Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Abigail Shaw Dec 2014
12 in the dark, I sit awake by the window,
Across from Hyde Park, and the feel of the wind oh,
Sparking a bark, Nana's remarking from below,
Canine matriarch against the boy with no shadow,
Time's flickering by and I begin to rust,
Consumed, I'm high with lust just for pixie dust,
But to fly you must be robust and adjust,
And I can't, though I try, I just look with disgust,
Sitting on the sill, I think of him mournfully,
Hard as I try, I can't think of him scornfully,
Despite the fact that he talks so informally,
He says my name and I know I was born to be,
Part of the family, I think of them nightly,
Tootles, the twins, Curly, Nibs and Slightly,
Second star to the right, it shines so brightly,
Hope he might come back if I ask politely,
He doesn't apologize, he's immature and he's cold,
Lives in a land without rules so he can't be controlled,
But as soon as I saw him I knew I'd struck green-gold,
Peter Pan is a joke that just never gets old,
Don't smile at crocodiles down in Neverland,
And if you hear a ticking clock, hope the ships are manned,
Because there's a high demand for the taste of pirate band,
And if you're not hooked by now then Hook'll tell you first hand,
I flew here like a bird in a night-dress, frilly,
Scared, trying to fight stress, skin like Chantilly,
Found Peter and I confess that the boy's my Achilles,
Now I'm a lost girl treading on Tiger Lillies,
Acorns and thimbles are my idea of 'bases',
And sword fights with pirates are my ***** chasers,
Watching the boys as they fly and admiring Peter Pan,
But he's the boy who can't love here in Neverland,
I wanted devotion, to marry men who were charming,
So I repressed, left my emotion, I left Peter Pan snarling,
My own species no longer, just a common starling,
Caged by age at my window, I'm Wendy Darling.
My head falls deep into
Her shoulders, gently,
As she would not need to nudge.

My Arm finds its place around her back,
Stalking in good terms,
I lean and feel receptive touch.

I feel as though
My approach was out of place.
My hand throttles back, firmly, But in fluid grace.
I put it out in winter soft,
That she might not resort to sob.
I prepare to leave my seat as if told,
Remarking her that it was out of love
Do you remember that cliche scene in movies when a guy asks a girl to watch a movie, and when they sit together, the camera focuses on the guy as he attempts to make "the first move" and puts his arm around the back of the girl's seat...and he fails
-this is pretty much what the poem's all about
Jay Aug 2022
so it starts with a girl, barely the age of 10 and already wondering when the baby fat will melt off
glances in the mirror at unwanted curves and softness
why would a 10 year old need to worry about their body?
comments from a father about diets and diseases and suddenly food stops being a necessity but a burden
a brother remarking how a second helping is how you develop diabetes, you don't eat again that night
mom tries to help, "you've got a nice figure" she says
it only makes you hate the softness more
so a girl, at the ripe age of 17, decides that food is no longer a nessesity but a burden
a few months into it a friend makes a joke how you need to start eating more because of how small you're getting
you laugh it off and ignore the pride swelling in your chest
because food was never good or nourishing
but rather numbers on a scale and buttons that didn't quite close
because food was always a burden and never a nesessity
The weather was cold
The winds blew up carrying ice *****
No matter they were big or small
But they were carrying drying for skins
And great amount of diseases
The hungry man knocked the door
The miser man opened the door
The hungry man said a word and more
“I am hungry, I want some food
To eat and repair my mood!”
The miser man said at anger
,”there is no food and be outer”
The hungry man fell at the floor
The miser man with cold blood closed the door
The cat was near that
The cat saw that and came at fast
She touched the fallen man at first
She said and screamed
, The man approached to be dead”
She ran at speed

The three dogs stood at dark
At the corner of the park
They were her enemies and carried black
And hard heart

One said,” she was so conceited
The second completed, “she thought she was princess, she was created ‘’
The third said, “I must get his nose downed"
They ran after her
The great steps were heard
A big dust covered the land
They ran and escaped
She met her friend that was the cat
Jon was his name
She was curl with one foot
He was amazed and then laughed
He said,” you must get great fight
And you must beat all”
She looked angry
She said in completely,”
I met Kranckle, Dangle, and Bangle  
The three dogs ran before me and wanted to hurt
But I was so brave
I stood as one who must save
The lost justice from the dark in native
I did as “Bruce Lee’ in mark
I ran and jumped over the wall
It was dark
I tried to overlap
To be at their back
But I failed and fell
A great dust was occurred
They ran and escaped
I stood to strike my chest
With my hands, were closed
To show how I am strong
But I fell at the land”
Her friend laughed after that
She looked and said,’’
Bad boy bad”
She sighed and said,”
The hungry man may be dead
We must get him saved!”
Jon looked in surprise
He said as he looked as wise,”
Who is the hungry?”
She looked at him and pulled
Him with her strong mouth.
She said, "we need a strong one at first
He said with great nervous,”
Am I not so in obvious”
She did not answer and he was dragged
In spite of his well or his eager
They suddenly stood in front of Ankle's dog door
She called at him at loud
He was out
He laughed and said,” The cocky cat at front
Of me, I must hurt “
She bowed as the singer at the play
She said in polite way,”
My lord, I want your help!
I need you hand”
He acted like her way
He said, "ask and I respond!”
She said and shouted,’’ What is your kind?
The fallen man needed to be saved”

Ankle was surprised
He said,’’ Yesterday, you mocked”
Liz laughed in spite of her well and said,”
Forget it, forget”
Ankle asked,”what is your demand?”
Without wait she ran before him and pushed
From his back
For Jon’s surprise, he obeyed
He was ready to walk
They reached to the fallen
Ankle said,” that must be dead”
Liz screamed and mewed and said, “No!”
She cried at loud
She cried as that fallen like her father
She walked with hesitating,
She put her ear at his chest
Her face was so closed
Then he got so bright
As the sun appeared after long hide
She said.” He is still alive
We must be in hurry
To maintain his life
As the God gives it
That is right?”
Ankle said,” the human is stingy
He is honor to show that
To show his hate to his brother
Liz said,” Do the fair
And throw it at the air”
She said,” we need away
To transport him in speed way”

A big tree trunk was laid
A fast taxi was braked
Angry driver had to be out
He screamed so aloud
The street was so empty
His sound was repeated several times
In echo as fearing manners
He said,” Who puts that ****** trunk?
He must be fool”
Liz appeared suddenly
She jumped at his face
Jon bit him from his breech
Ankle tried to push, push
The angry man,”Zicko” obeyed
They signed to the fallen man
He screamed,” No!”
That seemed to be killed”
Liz looked angry
Jon mewed in nervous manner
“you must know his killer”
Ankle barked
The man was forced
He pulled him to the taxi
As the driver was old and soft
He said,” if that was killed
I may be accused”
He drove to the hospital
It was ranked
It was for high class persons
The reception ordered and shouted
At the cats and dog to be out
Zicko said,” they came with me”
The reception said after calculating
‘”we want a great amount of Egyptians pounds
It preferred to be in dollars”
They were shocked
How could they get that amount?
They looked and were shocked
The hospital laid the hungry at the land
Liz ordered,”
Come without wait”
They rode the car
They reached the stingy home
Zicko knocked at the door
The man was out
The miserly was out
Zicko tried to talk and ask
Until Jon and Liz were penetrated
They entered the home
They didn’t know any room
Liz screamed,” the second plan”
Ankle jumped behind the man
Zicko ordered to get money
He gave them with unhappy
Liz signed to tie
The man and get the key
As if they needed another demand

The money was paid
The man was in intensive care
Liz laughed and said,”
It is Egypt
If we didn’t get money
The man must die”
The surgeon came and said,”
We need medicine in fast,
As it was rare and it costs high amount
Zicko with his friends took off
They returned to the stingy one
They took what they need
They brought the medicine
To hospital, that  had stars

The miserly could untie
He told the police
The police got as hydrophobic status
They didn’t know what’s happened and case
Zicko left them and disappeared
Liz wanted to get the dinner
They were completely in hunger  
They waited out of the restaurant
They saw the waiter carried the delicious food
It was obvious from outer restaurant
After the waiter put it on the table
Jon was under it
Liz followed
Ankle remarked
Jon stole the meat
Sending it to liz, and reaching to Ankle
Ankle hurried and got out
For bad, ankle ate all
Liz and Jon made a deal
They got a food, and ankle must help
But he would not even taste it
Liz and Jon repeated
The police suddenly approached
The police searched
Krankle, Dangle and Bangle searched
Their smell sense was used
They wanted to revenge
From that cat that made them as stooge
Liz and Jon were eating
While ankle was remarking
He was coming in fast
They were told, they escaped


The cats and the dog mocked them
They entered the restaurant
The three dogs were behind
They waited until they were remarked
By these stupid dogs
The dogs hurried and entered
Ankle jumped at the servant
Who was carrying a pile of dishes
The dishes were broken
The servant shouted

The cats and dog were out
Ankle barked at loud
The police remarked
The police got in
He caught the stupid

