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Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
now i know why i might engage with writing obscene
poems, chauvinism included, but still there
is no burning excuse in my mind with the way
western society actively desires censorship of certain
words, i already attributed censoring obscene
words as worse than what this tactic precipitates into:
the apathetic spread of *******, and violence
in general... it crosses my mind that sparring with violent
language cushions people from violet action...
to utilise violent language with that: pardon my French
attitude does more good than evil on the users...
how many road rage incidents could have been avoided
if people were unable to watch their tongue:
somehow we're making language sterile, by actively
pursuing this sort of censorship: which is not even
remotely politically related / motivated, we're bringing
an anaemic status quo in how fluidly we speak -
we desire to not hear the sometimes funny and the sometimes
awful... but we choose to see the god-fearing horrific...
ask any blind-man about music and he'd say:
well, i can dance to it in a nucleus position, centrally
gravitational pull - but ask the deaf man about
what he has to say when seeing **** written to counter
obscenity, as in cartoon-like: f&%£! it's just plain silly,
pocket-sized expression of psychotic behaviours,
rummaging through them i find only one source of inspiration:
the fact that we're in this blind-man's garden of innocence,
somehow dressed in the camouflage of censorship such
a tiny problem, that it does indeed require 23 mattresses
for the princess to not feel the frozen *** agitating her...
this sort of censorship in its application is under
a false sense of purpose, it really doesn't change people's
behaviour for the better, it doesn't pacify them, in does
the reverse: it infuriates, it makes violence more potent...
i'm still trying to figure out why such words
will make our perceptions saintly... unless of course
that's the reason behind them, as way of invoking an
anaesthetic placebo, a placebo that's actually active rather
than passive - presuming the anaesthetic placebo gives
way to an aesthetic active apathy-inducing ingredient...
meaning we can't bare to hear swear words, but we can
gladly watch 20 hours of 20 : 1 ****... censoring **** ****
**** **** will not escape Newtonian physics...
given our current scenario, Newtonian physics is far
more important than Einstein's relativity, i'd hate to be
in denial about cause & effect... as began with Socrates,
i too abhor moral relativism... of course Newton got
the gravity bit wrong, but i like the simpler version...
plus... there was no Romance with Einstein...
no apple, no tree, no Voltaire... meaning we don't necessarily
write history collectively, with all of us starting from
the big bang or the view from the Galapagos islands...
we don't... we continue writing history not from a
collective consciousness genesis... or from the collective
unconscious genesis - that's Jung with his archetypes
(devil, god, wise man, mother, father etc.) rather than
dreams (Freud) - we can chose were to write the future...
it's not so much ignorance as arm-chair intellectualism,
it's not about the safety of understanding something,
but the comfort of choosing to understand something...
which is pretty much to my excuse for my previous poems...
Heidegger... and that concept of Dasein -
i never bothered to understand it to the point of
reacting subjectively to it, by that i mean an interest
in writing about it, an interpolation of the subject with
alternative variations... i objectified it, i also countered it
when objectifying the concept turned out to be an
everyday object, shortening my quest.
the counter? hiersein, i.e. being here, here denoting a
solipsistic classification of awareness with / in the world -
which is basically me in my room, admiring my library,
my record collection, my torn sneakers, everything that
is classified exclusive to what dasein evolves into
when all its grammatical weaving only express a verb,
i.e. concern... so i thought, given this what can hiersein
(being here / nonchalance) actually show me as
my lack of interest in: "changing the world".
it became obvious yesterday, i had a hard time when i
didn't read the day's copy of the times (more on this later),
instead i had to suffice with construction site media,
you might have heard of this newspaper: the daily star,
at 20 pence a pop, you will see what £1.20 makes to
your psyche... but that's basically it, i objectified Heidegger's
concept and made it into an everyday object, in this
case and as the only case available: a newspaper -
and the trick is? well, with a newspaper like daily star
you don't actually experience dasein - it's completely
missing in this style of media, and that's worrying given
my barbaric poetry of yesterday... it's missing, not there,
such object-for-object chirality is what gives birth to
hiersein (being here); but today i returned to my usual
media diet, a flicked through the times and the natural
balance of personal objects and a fresh impersonal object
coexisted - the newspaper is truly the most adequate
compounded expression of Heidegger's dasein -
which i attribute to the constant need to emphasise an
empathy with others... empathising is a neutral form
of sympathising, since sympathy is sourced in shared
experiences: **** victims (e.g.) - therefore empathy is
something that in the ontological structuring of dasein,
which opposes the ontological structuring of hiersein,
which is structured by apathy; there is nothing else for
me to write, apart from the compendium proof
of the disparity of sources, i.e. headlines and subheadings:

- prior compendium -

i will never understand the point of autobiographies,
the majority of autobiographies are written
on a p.s. basis, after the facts / actions,
never immediately, concerning ideas /
solidified thoughts, thoughts condensed into idea
that allow thinking / cognitive narration to
continue regardless with what's being achieved...
i haven't anything autobiographical dissimilar
with something biographical...
Plato wrote that wonderful biography like
Shakespearean theatre, but i guess his critics felt
the claustrophobic tug & pull of mermaids...
still the problem ascends heights unparalleled -
even with ghost writers doing the leg-work...
cheap-buggers never learned to write, let alone read,
and here they are writing biographies...
ah, **** it... they're only sketches... whether biographic
or autobiographic... they're still mere sketches...
if this was the art world the revenue would come
posthumously, when it comes to literacy
nothing really distinguishes poets from
those prescribing pedestrian signs...
the Olympians can moan at the vacant stadium...
that there's a hierarchy in sports,
with the favoured monochrome idealisation
of where the bunny money is in the whirlpool
of the rabbit hole investment: football, volleyball...
but the literary events are the same...
people love to lie that they read the bestseller to
its full extent... but treat books like chairs and tables...
inertia prone half finished, sat on for 2 weeks of
the entire year... the Olympians are very much
like poets, and i care to distance myself from either
demand for more interest being invoked...
i like esoteric sports, i like esoteric writing...
but that's how it stand: poets are Olympians where
novelists are footballers, who retire at 30 and
then think about what to do with their wages
that are 10x higher than the everyday labourer...
start a restaurant, buy a strip of houses in Liverpool
like Michael Owen? good guess, here's to exploiting
youth disgracefully... that's what they're getting,
and these are the dilemma points to consider...
they're the equivalent gladiators of our time,
Rome was just a sleeper before it awoke once more...
but i'll never understand why these
people decided to exploit literature for gain...
all these academics with their pristine purity of discovery
are pacified when dictating print,
what poet, has a chance in hell, to appear gladly
excavated from Plato's cave of television?
about none.
i too was focusing on 20th century literature,
before 21st literature came about...
and i thought, oh god: they're really going to create
a totalitarian democracy, every artist will be
strip-searched for adding cinnamon and chilli to their
writing to bounce away from conformist
sober and sane extraction of alter wordings...
this 21st scene will become polarised...
we'll have the extinction of One Direction over a joint,
while the Rolling Stones drank a keg of whiskey
and pulled off a show... we'll have moralisation
of the fans to subdue the artists, which will mean
no artist will ably create a zeitgeist to rebel... everyone
will suddenly experience a weird sort of communism...
the worst kind... it will mean having
all the mental freedoms without the ability to
economise a coup... basically an inertia, an immediate
fatality... we can't economise a coup...
which boils down to why so many autobiographies
aren't really biographic, but rather consolidating,
by the meaning: autobiographic i intended to relate
the everyday... the most secretive account of life:
the everyday... this is stressing Proust,
even though i preferred Joyce over Proust i keep
the everyday the prime ideal: the only detail,
so that an autobiography can make sense,
automation of writing, like breathing or sneezing...
not some monetary-spinning device 20 years after
the facts... 20 years later you're pretty much writing
fiction... i am all for the biosphere of expanding
Alveoli... but when did you ever read an autobiography
that mentioned the taste of weak coffee
from the Friday of 20th of August 2016? never;
you read autobiographies
like you read self-help books...  waiting for
all that experience regurgitating motivational talk
about reaching a plateau of comparative success...
i can understand autobiographies written by the elders,
i understand biographies written about people
posthumously - but the tragedy is, given the spinning
wheel of money? we're getting "auto" biographies
written toward their 3rd volume renditions of
people aged 30... let alone 40... so much for
western society having the upper hand on political matters...
just saying: sort your own **** before trying
to sort other people's problems...
i could understand if these autobiographies were written
as described: automaton solo... but they're not...
before the compendium it's this everlasting presence
of a desired body of power being depicted:
prior the monopoly of knowledge, there was a monopoly
of literacy... given that 99% of us are literate, it
actually doesn't mean a third donkey's *******
whether we can read, or write, we got shelved in controlling
this once priestly vanity, we got taught bureaucracy alongside...
but the monopoly of literacy is way past us,
we're being convened in the ability to monopolise knowledge,
(oh please, don't let the paranoia seep in,
remember yourself when reading me, once in a while,
i don't drag you to phantasmagorical heights, even if i could,
i'd prefer you being agile in learning how to be bored
than letting your repel the same boredom i too share,
well... but **** me if you want to be the next Lenin) -
and the easiest way to monopolise knowledge? the media...
you basically need a lot of facts, and an evolved version
of dialectics, dialectics being the prime enemy of democracy
(it's not an alternative political model like despotism as
we are held to believe, it's actually dialectics,
suppressing other forms of collectivisation is the one
sure method of suppressing the attempt at dialectics
(individualism) - by making people overly opinionated,
ergo: the inability to engage with opinions, blind-alleys
throughout all plausible attempts to do so) -
so once you have enough facts to fiddle with the Rubik's cube
of juxtaposition, you end up with the ultra-scientific
form of dialectics... the matter of opinion in relation
to truth without a relative uniformity that prescribes
the status quo stasis is a debate about how accurate
we all are: i.e., is that true to the closest centimetre,
or the closest millimetre? it's a bit like watching a Zeno
paradox:
                 10.1                           and 10.01
      which one's tortoise and which is Achilles?
well, you know; ah ****! the compendium of the two
newspapers which got me slightly depressed...

