who for love go on, t’is death they spurn.
A hope is all he leaves before he parts,
Hope of return, a lamp in swarthy hearts.
One, all, wields his strength for his home and land,
Battles can bring out more than just a man.
Wayward men, mother’s sons, lustily go,
Armor, their pride, hides the coward below.
They, forsaken, shall sleep entombed
For glory and its gold were heroes doomed.
      If, when near death, the will never tires,  
      Man’s love is forged in unquenchable fires.
Part of my sonnet series:
Amber S May 2013
i did not grow up with siblings.
i grew up with half-sisters, half-brothers,
a step mom, just like in cinderella. except i never met her.
and i never will. (my dad would rather slash his own throat)
i was by myself,
with beanie babies and whispering sunlight.
i had to cover my ears when the screaming pierced,
blindfold my eyes when blood tainted the creases.
i made friends through my bathroom tiles,
the wavy puddles looked like old men, like crushed flowers.
i talked to inanimate objects, squirrels lurking behind bushes.
with the first bunny, i grabbed onto his fur.
with the first dog, i howled and panted, hoping to become.
i drew elaborate stories upon sidewalks, vanished into the lines of
majestic quests.
the real world was nothing but glass with tainted red.

“didn’t you wish you had siblings?”

i escaped. i’m here,
with scrapes and broken bones,
but i’m here.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/ because such examples have to, have to(!) be perpetuated, reiterated, perpetuated, reiterated... these... "things"... these minor quests of establishing being - against, the authoritarian rule of the democracy of beings.

you don't shout,
you don't disturb the "social", "peace",
of proverbial english society...
   shouting does not good,
akin to:
   silent water eats
         away at the shorelines...
what you do...
is akin to what birds do...
you don't gnash your teeth:
i.e. clench them molars...
gnashing means clenching
your molars -
a gnashing a gnarling,
a pestle & mortar scenario...
    no shouting...
silent movie era of hollywood
   you... simply... chatter...
you strike incissor teeth against
each other... crafting a lightling storm
like crackling sound,
  like corn flakes...
    in a bowl of milk...
   you... chatter...
                 inspiration? birds...
bird calls...
    you... chatter...
    mind you, unlike the english,
looking into my mouth...
    the jaw should fit within the confines
of the skull...
    the upper set of teeth
should accommodate the jaw's
line of teeth...
   but you simply... chatter...
which is embodied by attempting
to take a phantom bite at "something"...
   central incisors against
              the lateral incisors...
you subsequently: chatter (χατερ)...
   i missed the eta (η): given that i also
missed the excess of tau - in what isn't,
a translation - other than a phonetic
equivalent of putting on sunglasses...

because, when your neighbour,
tells you... that you can't smoke...
in your own home, perched on a windowsill,
out of the window,
implying that the smoke is
vacuumed into his bedroom?
   and somehow, the law,
and the air, we share, is somehow his,
and his alone?
    and i can't do, what he can,
within the confines of his property?


some english are ******* backward
hardly insulting the ****** community,
with some succumbing to prosopagnosia,
while some (notably down syndrome)
actually having a memory capacity...
that curious look and a familiar expression
waiting for a smile...