Zicko felt with the conscious pain
He returned so fast to gain
Their happy and maintain
The favor could remain and sustain
He searched for his lovers
He remarked the police cars
He followed them
He found his friends jumped and escaped
He called at, not so loud
They were at the car which was out
They went to the hospital, asking for their man
They found no one
Liz had her tears fallen
Liz cried and mewed
Zicko went to ask about his corpse
He found no one
Till the smiley nurse was seen
She told them he was still alive
But he was moved to another room

They searched for another rich
To take some money to help other poor and might wish
A good and a happy life, they dream to approach

They sang and said,”
We wanted a fare
Like the smile at face
Hate the anger appear
And the heart who caries hate
We are friends
We love the world
All people are brothers and sisters
Creatures must live in happy and peace”

The end
the  hand which helps the other is the best hand and it deserves a good reaward from the god
J Arturo Jan 2014
the hills were beginning to grow
the grass greening on the approach
to Blue Earth, and how
in summer
Minnesota shed her old coat
to shy guilty into brief silty lakes
like the
joy of a little kid, sneaking a forbidden dip.

remarking, casually, about
white warm flowers hung low from
planned oaks, and the impossible way the town
pulled local hills close, to coat
in dandelions. and cultivate
all under an ambitious midwestern sun.


          rolling through the stop sign, hand on mine
          you told me if you’re moving at all

          you should keep it in second gear.


and we had so far to go, but in the light that
broke through westbound clouds,
we became less so.
contented to spread toes out in earth we
dug into Minnesota, the middle coast:
a land we could like to get to know.



and you:
looking down at the salt, the sand, the scars of
the grand american plantation:
the last coast.
knowing that by the next coast, we
you and me.
we'd be through.

          saying, ‘how could anybody die?’

          saying,
          ‘how could anybody tell you anything true?’



undercut by the honest waves of the little lake,
the hum that drummed in my gas tank.
trying, for once, at a little piece of truth:

          when I leave this place I leave
          a part of me behind.

          and that part of me
          will be you.



saying there’s only so much sweetness in the soil,
only so long after the thaw,
and grief is rich and dark and made for sowing:
must be, for maintaining verdant local hills, must be
for to keep corn sweet. must be for to put
grief
on the table. must be for to
keep with us.

          for to keep a little bit to eat.

saying, we bleed but together we make a hole
to bury both our bodies in.
saying there’s a west out west but too late it’s
already hemmed us in.

          saying now I am only a fragile assimilation of this weak
          and fractured purpose that drives me, and you are

          beautiful enough I would lie to let you love me.


even I would scorch this soil if only things wouldn’t grow I would
saying Blue Earth is still in the trucker's atlas is
only an excuse for sunshine. a point,
where freeways go.
saying,
“with earth, so green, that here they call it 'Blue'.”


          saying
          “I could learn to love a leopard.”

          saying
          “how dare you.”
POSSIBLE Feb 2016
A festering toad, happening upon his friend the owl, began upon an uttering. A sort of delirious asking. "Why are people so afraid of death?" With this owl content and basking in the moonlight, they did speak upon the truth of the matter;

"Because when you're dead you're dead see?," the owl remarked so haphazardly.

"But what point is there in that statement," the frog stuttered in with a knowing kind of sinful grin;
"After death, could we not begin to fly with the stars, or at least just pretend that we are orbiting Mars?"

The owl simply replied, "Remember toad, while it is I who pierces the veil, it is you who must lead the spirit parade through it’s transformation."

The toad croaked a sigh at the owl, blinking its ever seeing eyes at his brother-in-arms in feigning return,remarking that “these must truly be times of madness for a mad toad to lead the way….

A shriek! "THEY ARE THOUGH, the rest of the animals forget, basic reality is made up of nothingness, so cheer up, we are all basically nothing, but agile enough to get by don’t cha know!," the owl looks to the moon in its sort of quick jerking way as if seeing some truth inked in it’s light.

"Agile?" the toad cups the question with his consciousness…."Agile enough to derive strength from above and to cater to love through the rough when we tumble hard and it feels so tough... But you know owl, there's life and blood to this stuff so we best start emitting light through  agape sans the gruff.

The toad started repeating a mantra towards the Crystalline reflective lake due south, the direction of healing, transformation, and death:

"the essence of your mind is intrinsically pure, the pure doesn’t mean a non-***** story...pure means clear….void. No eyes, no ears, no mouth, no heart, no I, no problem."

The owl began to speak a slow sort of lullaby in response to the mantra; “Luckily consciousness is like a mirror that needs to constantly be polished.”

The reflective lake of all things replied: “But in truth, there is no mirror. Thus, if you are living in nothingness and if there is no mirror, how can you be contaminated?

This is the most incredible nothing life has been privy to experience, for this nothingness is like the nothingness of space….which contains the whole universe, and out of this void comes everything and you are it. The fear of nothingness….IT plagues those we know, because it has been ignored .

“NOTHINGNESS,” they say, “HEAVEN PRESERVE US OF THAT!“

At the appointed time Agnosia and with the approval of the moonlights shine, the foggy cloud of unknowing descended upon the lake, the toad, and the owl, who all began to speak to chorus in such sweet unison:

“That which is the knower or the known cannot be an object of its own knowledge, Fire does not burn itself. If you put something there on the divine platform, you stop short of knowing and you stop short of glowing.  Following the flowing senses of truth;  Don't stop until you can rejoice in the I that isn’t.”

Everything went quiet in the forest and on the lake, as the obtuse fog displaced itself. The forgetting had become complete.
epilepsy
Upon a path of trepidation
Walked I along with hesitation
I trudged forth in contemplation,
Remarking on my indignation.
I felt as though the road would end,
Each step came forth again and again.
To pass the time, I counted sins,
Not religious exactly, just decision’s wind,
I thought of my own life, and how much change
Had plagued my mind and my own cage,
The prison in my head that I live through,
Even though there’s worse that I could do,
I closed that link before I could
Think of things I knew I should,
I “forgot” them throughout the years,
To push away all of my own fears,
With that then settled
The road I reveled.
I noticed the dust on this forgotten trail,
Each step disheveled the dirt so stale,
I noticed I hadn’t been the only one
To walk this trail and be undone,
But I was however the first in a while,
The steps i left behind me were straight and filed.
-
Withered whispering romance had wilted away
A faceless me, within I decayed,
The road was vast and all omniscient,
The weather indeed was quite consistent,
Muggy, dreary, a hint of mist,
Melancholy so, that I wished to be ******,
I would have loved to be drunk again
As I had been so before like many men,
To take upon this journey but straight,
Would have felt like bringing train and freight,
It is important to realize
That I was alone and not in guise,
For to find myself, I was myself,
There was only I to seek for help.
-
about three days had passed along,
Wondering if I was even strong
Enough to find the cross in road
To decide which way that I should go,
When in sudden surprise there came,
The cross in road appeared to exclaim,
I could go straight, left or right,
As one would think it might,
But each direction had their own feel,
So much so, I thought it may not be real,
I gazed at each about an hour,
And witnessed their foretelling in my head as they showered.
-
The road ahead was static and unchanging
I found myself to be salivating,
Nervous, the feeling crept on through me,
The sensation of the same emotions, unruling.
I thought of the looming possibility,
That to change anything was not in my ability,
That I would be forced by past to walk this path,
Straight on and forward in a droning, mindless trance.
This startled me and I quickly thought
That I had best my chance be wrought,
Left or right, like straight, I felt both,
Like a voice somewhere inside bequothe,
“Lest ye not choose wrong dear boy,
Or you, I fear, will die empty in ploy.”
Chanting choruses of Gregorian nature
Repeated that stanza in mocking stature,
The repetition to the point of depravity,
I digressed, I became my insanity.
Icarus M Jan 2013
It was a flavorful month.
First with a delightful treat of Black Walnut,
followed by a week of chestnut.

The splendorous aroma
of cooking meat on a rotating spit
the sizzle as the juices dripped running down,
covering his fingers and wrists with grease and fat
to drip into the burning flame
of the fire he had sheltered near.

The night was cold
but the fire would warm him.
(I'm done. Spoke the meat to the bone. I can no longer stay here with you and listen to your ramblings and lost dreams. I'm leaving you, she whispered. The old bone gasped, stricken. Please, do not go.
He reached for her and grasped tendrils, holding on to nay release.
And so the bone held the meat, but just barely.

The spit was held still, a sliver of flesh carved off
nearly pulling it all.
A smile at his face, as he replaced his knife to a home of supple, tan leather
stained black with charcoal.
Still broad-faced, he shut his eyes and gorged.

After
hist beard stubble provided a maze for the drippings to puzzle,
tracing towards his chin to run and leap,
and splatter and soak into the hard packed dirt below.
It had not yet rained, for many span.
So the fire would burn.
And crackle,
and sear substance that was brought too near its boundaries.