- the compendium -

a. daily star

- B. BRO SAM'S SECRET 'NERVOUS BREAKDOWN'
- Laura & Jason's baby joy
- Robbie (Williams) £1.6M a night!
- BREXIT BOOST ON JOB FRONT
- ANGE DAD BACKS TRUMP
- JR'S wife Linda set to Holly
- Edd's no Beverly Hills flop
(Lana among cow *******)
- LAURA: OUR TINY TROTTS WILL BE WORLD-BEATERS
- FURY AT BAD LOSERS' SLURS
- 'Jealous sis' jibes
- MAKE YOUR KID AN OLYMPICS ACE
- Peaty: I want to be a rapper
- TV girl really ill
- **** SAM, 'ON THE BRINK OF BREAKDOWN'
- COSTA ***** HELL
- CAGING ANJEM WILL INSPIRE NEW JIHADIS
- POG'S LOADED AGENT BUYS CAPONE'S LAIR
- I'll make Kylie a pop star
- JEZ DOESN'T KNOW ANT FROM HIS DEC
- GUILTY OF DEMONIC SAVAGERY
- Great British Rake In
- Britain is *******
- BAYWATCH U.K.
- Va Va Vroom
- JUST JANE: My lover snubs plea to get wed
- HART: I'LL DECIDE WHEN TO GO.

b. the times

- Boy victim becomes a symbol of Assad's war
- US Olympics swimmers invented robbery tale, say Rio police
- Make us sell healthy food, supermarkets implore May (P.M.)
- Lost weekend of the lying best man
- fears over free speech delay law to silence hate preacher
- Met's 'commuter cops' live in France
- Husbands happiest when they earn half as much as wives
- Socialists plot to drive Britain left
- Fake human sacrifice filmed at European high altar of physics
- Officers investigated over ex-footballer's Taser death
- Number of pupils taking languages at record low
   (Mandarin @ 2,849 - % decrease of 8.1,
    alarmingly religious studies 27,032 up by 4.9%
    and psychology of status 59,469 up by 4.3%....
    meaning the mad will soon be diagnosing the sane
   as mad, just because the curriculum said so)
- Top grades add up to 100% at the school for maths prodigies
- Deprived sixth formers thrive on competition
- European students rush to get into British universities
- DVLA earns £10m selling driver's details
- Mystery over Kenyan death of aristocrat
- Journalist who voted twice reported to police for
  'fraud'
- Tomato tax threatens European trade war
- Love story of the Pantomime
- Homeless conmen fleeced widow, 81
- Brownlee brothers at the Olympics...
- Hopeful shoppers give sales a lift after Brexit vote
- MoD guard could be stood down despite terrot threat
- Owners spit mansion after failing to sell
- The job with international appeal: saving our hedgehogs
- Finch warns unborn chicks if weather gets warm
- Migrant violence rises after decline in policing around Jungle
- Longest road tunnel promises a relaxing ride under Pennines
- Mothers step up to drive Tube trains through night
(rowdy teens ageing exponentially on a Saturday night
when not getting a lift, ******...)
-MP's deal with bookmaker to be investigated
- Ebola nurse 'hid high temperature'
- Shoesmith's ex-huspand kept child *******
- Morpurgo war tale springs into life
- Supergran fights off teenage muggers
- IVF is more successful for white women
OPINION SECTION
- Great political fiction is good for democracy
- the BBC is leaving its audiences in the dark
- airline food? just pass me the gin and tonic
- Modern Olympics began on the fields of Rugby
/ greasy polls, holding firm, tongue tied,
  call for compulsory targets to tackle obesity,
second in line, mindfulness course, cost of planning,
puffins v. ship rats.... and all future letters to the editor /
- Moscow presses Turkey for access to US airbases
- Hundreds killed each month in Assad's jails
- Putin bans celebration of defeated KGB coup
(another James Bond movie on the cards,
i'm assured, and with a moral carte blanche) -
Hollande clams Carla Bruni spied concerning his
use of diapers...
- Euthanasia tourists flock Belgian A & E from France,
  where a revival of ****** made people dress shark-fin
  sharp on the catwalk...
- Mosquito pesticide linkage application = intersex /
   East German women
- Haiti cholera linked to Nepalese **** and ***** via
  the
Aural auspice austerity audible , augur aorist actuator , accidence ambience acoustics .
Counterfactual categorical imperative hubris .
Chagrin ; fecund cogent apposite germane , inane inert inertia innate , propinquity habitation     perimeter parameter peripherals .
Manumission gambit alluvium aloof , putschist kitsch , pandemicly phatic futurity fatidic extraversion embezzling euthanasia extortion .

Financially responsible fiscal policy , plenary plenipotentiary fiduciary principle .
Incarnate encephala enunciate , synthetically conjugational conjecture juxtapositional adjunctly .
Zenithal azimuth entity zeal , transpicuous opacity , in extremis extremity cantilever capacity .
Ephemeral metaphor semantics flaunts , ***** affectation exserted protuberance .
Sepulcher stratagem objectified manifest , protractive analysis dimensional delineation .
Spanned collapsible feasible , vicinity victual vigilante villain execration eventuation evocative vindictiveness vendetta .

Impetus intrigue intuitional intrepid , impertinence important , inadvertency inapplicable , initiate innate interpreters intervene intricacy.
Investiture annuity equity indemnity capital appreciation .
Preeminently preemptive retrospectively retroactive , aegis vagary incite.
Quixotically enrapturing mesmerist.
Sycophant swagger lothario lout , asymptotic hyperbolic estranged ensemble orchestration .
Histophysiology mendacity somatology morphology metamorphosis , blasphemous farcical fugue preterit renditions .  
Terrestrial equestrian tellurian terrene.  

Apex axis crux , fulcrum fulgurous , fulham presumptive , actuarial acuity incursive .
Semantic dialectics eclectic synectic’s , wanton wayward warranty evitable .
Catalyst , relative rationality / rational relativity , circumstance contingency .
Incessant barratry omnipresence presage , decadent arrogant , irksome ire Zen  .
Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician , guidon guile genocidaly xenophobic , grotto grouch gumption .
Bailiff rakeness rails , prerogative presumptive judicature.  

Flirtatious flamboyance , laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tedium .  
Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma , clambering clamorous clangor .  
Catatonic phonics , concoct catenary concatenation , conjugationally conjunctive clairaudience clairvoyance .  
Hysterical delirium brusque macabre abrupt , diabolically maniacal dementia .
Ambrosia elixir libation inebriation , mirador bartizan panoramic tableau .
Citadel pinnacle pique piquant , altruism endemic intrinsic indigenous innate , existential allegorical .
Prosthesis pseudopodium prognostication , crude lewd , social stigmatism blind , gruesome ghastly grotesque meld .
Bizarre bazaar demonically deviant denizen , grimacing gremlin greaves gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts.
Hideously horrible awfully terrible , imagination immaturity impromptu innuendo juncture , nuance ***** ,   incarnate encephalic enunciate .
Trajectory sordid transposition interlude rubato hi-jinks , nimbus nimiety nihilism .

Explicate zoomorphic zoolatry , exogamy of homogeny ontological ontogeny .
Astral projection prophylaxis protocol , telepathy teleportation .
Extraneous extemporaneous , embark embargo extradition , transcendental accession ascension , ecstatically euphoric meld .  
Deontological probity interstitial endemics , agnate aggregate amalgamated anathema android .
Translational interpretation , epistemology audacious pugnacity impunity .
Executant emulation simulation , evocative malfeasance mens rea  , geomancy effete .
Maieutic fallow feral .  apropos ipso facto ergo , carousing marauder syllogism .
Apostrophe means talking to the dead or perhaps those who aren't present; my use is a little bit looser, talking to the clairaudience of clairvoyance.
Nupur Chowdhury Sep 2018
I log into the network of my self-esteem,
To see the hearts and the wows and the laughs flooding in.
A simple 'like' wouldn’t cut it anymore
‘Likes’ were so 2010, even 2010 was bored.

‘Cause that’s the zeitgeist of the age, you see,
A tendency to wear hearts on sleeves.
Loves and kisses are a dime a dozen,
With a million friends and followers double.

National debates and social justice petitions,
Real crises, distorted renditions.
High definition photos of disaster zones
Flash up against cat videos on every smart phone.

Snapchat filters do not lie,
Just tell a story of hours gone by;
Selecting the perfect background, the ideal shade
To express love on the dozen’th date.

But that’s the zeitgeist of the century,
A tendency to wear hearts on sleeves.
To document in minute detail, with extensive pictorial evidence
Clockwork days of humdrum nonchalance.

And perhaps the generation that came before
Would call it vanity, vainglory, or something more.
But it ain’t like they were without their sins,
We didn’t invent tabloid columnists.