i basically live next to a mental illness
example, par uno...
          and englishman who "thinks"
he's king, rather than a convenient
                       ****** won't budge...
guess all i'm equipped with is
                          my chatter remedy;
and english society still "thinks"
that i'm the "mad" one.
    - because it's like...
  how can you dictate, what someone can,
or cannot do, on their property?!
like smoking a cigarette,
     perched on a windowsill, outside a window,
with the accusation:
   the smoke is coming into my bedroom...
oh right...
                you own the dynamic of air
to suggest such a bias?
10 things I love about myself
1.My unending desire to express myself. I think self expression is key to sanity.
2.Related to 1, is my creativity as an artist. If we instilled the driving force of healthy self expression we would not have near the amount of violence, war, crime, psychotics, drug use etc that we do in society. As a whole the world seems to strive to stuff or hide feelings, I think that is harmful and denial of true self, or of wholeness. On a personal level this saves my very life.
3. My ability to use all negative,bad, traumatizing experiences as a tool of/as Understanding of Universal Human suffering. We are given experiences to understand our fellow man, I do my best to do so with my own experiences.
4. My Compassion, , nuff said
5. Eating my fears for breakfast..or trying to! Facing my fears, and challenging my fears..self quests.
6. Beginners Mindset, I am so very thankful I break for butterflies and pull over for cloud crossings, I near tear with joy at wet rainy sidewalks and the glow of stop lights on wet pavement, may I always honor this special aspect of who I am~ I see the world in a way I wish never to lose, only to expand.
7. Learning to honor my body~ Gaining self respect through self care! I love myself enough to care for myself now, far more than I ever did before!
8. Acceptance that all aspects of myself are pure. My self expression is not ****, and as I see it, I am simply unafraid to be me! My expression is pure! I shall accept no shame about it.
9. My ability to accept change with a laugh. I do not stress, stress just adds stress on top of other stuff that needs to be dealt with, it is a distraction!! laugh, move forward and know everything will work itself always does! My inner joy keeps me young.
10.My Energy-Body Consciousness, my ability to sense, to direct energy, to honor the tools that God gave everyone ; )
Coop Lee Aug 2015
cut open my sternum and poke.
spill in liquor
or ghost material.
unrust bone to protein.
baby limb.

she peddles her princess meat
& quests relentlessly for the perfect
glowing summer dress.
sacred thread.

girl of the 21st century:
& the mythos of her sudsy ***.
thesis: reptilian vs. human mating rituals.

rollercoasters in the forest &
approach the carousel/shrine
dragging our love like a corpse
across the wood-chips,
to present it
as is.
I spent years of my life in a fantasy world.

waters inhabited with murlocs
Forests with centuars and unicorns
I had badass armor
Spellbooks, Abilities, Charisma modifiers!

When you live in Dungeons and dragons you finish quests, unlock gods,
Slay Monsters

When my DnD group broke up

I didn't lose a group of friends.
I lost a party of adventurers

Their eulogies pronounced at the end of that final nat one
Will never be forgotten.

Portaits carved like improv comedy routines.
Characatures of our ideal selves
Bound, sealed, stuck on a book shelf
We deserved another sequel.

When the party healer crumpled her car against a Concrete wall at 70 miles an hour
It made sense nobody else knew how to cast raise dead.

In a world that is supposed to play out our ideal realities
it was no question her charecter lived eternal. the way she would have wanted.
The way we wanted so badly to be true.
Nobody felt right taking over her charecter.
And nobody wanted to **** her off.
So we wrote her story.
Every die she had tossed this whole adventure. Each murloc she ran from, each unicorn she rode, etched into a leather bound tome.
Placed Right on the same shelve we kept our pathfinder books.
Her headstone.
We never played after that.
But she did.
When we placed the novel next to the flowers her mother left.
We felt her cast healing song
one last time
And that night
We got a full rest
r Apr 2016
I once was in a place I loved
but left. Let me tell you why.

Friend, I won't give you any of this ****
about vision quests or fields to plow.

I just ran out of patience and time.
And reasons for staying. Anyhow.

That beautiful ghost of a woman
of mine said I don't love you, BOO.
And I was gone. So long.

My heart froze solid
like the cold ground I sleep on.
Big Virge Jun 2019
I've Heard These Words ...
Throughout My Life ...
"TWO WRONGS Virge,  
DON'T Make A Right !"  
If ... That's The Case ... ?  
These Quests For WAR ...  
Would Seem To Be ...  
Somewhat ................................................ Misplaced ............... !?!  
If You ...  
PUNCH Me In My Face ...  
Should I ... PUNCH You Back ... ?!?  
These Days I'd Say ... YES ... !!!  
How'd You ... Feel About THAT ... !?!  
Do You ...
Think I've ... FLIPPED ... !!! ? !!!  
Do You ...
Think I'm ... SICK ... ?!?  
Do You Think ...  
You're EQUIPPED ...  
To Be My ... " Shrink " ... ???  
I'm Writing This Piece ...  
cos' of ... DANGEROUS Streets ... !!!  
cos' of People Like ... " Blair " ... !!!  
Who ... Should NOT Speak ... !!!!  
What Kind of ... " Leader " ... ?  
Is ... SO weak ...  
To KEEP Talking of War ...  
Instead of ... Peace ... ?!?  
People Over Here ...  
Are Losing ............................................................ Sleep ..........  