How it liked to char.
Its scorching embrace,
meant to suffocate with smoking laughter
curling upwards toward the trees
spreading all throughout the land.
Imagining creatures hundreds of miles,
breathing in and knowing vulnerability when coughing tumbled topside
and shook their entire being until,
until they understood her power
and how she came to be.

As stated, it had not rained for quite some time,
seven years and thirteen days to be exact.
And so, seven years ago,
(for the rain that came held saturation up to the thirteenth day)
she sparked into existence.
Quite literally, remarking on the above statement,
a passing knight atop a stumbling steed was fumbling around,
unwittingly, he had taken a trip down river which his horse had not been thrilled about.
While being chased by a horde of grey goblin trolls,
after he had blundered into their hunting party
he decided to escape through a stream
he had heard they were afraid of running water.
But his information was wrong,
and the throng
chased him down,
till the stream turned to river which turned to faster until
waterfall.
And so they went and now were sodden and miserable.
He rode along until Cudge, his haughty horse, refused to budge.
So, he built a fire and the following morn he rode away without putting it out.
Along his route,
his flint stone happened to drop,
out of a saddle bag and onto a rock,
causing a spark to light upon a bed of dry leaves,
which led to the creation of our dear fiery friend.

She spent years collecting herself
after the Tinder War.
Briefly explained:
Another fire that was left to burn
did not want to share
any of the forest around where the road did turn
all should be his no other fire would dare
challenge him.
This was her first test
as she felt meek and small
her flames could not jest
against his that were tall
but she prevailed and tricked him.

Fueled with victory,
she became an inferno,
and raged with widespread havoc,
till one day she murdered a magpie,
perched on the forest floor her heat overwhelming,
till his soul escaped to forever fly the skies never landing upon the earth again
.
Lusting with virtuous eyes
she eradicated and slaughtered
till she killed a village.
A lone survivor,
a child who could not see.
She cried tears of lost.
And brought flooding to the land that washed away the fire
till nothing,
but a spark was left.

The fire never forgot,
the pain,
the life she had snuffed out,
for what?
She changed her ways,
and lived out her days,
remembering her suffering faze as a young blaze.
But happy now
to provide company to this occasional traveler
and his trusty steed.

And so, encircling back (or forward we should considerately say),
to a month known as February which was particularly tasteful.
She, the fire, was enjoying her recent companions,
known as a knight and a horse called Cudge,
who had fed her planking from foreign floors
that tasted salty
from shipwrecks that had sailed to shore and he had carried for firewood.
Although she did not need wood to continue her life,
she relished the savory timber,
and in return provided a spirited heat to perfectly roast a pheasant.
Her name was Yori and she was fire.

The next night it rained.
The End.
© copy right protected

Note: (Entirely too long to read as a poem so consider it a stanza-stepped-story)
Sharon Stewart Oct 2011
I hear you on the radio,
driving to work.
I swear, I almost get sick in the car
at the rush of memory
sometimes.
I remember firelight flickering
across your face,
a dark corner of a bar you wanted
to get away to
after you played a show,
when everyone wanted a piece
of beautiful you
except me, blushing.

Passion Pit was blaring overhead.
I told you about my family,
we're beekeepers from Ohio.
You watched me as
friends of friends approached me,
flirted, I was sultry.
You asked me
if I was warmed by the beers.
Made eyes
like you wanted
to get the hell out of there.

A customer from work, some
rich investor shmuck,
texts me today.
"What are you wearing?"
I'll tell you.
How many ways can I say "remorse"
before it sounds ****?
It does nothing for me anymore.

But no jokes come to mind,
no evasive, coy replies.
Just a flashing cursor on my
telephone
as I remember summer *******
and someone I left behind.

Make outs in a photobooth
that lasted all night
as they swept the floor to
close up shop.
Only our shoes peeked out
under the curtain
threatening to blow our cover.
You wouldn't be thinking about
our cover.
You'd be thinking about what
I was wearing.

You remember
the color of my tights.
You've told me.
The way my sweater fell off my shoulders.
Saltwater-sealed
sandcastle collarbones.
The more you were obsessed
with me,
the more I didn't need you.

You placed my
hand over your heart
that night in the photobooth,
so I could feel the butterflies
surging through your chest.
They ruptured in rhythm
with each flashbulb
of light
at the magic, calculated touch
of a girl who had learned
to trust no one.

I didn't want any
attachments.
Doesn't everyone always leave?
No, recording in Richmond,
touring across the country,
passing through Brooklyn,
sleeping on a friend's
floor in Denver,
You still asked me what I was
wearing.

A sly grin watching you, breathy and
raw, finish yourself in front
of the camera
late nights when you were away,
listening to you beg for me.
Just the way you'd say my name
And all the words when
we wouldn't speak.
You brought me back honey
from Honduras.
Told me about beekeepers there
and scuba shops on little islands.

I was afraid to start my life
again with someone.
Too young to plan to
run away with you.
The unspeakable distance
I never told you:
I was sleeping with a man I had
loved once
the week before I met you.
He had stopped loving me
long before.

I left you before you could leave me.

It was some cheap hotel off I-75.
A Korean movie with subtitles
was playing in the dark
and we were slushing wine
and sliding bodies
Your sweat was like nectar
and you gasped as you entered me.

I didn't know when I met you
there was nothing left
of me to offer.
Isn't timing half the battle in life?
I never explained it.
Couldn't bring myself
to drive your nice car like you wanted
while you were away.
Drink your honey in my tea
without grimacing at
the bitter taste of grief to it.

I got tired acting confident.
I got bored telling you what I was wearing.
I got angry that you had never been hurt
by someone
not wearing anything.
You were
empty
and easy and
looking for something I couldn't give.

You brought me with you.
I don't know how,
VIP passes and interviews,
always on the road.
We stopped talking,
but you reinvented me
so many times over
different in your mind.

Maybe it was my aire
of not needing you like
the other girls.
Not remarking on
the contour of your jawline,
Your firm muscles,
clenching
and pulsing for me, leaving you
crawling, still
now,
remembering
what I was wearing.
igriegazeta Mar 2010
If ever
there was a spark in mindless stupid
would it not be the ladies remarking
at scooped cut asphalt
jagged, freeing suffocated Terre?

the most fertile , the most thirsty.

Lush outside. inside the skin?
rancid repulsive desiccation,
a piquant impulse for escaping love.

Mouth's morning wift: gloomy, heavy, smoke.
Eyes: blurrr,
Memory: cashed
Framework: gaunt & yellow, a Purple cadaver among stern Circles, reflecting the Nausea of popularprice
Philomena Apr 2019
How funny it is that when you describe a girl you call her pretty, call her beautiful, call her gorgeous.

Our girls grow up with the only compliments they receive to be ones remarking their bodies and yet we wonder why we can't get them to eat.

They grow up believing wither consciously or unconscious they are judges by the bodies.

That the size of their jeans is their caste.  

That if they aren't pretty they are nothing.

Our little girls slather on the makeup and step into their heels smile till the corners of their mouths crack as if life was a beauty pageant and success and happiness were prizes to be won.

When you describe a boy you call his strong, call him tough, call him powerful.

Put the weight of the world in his hands and hope he can handle it.

Our men lead the way and our girls follow.

Why when you see a girl you never call her intelligent, call her resourceful, call her powerful.

Imagine a world where little girls weren't just bodies.

They were the daughters of destiny and the friends of fate.

They could do anything, and they were told that from the second they could listen.

Imagine if our girls could look past their bodies, could pus aside shame and hate and learn to love the vessels.

Imagine if our girls were powerful.
Dreams of Sepia Aug 2015
In my next life I want a pomeranian puppy
& to stand again on the Roaches

& to be able, unlike now, to swim
& to (once more) fence on Thursdays & tap dance on Saturdays

In my next life I want to see a Hurricane
with my own eyes & write a song about it

In my next life I want to be an astronaut
remarking how in Space, there is no rain

& to read tabloid newspapers
in Orbit for the gossip & want this

In my next life I do not want
to be a poet, unless it means

unlike now, being with you
because without you, these poems mean nothing.
* Roaches - is a  rather picturesque line of rocks in the Midlands in England
Daniel Magner May 2014
my eyes beg to be shut but my mind
has stapled them open. Poison oak
from two months ago now, burns
as my nails rip into it, soothe it.
The fan rumbles ever on, my feet down
from the mountain, my bruises
remarking subtly of my struggle.
I'd **** for a sleep spell, but I'm just
a ***** muggle. Huddled up with pillows as my cuddle buddy. For ****'s
sake, let me sleep, let me sleep, let me
sleep.........love me?
Daniel Magner 2014
martin Jan 2014
Great news Marjorie!

I have had tasar treatment on my eyes, so I am finding my keyboard much easier to abuse.

What a week I have had!  Since you sent my letter to the local paper, I have had several people contact me. I had no idea the scribbles of an old woman like me could generate such interest. A young reporter  even called round, and I thought I was going to have to call an ambulance, the poor boy went red and laughing all the time. In fact I was certain he needed medical attention but he assured me he would be fine in a minute. He did not tell me what it was he found so amusing, but young people can be quite strange, don't you find?  He may have needed the toilet but was too shy to ask.