And now that we are at the end,
Let me sign off with this request:
Like, comment, and share your love
Let your heart fall out of your shirt cuff.
Michael W Noland Aug 2012
2 better days
of better ways
too bigger dreams
in better words
to the express
of my renditions
in wish-less missions
to infringe in fantasy
as i write out the years
of fearless tears
and scream
in happiness
and chant
of the blasphemers
laugh
in the murmurs
of drunken
entrepreneurs
admiring
sewer structures
plucking
the sutures
of my missed maneuvers
clueless
in my bruise-less
cutsss
toofwisss
and still strutting my luck
in abrupt
catastrophes
compliant
to the clause
of impunity
to rhyme-less scrutiny
to sooth the dream
for today
bolstering
the blame
of melancholy messiahs
playing pariah
on xbox
they gonna fry ya
through savvy ****** talk
with their mouth on your ****
but their ears on the block
to fulfill the onslaught
of a distraught
goofball
in lock
about to drop
calm
in happy bombs
of debilitating
shock
you cannot
talk
when you are
smiling
you cannot galk
when you are
smiling
violently
happy
with ******
knives
fixed to enrich
the lives
of the many
i have plenty
in the trunk
just bend down
and look
ill blend in the boom
of bass
thump
ding
the second thump
closes the trunk
strap up
with me
be blunt
don't want
a ninja on the run
in the sun
of reputation
1 finger away
from
nation-less
the mostest patientest
lyrifi$t
a bu3ro$hit
to 0bl1terat3
the glUt3nou$
of thy most muTtonest
of ch0ps
i cropp3d
the plopp1ng rainb0ws
of raindrop$
and Stopped  .
thE hoPped up ho0ligaNnry
of my N1njary
in my socks
sometimes i rock
but mostly not
i wont stop
until outlined
in chalk
until the froth
from my lips
blinds me
in trips
crossed
with a 5th
into thine own
obscurity
from the groan
of maturity
and the **** flapping
of insecurity
i try lyrically
to be free
and stop rhyming
at least stop whining
just trying
to do my thing
dost thou heart not sing
when im plowed
within the silver lining
devout
with a little shining
came hither
to where the sliding turned to slithering
delivering
my ministry
of infantry
infamously
into comedy
applauding me
in my idiocy
its daunting
in simplicity
marinade me
in a massacre
or a major disaster
watch me blow my ***
in haughty claims
of clogged
alpha/beta waves
enslaved
to a pre paid card
and charged
for helping a man up
in a corrupt
city of butts
entrusting
my paychecks to the *****
of never was
im riding the short bus
until she blushed
and brushed
the *** from her mouth
im gross
a little weirder than most
i boast
in defeat
i facebook
over tweet
as if there be a choice
as i crumple
the invoice
and rejoice
in knowing
i know nothing
i'm [Esc@ping]
ryn Nov 2014
If only we were figures...
Accentuated in the night sky.
Starlit effigies bound by cosmic tethers...
Secrets of the universe many would attempt to pry.

If only we were figures...
Painted on pored upon canvas.
Fantastic renditions by masterful painters,
Abstract oil swirls dancing to a whimsical opus.

If only we were figures...
Given life in the lyrics in a song.
An example of harmony in verse,
Bridge and chorus...where we belong.

But we are only figures...*
Trampled on by indifferent feet that came to mock.
We can't undo such a potent curse...
We are but grounded figures outlined in chalk.
Sal Gelles Oct 2012
completely chaotic in its beauty
and completed only by its sanity
there's got to be a reason we're looking for something here.

we're drawing our own portraits
and painting over our mistakes
with everything we've practiced at any easel.

as it starts back at the last tempo
we contemplate the time signature
and whether or not the time's showing anything at all.

there's too much going on now
and we're getting it all mixed up
with something we're all trying to feel in one form or another.

as we come back down
we see the sun glaring off the window pane
and realize this is where it's meant to have shone; upon our lives.
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.” “The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying ‘kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent’ , it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed Gumby ****** Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
David Moss Dec 2014
In the beginning, There was God.

And then God made love. And God saw that it was good.

And then God turned to John Lennon and asked ‘Are you sure this is all we really need, John?’

And John nodded and spoke. ‘It is indeed.’



…… Said no priest ever.


But it is a funny thought isn’t it?

When do you think love was love first created?
Of when and how can probably be debated
I think though


One thing is for sure
Love in it’s essence before this mind of ours,
Was probably a lot more simple and pure

It probably came without pretty words and without a ring
Without a priest or church to accept it or anything

It would have been an unfettered union of connection
Coupled with fact
Of basic matter flowing and the action of simply being
And to enact
What things intuitively know
What things really just feel
Underneath the idealist baloney of love, what is truly real.

A lengthy definition, I know




But please hear me out. Please.

I just want to show
That perhaps love was meant to be the force in the background

That keeps all matter entwined together and tightly bound
And whether to you that notion rings true
I feel, that Underneath all these thoughts and feelings
Some form of pure love just flows through all of me and all of you

Do you feel that too?

I think love is the energy holding everything in the universe together.

Call it dark matter, the god particle, WHATEVER

The tiny tethers scientists just cannot seem to hold down and find
Unions of energy connecting on fundamental levels
Vibrationa-Wait…..I’m sorry.


STOP IT.


Just stop…. looking at me like that!

Stop lusting over what you hear and see
I am trying to tell you that love isn’t just about the feelings between you and me.


Geez.

Ahem…..

Now where were we?

Ah right

My basic fundamental laws of connectivity.


I am speaking of the whole universal components that ever was and will be

Each single moment


That makes up every inch of reality.


Love to me…. is everything you see. Everything is love.

Never mind Physicist, the Beatles had it right.

Love is all we really need!




But….. I wish that was the end of the story



Humanities definition isn’t that at all.
Today’s love to me is the slow and desperate fall
From something new to something old
The epitome emotion of a bold humanity
Bound in self desire
An empire of gluttonous self pleasure
Pure hedonistic leisure
Without thoughts that maybe
Just maybe
We’re doing this love thing all wrong
Maybe all along
Like I’ve been saying


Love was first and foremost simply implied
To be more than just something shared between man and wife
And solely humankind

Like, I REALLY love trees.

Seriously. It’s what I want to be eventually.


Anyway. Back to the story of love shall we?

You see, I have this theory that when society and language came along
Loves pure and universal


Well….. love song.


Got messed up and rambled
It got scrambled through a perspective of harsh survival, brutal rival and competition
A billion little expeditions of selfish love renditions.
Love became some hierarchy of

me

me

and me.


I imagine throughout humanities struggling ages
Love got captured behind enemy lines
Beyond the kingdoms of greed and lust
Imprisoned battered and busted
Love in these mental wartimes eventually

Became somehow in short desperate supply
It’s once abundant sustenance
Now rationed


Denied and refined


Into a quick hit drug we’re all standing in line to snort


For a moments pleasure

An escapism and a getaway leisure

Smuggled into our metaphysical prison

Of loneliness we make inside

And if that isn’t enough of a depressing thought

To reside upon

Love when imprisoned to it’s final degrees


Gets all the qualities it shouldn’t be
In the POW camps of our history, love changed to something less than ordinary

Jealously, anger, envy and fear

This wasn’t the arsenal Love had before these desperate years

Oh no my friend

I think Loves been hijacked and I think it’s a spy


Though, all conspiracies aside


I think the way we love today


Is a Shell shocked version of what the universe had in mind.

I mean sure the universe can be seen as a hostile place

A big dark scary space of colossal destruction


But it’s also creation

Constant efficient reiteration of all that is

Into what will be

To me that doesn’t sound so bad

If you are accepting that change

Is the only noble constant to be had

From all this being alive, thing

It seems change for humans is hard accepting


But the more I think, it’s what makes living beautiful right?

The duality and inevitability of day and night

Of life and death

The frailty of knowing in my head

These lungs I have one day will exhale my final breath, And a curtain will be drawn and I will be dead.

BUT THE SHOW! MUST! GO! ON!

.....Someone once said.



These thoughts don’t deny me of anything.

In fact they bring me joy

Because I employ the ideal that love is everthing.

The knowledge that my acts of love on life’s stage

Live on in you all, re-made and renewed in some way.

And even on a material level my body will be broken down again

Into the soils of this earth from which I was made

And I will help sustain something somehow

And still be a part of everything gracefully

…… Hopefully a tree.

And when the earth explodes eventually I’ll just be stardust again

Apparently from whence I came

And a pure ideal of reunited love simplistically will just be

Without any thought of me

Now… Isn’t that a wealth of selfless love right there

Above and beyond the compare to the scared notions of heaven and hell?

You thought because I spoke of God before, maybe that’s where my faith dwells?

No my friends, my strength lies in simply sharing simple love.


The one that is an unfettered union of connection
Coupled with fact
Of basic matter flowing and the action of simply being
And to enact
What we intuitively know
What we really just feel
Underneath this idealistic baloney of love,

What is truly real.

A lengthy definition of love, I know


But when all is said, and thought and done
And this place is inhabited by no one

I think It’s all the universe truly had to show.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
i do a pretty good rendition of vader’s cover of mayhem’s track: freezing moon.

i tend to forget what it’s all about the minute i think of it,
obviously thinking about something can’t make you doubt it /
esp. if you think in a way to deny its existence:
if something is doubted it’s not thought about,
there can’t be a doubling of anything like that -
if it’s... it’s denied... pushed to the back of our minds:
theme park thrills to deny gangsters and terrorists -
there’s no such thing as a cartesian “chirality” - whereby
the thought attributed to something can work
in the classical sense of *i think, i doubt, therefore i am

(cartesian chirality exists on the doubt v. negation axis).
it’s not being that’s doubted, but the consequences of undoubted thought:
that abraham did right, for example...
but it’s not really about that...
i was reading a part of plato’s defence of poetry by julius a. elias
and i recognised, there and then: my aversion to christianity
is due to platonism... i’m from the root of artistotelian philosophising,
not the platonic root... i couldn’t go against nietzche’s rebellion -
plato the boor... plato the bore...
why did plato assume all poets are liars?
why is it necessary to reveal the real of a potter’s *** making as basis for lies
in poem... and excuse a crap bit of pottery as above a really good poem?
as in the language of roofing... someone does a **** job and it leaks...
kiszka panie picasso... kiszka! brussel’s pâté! van damme muscles no more!
there’s a great point being made right on page 12...
i don’t have the original but it sent shocks right through me,
it’s the old chair and table fascination...
should we **** on a chair or **** on the table?
that’s plato to me... more **** than yawn.
it’s not about representing the chair as it is... that would simply
be boring... it’s about distortion, it’s about finding the self
in such a way as to provide a “callous” interpretation...
what would be the point of originality in the creative process
if it was otherwise - the gods created, man interpreted, and only that to
harbour existence per se?
we’re standing on the membrane of originality, given this world,
why would we suddenly comply to it without a “delusional” distortion
to ensure the self is encrusted in it? there would be no point
in such an endeavour... we'd all comply to 90º of the angle
and 100ºc of boiling water and london would
be the capital of hawaii... i.e. i don't lie, i just read a lot - more so:
i guess you get to be a plato supporter if you study philosophy first...
and not science...
i guess you get to be a disciple of plato if you start sheering language
to the bare minimum - the theory of forms...
but i like the telescope and microscope (autism) of aristotle looking
into a bog with tadpoles for spiderweb niches...
so the god of the jews beamed corrupt because of the ******* snipping...
‘looks nothing like what we originally intended!
what metamorphosis of the sword of his will give to rust because
it’s missing a sheath...’
thoth interrupted him - ‘guess what my people have done...
they trim the girls’ *******...’
‘tell you what thoth... i’ll go down and sort it out...
i’ll disguise myself as a burning bush.’
‘ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! ***** on fire! ha ha ha ha ha!’
the god of abraham to abraham concerning isaac:
‘don’t circumcise him! there’s a massive empire in the right top
corner of africa that’ll marry you and prove
i’m a god jealous of the others gods with your warring phallus!
the other gods just don't get involved!
i didn’t want to be involved in the first place, for *******’s sake!’
abraham losing the plot: ‘you want me to **** isaac?!’
‘no, don’t circumcise him! ah ****... too late.’
the whole story loses the medial aesthetic after centuries of
religion / being squeamish / 9am to 5pm / 2000 years of sunday being the last supper:
which is more viper confusion venom injection than the planet’s orbit
provides already: stop the carousel... stop the carousel!
Marshal Gebbie Jan 2013
Dear friends,

Outward we go, outward to the vast infinity, the great mother ship of all entities, past present and future.
Outward to the cold reality of limitless space where pinpricks of light reflect time which began a million years past.