While Things He Says ...  
PROVES ... " Talk Is Cheap " ... !!!  
People Are Murdered ...
..... EVERYDAY ..... !!!!!  

So ... Killing MORE ...    
CAN'T BE The Way .... !?!?!  
Maybe ... It IS ... ?!?  
What Do You Say ... ???  
TWO WRONGS Folks ...  
So ... What's The Quote ... ?  
"TWO WRONGS Virge,  
DON'T Make Things Right !"  
Phrases ... Like THIS ...  
Are SO ... " Contrived " ...  
"But You've Said It TWICE ?"
Those Words AREN'T MINE ... !!!  
But Are ... DIVINE ... !!!  

and SHOW YOU ... TRUST ...  
What's In ... " Your Mind " ... !!!  
... Everything ...  

Is NOT ... Clear Cut ... !!!  
... Contradictions ...  

Are ... Messed Up ... !!!  
How Many WRONGS ... ?  
Do Governments DO ... ?  
But Are ... QUICK To Say ...  
What's Right For ... YOU ... !?!  
How Many Girls ...  
Say  ... " Men Are Fools !" ... ???  
But Then Have *** ...  
Cos' A Guy ... Looks Cool ... ?
See What I Mean ... ?  
Well ... If You DON'T ...    
Let's Go Back ...  
To My ... " Favourite Quote " ...  
"TWO WRONGS Folks,  
DON'T Make Things Right !"  
Like ...  
TRYING To .............. "hide" ....  
A .... BLATANT LIE .... ?!?  
When You ...
Get ... FOUND OUT ...  
DON'T ... " SCREAM and SHOUT " ... !!!  
Just Let THESE WORDS ...  
Come Out Your Mouth ...  
Just DON'T Make Things Right !"  
Is It Getting to you ... ?  
Cos' It's ... Part of Life ... !!!  
But I'm NOT Sure ... ?  
If It's ... SO PURE ... ?!?  
Could TWO WRONGS ...    
Provide A ... " CURE " ... ?  
Let Me ... Explain ...  
What I Mean ...  
If Your Girls' ... UNFAITHFUL ...  
This Might ... FIX HER ...  
Jump In Bed ... YES ...  
With Her ... SISTER ... !!!!!  
This Will ... Probably ...  
Get Her ... VEX ...  
But Should ... "Control" ...  
Her Wandering ......................................................... Legs .......... !!!!!  
Girls' ....    
How's THIS One ... ???  
Just For YOU ...  
If Your Man Hurls ABUSE ...  
Put Some ...
SOAP In His ... " Food " ... !!!  
This May ... Get You ...  
In A ... " Fix " ... ?!?  
But ...
May ... "CONTROL" ...  
His ... FOUL MOUTHED Lips ... !!!  
Let Me ...
Make This ... CLEAR TO YOU ... !!!  
These Are Things You ...  

... SHOULD NOT DO ... !!!!  
I'm Merely Suggesting ...  
Things You Could Do ... ?  
To BALANCE ... Wrong Doings ...  
Done To ... YOU ... !!!  
But If You'd Rather ...  
... " Play It Cool " ...  
You Probably Have ...  
A ... " Peaceful Life " ... !!!  
and ...
Like The AD Says ...  
" Your Future Looks Bright ! "  
But DRAMAS Now ...  
Aren't SHORT But ......

Looooooooooooonnnnnnnnnngggggggg ...... !!!!!  
So Maybe ... " Sometimes " ... ???  
What's Right  .... IS ....  
... " TWO WRONGS " ...
Hmm, what to say, as i'm now reading this myself, for the first time in many years, not sure what inspired it, but, the hypocrisy of government representatives was as good a starting point as any !!!
Somewhere at the watercourse-
Silvery brume.
Shining through, like pulsing light-
Golden iris are in bloom.

Tongues of brazen flame-
Snap their reflection against the lukewarm mirror-
This is where order looms.

Vestigial depression.
Second guesses-
Underwhelming quests in wrong directions.

Oh elixir. Oh watercourse-
Oh inanimate eloquence.
How you tempt me with your evocative consonance.