Despite this we did get on well, and he even said he wished I was his Grandma, which I thought was very sweet of him, while making odd gestures with his hands.

After we had enjoyed a mice cup of tea together I showed the young man around the garden and he seemed very interested in the greenhouse, remarking on its spaciousness. I asked if he had green fingers and rather enigmatically he replied  'sometimes'.  He enquired if I would be interested in renting it out to him, an idea I found rather appealing. I think he wants to grow salad plants for his family.  My faith in the younger generation is restored.

His mobile telephone rang while we were in the garden, and feeling it was rude to eavesdrop I went back into the kitchen, but I did overhear him say that he hadn't had so much fun since his granny died,  so I suppose they must have given her a good send-off.

I am rather enjoying my position as a minor celebrity in the village. Even the bus driver was more cheerful than usual today, so I smiled and gave him a cheeky little w*nk as I got off, and I'm sure he noticed it.


                                        Ever your devoted fiend,           Dottie  **
Miles and miles of....
Space, stretched mouths, lips
Drawn apart, gums claiming their
Contents and the......
Famous uvula left dangling there

Tonsil twins, the septic sisters
Wore white adornments today
Salt stained specs sitting spitefully
Chastising for last night's overdose

Remarking about being off colour
Tombs stones stained on plaque
Patrol alert, tongue wearing a
Its stale white winter coat

Colour palette was off white today
With blue garland furnishings
Strategically placed under the
Black veil of last night's mascara

Nostrils dragged their contents
Into the daylight, sizing up and
Producing a contest for the
Incumbent tissue trail that slowly

Gave the receptacle in the corner
A purpose for the day...to see how
Sturdy it claimed to be before it
Regurgitated....spluttering and coughing
Sadness fills my chest when I see kids laugh and play with friends.
Friends that I never got to have.
Happiness that was sadness when all I got was myself and a note pad
Seeing happiness filling their hearts m with a sound of a symphony remarking my best words.
My heart fill with joyous, jealous, anger because I wish I could of had the love they had.
Now you see, watching the present reflects your past in a negative or positive way.
Bullies smashing my face with a ball, or rubbing it against a rubber band, making me ****** dis confident.
Coming home to a world of emptiness, and pain.
Raj Arumugam Mar 2014
they all turn up as friends at first
our friendly and warm-hug super powers
with their supercilious smiles and handouts
they come with nice words and packages
and promise of development and infrastructure
and bearing gifts and loans
and remarking on affinities
and history and culture
and they throw in aid and money
and promise of riches and wealth
but they all turn bad guys
all these friendly super powers
they want  a presence first
and then
you are theirs, time present and future
they turn up with new-year fireworks and promises
and then they want to invade your country
and they want to make you theirs
they all turn up bad guys
don't they
these friendly super powers -
and their warm hugs turn into bear hugs
PMc May 2021
My pen is leaking
ink pooling into my pocket protector
the one I’ve had since before the new math
My uncle gave it to me – I remember
it’s got the logo of his insurance company on it.
that and, now the ink stain.

Ink running through the cracks in the pocket protector
leaking where uncle’s meat thermometer pushed through tight plastic
staining a once yellow shirt

Stopping by the dry-cleaner for pick up
the vendor says she couldn’t get it all out
but it’s better than it was.
Hands me a small plastic sandwich bag filled with strips of paper
the size of those you see on magnets
for fridge poems

“Don’t know where these came from” she says, “****** near ruined my dryer
spinning around there – clogging up the air exhaust”

words……
I whisper under my breath

From the ink.  
The words in the pen
would not go unnoticed.

I pay her – grab my shirt, my jacket, my tie
grab the baggie of words
in no particular order
thank her
and with the welcome bell’s ding
I head into the street
a very satisfied customer

****** pen is still leaking by the time I get home
It’s leaking tears by now
tears that fill the ink well of my memory
dip and scribble dip and scribble

Thoughts almost painful
long forgotten
or so I thought
Last days on Brunswick Avenue
knowing I would have to return to school
emptying that huge street-facing bedroom
I got a lot of miles looking out of those windows
if I wrote a lot
I don’t remember
Late nights, very early mornings listening to
the hourly chime of that nameless clock
that made up the entire downtown Toronto skyline back in the day

The words that dotted the paper sometimes
sometimes made no sense
my friends politely remarking
“That’s good.  I like it” were unhelpful

Further future desperation wasn’t far
just need a receipt or a bar napkin or
a box from a Big Mac ripped into 4x2x1x2x4
whatever I could get my hands on
just trying to appease the leaking pen
from getting too far ahead of my regretful memory.

IOUs, shopping lists, debits to society
love poems, goodbye notes, “I miss you”
they’re all there, we just have to remember what they are

Words write themselves.  
The ink, the tears
the blood, the fridge magnets
have already formed the words.
I am the one with the ideas
when I meet a new lover or
fall out of favour with an “ex” – yet again or
attempt to describe three shades of orange or
when I want to remember to pick up pickles

They are stuck in the pen
until I am ****** good and ready
with the roll of the ball-point
to see where the words land this time.

drip
drip
drip
Written as part of a pandemic poetry group from Jun 2020.  We challenged one another to various formats and "themes".  I think this one was to "write about writing".  Alas, the pocket protector and the insurance company are my doing.
Carlyle combined the lit'ry life
With throwing teacups at his wife,
Remarking, rather testily,
"Oh, stop your dodging, Mrs. C.!"
Soft night emerged, came walking across the water,
Laid itself down in sheets
Across the heaviness of air
And all about became its bleak color of darkness.

Sounds however refused to
Alter their hues with the coming of their unseen makers.
From afar
Waves broke against the shore
And that tender climb reached up
And patted me on the shoulder, and I could imagine
As it shrank back down to its beach
In gentle ladled golden flows, the image of that sound.

A spirit remarking in the deep exercised its body.
The earth played like an instrument,
Or senses broken in half
And in that break is reached a hand to take
Its feeling straight from sources,
Those wonderful vibrations who were changed
By steps who filled their path, until the dawn.
AMBR Oct 2013
Written in the stars
a message just for me.
You always ask me why
I'm stuck staring at the sky.
They're blinking up there to tell me the Truth:
immortality exists for the masses,
a beautiful tragedy for the individual me.

When one ant dies,
you still groan over the colonies' persistence,
even while they process
that pour soul to his grave.

When one stars goes out,
you still gasp at the sky on a clear night,
saying there couldn't possibly be anymore out there.

Well I may die my own woman,
and I may make my mark on this world,
but someone will be looking down on us
when my colors fly,
remarking on the endurance of the human race.
From the physiognomy that bruises the vertical from Gaul; axiomatic metempsychosis elements were transferred from corporate primaries to third parties after the incipient expiration of Vernarth. This orphistic or mystical enchantment was brought by Wontelimar from Valdaine, emerging from insane drunkenness on the Ardeche Mountains, transmigrating euphony and medical justifications that were united with the reincarnated Helminth reminiscent of Vernarth. Such was a verme or worm that classified itself in his arm, munching in his elder veins elongated by parasites of commendable colonies and idiomatic, retro-emotional, and lyrical heights. Knowing that its baluster made capital letters in steps and life-giving questions by means of beads, and the oratic chain of Luccica's godmother that awakened in him translating expirative and presumptive psychophysical Zionisms of the eloquent millionth perspectivism of re-trance, when his putrid upright arm was recorded. and landing in his Abrahamic physical departure, dissociating his body, separating and alternating with his dexterous spiral Aorion tri-bracelet between the arm of Sagittarius and the arm of Perseus, liquefying into indissoluble modular stratagems for three bodies, plus the one that accompanied occupying triplets in posthumous individualities. Unconscious metempsychosis singularities brought the right-arm picking him up several times from the discursive hive of Wonthelimar, to convince him and tell him that he had not been with the Hexagonal Progeny for some time, without hindrance it brought him from Ardeche in lasting and concerting sets, gray senses looking at the valleys of Valdaine in pilgrimages towards the expectant Patmian plains. His expiration was reborn from the appendages of the water lilies that were grasped by the recessed lumbar powers and were trans-mentalized into related memories that subsist reincarnationist and degressive in plausive longing when re-advancing with revived intelligence, to indoctrinate themselves when raised from an emetic absolutist consciousness, and free from the greatest breaths of judgment is constant waste and reciprocity on shelves that started from an initial discipline already transmigrated, on skinned ardors eroding from astral ellipses in decayed individualities expiring in the Ego-Xifos (Ego-Sharps), that transpose the gorges that even through Hellenic geography that has not been shed by the blood of a Hetairoi.