The great unknown where for eons, since man descended from the trees, his very hopes dreams and prayers have been directed.

Beyond the maelstrom of the sun's living cauldron, beyond the titanic violence of coronal outforce, there lies a false calm. A vacuum of seeming emptiness which harbours a promise of galactic peacefulness but delivers the potential likelihood of eternal, calamitous catastrophe.

This is the realm where God's and Devil's reside.
This is the realm of unimaginable forces and stupendous violence.
This is, at once, our hope and our damnation...
THIS IS THE UNIVERSE.

This is the realm where man has sought communication as long as he has been able.... With utter futility.
For all of his advances in technology, his network of huge radio telescopes, his continuous Asceti transmissions, the development of the World Wide Web, the orbiting space station, the wonderful Hubbard telescope and his advances in space exploration and travel....THERE HAS BEEN NO REPONSE FROM OUT THERE.
SO WHY IS IT THAT MAN HAS HAD NO COMMUNICATION FROM SPACE?

And of time..eternal time ....anticipated as tomorrow. Retrieved as the now and dispensed to the yesterday. Are all three interpretations valid as manifestations of time or are the tones of future and past merely renditions of the actuality...the present?  If that is so how can the light of the stars, emitted so many eons ago, be seen right now as a reflection of the actuality of real time? Has time stretched or are the factors of space distance and time linked entities?

Is eternity a factor of time and space or is there another spectrum. Another source creating equilibrium in the quantum flux? Is size a factor... Is our solar system a submicroscopic nutrino attached to an atom on the **** of an incredibly slow living, gargantuan, multi universe sized ant?
.
..and if this is so...There's no wonder that there have been no replies to our efforts to communicate
...We are infintesimal.....Nobody can find us!

Serenely in the morning air, magnificence defies
Predictions of catastrophe from those whose word implies
That chance, that willing player, who skirts around the scene,
Would show her cards, calamitously, to render doom obscene.
....But for now the peacefulness and order everywhere
Has lovers in the lane ways and laughter in the air,
Has Autumn leaves cascading and white caps on the bay
With balmy clouds in blue skies to reflect this perfect day.

(Though....Forever now humanity could decry me as a brute
For I have, inadvertantly, crushed that ant beneath my boot!)



Marshalg
Looking up through the cold clear night air at 'Foxglove', through the myriad of crystal stars...and beyond.
27 January 2013

A word of explanation: The poem in italics depicts a scene of normality in the big picture, the megamacro world out there, where, like us, they have their own insecurities, their own great unknowns....and like our world, way down here, it is a place where accidents can happen!
Mg.
Christy Gee Sep 2011
“Just this once,” you said.
I couldn’t wrap it around my head.
Your promise replayed and replayed:
“Those were my high school days
I’m done now
I’ll show you how
I’ll show you my grades
I promise you A’s
Oncology, psychology, Tour de France,
I wasted it last year, so now’s my chance.
I ****** up so badly
I love you so madly
I’ll prove to the world, to myself, and to you,
That with every vow I take I know I’ll come through.”

If you were so set on your integrity,
Why did you become the opposite of what you said you’d be?
Why did you say “I’ll be over at ten,”
Wait for my worried text at twelve, to which you said:
“Oh about that…yeah um, I hoped you’d forget.”

My list of why’s will always haunt me.
Why was everything you said so taunting?
Why did you always threaten to break up,
When all I needed was for you to hurry up?
30 minutes late? No worries, no big deal,
But after four hours of course I’d lose my chill.
I felt like an idiot, buns fused to the couch.
As time passed by, I became a ****** grouch.
You were out with your friends, unconcerned about me
Or the fact that you said you would be here at three.
Well, three became four, then five, six, and seven,
And you’d leave me to return to your friends at eleven.
“You’re tired of waiting for me? Keep yourself busy.
Use your creativity.
I won’t make time for you, that’s how it will be,
This is who I am, I dgaf, take me or leave.
'Good morning' and 'goodnight' are utter *******.
That’s not you and me, that’s Judy and Cliff.
You’re too **** sensitive, toughen up, be a man.”
But how can I when you always told me I can’t?

You were my *******, marijuana,
The more you’d say go away the more I’d want ya.
I got hooked to the feeling of having you around,
And now that you’re gone I always feel down.
But I slap my mouth shut before I can say,
“I miss you so dearly, oh please won’t you stay?!”
I’m an ex-addict, every time I want you back,
I remind myself you’re deceiving as a pipe full of crack.
I know you were bad to me,
but horribly addicting.


“Shut up now before I really get angry.
And when I get mad, I’m scary, trust me.”
I always shut up, I never persisted,
Because to every concern I expressed, you resisted.
I allowed you to threaten me, scared to see when
I awoke your dormant beast from within.


You had purple pants that I didn’t like,
I’d playfully say, “Don’t wear those tonight!”
One day in line at the DMV,
you reminded me my favorite shoes “are ******* disgusting.”
You always made sure to insult my attire,
But believe it or not, I’ve been told I inspire.
“Look at my two-hundred dollar French jeans,
How ****, son, I’m so ******* clean.
Now look at you in your thrift store outfit,
Compared to great me, humble you look like ****.”

I simultaneously felt like your mother
and your punching bag of a little brother.


Your words were the cookies to my Teflon-free brain,
I tried to unstick them; they drove me insane.
Hit after hit, after hit, after hit,
Your words were so spiteful,
Of my self I felt jipped.

I was the naïve fish that bit your line,
Of “You know I’m a good guy, so just stop crying.”
My tears would dry and I would feel fine,
But there was always an inkling in the back of my mind:
"This isn’t right, I don’t deserve this treatment,
I love him, I do, so why do I feel such resentment?"

You’d continue to reel me in with your words,
“I love you so much, Christy, of that I’m sure.
I love you more now than ever before.”

...


So tell me, sir, why, when I entered the door,
Just a few days after July twenty-fourth,
I opened my laptop to see on the internet
“Lu Rivas is single,”a few likes, and a comment?

Was this a joke? It had to be.
Considering just days before, you cried to me.
You cried to me? Or did you lie to me?
Which you did you expect me to believe?
The one who said “I used to do drugs,
Because of my horrible cheating first love,
I used to smoke ****
‘cause I couldn’t stand me.”
Or the one who got high two hours after,
Saying sobriety was a long-gone chapter?

The one who said “I’m gonna marry you one day,”
Or the one who said “This love **** is so ******* gay”?

The one who said, “We have all summer to hang,”
Or the one who said “Summer’s Wahb time, get over me, dang.”

The one who said “I’m gonna start training,
Doing well in school, cuddle you when it’s raining,”
Or the one who dropped classes, gave up himself,
To be with his friends and no one else?


“I love you because you’re so different”
Became “You’re too weird, you’re not liked by my friends.”

Were you the Lu who said “I’m in love with you,”
Or the one who said “That’s not true,
I have no feelings for you.”

It wasn't the fact that you liked to ****,
It was the fact that your every promise you broke.

I couldn’t believe a word you said,
My brain in a dizzied daze in my head,
Because the opposite would be acted upon;
My brain felt dead;
Constantly translating contradictory definitions
Apparently our dictionaries had opposing renditions.


“I keep you around because you care for me genuinely”
Became “Let me breathe, I don’t want you around me!
I don’t give a **** about you or your interests,
And I haven’t since day one, please understand this.”


Laziness, impatience, irresponsibility,
Every one of your problems was my liability.


You might be doing well now; I’ve no way of knowing,
But I see that your happiness keeps your smile still glowing.
Just thinking about your smile made mine grow, too.
But to you, it was an inconvenience to share a laugh or two.

I never changed who I was,
Or pleased my friends’ desires
While you slowly wanted to get higher and higher.
I wasn’t enough anymore,
Just a hassle and a bore.

I knew I was being naïve and immature,
So shame on me for believing your now-transparent words.
You were so authentic, your words were opaque.
Now I see right through them, all of them; fake.
Is fake too harsh of a word to use?
I don’t think so, I’m the one you used.
I gave you what you wanted, and at first, you did too.
But as time progressed, we weren’t one, but two.

Oh, and I must have forgotten to mention,
How you never really got over that girlfriend.
You used me to fill in the hole that she left,
Until you realized that I wasn’t enough.
I wasn’t a *****, didn’t boss you around,
She barked at you constantly and you didn’t make a sound.
But you left me the week after
You started to reconnect with her.
Just a coincidence? I highly doubt it.
You missed the girl who made you her *****.
Might I even bring up how she cheated on you,
To make you stay, should I have been unfaithful, too?

I lost you to popularity, to the glamour of high school,
You hang on by the skin of your teeth to stay cool.
Partying, not caring, big ticket items.
Days I heard stories of, I knew you weren’t over them.
"Those were the days, God that was great,
Green crack, ecstasy, alcohol poisoning."

You steered clear of the man I fell in love with,
And returned to the 16-year-old kid I felt no connection with.