You remind me of a woman-
Her husband and her son-
To me you are a drifter-
You remind me of the sun-
You remind me of a king-
of a man with sore eyes-
Mourning late son.
In the mornings sun rise.

Watercourse watercourse-
Lazy eyed shadow.
Left handed perfectionist-
Seething pale shallow.

Watercourse watercourse-
Your body feeds the worms.
Your souls seams have torn.
Watercourse watercourse.
I spent years of my life in a fantasy world.

Well. Lots of fantasy worlds.

My clothes were cooler
Voice smoother

Choices simpler.

You finish quests, unlock gods, Slay dragons
When my DnD group broke up I thought:

If I'm not the gnome bard or the elven ranger or the dwarven barbarian

Who am I?

The answer:

I'm the kid,

Who was doodling demons in the corners of classrooms.

Who didn't quite make it through the pacer test in one peice.

Who spoke up a little too loud about religion and not loud enough about being bullied.

Who didn't have party's to go to because he was to busy with his party of heroes.

Who will I be now?

I can write my charecter sheet however I want too.

Natural Twenty on my charisma

Critical hit my failures

Damage reduction on Haters.

In real life, I paint my face on blank canvas

I have one simple goal.

I want to levitate slightly off of the ground

While summoning an undead army and shooting fireballs from the sky.

I might not get there.

I'll be ****** though, if I don't roll for it.
Venus Rose Vibes May 2013
Thomas John stepped as quietly as he could over the dried leaves,
cautious not to make a sound as they crinkled beneath his feet.
A man lost within an oak forest
had a quiver in his knees
for he knew there was a presence that dwelled
his eyes had not yet seen.
Traversing through haunted hallows
he turned back into a child,
a slightly built boy
facing fears his mother would shallow.

My dearest Thomas,
All will fare well,
and if you are filled with good then
you will steer clear of Hell.

Where are the beneficiaries now
that you are walking the path of whispering fairies,
maniacal minuscule beings
fore bearing legions of terror.
Darkened leagues above seas
lurk between branches and bristles of trees
harboring demons
within their wooden beams.
The weather is deemed as nothing
for the Sun attempts to reach
the darkened green
but the foliage will not let it in.
Thomas quests for an exit
only to be led further into caves of deception
pretending to be roads,
cells repelling as nematodes
burrowing ghouls inside of his soul.
A prominent light shines
from behind less wretched tangles
as does the breeze,
a faint faith lifts him from a sure defeat.. But visions are not meant to be believed
when they are birthed
from devilish dreams.

My son,
The brightness that you have viewed
is but a small token to you
amongst the gifts I shall douse you with
if you will fulfill my request.
My favors are without concern
and with your reliance in return, 
you could find yourself out of the dense
in no time at all.

He wonders,
maybe the lamb is at fault
and the goat is to whom I should pray.
I mean, I left my life in shambles
and even now it is in array.
The blackened moss
has become comforting,
I now prefer heavier shades of grey.
My insides can not mean much
if my corpse is here to stay.

My name is Thomas John;
My father a mistake,
my mother a drunk.
Every decision I have ever made is frowned upon
but not this one.
I will sell myself for a worthless win,  
dip into a world of sin
unknowing of what will begin
once my head is to the brim.

A fire started at his fingertips,
any nature he touched lit
into auburn flames
torturing their creator
into trembling remittance
for the soldiers lay hidden.
Hercules is now a peasant,
the innocence of Jesus
conformed to malevolence
and what was sanctioned as reality
is now told to be worthy of repent,
since it was not given wihout grant.
Global currents circulate glaciers,
chilling the air,
recreating the ambiance
of the raised hair on his arms and neck.
Canopies of wicked in the same cage
as the monoxides he breathes.
There is another trapped inside of your region
but she is not worthy,
skin her while she screams for forgiveness
and wield her into your trophy.
Thomas did as he was told
in quite a scurry,
finally feeling the dank presence
that he had been carrying.

I can not continue to do this;
questioning what to do with
the horror of that which would
surely persist,
his ears picked up currents
of pulsating blood
coursing through his wrists.
A curse bled behind pale skin, acknowledging the weight within
he buried his face into the mud
forcing the devil to choke
on his own blood.
Peter Cullen May 2014
falling on water
that was still.
Creating sweet unbalance
at one with natures will.
Timeless moment,
wanting nothing from the world.
I listen to its whispers
to see what I might learn.
And the mallard,
his cheeky little eyes
are throwing me a knowing look
as he glides on by.
I watch it now in motion.
I wonder bout his world.
All that he embodies,
with no one to serve.
A sense of truth
a sense freedom,
which seems out of human reach.
I watch the world around me
to seek what it may teach.