Wonthelimar says: “hold on to my lazy arm and embrace Lazarus and his decayed fierceness! in different bodies I have seen your blood hang itself on banners with different super-life monarchies, in the germs of the Valdaine valley avoiding their retreat into fatuous materials that vilified the acrotera of your descended Megaron. Remarking on the genetic tricuspid, and emanating lineages of surviving to invigorate in the dexterous appendage of Aorion, which has to wail from the armpit of Betelgeuse with insensitive patches that mock to see him bleed for more than two thousand years without coagulating in possible anarchies more than nothing, before speculating from where the meager blindness of compassionate triple restraints has germinated, like a split Psychí or soul three times before predicting about the valleys and a castle, in infamous beatifies that do not bleed with me…, Wonthelimar ”. It is possible that they have sublimated us from the apathetic and brief radiance...?, Only in some moor or headland before tearing us from the banners or Vexillum of the inaugural that stuffs its already subsisted vehemence in spaces that are already acroteral, resting on peduncles in floral capitulars. And the immobile ones mold the support pustules…, the sap that runs horribly towards you and behind you! Incontinent to your dehydrated past lives redeeming subsistence and rubbing it, then excluding themselves healed properly from their wounds settled in muddy dreams of reviving them expired. Resulting from its origins from the Mysterium or Musterium as an enclave exacerbated in civil disproportions that were established since the Neolithic, without having sealed the doors of all the species that were trapped in the mysterious ice ages, based on ritualistic doctrines, through eager entities to obstruct lapses in the open air of the Spilaion Apokalypseo, having to be returned in possession of physiognomies and of all the enclosed species of the Neolithic Age ”. The bumblebees loaded with spherical honey in their legs, flew by the assembly of the warriors, crops, pastoral assemblages, and sharp stones that cut the wind that disturb the infants who fear the night sleep in the rough quarries that made them sedentary of venerable thermoregulated and climatic seats. Making of them and us revolutionary discoveries, for the interconnection of cooled flints in forests of Memento or Vademecun, to be erected on the megalithic plains, from where I come, rolling like a circular stone that moves the rocks of the World away from a near east, making some timorous and Asian oratics, I was able to get close to you Vernarth, who since the Neolithic I appear following you without giving up in the horticultural and in bovine frights. In this way, the water lilies and peduncles cordoned off the semoviente, full of thrones to conquer them, almost after having lost the calculations of the plasma that were being innovated from a Hetairoi by being reformulated from its incendiary essence, with such spasm being pardoned in the orbits of those who it the sustain themselves and wait for them bringing elaborate anonymous spare parts. Thus Wonthelimar spreads Greek fire over his golden breastplate, entering his transmigrated soul there, as fiduciaries of naphtha, sulfur, and ammonia in treats of previous and speculated oxygenated suitability that was transmitted in suffocating atmospheres by his deltoid when he detonated hatred in his eyelids.. His ***** inhibited signs of fear and hissing of freedom in fields of glory from a mythologized go diving between desolate flames of excretion, and throwing fuel that was not conceived of the same troubadour in the final redemption. (Among waters, minerals and ureas from the Hephaestus braze where dead proteins of cell warheads were stained, nitrogenizing acids that were from the common verb of Wonthelimar) ”.

The double V merged and intertwined forming an inverted double V, being the metric bulbar of Wonthelimar raising awareness of the upper and lower Vernarthian blocks, night falling towards a density of the same that moved raised on the north deck of the Eurydice ship, while everyone slept in the understand the "V" residing and originating from the annihilating biological duo of the immemorial of Vernarth and the Bumodos river, contemplating the suggestive salvage of sap after overcoming lymphomas in the battle of Gaugamela. Wonthelimar in tender loves misrepresented what he would achieve with his ****** healings next to the bold tributary, leaving in the vanguard and in starts from all the gigs that had condemned to Halicarnassus to be truncated next to infallible Canephores in disgrace to their executioners, branching all the branches of holm oaks of the articular of Wonthelimar that had been sheltering from the head, girdling itself in old debt collector and of souls in pain on the sleeping Nyons. The carriage perennially transshipped hesitant and unconscious individuals that the Falangists invited them to order, and spend the night shining in their Xifos in the bow with the inverted "V" to open up to the abundant exciting sea and find it in some Eden, being assembled in the primary kicks of an anonymous withdrawn, among all the cattle cooked with herbs that did not manage to sprout between one and the other.

The brawl is the symbiosis of the Megaron that exhibited the “M” united with the two inverted “Vs”, conceptualizing in Wonthelimar the vigil of early properties and phobias fragmenting in numerous odes in Thessaly, which were already re-agglutinating attracted from a patriarchal image from Hellas, under the pretext of Hellenistic consummations as a vocational institute race in primitives of Alexandrina Magnus, derived a few nautical miles to approach Patmos. The ship sailed across the sea, pre-conceptualizing the very universal being that revived in the Tracontero, looming out of all the waters like a nubile breaker that spoke to each other with words from Mageireméno Kefáli Votánon, "head cooked with herbs." Speaking in primitive alternate erudition and in tidal waves with more than twelve meters of territorial Argonauts making similar corvettes as the Gulf of Tarnetino, possessing distant and comparative sixty miles of the base that colonized Wonthelimar for new sources when encrypting in the Megaron. They persevere, captaining the Immature Polis that would be documented in Patmos, and in the town councils of the assemblage with ****** ceased battles, climbing towards a great cogitation height of the Megaron temple and the Theater of the Epidaurus, under the three darkness of the lilies bordering the Spilaion Apokalypseos.

In the hemicycle Theater of the Epidaurus, the stars worked for the nations of Asclepius together with Wonthelimar, thus healing emigrated musical sessions in palmistry and Parapsychology, where burdensome marks of interveners expectorated in vast impellers on the Koilones and in their softened and purged bleachers, from where each one was shouting towards all the winds and the advent of all the auditoriums absent by past and future generations, cheering lives in salvific voices, for those who cheer them with additional sheltered and attentive spectators from ultra-semicircular bleachers, not being on stage, better absent more than the actors of a drama to stay alive when they prowled towards the Diazoma, or corridor where all the spectators suffered from the same ordeal of Vernath's right arm and pectoral in decreasing lymphomas, in a greater capacity of incentive and saving grace. After this incident, Wonthelimar became a cause and effect of the Vernarth saga, but of transmigrated formality for the purpose of corresponding survival and of cellular restitution of what had died in him..., thus, everything would begin to be reborn towards a prop in a double aspect. The former commanders who were once his faithful servants would appear before this affront, to antagonize him and make him desist from joining as a Proceriato and Gigantum Form of the heroes of Gaugamela on Patmos.
Wonthelimar
My limbs are gushing while I walk
down towards the seaside pier,
these endings and these beginnings
ascending again into mere cycles,
the rising and falling chest,
beating heart,
transcending

I walk
hand in hand with you, restated love,
the new and the old clothes we wear
wrapped around our breathless poses
our heads filled with thoughts
of rose ridden gardens, and of course
children dancing, playing games between
our spacious Pohutakawa branches
where you first taught me about romantics
without that rudimentary triteness
and you sitting, coffee in hand at the picnic table
swearing revolution is never possible
to I dancing, remarking
“you are such the cynic”
before grabbing you and twirling you
faster than the earth rotates

As we drift closer to the sea
the inconstant wind winds the clock to 10pm,
the minutes restoring those now withered days
of woollen coats, new music and Dunedin
I would stand behind you while you played the flute
thinking of that time
where we played in the rhododendrons
till dark; folding time folding into
my arms, the sky white and blue
juxtaposed against the trees
darkened spikes explore the sea
what was it? me, me, me,
of course, I see
and I
remember the melody

(lets go under the covers
we can play games in the dark
we could even try adding to
those stars on your ceiling)

so now, again, for a moment, we reappear
in this hour, this walk, this air
stilted, shaking
we resurface,
and soak in the watery soils of previous deluges
become something overwhelming,
something insoluble

here we are, on the Pier
at noon, dazed, defused
by a familiar grip on the fingers
index snug between the ring

“take me to the end”
“but darling,
we are going further than that”

before we jump
we tie our balloon to the pole

and promise to return, on horses
painted silver and brass

Hey, nice to see you here
come with me
lets watch the sunrise
from the beach,
I think I sense a revolution stirring
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
that depiction of  a scene in Marie-Antoinette...
between
Louis-Stanislas, Comte de Provence -
brother to Louis XVI...
    who would become Louis XVIII
and his wife...
        Princess Maria Giuseppina of Savoy...
where she nagging him to provide
her with a child to stop pestering him
from doing... whatever it was that he was
doing... him remarking...
get your ugly face out of my moon light!

whether it is true via a fictional depiction:
never mind that!
i can trace back to the scene where
both of them are lying in bed
and he's trying to get a *******:
god, that face, there is nothing worse
than an ugly smile on a woman
and i have seen some ugly smiles on women:
beautiful women with ugly smiles...
ugly women with very beautiful
smiles, the paradox...