"I’m gonna go back now, return to my glory,
If I do something to hurt you, I won’t say I'm sorry.
I know I was good when I met you,
But that person I was is now gone,
The clean me was so ******* boring
I will not change me for anyone.
I lost who I was, but now I am found,
Go find someone else, go fetch a rebound."


So if you hate me now, I couldn’t care less,
Just remind yourself that I gave you my best.
Family parties meant I thought you were real,
I wouldn’t have taken you if I knew you’d repeal.

You used to be so bright, so effervescent
As time went on you seemed so disconnected.
Impatient and harsh, rude and abrasive,
I couldn’t please you.
Your “love” was evasive.

You steered so clear of the you that I met,
Not leaving you is my biggest regret.
I wish we could turn the clock back and switch places,
So you could see how hard it is to feel sad with happy faces.

Because the eggs I made you were always cooked wrong,
Understanding things took me too long,
My clothes were too cheap,
My face was too different,
I wasn’t your happiness,
I was your ailment.

I need liberation from feeling so down,
To remove this heartache I wear as a crown.
But I’ll try to remove this gilded hat,
'cause you dumped me on Facebook,
And that is that.
Aj Jun 2012
...plain, white light of conscious sight

carved with the black of depictions,

stretched imaginations, dance of

curves and shapes, the inner vision

needs a pair of shades, color it

with flames of passion, free flow

of feeling, breeze of dreams

whistling through the meadows

of vibrant forms

...from the dust

this thought was born, to the

dust, the vision fades, in the dust

are the sparks, minerals, elements

of life, fertile fields, sow the seeds


...from the groves, the forms are

reborn, then the critters and grubs

swarm in, eating the scraps, *******

new life into the soil, new sparks

and minerals, eggs and chances,

rhythms for the new generations,

vibrant once more, a matter of

potent renditions, the breath fueling

the black depictions, white light geyser,

grey clouds, tarnished ores,

dirt and dust, all colored with the minerals

of light

...and in that light is solar life,

lunar reflections, Earthly fullfillment of

'son'shine, mother's milk, and dad's

beer brewing in the astro's firmament.

Dancing all through again and again of

swirvy curls, recollection of scattered pearls,

casted and then returned.
I may add more to this, ran out of Zen :j
Cure me within the seize
     of artistic rapture
capturing human spirit in
      boundless creativity,
lay 'pon my ******* a sonata
    written of affection's simpatico,
whisper me a sonnet
        scripted 'neath my skin,
  soar me to limitless grandeur
     elevated beyond cloud vapors,
beckoning rhythmical renditions of
    abstract layers in love, splendor & art,
amidst the harmony and lavish
            poetry of a soulful heart
Carmelo Antone Jan 2013
Shotgun shells sound like church bells when you’re aiming to heal,
No longer concealing something you hostler with a smile,
When you see the eyes of those you despise,
Those that have taken too much life to embrace the precious present of perception,

Revenge runs like a river Mosses could never part,
Tumultuously pulsating my persistence,
To fit the final piece,
To solve the puzzle without your presence,

Culture cultivated conflicts,
Decades of decadence,
Helms of disillusionments,
Steering us towards a powder-keg revelation,

A man of peace is still a militant in the wake of Diablo’s dissidence,
There is no such thing of justified killings,
Only ending life for economic stability,
Can’t ******* me when your ethics are themes of fables,

Not trying to incite fear, just sharing the truths of this rough reality,
The intolerance tolerated by so many ignorant maggots,

Not saying we are a lost cause but if you are keeping your mouth shut you’re just a bystander while the vagrants harvest the infection,

So many hurdles to split but so many who can overcome a conflict of greedy governance,
To many tyrants to topple when they trickle down table scraps,
Why do you think so many of us stay strapped?

Unity will be the divinity of the 21st Century,
So come and askew the ancestral atrocity,
It is ours and it is time to mend what went wrong,

For years your parent’s have allowed the intolerance to thrive,
And I don’t plan on dying without continuing the strive to question those that came before me,
Never forget our Nation’s success thus far found a foundation on the broken backs of Africans,
Never forget economics ignited the 1776 resistance,
And the Civil War only highlighted the plague of intolerance,

For generations we’ve been jaded by the justification of covering the cracks of a indentured foundation with mortar laid by the enslaved,

Censored, questioned, and indoctrinated because gramps likes his traditions,
Nothing but renditions of racist propositions to steal land from Native Americans
Nothing but blissful ******* to forget the fact that this was the land of the free, with some restrictions,
Some historically cited situations,

Guilt is something that their conscience can suppress,
When the money is present,
When wealth has no limits, at the sake of the impoverished,
Greed is just the first pest we must end.

Yet there are so many faults to overcome,
And seven billion should be enough,

Personally united because of our right to explore humanity,
Peacefully.
Aural auspice austerity audible , augur aorist actuator , accidence ambience acoustics .
Counterfactual categorical imperative hubris .
Chagrin ; fecund cogent apposite germane , inane inert inertia innate , propinquity habitation     perimeter parameter peripherals .
Manumission gambit alluvium aloof , putschist kitsch , pandemicly phatic futurity fatidic extraversion embezzling euthanasia extortion .

Financially responsible fiscal policy , plenary plenipotentiary fiduciary principle .
Incarnate encephala enunciate , synthetically conjugational conjecture juxtapositional adjunctly .
Zenithal azimuth entity zeal , transpicuous opacity , in extremis extremity cantilever capacity .
Ephemeral metaphor semantics flaunts , ***** affectation exserted protuberance .
Sepulcher stratagem objectified manifest , protractive analysis dimensional delineation .
Spanned collapsible feasible , vicinity victual vigilante villain execration eventuation evocative vindictiveness vendetta .

Impetus intrigue intuitional intrepid , impertinence important , inadvertency inapplicable , initiate innate interpreters intervene intricacy.
Investiture annuity equity indemnity capital appreciation .
Preeminently preemptive retrospectively retroactive , aegis vagary incite.
Quixotically enrapturing mesmerist .
Sycophant swagger lothario lout , asymptotic hyperbolic estranged ensemble orchestration .
Histophysiology mendacity somatology morphology metamorphosis , blasphemous farcical fugue preterit renditions .  
Terrestrial equestrian tellurian terrene.  

Apex axis crux , fulcrum fulgurous , fulham presumptive , actuarial acuity incursive .
Semantic dialectics eclectic synectic’s , wanton wayward warranty evitable .
Catalyst , relative rationality / rational relativity , circumstance contingency .
Incessant barratry omnipresence presage , decadent arrogant , irksome ire Zen  .
Spatiotemporal telemetry tactician , guidon guile genocidaly xenophobic , grotto grouch gumption .
Bailiff rakeness rails , prerogative presumptive judicature.  

Flirtatious flamboyance , laboriously beleaguering hypercritically meticulous tedium .  
Carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character charisma , clambering clamorous clangor .  
Catatonic phonics , concoct catenary concatenation , conjugationally conjunctive clairaudience clairvoyance .  
Hysterical delirium brusque macabre abrupt , diabolically maniacal dementia .
Ambrosia elixir libation inebriation , mirador bartizan panoramic tableau .
Citadel pinnacle pique piquant , altruism endemic intrinsic indigenous innate , existential allegorical .
Prosthesis pseudopodium prognostication , crude lewd , social stigmatism blind , gruesome ghastly grotesque meld .
Bizarre bazaar demonically deviant denizen , grimacing gremlin greaves gauntlets gamut catalyst abstracts .
Hideously horrible awfully terrible , imagination immaturity impromptu innuendo juncture , nuance ***** ,   incarnate encephalic enunciate .
Trajectory sordid transposition interlude rubato hi-jinks , nimbus nimiety nihilism .

Explicate zoomorphic zoolatry , exogamy of homogeny ontological ontogeny .
Astral projection prophylaxis protocol , telepathy teleportation .
Extraneous extemporaneous , embark embargo extradition , transcendental accession ascension , ecstatically euphoric meld .  
Deontological probity interstitial endemics , agnate aggregate amalgamated anathema android .
Translational interpretation , epistemology audacious pugnacity impunity .
Executant emulation simulation , evocative malfeasance mens rea  , geomancy effete .
Maieutic fallow feral .  apropos ipso facto ergo , carousing marauder syllogism .
Apostrophe means talking to the dead or perhaps those who aren't present; my use is a little bit looser, talking to the clairaudience of clairvoyance.  Formidable foundry foyer fracas.
as Oct 2017
There was too much life in that man for him to...
2. It is possible to associate sadness with your name.
3. Strength now walks without a counterpart. She is tired.
4. Your un-presence billows louder than your renditions of "O Sole Mio" ever did throughout this home - throughout this heart
5. There will be no more music. Only everlasting echo
6. The sound of shuffling slippers was my favourite song
7. This house is now a museum. I am 5 years old, flashlight in hand, creeping creaky corridors. I stare as each of his artifacts slowly disappears before my very eyes.
8. We share the same shoe size
9. Now, when I remember him, I think of his hands - sturdy as he grates orange peel, fennel, Parmigiano-Reggiano, smooth as he stirs his shaving cream - Forever moving
10. This hospital is now a museum. I am 21 years old, sister's hand in hand. We all stare as he (yes, you) slowly disappears before our very eyes
11. There was too much life in that man for him to be ever silenced by un-music box
12. There was too much life in that man for anyone to be able to fill his shoes
13. There was too much life in that man for him to disappear with artifact body
14. Now, this man, he is somewhere untouched - the smell of orange and fennel fill his pockets (saved for rainy days). He lives inside and out of The Music, with soles(souls) bouncing.
Jane dale Apr 2014
"He turned around and said to me,
So I turned around and said to he,
Then they turned around and said to me,
And I turned around and said to all three",
My brothers renditions always make me grin,
Why don't they talk while facing him?
Seems a funny way to begin a chat,
Talking to someone, back to back  :)
GaryFairy Oct 2015
sitting in his invented prison
where misgivings are never forgiven
restricted to only visits from visions
in his dimension of endless renditions

condemned to exist within mental schism
with his stiffest self sentence given
never forgetting misdeeds and decisions
only existing to revisit volitions
Vi Aug 2022
Sleep deprivation