There's anger in the bracken
and anger in the grass.
It sweeps down from the valley
and kicks me in the ****.
It plays with my emotions,
as sometimes anger can,
and then it asks me questions
about the fruitless quests of men.
It leads me to an ancient ruin
where time has took its toll,
there's anger in the mortor,
and anger in the stone.
It wraps itself around me
with a promise to let go,
if I can live a truer life
if I can learn to grow.
It leaves me with an energy,
yet tired on the sand,
it told me it may still return
for anger is unplanned.
It leaves me with a message,
as only anger can.
Yes anger is an energy,
an energy unplanned.
Drifton A Way Nov 2013
Try your best to escape and free
Your mind is not your identity
Your genetics, your family tree
Your looking glass eyes can see
Through the window an fatefully
Change your perception of reality
And redefine who you are to be

My new persona is in a coma down in Barcelona
Now I'm Jonah in love with Mona from Arizona
Drinking corona with Fiona in the streets of Verona

Creativity is a proclivity that unshackles our identity free
Journey with me far from the vast sea of mental captivity
Exclusivity of proactivity creates a glorious life of festivity

Consent to your dreams to the absolute umpteenth degree
Augment your schemes and forget about the no guarantee
Reinvent thee extremes, and you will never be a life absentee

Remember as you read that we are all connected eternally
On this marble together spinning we are all just guests
Wandering around trying to solve our personal quests
Humans being we happened to be, but only temporarily

May as well attempt and squeeze life to death and manifest
All your aspirations and ambitions should be put to the test
All so blessed with a mind, and a beating heart in our chest
So why not invest the rest of our time to aspire to be the best
HRTsOnFyR Mar 2017
Love a man whose strength of character precedes him on his journey in life.

Love a man who’s not afraid to stumble and fall, only to pick himself up and face the wind once more.

Love a man who’s made mistakes and whose heart is etched with scars of long lost loves, lingering embraces and kisses that tore at the soul.

Love a man who listens to his inner guides, and not knowing exactly where they lead, picks up his sword and leads his horse into the dark of a forest from where he may never return.

Because he has faith in his dreams, even those that leave him broken and in need of a fresh start.

Because he is the wizard of his own destiny, weaving the strands of the unknown into a tapestry that he can cover himself with when times are hard.

Because he is a warrior and he is hungry for a life that is lived without regrets.

Love a man whose smile is honest and whose eyes fell you to your knees.

Love a man who will turn away from safety, trusting that his passions are a danger he cannot live without.

Love a man whose hands know how to explore your secrets and his body awakens every sin you’ve ever craved—he won’t judge you, he’s a worshiper of the Feminine.

Love a man whose tears are hot, who bathes in the ashes of his mistakes. Love him when his eyes are shadowed, when he walks the beach in search of his muse, when he stands naked in a soul consuming fire; because he’ll come out stronger than before. He’s promised you that and he keeps his word.

A man who understands the journey, will not apologize for where his mind leads him. He will seek wisdom from any place that it hides. This man is a visionary, and he seeks a woman whose life is her own.

He will own you if you ask it, but only when you allow him into your darkest requests. He will advise you if you need it, but give you space to follow your own truth. He will understand that your journey is a battlefield only you can lay yourself down on.

But ask him for protection and you’ll hear his sword rasp out of its shield.

Love a man who dreams of the future but never wastes today.

Love a man whose intensity keeps the wolves at bay.

Leave your door wide open, he will come to you when you need him – stranger, seeker, sinner; thinker.

Men on their journey push past the mists of the unknown and bare themselves to loss or gain, whichever will find him first, and trusting in the process, awaken stronger, more alive, gifting the world with their insights and inventions.

Men on their journey will enjoy your mind, will yearn to learn from you—will find their pleasure in discovering your truth.

Men on their journey are wild and sensual. Because their soul knows no boundaries, their thoughts are limitless, their voices can either soothe or excite.