so he's jerking off while she interrupts
him implying: a man beating a dead horse...
checks under the cover:
well... a dead mouse...
woman's violence thus worded...
subtle, cunning, satanic -
grown-women and the supposed forever-infantile
state of man's mind:
to hunt, to explore to merely exist
by the sustenance of thought alone...
well... she did arrive from Savoy:
which i finally found out was part of Italy
with a Frida Kahlo monobrow and
a 9am moustache shadow beneath her nose...
***-fluff... well... no wonder:
i don't expect Elizabeth I of England
was much to look at...
    perhaps if Picasso hid her in his cubistic
monstrosities of fake-geometry handling...

in which direction?
only last Sunday... what a shift!
i was escorting about 8 police officers
to these two disgruntled women...
woman and daughter...
apparently these two "gangsters" were
threatening them... threatened them with knives...
with balaclava gang-members coming
to the ice-rink to "sort them out"...
something was fishy...
the daughter looked alright...
almost perfect physiognomy...
but the mother's ears... wonky...
i'd be more proud to have the ears of a rugby
player than those ears...
myopic... sickly looking...

me and the police officers managed to find them
bring them down for questioning /
give incident reports...

prior to these two gangsters, "gangsters"
came up to me asking: 'are you the security guard?'
yup... they started chatting to me
before the two women launched at me
with criteria unheard of...
i'm final on this point...
women to me are semi-solipsistic...
they don't even know it...
they don't know it when they wear a mask
of pretending but as quick as honestly
comes unapologetic and demands
impartial equilibration of getting to know
the situation: the mask... sort of... slips...
a lying woman is hardly an architect...
there's only the initial shock of a lie that
she figures will pass-on and through
and will be believed when she makes
a sloppy second stab on any given matter
in the vicinity of the original (lie)...

      this duo should have been ashamed!
truly! a mother and daughter double act
is the worst kind... a father could never persuade
a son to follow suit... but a mother can always
(seemingly) persuade her daughter to replicate
terrible behaviour...

in this instance? the "gangsters"...
when the police officers were questioning the women
i went up back to the ice rink to pick them out...
they were sitting in the polar opposite location
to the women...
"gangsters"...
      as i extended my index finger and asked
them to come with me downstairs
(tugging at an invisible fish-line)
i told them they were not in trouble...
the worst that might happen to them was...
they might get a free police escort home...
a free ride home...
names? Freddie and Georgie...

      turns out these "gangsters" were two
13 year old boys... 13 they said: they looked more
like 8... then again... at least one came from
a single-mother household and had
two older brothers and a younger sister...
under-nourished kid... i looked 13 when i was
8 looking at them...

the women were questioned giving fictional
statements: most probably...
i just sat down with Freddie and Georgie
and talked... this, that... and the other...
Georgie was named Georgie because he was
born on St. George's Day...
Freddie? that's short for Fredrick...
my "supervisor" interrupted me:
no! no one calls their children Fredrick...
it's Freddie...
then Freddie jumped in: i'm sometimes called
Frederico! hey presto!
that's not Friedrich... it's Frederick in Spanish...

huh? what's this? English language trying
to attempt the diminutive form of endearment
by shortening a person's name?
Fredrick becomes Freddie...
Edith becomes Edie...
Matthew becomes Matt
Peter becomes Pete
Samuel becomes Sam
Alexander becomes Alex?!
that's not a diminutive form... nor is it some
variation of endearment that diminutive form
exacts...

zdrobnienie...
        and if this supposed "diminutive" exists
in English... English is too rigid in its form of words...
attache of suffixes -less and -ness and -lessness...
as if something is missing rather than merely shrunk...

in ****** it's thoroughly apparent among nouns,
not merely in given names of people...
e.g. it's not simply Matthew becomes Matt...
i.e. where's the door, door prior...
to wipe my shoes on, i.e. the doormat?
it's ugly! it's horribly self-assured in faking
the diminutive approach...

spread across all, ALL nouns...
sun: słońce
little sun: słoneczko
river: rzeka
little river: rzeczka...

oh! ah ha ha! today i heard the car manufacturer
correct its pronunciation of a letter...
the Czech manufacturer SKODA
actually bothered to stress the Jan Huss'
demand for caron (crown) atop the S...
i actually heard SHKODA...
            crown in Czech... a rugby goalpost
in English... one arm of the Tetragrammaton...
otherwise a: H = Z in ******...
  ŠKODA = szkoda (pity) = oh well...
  oh well = pity... oh well ≠ oops...

and what has English to give "us" when it comes
to the diminutive form? ugliness...
ugliness of names...
Frankie, this lesbian coworker of mine
who, oddly enough has a child... a daughter:
so she wasn't a lesbian all along...
but now she's a butch lesbian...
muscular, i asked her how long it took her to
get a six-pack... 3 months...
she's looking for a gym-rat buddy...
she was thinking of me...
a mohawk haircut... not terribly attractive...
but... what, a, gorgeous, smile!
my "supervisor" giggled about gay-conversion
therapy with her...
Frankie = Francesca... now... correct me if i'm wrong...
Francesca sounds ace of spades ****...
Frankie... gender-neutral is...
like the rest of a gender-neutral world-view...
thing thing thing thing thing thing thing nothing
nothing thing thing thing thing thing thing
anemia
thing thing thing thing anemic thing(s): nothing
thing cube *** asexuality thing thing thing
black thing thing thing thing white thing thing
thing, thing thing thing, nothing, thinking thing
thinking nothing (god); thing thing thing -
but that's English for you... other European
languages have the masculine and the feminine
form... you couldn't get away with transgenderism
in any other language: except for English...
the grammar allows for this phenomenon to take
place! thing thing thing thing...
i know that the French would agree with me...
the Moon is male... the Sun is female...
in English there's a forced-vagueness associated
with gendering "things"... nouns...
loosely, borrowing from Latin:
Luna is a girl's name... alias of the Moon...
and Sol is a boy's name... alias of the Sun...

    the words themselves have a trickle of hope
for gendering objects according to ***...
the Moon in the English instance is a male...
even though he was given a female name prior
and the Sun is a female even though she was
given a male name prior, prior id est in Latin...

i don't think it's enough to simply speak a language:
a parrot can speak a language of human "concerns"
if the precursor of women talking all giddy to an AI
chat bot in the form of SIRI is anything to go by
the engineers must have thought of a parrot...
Hello Polly... Polly wants a *******...
that's how the advent of "intelligence" probably
emerged: simulation of the marriage of
a parrot and an echo...

        it's not enough to speak a language...
there's more to language than simply speaking it:
there's also the aspect of: knowing it...
digging trenches... i don't want to require of myself
to know the grammatical-categorical beside
the clarifying distinctions of what a noun is:
what a verb is... adverb... but then i gloss over
and forget the categorisation of words...
i know what a locksmith knows:
I = key
      O = keyhole
        Φ = I + O = i put a key into a keyhole
i turn the key:
                  I + / + O = Θ
upon turning the key the door U opens:
  Ψ! whether that's Poseidon's trident
or whether that's what psychologists
of today spew: the non-existence of god
and the self: "self" riddled by some
variation of Damocleses' sword...
      authority of thought within the confines
of: ought-i?!

      i walk through... i doubt i will have any serious
readers in this language...
it will take me... at least a bout of gangrene
of blue mingling with green and gold
to arrive at my resting plateau of hope that's
Paris... my love for Paris...
my love of being a stupid 18 year old...
  
wouldn't you believe: i think it was forever a
stupid affair to translate Finnegans Wake into
any language beside the original:
which is literally not so much original as:
originally muddled... since how many languages
are borrowed?

i sat with the "gangsters" until the end: beginning
of their ordeal... i too was given the police-taxi
back home once upon a time...
but then again that time i was given a free-ride
home... some clever ****** thought it was absolutely
necessary that i get alcohol poisoning
in a Seven King's nightclub by the roundabout...
with the floor... sickly sweet covered by carpets...
warm ***** and orange juice... ugh...
i stepped off the bus and collapsed
onto the pavement... i was woken up by
a helpless bystander and a police-officer...
subsequently taken home in a cage...

shameless women... mother & daughter...
but here i was, the "security guard"... trying to explain
to the boys: i know its not fair...
i know... i know... the women will be believed first...
Sally Challen - walked free after killing her
"abusive" husband with a hammer-blow
to the head... i wish Richard (Challen)
was bitten by a hammerhead shark...
  i truly do...
        at least the shark would have been hungry...
**** knows what Sally's inferno of thinking
conjured up prior... it's hardly decent to believe
women... these days... i'd rather play a poker
face gambit on the truthfulness of children...
at least with children there's no ****** inference
bias up to... well... that "bias" ends once they
(the girls) enter a medieval plump *** distinction...
14... maybe 13...
          
      confirmed though...
  once the boys were sent home this other woman
approached me and my "supervisor" and mentioned
an ongoing scenario with the "inbreds"...
a female ******* ring? hmm... maybe...
      Freddie! i know it's unfair... i know...
ladies first... i know she has chicken-nugget looking
ears... she looks like she was born from
a lust of her uncle for her mother and yet
her daughter is some random quickie-fix
while she banked on pure luck... i know, i know...
i'll sit this one out with you...

