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Dolores L Day Mar 2018
Those flowers spill out
Over the sides like your soul spills out of your clothes
Onto the floor in front of me
Where I watch in amazement because you're everything I've ever Wanted to be.
The smoke of your husbands pipe leads the way
Through the door past the kitchen
Into the room where you lay
With chickens and pottery
You tumble out of your chair
And I
Tumble into your arms as if
It was my birthday instead of yours.
I would drive a thousand miles to eat your humus and hear your words.

You have everything I've ever wanted to have.
Teach me.
I will bring you as many tall vases as you want.
Teach me.
I will bring will make you as many flower arrangements as you need.
For Tina
Sophia S Pinedo Feb 2018
Hey girl, Didja know?
You really help my flowers grow.

My Peonies show, just making sure that you know.
The Ranunculus glow from love, my succubus from above.
Red rose in my hand, now my love is exposed!

Girl, I'm making this for you.
Your words feed me like noodle soup.
****, Im falling way to hard.
I wonder if we will go that far?

Hey girl, didja know?
The sun comes out when it sees you down below.

Solar beams that feed the earth, excuse my ****** attempt to flirt.
Warm beach and summer waves, I pray to keep life like this everyday.
Burning passion in my gut, I wish myself the best of luck.

Girl, I'm making this for you.
I hope you know my love is true!
****, I'm falling way to hard.
You are truly a wish from a shooting star!

Girl, I'm tryna be relaxed.
But we can make it all past that!
My heart is beating faster than the speed of sound.
I really just want you around!

Hey girl, Didja know?
Your love brings my storm to a rainbow.
My words are getting mixed.
I guess I'm begging for a kiss.
Goodnight.


<3
oooo
Acora Aug 2020
his lips on my skin...
Today I feel I want it all-
tomorrow I’ll want nothing.
And surrendering, at this point,
feels much harder than fighting.
I’ll continue
with his lips on my skin
but still; I want
girls, girls, and someone new to love.
written in December of last year

Buttercups, for his childishness.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
and what boredom would arise - if man's mind could
teach of overcoming this sometimes woken oddity
self-inherent in our surroundings -
what materialistic bombast,
what atheistic pomp of
argumentative "certainty" -
       what a firm hold of the heart,
whether guided by the sway
of either love, or doubt -
  what purpose, what adventure
would man make of,
this: be but nothing, other than
something resembling a zoo?
   from what i heard: in terms
of the development of the brain:
imagination comes first -
   thought comes second -
but memory comes last -
imagination at such an early
age is not the ability to conjure
make-believe:
   but a was of refining the image,
or shape, or differentiate them,
in order to later integrate them...
if imagination clouds our sight,
then memory blinds it...
  i believe the new-born is born
"blind"... all and every single one
of them...
            as thought enters through
a sense of hearing second,
   it then translates itself into
     optical scrutiny,
    whereby there's a difference between
the literate T... the word table...
and the actual geometry of a table...
but there is a hierarchy:
   imagination... not something akin
to the imagination of children
inventing games...
  after all... the elders of the child also
invent games:
   profitable games,
      using nothing but geometry -
a sphere, a ball...
               two H goals either side
             of an egg-shaped inflatable.
strange how memory is both
a tool to remember, but also to forget...
memory has the capacity
    to "create" while at the same time
erasing, either lived: or thought out content...
nostalgia: memoria est res non grata -
                memory is not welcome -
and how does the collective approach work?
well... it begins in
the education system...
      you have to memorise!
                 and given the already self-erasing
nature of the cognitive faculty
that memory is...
      pneumatic drilling...
              and the self-imposed "censor" -
                        the brainchild of dementia...
but if you want to attack and collectivise
a species: attack what develops last: first!
teach the unit rubrics of alphabet,
   of names without limit of being contained,
rebellious in ****, but hardly
comprehensive, rather fickle, given
any linguistic fashion, zeitgeist and later
extinction as you might...
        transparent etymology, or that: lost
forever and never unearthed in this
linguistic archeology...
               but attack the faculty of memory
first...
   by the time you've done that,
and people are taught to be fickle -
   to have to remember, then to automatically
forget, to have to remember for an examination:
then to later automatically forget...
what comes later?
    what never actually came: thinking!
what came later was "thinking" as in
delving into the abyss of the narrative,
or could always and would always be waiting
for narration...
      but then imagination descends
and mingles with memory...
          given that memory is the faculty
  that "writes" what-is-and-was,
                         memory enters and mingles
with it (akin to the idea of space-time unison dip) -
to "write" what-isn't-and-what-could-be...
             but the byproduct is hardly
what-isn't-and-what-could-be, bur rather:
     what-was-and-what-couldn't-have-been...
by now thinking is a bemused spectator...
   hence the idea of philosophy:
  begins in awe: ends up with empedocles
jumping into mount etna...
        and if diogenes of sinope died
by holding his breath?
     he must have died while holding his breath,
but also being cross-eyed (trying to look
at the tip of his nose): to imitate the idea
of being underwater.
but that's how it appears to be:
1st comes space, and the differentiation and
later integration of it, to establish the medium
of immediate-spacial coordination without
the geometric abstract -
as does 2nd come neither space, nor time,
but some sort of medium, which is goverened
by impulsive forces, the 6th elemental,
   a vibrating impulse to stagger into motion,
a type of music, the impregnation of the mush
of soap like basis for the brain guiding
an "electric" shove: listening to words -
   making the ears hear -
              euclid and the second stage of
the woken pentagon -
                but 3rd comes memory,
        and this is where time enters the awakening
of the ranunculus alba (white tadpole) -
and society attacks this first,
drills people with abstract memory attacks -
    coupled with the ontology of memory being
that akin to natural selection: in that -
it's rather random...
                   we have nothing but
                 selective memorisation -
perhaps what we choose to memorise -
or having a natural knack for the ability
      to memorise, and become skilled workers -
whatever it might be...
    memory is the least of the three stated
cognitive functions automaton-based -
                  hence school... revision, revision...
the fact that it is the most lazy cognitive
faculty, is because it has an implosive demand
for existing: to erase itself...
          when imagination is like a vector,
i.e. from today (coordinates 0, 0) -
where do you see yourself in 5 years
                                  (coordinates 23, 70)?
and thinking really has to mediate these two
bothercome faculties, all the time,
while also dealing with its own selfish effort
to coincide with them...
                    narratives - at its own peril
     of hiding a degeneration process that comes
to some, but not all...
   but comes nonetheless, in one form
or another...
                            man was never to be blessed
with old age...
                       perhaps blessed with
a mortality and the hope of immortal craft -
but never, with old age;
i can't remember how many times
   i've listened to my grandfather tell the same
stories...
                 memory is a fickle *****...
i prefer that idea than the english version
of: life's a *****, and then you die...
               i prefer what i already
stated... memory is a fickle *****,
   imagination is sometimes like
       a dried out lake or a tug & pull game
with a camel...
   and thought is just one step away
from dreaming / a lazy ******* that waits
for someone with a name like alexander fleming.
Ron Conway Dec 2019
The miniature philosophunculist
Grew plants of the genus ranunculus
The sweet buttercup
He examined close up
As he was a wee homounculus
                                  rc
limerick

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