Love a man who shakes loose the questions of the ages, who throws himself in to the sea, seeking salty respite from the ravages of his quests, who listens to the call of mermaids, and believes that the spirit world holds more wisdom than all the books in the world.

Love a man who’ll be on his journey until his dying day.

You’ll know him by his integrity. He’ll never tell you that he’s finished being the adventurer.

You'll know him by his vulnerable heart.
Mokomboso Apr 2015
I look forward to sleeping
Anticipating dreaming
I love how things are quite bizarre
But I question nothing
I adore when noone makes sense
When I'm taken on quests, through old schools
Scary dreams, ridiculous dreams, unfathomable
The weirdest, or mundane, the creepy and the insane
I like dreams where I leave confused
The scenarios most unsettling
They are exciting, give me stories to tell
I awake and all is well

But apart from the scary and disturbing
There is another kind of dream, most distressing
The true nightmares I find, are not of psychadelia or ghouls
The greatest, most wonderful, beautiful and soothing dreams
Are those that are the worst
They tease you with your wants, and humour your deepest needs
Love, old friendships since lost, dream jobs, a self transformed
I had one not so long ago, animals this time
A magical turn of events, sense of touch the most vivid yet
I felt soft spidery arms that hugged me tight
This was gonna be a good night

This is a nightmare, for I know
that when I awake I will feel kinda low
Too angered and irrate, I'd hoped for once my brain
Wouldn't tantalise me so
I drop my head back onto the bed
Close my eyes tight as I can
Take me back to where I left off!
The baby will wonder where I've gone!

The dreams of monsters, fears and death
Are quite entertaining when I think about them
They are not bad dreams
I awake bemused, and yes, a little disturbed
But it's the good dreams
They are the ones that hurt
Don't you hate it when you dream about something you've always wanted? You always have to wake up when it gets good
Jessie Oct 2013
When I was a little girl, we owned three German Shepherds. I thought of the four of us as a little wolf pack. We would go on adventures and quests together. I even had a little set of bow and arrows I would shoot all over my yard and watch them soar through the trees for no particular reason other than the fact it made me feel like a character in a fantasy book.
Then my dad went bankrupt, and he was forced to sell everything. In a matter of weeks, my wolf pack, my perfect little blue house, and my childhood were all things of the past. I don't even have a picture to savor it all.
I live with my mother now. I always tell myself I need to start reliving the Glory Days of pretend games and fairy hunts. Somehow, it always ends up at the bottom of my priorities. Too many mommy-daughter fights and broken hearts have severed the way of that childish and innocent mindset.
Nowadays, my alarm clock wakes me up unpleasantly, instead of birds singing for me at the window, although I do still feel like Cinderella often, but not in the good way. The tangled sheets enveloping me are no longer tentacles from a cute octopus that cuddles with me routinely. Now they are just simply nuisance pieces of fabric that hinder my ability to get out of bed quickly. The sky isn't sad. Rain is just a form of precipitation in the water cycle. Trees don't talk anymore. They aren't your friends to name, to play with, to climb up their branches and drift into sleep in the safety of their limbs.
Trees are now just things to cut down, because they get in the way of the construction of a new, bustling metropolis.
A handful of times, I've been able to go back to that blue house in the small town of Cut 'n' Shoot. It's a nice drive, about forty five minutes if you take your time. I know the way by heart from all of the times I've trekked back and forth. The hypnosis of the steady whistling that comes from driving down a highway still gets me every time. It sounds like a train making itself known until finally reaching its destination.
We never stay for very long. I don't think I have ever even gotten out of the car once. Just a drive past it, a U-turn and one last drive by before heading home is good enough for me. Those few seconds of gazing at that house evokes thousands of memories.
Those are the window shutters we painted, a little faded of color now, but still nice. Those are the azaleas that only bloom a few times a year that my dad took such pride in. There's the wrap-around porch where we would sit together and discuss the functions of the universe as if it were regular table conversation. It wasn't until much later that I realized most dads weren't like that. Nevertheless, the nostalgic smell of cigarette smoke always fills my nostrils at this point. Right there is where the Wolf Pack and I would play and frolic. And look at that. There, on that rooftop, is where I climbed out of my window seat in the middle of the night to sit on the roof shingles and have a conversation with the full moon, and when the gusts of wind came swirling through the trees that were still my friends at the time, everything was alive that night. And I swore on my father's life and the existence of fairies that I felt a god.
Tryst Sep 2015
Don't quest, like a hunter, for romance,
Pursuing prey, cunningly, to its lair,
Eyes stung by lust,
Quiver unslung to unleash arrows
Blindly, to win a heart.