***

Guilt

Sense-making and maps of meaning

Revisiting memories

Crying

Staying away from scary corners of my mind

Deliberately going toward scariness

Not resisting

Yes resisting

Respecting resistance

Compulsive tv watching

Dropping or letting go over and over again

Exploring

Curiosity

Forgetting and then remembering that it’s all happening on its own, noticing this, knowing this, realizing this

Realizing that realization comes and goes on its own

Being in love with everything

Crying

Playing with time and concepts

Craving emptiness

Love

Catastrophizing

Ranking what "works" (i.e. sleep deprivation is effective), noticing that the metric of “effective” and "works" is = resulting in greater illusions of "forgetting" with a capital F

Loving everything

Being everything

Self-flagellation

Not really believing any of the stories or narratives

Procrastinating

Being irresponsible

Getting off on self-loathing

Forcing intimacy

Compassion, large, whole, unrelenting, everywhere

Oversharing

Falling in love with a homeless person at a traffic stop

Being bored and sad and hopeless and desperate

Remembering inherent wholeness

Being stubborn

Getting out of the way always feels like dying

Loving dying

Loving mourning dying

Dramatizing dying

Wanting to be seen and loved

Self-loathing

Intensity

Craving intensity

Hating craving intensity

Knowing that nothing is a problem

Suffering

Being impatient

Being very very patient

Feeling like I don’t belong in the world, like people and things and money and social media are alien, foreign and scary

Feeling like I am the world

Forgetting that knowing how to verbalize isn’t the same as knowing

Wanting knowing with words to be the same as Knowing

Wanting knowing to be a Real, solid thing

Fear

Mortal fear

Bewilderment

Constant background anxiety

Hating this body

Not caring for this body

Being burdened by this body

Feeling trapped in a body

Feeling more trapped in a mind

Wanting knowing to resolve everything

Wanting to be saved

Thinking that I probably don’t need to be saved

Thinking or knowing(?) there’s nothing to be saved from

Knowing that I can’t be saved

Feeling open

Feeling vulnerable

Feeling exposed

Feeling bad

Feeling like I'm doing it wrong

Believing it all

Wanting to both believe it and have a choice about when, where, and to what extent I believe it

Not knowing where the edge is until I've fallen off

Feeling violated

Feeling like existence is non-consensual

Somehow trusting all of it, totally, exactly as it is

Watching the panicking

More crying

Being one

Being very very aware

Noticing and letting go of effort in one swift move

Compulsive clenching

Compassion

Dissolving

Disillusion

Dying without the novelty

Being ok vey very briefly and for no apparent reason/because of no reason./?

Wanting distraction

Respecting needing distraction

Getting out of the way of intelligent coping mechanisms

Villifying coping mechanisms

Understanding only in retrospect

Frustration

Compassion, deep, like warm water

Compassion, hard, like being ****** vey very slowly

Torture

Life-giving torture

Never wanting to stop

Marveling

Abundance like grace, like not deserving, like not needing to be deserving, like deserving is perverse language

Tasting everything

Endless kaleidoscopes of being and tasting and knowing

Non visual seeing

Clarity, brightness, nothing is a problem

Being alive

Being sososo tired

Wanting to rest, to die into void and nothing

Wanting to hibernate

Wanting to still

Dying to get off

Begging to get off

Finding the edge more thrilling than the center (because then the center can be anything at all?)

Loving all the previous versions of this being

Needing to hate, loathe, earlier renditions of this being

Hating repulsion

Trusting repulsion

Getting stuck because resisting repulsion

Knowing that there's no way out

Knowing that the way out that I'm seeking isn't a way out

Not wanting to do the work

Dancing around the center, constantly

Feeling dizzy with chaos, with knowledge of power

Feeling comfortable with mediocrity

Hating mediocrity

Waking up with jaw tension from the enormity of my own suppressed power

Telling stories about sensations

Relying on self-bullying methods I know don't work

Perfecting the art of pretending

Perfecting the art of self-deception

Wanting to make the stakes higher

Being overwhelmed by my own storytelling

Not wanting to give stories credibility by dispelling them

Naval gazing

Loving philosophy

Feeling dried up, tired, stagnant, disinterested, not engaged, not here.

Sleepwalking. Sleep writing. Sleep talking. Sleep caring

Not sleeping

Vivid dreaming

High weirdness

Questioning my sanity

Romanticizing insanity

Wanting to blur all boundaries

Wanting to smooth the edges of reality

Questioning reality

Destabilizing reality

Feeling destabilized

Feeling irresponsible

Guilt

Feeling sick and tired

Feeling scared

Feeling hopeless

Wanting to reach out

Feeling like everything is inevitable

Feeling like suffering is inevitable

Recognizing kindness

Discerning well (properly? Clearly? Well.)

Fearful trusting

Thinking too much

Not wanting to love my dad as much as I do.

Chasing the intellectual high

Disappointment

No need for resolution

Feeling caught in existence

Feeling caught up. Like in a potato sack; I can explore the exact measure of my confinement, the sensorial elements, the scratchiness, the filtering light from the outside, the stagnation, the wanting to stretch.

I love this being.

This. It's not a problem.

Confusing familiarity with comfort

Confusing comfort with peace

Reifying confusion, but not really

Yielding, on my knees, heart to the sky

Seeing through, like pinholes in a perfectly realistic backdrop

Dispelling everything

Stripping away the Stripping away

Trying to stand still and feel

Wanting to be convinced by rage

Always loving Sad, not despondent, just sad

Feeling continuous

Feeling fragmented

Feeling like motion, like flow

Feeling like thousands of still frames, constant flickering

Grasping at impermanence

Resting in the middle

Dancing down the tightrope

Knowing perfect poise, so so brief

Everything is hysterically funny

Hysterically

But also just plain humorous

And absurd

Loving people

Feeling grateful for people

Seeing beauty everywhere

Always coming back

Like an epic

Like a great love story

Like a violin solo in a forbidden song

Like the last wring of that silk dress you're not supposed to squeeze dry

Knowing the inside of my hand

Knowing teenage shame

Knowing being yelled at, towered over, by my dad, in a narrow
hallway, eyes glued to speckled floor tiles, feeling small, nowhere to go

Loving with my body, with my hands, with my mouth, with my whole entire strong soft body

Crying with tears, and snot, and heaving

Becoming one single, concentrated point

Wanting to envelope everything. Really. Actually. With my body.

I am not this voice

Or this writer

Or this narrator

Though I am also all that
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
Explosive
Recently on a trip not to the holy land but to sacred lands of the Navajo just wanted to visit and talk to
The heroic wind talkers following still in the footsteps of my grandmother who was a code breaker in the
Sense a woman in the depression taking off in a Walton’s truck with nine children to go visit her people
In the Indian nation in Oklahoma more than five hundred miles away that wasn’t the usual code
Followed by women of that day little did I know I to would be meeting a woman later or at least hear
Her I got off the beaten path stopped in a small store I planned on paying respect to the great western
Writer Louis L’Amour he had on occasion set among the fields in California and cut open a can of peaches
Enjoyed his tramping with some fruit but as I walked up to the door a bill on the window gave this invite
Come to half moon ranch it gave the days date and direction hear the astounding violin of teal waters
She is noted for bringing tears to those who hear her haunting renditions some are other worldly I was sold
So I did a long lunch up on a bluff above the ranch I could see the draw or small canyon that would serve
As a performance arena not all that impressive somewhere along the line my eyes lost their fight to stay
Awake the sound of cars passing in numbers brought me out of my slumber the crowd was a little
Surprising out in the middle of nowhere this is a land where magic is believed and taught like in no other
Place the only place more famous would be Sedona Arizona well we all had taken our seats darkness was
Gathering faster because of the canyon walls with just a small introduction she started by saying she
Was going to honor her father and the other wind talkers wow was I lucky they came to me I didn’t even
Have to look them up well she set the tone that instrument with the thinnest whistle sounded just like
When I set out on the hillside all night in the fire truck waiting for the howitzer shells to explode down
Range then I was honoring dough boys from all past times in far more extreme circumstances but the C
Rations were the same and when I stood down on the flat valley those rounds sailing over then
Exploding a half a mile or more down range and the waves of the repercussion shook your pant leg
As if an angry dog had a hold of it she even imitated explosive blast on the heavy strings then the
Eerie was brought in while you set and peer into the darkness hoping against all odds you didn’t see an
Advancing horde when they continued on only your dead staring eyes would remain on the battle field
Did she switch to my country tis of thee I only know our hearts swelled I thought the red white and blue
Radiated somewhere and surrounded her she touched on the star spangled banner blazing lights truly
Rose from the stage that bow either caught the silver moon or it lit up and glowed white hot why not it
Was telling America’s story and the stories of her heroes who left arms and legs and lives scattered
Around the globe with that sacrifice our children are left to grow free and strong making the world
A safe place for all who love freedom and then the quiet strain carried the widows sigh and the
Children’s cry a daddy and mommy would only walk in the wonder of memories and in the loveliness of
The spirit that is forever close she did more numbers that ran the gambit of emotions and tears and joy
Gave us a rollercoaster ride to remember and I bought a CD TO relive a night to remember when the
southwest burned with patriotic flames flying in all direction from a truly inspired violin
Kendra Hall Nov 2012
Trash bag suits,
****** innuendos galore.
She’s a potato!
He’s a pterodactyl!
Well, she just transformed,
She’s now a sock.
Bro *******,
Analyzing bread.
She can’t comprehend.

Snapping,
Shoddy renditions of West Side Story.

Bashing,
On my observational skills.