Frankie in the meantime was planning a date with her
new found ****-loves-**** relationship...
her girlfriend from... near Oxford(?)
was supposed to come down to see the ice hockey match...
already booked a room in the hotel...
but then apparently the girlfriend's car started leaking oil...
so Frankie was left walking alone to an alone-hotel-room
while the gay-conversion jokes rained...
butch *****: but a smile that could melt
any ****-disciple...
              i said my bye-byes and pretended to go home,
early...
did i? nope..

i decided to test my limp-biscuit "problem"...
i went to the brothel...
who was available? only one... the girl with the first
letter: L... not Linda...
i asked for her description: the blonde one...
ah... that one... the one that thinks she ultra-SPAZ
SPACE-X "special"... i'm spezial *** too!
the one into body augmentation...
first her **** wouldn't fit... too small...
prior to the first: 0... i.e. her lips weren't purse enough...
pout not enough bloom of a baboon's ***...
fine fine...

oh i hate pretending to be a Catholic priest
in a brothel... do i have a rubber ear or something?
are these confessions?!
i must be a Catholic priest of sorts: of imitation....
do you know a Catholic "priest"
that doesn't ask for a confession from a *******
after she performs oral *** on him...
and subsequently spews all that "life is crap"
*******?
      last time i heard Catholic priests were ferocious
anti-*** pro-*** with the choir boys...
one **** in one ear one **** out the other...
there are at least three avenues of the "tested"
woman... the vaginal approach...
the **** and the oral... hey presto! your *******
"trinity"... i'm not going to stop *******:
what i didn't receive in my glorified youth
i will not spare in my old age...
beat the child who discovered self-pleasuring
aged 8... before the production of *****
with what he said: "that funny sensation":
not, NOT: feeling... sensation... the tingling
of the choir of Eunuchs...
before the production of ***** arrived...
to squirt...

i write in English... i might have English readers...
me? i'm waiting for French translators...
i don't care one iota over a fabric of fractions
of I/O = an iota over a omicron:
joke in Latin: what's an Ψ without an iota?
an Upsilon or an Omega?
watch the curvatures...
and the sinking ship of a ship that was
never supposed to sail... Ω + I = bow down...
exfoliate: psychology:
logic of soul & the non-existence of god
or soul...
Enlightenment? Renaissance or:
Re-convalescence?
                oh... right... right... this be the first?
the times of the first illness of
post-colonial capitalistic restructuring having
defeated the "ancient" enemy of the communist
harpie-up: rouse-down...
    
solo-project "detail-lost detail-friendly"
advertisements... must be a island-dwelling folk
"thing"... hence the persistent writing of English history:
the Norman invasion: must be celebrated!
the Anglo-Saxon lineage must be celebrated!
via pity, pillage, **** and... unwanted women!
i don't want to mingle with these native women!
i'm here like a kindred hope of:
sending a postcard from Hawaii...
thinking about a beauty from Grenoble...
while at the same time having a burning effigy
of a girl from St. Petersburg...
but rather succumbing to the magnet of a pair
of eyes from the Carpathian region of Moldova...

me? i just landed the prize of writing within the confines
of the Medieval version of the Lingua Franca...
English is the language of commerce...
i know it tries to: in vain... to be this insomnia tongue
of the former British Empire...
spoken "elsewhere": everywhere...
but no... pockets of resistance...
Kashmir... teach those sieving through
poppy-mud the artefacts of Braille in Arabic
concerning the region having giving
Alexander the Great the grand limp **** of
a sword with a sheaf of Afghanistan...
how those men must have loved those women...
terribly not surprised that i don't love
those in my vicinity...

                expandable in times of war...
now? expandable in times of peace...
                if not turning one's bright cheeks for
some **** slapping: turning into a quasi-celibate monster
listening to prostitutes telling me of their woes...
thanking me for listening to them...
with L: her ******* done, her lips done...
next? her liposuction belly and arms...
not the effort of exercise in sight...
the quickie monstrosity...
then her teeth: i showed her my clearly aligned teeth
like the stampede of the Polish-Lithuanian
hussars before the siege of Vienna...
      smile: clearly aligned constellation of stars...

two women in the past have revealed dreams about
me they had that came true:
Ilona - she actually sketched it...
and showed it to me...
i was standing in a Judas' pose with my back turned
before her kneeling: arms outstretched
as if to be crucified...
long hair... naked upper body...
holding a sword in my right hand:
that's before the Russian invasion
    of Ukraine... before i wandered into the forest
and found my Cossack shashka...

another dream: displaying photographs of girls
before Danielle... apparently i was happy...
that last email i received from Danielle was
almost 7 years ago...
i think i'll send her a reply...
          
          it might be almost a decade apart...
compliment? hardly...
          but i guess that's how we always were:
why oh why Disney took the reins on
the imagination of youngsters and not
something from Studio Ghibli...
  America is decadent: pederastic...
America was a borrowed civilisation:
hence? its short-lived stature of a status of
faking civilisation: via: "culture"...
its culture is parasitic...
          America has no civilisational focus...
its an extension of Europe...
in times when Europe doesn't appreciate
"said" extensions...
China is a civilisation...
Russia and India are civilisations...
America is a culture...
it's not a civilisation...
              
          America is a culture-state
whereas China is a civilisation-state...
power-hungry-mongrels... god help us if they become
fiendish pseudo-Mongols!
America would require for Europe to
disappear: and for that to be the case:
it must... Europe must burden itself
with an ethnic anemia for America
for "become" a civilisation...
      
              whatever the "Jew" failed to employ
in his exile in Europe will not:
doubly will not achieve in North America...
Marcus Garvey or H. P. Lovecraft bedbug-love-buddies
aligned...
              struck by the wave of heightened:
wow! the Arabs joked about Moses and the 40
years in the desert... no wonder the camel-jockeys
never left... waiting for dragons of myth
to turn into dinosaur sludge post-locomotive
crescendo of wealth!

      my ***** your ***** anyone's AI bore...
that's globalism: the free-market free-world
enterprise... except for:
what's outside the realm of orbits...
in the vacuum: in the unknown:
clearly now known:
there are foundations: there are restrictions...
there are forests worth of the impaled that
suffered worse fates than the "supposed"
ultimatums of gods unto men with those
that were crucified... please! spare me!

boo! who?! boo! who?!
i might write in English...
but i'm not English...
i'm not exactly happy about an English speaking
audience... i'm waiting for the translators...
i'll be dead before my wishes come
true...and all the better... given
the climate of the currency of these times:
i.e. wasting each and each other's time...
while solidifying an abstraction
of prisoner enactment of "safe" space!
bah!

oh woo woo... quote me a sea that didn't woo
a river into its basin of:
the challenge of horizon:
how does the water of the sea disparage itself
from the water of the river:
and: with those floating cauliflowers of
clouds... allow for the reign of rain
to come and give man of the land
the beauty of spring and the harvest of summer
and of autumn... and the melancholy of
the darkened nights of winter
where the libido is so frail?
I crawled out kicking and screaming, born from the fires of a Dragon’s throat

My tongue created the blasphemy of which all demons spoke

My entrails are lined with sulfur, my heart pumps mercury

Fear provides me a humble bliss and anger shelters me


Upon your belly you shall go

And dust shall you eat all of your days

You shall be the lowest form of life

Cursed you’ll be until you meet your grave


By my hand I impale the remorseful king

And by my fires I purged his soul

Remarking as the ember quenched

Thus your crown is scorched and dull


Upon your belly you shall go

Crawling helplessly all of your days

You are the lowest form of life

You shall receive none of my praise
Jodie LindaMae Apr 2014
1.
I have been told
That I am too pretty to smoke.
I did not understand what he meant by this
Because I knew plenty of beautiful girls who smoked
And their boyfriends did not comment
On their vices, instead, only on their virtues.
Then I understood
That he was remarking on my insides-
My lungs and my horribly scarred soul.

2.
I didn't know anything about Batman.
I asked him about Bruce Wayne once
And was called a ******* idiot.
Now Batman scares me
And makes my stomach twinge
Because I feel guilty
For not knowing who he was,
I am a ******* idiot.

3.
Your mother loved Reagan
And I told her that he was
A dishonest, morally twisted pig
Who sat back
While thousands of Americans
Succumbed to a disease
Who's name was whispered
On the winds of her generation.
I don't think your mother likes me much anymore.
I think she may get in our way later on.
I wish she and I
Didn't care so much about Ronald Reagan.

4.
You told me about Joy Division
And I thought it was beautiful
That Ian Curtis hung himself in his kitchen
for his wife to find
And later had the words
"Love will tear us apart"
Inscribed on his headstone.
You called me cryptic
And then assaulted me in the night.
You made me want to die
So I could write "love will tear us apart"
On my own headstone.

5.
He asked for **** photos
And I told him no.
Upon which I was called a ****
And demeaned during intimacy
From then on.
He taught me that virgins could be *****
And now I am the ******
Time has made into the ****
It has ****** time and again.

6.
He called Wes Anderson films "hipster garbage"
And told me instead to watch things
Like Reservoir Dogs and South Park.
A year later, I only know not to tip
And how to be an *******.