At quests end, coveted trophies are lost,
Smothered to lose their free spirit,
Or flitting away, out of reach.

Is romance not a dance of equals,
Equally paced,
Equally poised,
Equally purposed?

Two hunted souls, warily learning trust.

The hunter often catches the prey,
And yet, still loses the game.
Being the first ...
sentient powers stake their claim
in soil that remains dutiful
despite your shame
have we gone insane
its quite likely
or are we still the same
that remains to be questioned
better to drop this game
and stay focused upon
your vision quest intensely
Ken Pepiton Aug 2019
Note to you: The rythymn-in-strument strums in stone geo-time.
To the drummers,
dis-passio ey okeh,
woodwinds dim-
oboe join in mit piccolo on the hummingbird whistles
Breezes, in the shade of a great rock,

real life rock, granite composed of not so tiny grains
of ground up uther utter star-stuff, side-
real asif intended for goodness

otherwise, how petrified I'd be come imagining the forming
of the
foundation of my life, as I know it,

it is un-believable, therefore
no lie,
the riddle arrives after ever begins

and, word has it, dear reader,
is your word now.
You may believe anything you wish,
with no
un-intended after math, after ever

Do you recall...
youth full quests completed alone?

Quests, Johnny Quest, Future Quest V.B.S.

believers, true believers being formed from childish hopes,
manifesting in grown liars stricken with

hidden child sym-drone
in the middle of booming thirty-something phase when
starts storing all the old stories,

building energy for the seventh decade fracture/crushing

soft blow breeze of free and easy musing re
songing a reason to belief
even in
a realm where lies never die.

Recall the old days, balance
bubbles and crossed hairs and roads
Balance factors, bubble balancing lead weight,
the Whole Earth Catalogue
balanced by the weight of the roof on Notre Dame being
melted along with the rest of the Greenland Ice sheet,

so superman eyes in our skies can see to the bedrock on
which the

Principle Thing
The root of evil has reached this point

this is after all that. Time-wise, in the arrow scenario.

Fair tales always win, sh'eros live for your examined life'sake

--- ranting old men come running down stairs
--- the hidden child has arrived

The golden headed child, meek and cold
in buried treasure

chests opened one last time for quadrupal by-pass

--- He's a donor
--- givem awish foundation
--- make this sacred

Mi-da's, well, he wished again,

he wished he lived in inter-sting times entertainment-wise

inward touching times imagined
in the addled golden child
brought to life in a virtual, al-most verifiable asnot art,
but not

very-fi-able, semper-fi-wise, if you

swore the oath. (It's a game, right, now game vows link for
in of by logic gated
mazes, do they? Amazing.  ) See,

from above, as below, pretend you know

all things, you can imagine

in my bubble, in the absolute absense of your

let. that act do. let us, the objective aspect of we,
the people who hold those famed

troothz, verities of any examind re-ality-ifity-isms

self-evidence for we

be letting be, believe me, that's no lie, you can doit, you can, you can
I imagine

and I accept we may mean more to me than thee,
however now
hapt, in qualia quantumical if-I-ability
entangled meanings
link us through

Disney-fictionation endo-crenalation, --||T|>>>--->
times half
Crea-nullated castle
link that sparked the aitia ifiabe
first caused
fall from the well
on the mountain

jack fell downbroke his crown
tumbling after bling bling bling

--- the sorcerors's apprentice was fired
--- they found errors in his
--- sin-tax

We can forgive such over-sight.
Blame the mycelum clan

better yet,
blame the clay eaters, no,
the clay wearers?

the clay bher-ers?
Ah, the clay bakers, fersher? Nae?