This is normal,
It is routine.
No drugs,
No mental asylums,
Just my lunch table.
Dot ty Jan 2014
No matter how much I'd like to believe it's not true,
I'm still helplessly in love
And strung out over you.
There's a bond that neither of us can break,
And there are so many feelings
That neither of us can shake.
I will always see you just
The same as I did yesterday,
I will always overlook
The pain you've sent my way.
And I have accepted
That this is how things
Are going to stay.
Glenn McCrary Sep 2012
A role is fashioned for each of us homosapiens to portray
Though what if such a role ‘twas fashioned
by a fallacious organization of fabulists
Who decode billions of renditions of one monograph
for narcissistic purpose of monetary gain?
Naked fidelity shan’t be placed upon a hollow existence
Nor should verses be fibbed
Why can’t religion be real again?
Traci Eklund May 2014
some chose the company of fine wine
while I enjoyed the company of Thoreau
images of flora and fauna
woven into the spine of the book
with renditions of romance
between human and creature

humans are so self involved
the gravitational pull of their ego
can swallow an ecosystem whole
all things beautiful we destroy
we hunt, we cut, we want it all
every last ounce for ourselves
we have long strayed from our instincts
rather we strayed from purpose
into castles made of sand
with every grain being selfishness
the pursuit of belonging
the gathering of things
the celestial purpose
that once we revolved
now has turned to dust
we follow blind
hand fed ****
were told it's truth
but the "fallacies" are more legit
what do we strive for
another dollar made
moments that are priceless
give you more
than another pair of shoes
or fancy clothes tucked in your drawer
I'd give a million dollars up
to see a sunrise from a mountain top
then fade under the Los Vegas strip
to see the stars dance with northern lights
than the light pollution of NYC at night

for I have seen more than the one who has not stepped in the forest
for I have seen a process thousands of years in the making
the circle of life
of symbiotic connections and mutual gain
the soil the plants of which gave birth
to the food we eat and the air we breathe
to the nutrients infused in the ground beneath our feet
ImpliedLines Feb 2019
A few renditions are nothing at all
But if I copied their strife
Would you notice my fall
V Mar 2018
Two households warranted an aggression for one another for years,
so much so that some weren’t even sure what the Kingsley and
Callahan household feuded over, but among their vivacious
feud they also presented beautiful daughters.

Rebekah Kingsley, a woman of bold nature,
one with locks of hair as dark as that of freshly hardened obsidian,
skin the color of a soft caramel, lips plump,
and taunt cheekbones that seemed to have been sculpted
by the creator towards the heavens themselves.
She was a fearless woman, brave, taking others by storm,
but her passion and capability for love was ever so fervent.

Juliana Callahan, a woman of fine nature,
one with the need to adventure, and soft features that
delicately spawned from the swells of her cheeks,
her doe green eyes, and the petite frame in which she presented.
Juliana had hair the color of freshly fallen hazelnuts,
skin that was the color of a peachy cream,
and lips that were a natural shade of pink that mimicked
roses at the height of their first bloom.

Two women, two powerful components of the family’s
ongoing war found refuge in one another, hiding their identifies
at a masquerade, able to parade around as who they could be,
not who they had to be in public, and their affections were not
warranted, not in such a time period, but that didn’t stop
their immediate connection, the immediate spark of fire that ignited
even when the slightest brush of fingertips aligned
with one another’s exposed collarbones.

They talked, sharing a connection of one they had never found in
another companion, one they had never felt so deeply in
the swells of their hearts and the depth of their beings.
The were infatuated with one another, so lost
within a blissful cloud of desire, lust, and affection.

Their renditions of culture and rules had become obsolete since they
had laid eyes on one another. They had forgotten their rules,
the public strictures that were placed on them,
aspiring to talk to one another, to share words of
love, of affection, and of a deep connection, and they did.
They spoke, realizing that they couldn’t live without one another,
but such an infatuated love couldn’t survive with the ongoing
war between the Kingsley and Callahan family,
no love could break apart a feud that had been so engraved for years.
No love could be accepted, not in a society where
the romance between two lovers was considered unholy
if it were not between a man and a woman.

Such a feud lead to the death of the poor lovers,
one that was tragically poetic of their love, of their story.
Rebekah’s father had found out about the affair,
exalting his energy in kicking her out, shunning her,
making sure to never see her beloved once more,
but the two had already married themselves to one another
since the moment they laid on eyes on each other.
Rebekah couldn’t handle such an outcome,
so she took it upon herself to retrieve her own
means to end her life.

Rebekah harbored a poison, one potent and as strong
as the thorns that clip at ones skin when procuring
a freshly blossomed rose.

The Kingsley Lady let the poison trickle down her throat, staining her lips,
allowing it to seep into her skin.
Juliana found her lover, cold and hardened, lifeless
and inanimate. She kissed her to ingest the poison,
but it had been too late; the poison had layered itself
deeply into Rebekah’s lips.

A cry escaped Juliana’s lips, and then a whimper proceeded
afterwards, revealing the phonetic boundaries of her broken heart, for
she had nothing left, she had no passion,
no love, no desire, no want. Her lover, her supposed bride
laid before her, dead within her arms.
She was weeping heavily, salty tears staining the tenderness of her
rosy cheeks, so Juliana looked to that of her lover’s corpse,
taking the dagger which rested to the left of her.

She reached out, her shivering palm and fingers clasped
around the object, tightening her grasp as she let her eyes
remain attached to Rebekah’s body as tears streamed down
her face at a persistent manner; she brought the blade up,
uttering her love for Rebekah, telling her
“We shall not be parted forever, doth not leave me,”
she whispered with trembling and chapped lips,
plunging the dagger into her chest.
My take on Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet with a gay twist.
lazarus Mar 2016
for a beverage i find so conventionally unattractive,
your whole milk movements
make my insides cream in the way that elicits a sleepy,
satisfied smile from your furrow.

see, that's a joke that might make you smile.
enduringly grateful for a companionship
overrun by giggles in such variance.

you see, my darling, you are such a unique
You i am eager to reconsider the habits of my I.

loving you has fallen into my lap much like
a sticky, nap-seeking toddler,
and all i want to do is wipe sweet cranberry juice from your cheeks.

let me work the expectations and necessities
from your bones in the hum of my bedroom.
jersey knit and dust and candles.
you never mind my mess in the same way I cannot
mind the delectable tang of your sweat,
and i know how you like to taste mine.
all the ways one person should love another: simply and humanely
are strung between your fingertips.
let me untie you.
you write me on graph paper,
crooked teeth and vivid nightmares scrawled
between the rigid blue hue.
you write me in cursive, poorly, and i am shivering
imagining the ways your l's loop between the squares.

since our convergence, i drink less.
no inhalants burning my lungs, less meat on my plate.
cosmetics sit and gather dust because
really, who has time for such things and
i just might be bursting with the tender way
your lips brush against my cheeks. such a
warmth.

i despise to give you any credit, my love,
but assurance in my person only grows
by your guidance, patience and example.
nauseating, perhaps.
but luck has graced me, and i am oh so very sure
i will never forget the shape of my face between your hands
because truly, and quietly, i am learning.
that's all i can ask.

your hands are always on my neck,
cradling my cranium like a moonstone,
instinctively sometimes, like your brain
hasn't quite caught up with the fingers rhythmically
kneading the tender flesh like my muscles are a problem
that your hands already know how to solve.

my head is held surprisingly high next to you,
you unorthodox preponderance,
and for the first time i am deeply touched by how
little a Them can scratch the surface of such a
transcendent and radiant Us.

you are fluent in languages i am sure
i will never wrap my fingers around,
yet every phrase slipping out
between your swollen lips
seems just for me.

we make love like music and i would sing so softly
to the hush and grunt and ache of your body when it meets mine.
your rhythm is so nice beside my melody
and i want to keep hearing all your renditions.

i am only a little bit ashamed of how these words sing for you,
a collection of vowels in a way i find distasteful.
a language that is simple,
begs no extensive vocabulary and simile to express
how tender your eyes are, like my favorite moon,
and that i never get tired of talking to you,
or hydrating you.

i hope you never read this poem, or consider it.
i hope all this brilliance fades upon your departure.
i hope we lose touch.

if not i'll have to face the unbelievably unbearable uncertainty that
your You might be just as good for me as my I you.  

that i might want to be quiet with you,
for long drives and difficult times and
even nights that i don't want to be anyone at all.

that perhaps you hope for the same.

that we just might be the same kind.
this is not a poem
"Surreal skeptic, cynical cryptic! Licentious lecheries fabulist façade fantasias. Wild eyed spectral serene. Dream of catenary concoctions, ethereal salacious conjugation, bridge the gap in metaphysical mystique. Erotica erectile errantry’s exserted protuberance is a kinesiology kleptomaniac with his embark embargo extraditions and his eventuation evocative execrations, a positive amalgamated anathema android of a terminus thrall. The shadow in the shade of the silhouette sojourn. The bailiff’s rakeness rails incarnate, unicorn railway nails and all. He will paint mirador bartizan panorama tableaus all over your proximity parameter perimeter peripherals. Force the enmity to acquiesce into impunity.” “Why this is not but an ogling ogre of an oligarchy omelet” she shrieked as he continued to tickle her. “Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness,” he said. “Positive orchestration renditions of transpositional interlude.” “Come here,” she said “let my clambering clamorous clangor write you a wield wile treatise expose’.  The legions of Chinga da are battling the hoards of Gunga din saying", "kinetic supremacy temporize tractive fluent" , "it’s sheer genocide. That plasty goop nosed porker of a Gumby ******* ***** monger Gunga doesn’t stand a chance. Coax cacophony clout, catatonic phonics, grizzly grotto grouches all”, She squealed. “Now you’re gumption dreaming”, he chimed. “Chutzpah panache spontaneous generation complicity, gambit alluvium aloof succor.”
Re-post
M Harris Mar 2017
Photochromatic Sanity & Fluorescent Visions,
Metallic Vanity Initiating Phosphorescent Collisions,

Luminescent Effervescence In Her Iridescent Constants,
Convalescent Spells Of Her Tumescent Transplants,

Auroral Apertures & Acronycal Fractals,
Floral Kisses Of Her Quintessential Portals,

Velvet Transitions & Twilight Transmissions,
Reverberating Vocal Inhibitions Of Her Satellite Renditions,

Razor Rivers & Rogue Delights,
Shining Laser Echoes On Vogue Nights,

Molecular Suicides In Abysmal Desires,
Drowning In Atomic Oceans Of Her Ethereal Reprisals,

Static Pulses Of Her Prurient Delights,
Amorous Impulses With Hymens Of The Night,

Shaded Whispers & Livid Overtunes,
Serenaded Ceilings In Her Vivid Offtunes.