7.
You told me to grow my hair out
Because a girl with short hair
Was a lesbian and you told me
You didn't want others to think
That you were going with a lesbian.
But in the end you still pulled it
With regular fierceness
And I was too much of a coward
To tell you to eat ****.
Mahdi Dn Oct 2014
Through the forest of passion
Watching man's heartfelt nature
Peace, passion, fear and pain
In concert within one frame

Nurturing all, with peace and warmth
Growing along, in peace at war.

Afraid to unleash all that's locked-up inside
Mists of passion - enshrouding - limited sight.
Love enroots the longing within the heart
And the mind is ceased and gone

Pain feeds on fear of loss
Dovish flower withers, thus...

Earth shakes,
Sun's darkened,
Forest is filled with despair.
Green turns red,
And then grey
Afire - forest decayed.
Laid in ashes,
Staring at the face of the night,
Fragments of hope, spread across her face,
Remarking my fall from grace.

Through the forest of passion
Life remains sans ambition
Peace, passion, fear, and pain
Disharmonic and mundane.


Written by: Mahdi "Monstrosity" Dn.
This is the lyrics of the song "The Four Seasons of Man" by Blood Decant.
Jenny Gordon Jul 2017
My brothers were remarking I've had more beaus than most...  



(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXVIII)


La, how Vivaldi trills and capers thence
When I am on the run, like to avail
Me is a chancy thing for all he'd hail
In, erm, my absence.  And oh! these skies wear hence
Long faces since rain swore off dawn, a sense
Of sheer foreboding in racks' blue detail,
The scanner crackling with a weary tale
My brother knew would be, and "jail" fr'intents.
Dad swears I am "subjective" as it were,
That list of boyfriends I once tripped on through
(Whereof I say "I don't know how to stir
Aught man, but I kin sure ditch lovers") to
A fault against my dearest hopes, a poor
Reminder of I can't say what.  Why, too?

10Jul17b
It's not so much that I try to dump fellows, it just turns out that way, I dunno why.
Jenny Gordon Oct 2016
My Dad kindly and gently said I am fine just as myself, though remarking on how foolishly prone I am to--never mind.  Reading these diary pages was enough for you.



(sonnet #MMMMMCMLXXXVII)


Divorced.  with one kid.  I'd forgotten thence
Twas ah, passe to be a single they'll
Assure you's worn a wedding ring, to fail
At vows along the years, this baggage' sense
Of broken why erm, happy is pretense,
Or laughter short-lived, sorrow that detail
His eyes are haunted by in sheer betrayl,
And I've been warned too many times.  Ah, whence?
Forsooth.  Is't something like, "don't ask."?  In poor
Excuse I took for granted what we knew.
For aye, who's not "experienced" as it were?
My brother said a bachlor'd love me, ooh--
Who'd cherish my ******'ty.  Shaun.  I cure
Naught in whatever, mixt up over who?

22Oct16c
Ah, deary me.
Jodie LindaMae Dec 2014
I can't rightfully
Comment on the color of your eyes,
The swiftness of your thought
Without remarking
On the innocence flowing in your veins
And the worldliness
That's only been present
In drifter gods before you.
am i ee Sep 2015
“I TOOTED!”
exclaimed,
the little blonde-mop
headed of a lad.
so very proudly,
and
rather quite loudly,

Said with such glee
3-year-old eyes,
open so wide,
open,
and sparkling,
and open,
and,
so wise.

After
remarking
Hmmm, Is that so?
with a growing,
little,
smile.

This did
completely change
my mentality.

Such a cute,
toot,
it
was.

One real cuuuute toooot!
for a darling little fellow in my life for too brief a span.
Chelsea Chavez Jan 2016
Everything is starless.


What hand claps count the silent syllables.


How easily the sentiment of humanity leaves itself
in ghast emissions. This dust, now, remarking at itself.


But now, how words misspell out of me in grey, phosphorescent gestures.


All lights bend from me.
If they had heads they would turn away, ashamed.


Everyone is quiet in the darkness.


This infinite moment has stolen the lungs from me.
Some time ago one went on a little trip*
To check out the internet poetry landscape
What one saw remained in the mind's tape
A movie reel which had a compelling grip
Poet's comments were of such cliquish old rock
Like being an exclusive remarking club
Outsider verses left out of their hub
The scenery verily stunned one with much shock
One so wishes one had not gone away
A dream of venturing did disenchant
The roads lead to (an in house favouring)
After sighting the terrain's mode of sway
Taking a journey one may well recant
*These vistas weren't enjoyable savouring
Mandi Guest Jul 2012
Break this selfish

Sense of being

Make a move

Beyond your breathing



Hate

can do so much

Love

The healing touch



Buried away until tomorrow

Find the day for you it's borrowed

Let this resting day

Show you strength to get away



Hold your ground

Look past the bleeding

Hold the truth

When it's worth keeping



Fight

To stay alive

Rise

Surpass this climb



Buried away until tomorrow

Find the day for you it's borrowed

Let this hallowed day

Show you strength to get away



Lift your hands and feel this

Selfless sense of being

Bare you hearts to feel this

Final life remarking meaning



Buried away until tomorrow

Find the day for you it's borrowed

Let this resting day

Show you strength to get away



Buried away until tomorrow

Find the day for you it's borrowed

Let this hallowed day

Show you strength to get away



I'll show my strength and get away
Rory Nunn Jan 2017
Where sunset copperplates the sea
With flecks of gold and Verdigris
And down below, the ghosts of ships do battle in the bay
Where in the morning, rising scents of sea salt and of sage
Drift up the hill on gifted wings to greet the kids that come of age
On dry stone walls in olive groves
Beneath the strident sun

Sharp shadows cast by old scrub oaks
Where once young shepherds flung their cloaks
Resist the timeless tug of war of brash Etesian winds
Where goats' bells bounce off whitewashed walls, with each staccato leap
And black-wrapped widows spin their webs to catch what precious dream-filled sleep
They might ‘neath watch of leaning, still
Centurions of stone

To soothe the white heat of the sun
We dived and left our limbs undone
In ocean coolness, born again - and flushed, we struck for shore
With towels held high above our heads
we tiptoed onto land
And broke from canvas rare delights to share upon the sand
The day we lunched on Ithaca
Two thousand orbits turned

Content, we hung in listless sleep
As painted ladies traced our shape
Until the lure of barefoot expeditions brought me round
I picked my steps with casual ease through shade of salt-dried driftwood trees
And swore I’d found the very glade where hung the Golden Fleece
I turned to share my thrill with you
But chose instead to spare your peace

Soon after came the faithful sound
Of bells that haul the Earth around
Each chime remarking loud and clear its moment’s fading grace
And deep within you as you slept, inaudible at first,
The beating of a second drum began to be rehearsed
The day we lunched on Ithaca
Life’s liquor quenched our thirst
SMP Oct 2012
I remember reading,
Reading into you,
Your paper skin and ink eyes,
You were born to be a book.

I remember thinking,
Remarking,
You had no heart and I new it,
I loved you for it.

We were paper dolls,
White wash skin and type stained hair,
We were wishes on a rainy day,
Living to be forgotten.

You saved me from a fire,
Unaware,
unaware of my tumbling bricks,
You saved my soul and kept on running,
Leaving me for the dust.

I used to wish,
I wished so hard,
To have been born your heart instead,
Feeling nothing, cease existing,
I would have kept you happy,
I would have kept your warm,
I would have kept you alive.
Grace Jun 2014
Before that night, I had never been certain I was going to die.
Obviously, there will be a day when my time on this Earth- in this life- is up
But I thought it was going to be that day in that moment on that drug with those people in that house.
Hyperventilating.
Rocking my torso up and down,
staring at the wooden floor
wishing it would solidify again.
Hoping those .3 grams would just,
for god's sake
for my sake
evacuate my body before I exploded into smithereens.
In ten seconds the surrounding scenery had completely unraveled.
And it formed light worms, multicolored beams,
weaving pastels, waves of insanity
utter insanity before my eyes. No.
In my eyes.
I thought:
can I handle this much at once?
will I die?
will I die here?
Such thoughts were cut short
as my mind and body
at once
accepted the drug.
I let it in.
All throughout my skin, pores, limbs.
I breathed in as deeply as I could
and told myself
accept.
He's screaming in the bathroom OHMYGODOHMYGOD
With the music swinging me back and forth
hard against the wood, I am one with it.
He's remarking
I've never felt this way I've never experienced this high this this this this
This is ecstasy.
And it was.
Marvelous synthetic ecstasy which I craved.
All cravings fed
and released and fed again.
emptied of what little serotonin I had left.
Still I questioned the same waking thoughts
A wary weakling. with an eating disorder and a bad case of self destruction.
They spoke in a verbose and beautiful language
they threw their words and souls at each other.
I hovered and rolled and hoped there wouldn't be days like this to remember.
I generally don't write about drugs in such an overt fashion but this trip changed me.

— The End —