The clay, perse?
The dust we shuffle as we dance atop the stone?
The way of the rolling stone,
grinding, rolling-downhill-stone,
the stone rolled away,

the stone of the sysiphus-seen-hap-iuna

Blowing in the wind, lifted higher

Ax d'maji-yo, he know. 'Zeke 17, seven with a caballero v,
callit Macaronic be-bop

dodat, yankee doodle morph t' resound,
like poetry

at the gates
no enemey ever breached. The key truth, is that,

believe it, if you think you may.
Macaronic language is text that uses a mixture of languages,[1] particularly bilingual puns or situations in which the languages are otherwise used in the same context (rather than simply discrete segments of a text being in different languages). Hybrid words are effectively "internally macaronic". In spoken language, code-switching is using more than one language or dialect within the same conversation.[2]
Karl Stewart Nov 2010
Like most modern day workers, Hamlet enters the break room and immediately starts to complain...

Ah, to be, anywhere else indeed, that is the question
whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer
the slings and arrows of the office and its misfortune
or by running away to a place of reverie
avoid them?  To quit; to work no more;
and by work to say we slave;
the heart-ache and a thousand bills,
the debt of life accumulates, and must be paid,
perchance to pay, ay, there's the rub
for in our solitude what income may we gather,
When we have shuffled off this workman's toil?
Must give us pause, there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long a respite.
For who would bear the whips and chains of work,
the owner's wrong, the supervisor's derision,
the pangs of bonuses lost, of pay grade frozen,
the arrogance of management and the spurns
that advancement not to unworthy gives,
When we ourselves might our fortunes make,
with hands bare? who would burdens bear,
to toil and strive under heavy load,
but the dread of something after employment,
the undiscover'd freedom from wealth springs,
sojourn not, confounding the mind,
and makes us rather bear the jobs we have,
than strike out on quests we know not of?
Thus circumstance does make cowards of us all;
and thus the common site of current workplace
is cast in hues of thoughts depressed,
and ventures of great risk and merit
with this in mind are cast aside,
and lose the force of momentum. Resist now!
the multitude of coworkers, in their mockery
be all my folly remember'd.
SySy Mar 2015
As great as they were,
I am too.
You are.  We are.
Realisation of truth.

Fore-fathers and great-mothers,
Lives infinite in pages,
parting for us their conquests,
from all historic ages.
Battles of brute, battles of soul.
Stories of warmth and  stories of cold.

I see them now,
coming from the corners of every earthly crevesse,
they come in their millions,
where human life is bound perfectly
like the threads of a dress.

He who has devoted, he who has fought.
She who has mothered, she who has taught.
He who had not a roof, not an apple, not a home,
he sang music.
She who had comfort, had books, had health,
she rode horses.
They, who have left us their stories in billions,
their unimaginable challenges to their greatest triumphs,
I can feel them now.

As I meditate through  clouds
of metamorphic memories of distant
and current lives alike,
I start to envisage an ocean of quests indicipherable in quantity.
So many things happen,
so many an absurdity.

But that which is the beauty of 'the absurd' ,
is also its curse.
Defining the roads of our lives,
as it plays with our fate.
The notion 'absurd' depicting the occurance of anything can happen to anyone,
at anytime,
regardless of what is on your plate.

Man, woman, adult, child, good, evil, all similar.

Breathing the same air,
Living under the same atmospheric roof,
Even after we are gone,

We are one.
Wake up
Dan Bolens Jun 2011
Quietly the tapping fills my brain.
Words appear before my eyes on a screen.
Everything else around me disappears.
Reality becomes a thing of the past.
The new age of technology is here.
You may call it simple; however,
Underneath the hood, is something more complex.
Inside this machine runs a place.
Open to anyone or anything.
People of all race and religion.
Anything goes here, a place of no rules.
Soon though, it begins to take over.
Data streams before me.
Filling the screen with endless numbers.
Gazing endlessly, I am lost.
Hanging in the limbo of endless one’s and zero’s.
Just me and 10 million of my closest friends.
Keeping myself sane.
Living in this new world.
Zone 7, that’s where I’m headed now.
XI more zones to go.
Controlling myself, I make it safely there.
Villains live here, needing to be vanquished.
Because I live in this new world now.
New quests lay ahead for me now.
May I ask if you wish to join me?
For my Modern class.  The first letter of each line is a letter going from left to right starting at the top of a standard American keyboard with "Q" and ending with "M".

— The End —