Condensed Rainbows Over Her Silk Citadels,
Slithering With Oblivious Love Of His Ghostline Vessels.

Extinct Hemispheres Of Her Tender Tracings,
Broadcasting Distinct Light-Years In Spiritual Casings.

- 03:50 AM -
We desire the things that will destroy us in the end

It's funny how we protect those who hurt us I think it's because we think there constantly trying to change that imperfection we have with in us how ironic

They told me it would be fun I wouldn't ever forget the feeling, this feeling, they said I'd be cool if I did it, and how I feel cool  the cold night air as soft as cotton when it touches my skin but as sharp as knives as the cool cuts to the bone I can see every thing clear as day as if the sun was at my back showing me a new perspective I think that's why I can see the stars shiny behind the thick clouds. I can almost hear them whisper their singing heavenly tunes with the rushing river playing percussion with the river rocks which drummed and the claps of the rips which match every color I've ever seen even the new ones in front of me

i feel like i could fly and belive me i tried every time i landed the grass under my bare cold feet were having tickle  fights with my toes there rugged wet tips almost like a dogs tounge licked and my soles they were winning, I the meekest of the meek was now the king of all I Survey and as I watched my kingdom of color, shape and sound they started to take shape of my "friends" all laughing with tears in there eyes I thought it was another one of my renditions of how I perceive things them seemed so real I could almost feel their breaths as they laughed even more hysterically their laughter seemed to shack me to my core so I called out to ask what was the joke

the sky spits at me with great disgust I want to ask why but I could not hear my self over the now screams of my "friends" they matched the screams of banshies and nails on a chalk board I mixture of millions of off pitch  piano keys I was In pain a pain I had never experienced before it was every were on my body no fixed place no origin site but raw utter pain I held with all my might it still was no competition for there screeches, I wanted so much to rip off my ears but befor I could for a brief moment i felt at peace one with all and all in me then every thing went black no songs now vivid colors no feeling of anything just darkness then when I woke I saw a bright light took me a second to realize I was back to normal the sun was up but it did not greet me the grass was cool but it didn't fight I felt lonely I check my phone for any massages,

"how was it""do you want more" I  thought about all the hell I went through all the pain I felt then I remembered that feeling I wanted to feel it again no I needed to feel it again so with out a second thought I answered "yes"  it's funny how we want what will destroy us in the end it's just human nature
Sorry if there are any spelling errors .
A bad trip.
Wk kortas Apr 2017
We’d known him, back in the day
At dear old Millard Fillmore Elementary,
As Three-Desks Tommy, highly imaginative monicker
Deriving from his decidedly unimaginative first name
And the fact that he, indeed, had three desks,
Each of them stuffed chock-full
With uncounted numbers of pencils and erasers,
Any number of homework papers
(Usually A’s and A-pluses,
Though there were the odd B’s and B-minuses as well,
As he was a bright, in fact inordinately bright, child,
But sometimes given to sloppiness and stray pencil marks
And a predilection for not reading the directions completely)
Eerily accurate renditions of dinosaurs,
Wildly inventive stories featuring rainbow-hued dragons,
Noble and voluble talking bovines,
And knights and knaves of every size, shape, and suzerain,
Stories which resided cheek-to-jowl with some bit of uneaten sandwich
Until such time it made its existence
Abundantly clear to the custodial staff.
We’d never stopped to think much about his miniature Maginot Line;
It was what Tommy did and had always done
For as long as we could remember,
Though there were some teachers and an assistant principal or two
Who thought the whole thing was permissive bordering on coddling
(His teacher was a veteran of the wars, and well-insulated by tenure,
But she had grown weary of over-glasses glares and snide asides
When Tommy’s name came up in the staff room,
A death by a thousand cuts and all that),
And one day, while moving one of his desks
To clear space for Simon Says,
It had caught on a sticky spot,
Overturning onto a soon-to-be-fractured toe.
When he came back to school, accompanied by an ungainly cast
And an equally ungainly pair of crutches, his teacher took him aside.
Tommy, she purred, Maybe someone is trying to tell you something.
The other kids all make due with one desk,
And I’m sure you can find a way to as well, don’t you, Tommy?

So Tommy embarked on a great cleansing of his little fiefdom,
Filling several garbage cans with his collected works,
(Math papers and mastodons, bologna and Brobdingnagians)
And afterward he’d kept himself to one standard desk,
Duly filing, returning, and circular-filing his paperwork
As the occasion demanded
(Though one time Murph Dunkirk
Asked Three-Desks if he minded downsizing;
Tommy just shrugged, and said Well, it’s better than a broken foot)
And maybe in his dreams he had a thousand desks,
A thousand tops to fling open,
A thousand repositories for light and legend
Or perhaps he never gave it so much as a second thought,
No way to know now, one supposes,
Though if anything out of the ordinary had come his way,
We would’ve probably heard.
Pearson Bolt Mar 2016
witches adorn the front covers
of ecofeminist zines
in an anarchist bookstore
nestled on the Left Bank
of Seattle's waterfront

rare rays of sunlight
filter through sheer curtains
photons glimmering
through fading droplets
clinging to cracked panes
refracting multicolor

i sit in the window-seat
listening to a homeless
balladeer's somber renditions
of Jonny Cash and Woodie Guthrie
serenading the locals bustling
down Pike Street Market
while the Olympic Mountains
keep their vigil
across a lonely bay

Emma Goldman whispers
for Alexander Berkman
and i balance on mismatched cushions
considering Proudhon's insistent
inquiries while Bakunin smirks  
nursing secret heresies of insurrection

colorful posters are paper-machéd
across the walls with slogans of struggle
scrawled in sisterhood and solidarity
stickers plaster the narrow halls
encouraging visitors to Smash Capitalism!
or Read A ******* Book
as jam-packed patrons chance
sly peaks at the black flag
suspended in the back room

a faint breeze flutters intermittently
drifting across the open threshold
lifting spirits as if sifting
through grains of sand
not unlike a child
digging for answers
armed with one
monosyllabic question

why?

the banner
cheerfully pirouettes  
for a revolution
without dancing
is not one worth having
Jose Remillan Oct 2013
I sit on a cliff to watch the
Sun as it rests at the vastness
Of ocean. Here, I found

A self chained by the oppressive
Landscapes of memories—measuring
The distance of a life lived in the

Folly of youth from the life
Lived in the youthful folly of life.
Life is a circular argument.

                A strange voice from the
 Wilderness utters the words of the
               World. I am compelled to

                                              Listen
        ­                                       Obey
                          Drift from my self.

I lived a life not of my own. Blown
By the wind. Riddled by doctrines
Of truths in multiple versions and

Renditions of power. Powerless I
Have become. Becoming, thus, is
Defined and defied by truths

Relative to utility. Living is an
Attempt in futility unless the myth
Of becoming is braved by believing

In oneness with one's self.
I sit on a cliff to watch the sun as it
Rises from the vastness of ocean.

Here, I find myself.
Postmodern Poetry.
For my favorite philosopher FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.

University of the Philippines-Diliman
Quezon City, Philippines
October 21, 2013
/
Where did the colors of
Why color renditions!
Are you trying to paint your dreams?
Indeed, the stars in the sky to Hold Fairs
 
Look at the Open Sky
Like a white canvas
You draw all your dreams together
I'll see you in the new dream date

I'll come back in the afternoon
To see your painting
Do you need anymore color?
I have a lot of
But I'm not a Painter
I want to see your painting,
Would be lost
Want to be a kite in the sky were

Then came Evenings
I think today
Evening Star will be appeared
Walk with thought,

Sometimes the simplest ways is to think hard
The nearest ones are distant

Restless mind
Edgy eyes
Keep eyes on Canvas
Ouch is it!

Oh,Why is this canvas colored in dark!
Ah,Why the sky is shaded with clouds!
/
@Musfiq us shaleheen
many colors and a dark painting
Chuck Mar 2014
She is the Queen of the coffee shop
Watching over her kingdom in triumph
Yet, behold, the empty dais
The star on her crown glimmers little
In the vacuous suffocation of silence
Clink and clang from the servant's quarters
Is the only sound besides the jesting
Of new wave hauntings and jazz renditions
A once vibrant kingdom depressed in
Melancholy achings
Yet the smile on her black lips,
Frozen from a time of prosperity
The coffee shop poet is beguiled
And joins the queen in her silent musing
Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugue-ness, estranged ensemble orchestrations and all.  Similar states of analogous configuration and ancillary subordinateness in fact.  Various assorted forms of related stranger weirdness.  Preterite orchestration renditions of synthetic synthesis’ retrospectively retroactive.  Accidence ambience acoustics, aorist actuator’s arbitrational attenuation.  Explicate eventuation evocative expletives, amalgamated anathema android wind up toys.  Gambits of alluvium aloof impunity!  Enigma entity’s identity crisis.
Maieutic Introjection!
Kiagen McGinnis Jul 2011
age
is
arbitrary!
is how i justify whiskey shots on the front porch with adults
singing drunken renditions of Wish You Were Here
it's tender and when our disharmonic voices pierce the quiet street
we all cry a little.

Kimmy puts her arm around me and tells me i am
going
to
do
great
things
maybe it's the alcohol burning up my throat
or something in the light

the
world
is
mine
to
change
Lane Bohman Nov 2017
One sip
Of your poison
Just one fix
I'm walking out the door.

I can't do this any more.

Oooooh but the Devils
calling me by name.

Oh It's so inviting,
I can never win this game.

The cycle is vicious
It never remisses


Bittersweet renditions,
Of the time I had it beat (?)

Fooling myself

too many times,

How much shame is on me?

Can't you see I'm grounded?
Weighed down by my heavy heart?

Not long before
I figure out what's coming next.

You got what I want
(You got what I need)
Can't stop holding on
(I love our toxicity)

Caught up
(In our lust)
With no chemistry
(Can't stop holding on)
I love our toxic energy.

Around and round we go
(I start to wonder)
where did our love go?

She's in my veins
(Ooh I'm an addict)
Shooting up her perfume
the one habit I can't break
I won't shake

Over, under, in-between
(Stuck under your nail)
Give me
just a moment with your scent
I love the smell.

*Im fading away
Addiction, personification

— The End —