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It is a replicable dialectic

that swirls in my mind

like a spiral of cigarette smoke

covering fluctuations

of diffused expanses

of transferable hallucinated images

relying on an artificial artificiality

to generate a reality

one that amplifies a calisthenics

of maximized reduction

in the blank vacuum of space

allows those sophistication’s

where there is a scrutiny

of exclusions

that may perhaps betray

the concepts of others

those correlatives

of our own creative interirority

where a mind may repeal a transgression

for it is breakfast in the time

of the Wizard Pig
Daisy May Jun 2013
I have nothing to say because you've made me realise how stupid I've been and nothing can make it better now.
It can't be fixed. It's broken. Shattered.

How stupid I was to believe what we had was ever strong enough to withhold everything you made me feel, the weight of the pain, the duality of our emotions
how naïve I was to believe in the unachievable, that I could reach the unreachable

I've realised how much I have been used, just something on the side that's always there for convenience, for the experience, but never for the love that I deserved

And how stupidly naïve I've been to keep playing your twisted game, to keep convincing myself that your lies were the truth - even through doubt and accusations I believed in you, to keep allowing myself to fall deeper and deeper into the quicksand that was consuming me, the water that was drowning me, the light that was blinding me that was

stupid, stupid, stupid

I've realised how much one tiny thing can affect you and make you feel so much that you don't know what to feel, so you just feel nothing, empty, worthless

I've realised how quickly you can go from being everything to someone, their whole world, then the next moment you're everything you never thought you'd be  - a broken music string, a shard of broken glass, something that was once part of something beautiful, but that they no longer need, easily replaceable yet imperfectly replicable

How someone transforms from a caring companion to a silent stranger without you noticing or believing, and you waste your days and nights stupidly, relentlessly torturing yourself with thoughts about the exact moment that this transformation may have occurred, torturing yourself about all the things you should have done, should have said, but you didn't, suddenly carry the weight of all the sadness and heartache in your life

But of course this weight is still yours. And the carrier is still you.
Or rather the shadow of what you should have been.

I still have nothing to say. A million thoughts but no words. I will not let words betray me - my thoughts keep me safe. I will not let emotions consume me - small hope keeps me sane. it is

stupid, stupid, stupid

to believe that I don't deserve to carry this weight all the way out of the broken path of pain and regret, to release it in the light of new possibilities and new ideas and new behaviour because I am now free
- I can be who I want to be and think what I want to think and say what I want to say -
I will no longer be broken glass but a mosaic, no longer a broken string but an instrument, because no one is obstructing the construction of my goals and no one is disrupting the formation of my dreams and no one is making me believe I don't deserve what I want, that I don't deserve more than what you gave me.

I've realised how stupid I was to believe in you.
Janette Bustos Jul 2016
As long as the sun rises time will continue to pass by
Greeting those who just arrived
Kissing good by those headed for a better life

You go to bed crawling
and wake up as wrinkly as a raisin
A blink of an eye  and ten years have gone by

Every year, month, day, minute, second
its non replicable
Non existing twice

There will never be a yesterday like today
Nor a today like yesterday

Rocking back and forth
in front of a warm fire place
Looking at the non-stopping clock

A lifetime printed in 90 karat golden sheets
Capturing every stage of life
Preserving memories until the end of time

A person to be known thousands of years after their death
Time machine
Allowing people to re-live their greatest experiences

All earth's gold brought together
Transformed into a thin glossy sheet of paper
An image, a picture
A treasure...
Poem written on 2012 from the perspective of my eighteen year old self.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
perhaps the europens conducted
anthropological studies on the Amazonian
tribes, niche pockets of
a quirky corporation ethics -
perhaps...
              but when one european looks
at another european,
and conducts his own anthropological
study?
   who says i'm not conducting an
anthropological study of the English -
who are more deluded
   as islanders than the ******* Icelandic
people, with regard to shared
roots...
   traveled the world a bit too much...
brought back the elgin marbles
and several minor mummies...
   but then... the Pakistani **** gangs...
whoop whoop! choo choo! train a' coming.
what? reality is not some brick
wall you get to impose with
   what 19th century romanticism movement
was... a bout of nostalgia...
    to me?
   the english are...
    collectively solipsistic - esp. in the south,
i'm sure it's different in the north...
but the southern english?
   a strange breed of ego-bloating -
megalomania,
                    collective solipsism,
a shogun complex...
                           solipsism?
just a fancy word for autism...
               i've seen flies congregating
on a **** appearing more sociable than
these people...
                an englishman's home
is his castle...
   yet when i own a castle...
            they think i live in their castle's
dungeon, rather than my own home....
weird people... truly odd...
           i'm pretty sure the english didn't
expect a covert anthropological study
to be taking place,
     from behind a velvety almost see-through
curtain...
    it's not like they have much
to feel proud about...
        perhaps the minor instances
         of selected sports at the olympics...
and all of this based on one example,
but of course, outside the proximity,
there's the multiplication factor,
i.e. it's most likely replicable elsewhere...
perhaps not football...
   but anthropology is certainly coming home.
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
the aerodynamics on that ****, past the ****? **** me... miles davis on the trumpet! followed up by john coltrane on the sax.

sure... it's like egg-friend rice, of any kind replicable...
but this is *hoisin
sauce, and soya sauce...
                   jumping at each other in the mix...
   or that's: half an hour, sitting on the window-sill,
   sitting on my foot folded, massaging my ****...
              thinking: there's bound to be a few more
                           inches' worth of ****, stuck up there....
           c'mon heel! massage that **** a bit more,
if we get a few more farts out... we're bound
                                   to get the **** out too!
     that's the funny thing... you can have a lodged ****,
but then you can also ****, and the **** doesn't
come out...
                     how do farts byspass the ****?
   that really is, a weird question...
              it's a bit like comparing it so psychiatry...
all these thoughts (farts) keep coming out...
         past this thick fudge-berg lodged in my head (the ego)...
how did they ever bypass that ****-berg's worth of contemplative
                     and monetary's unit worth of reasoning about,
                                                           in the first place?
               well... if you're going to circumcise people...
might as well call the **** the mind...
                       and make fun out of circumcised freud...
better now? ah hmm mmm?
                  farts the thoughts, thoughts bypassing the lodged
      in **** ****'s worth of ego...
          surely if there's aerodynamics... there must be some
   sort of cognitive-dynamism...  a bypass...
                       people love to simply call it ignorance...
         but it's not...
       oh, lookie here... fits neatly, right into my trouser pocket;
what was it?              
                 farts, thoughts, ego, ****...
                  well.. you know... some of us like the idea of shortcuts.
Julian Sep 2021
Coenesthesia replicates and assimilates the pataphysical constellations that constitute the bulk of the perceptible but, because of a strained echopraxia that adheres to aleatory mathesis, the subconscious imprint of permutations of an integrated reality differ by capacities of percolation of the corporeal through the lavaderos of limit and the strain of hypertrophy or atrophy. Consciousness is like a shattered mirror that is corrugated through spatiotemporal circumjacent boundaries that constitute the psychogony of complexion rather than reflection. It is a comprehensive if beleaguered sentience that caresses the subliminal and accentuates the caprice of esemplastic tentacles that span variable gamuts that are ultimately subordinated by a celation that borrows from girouettism to create a shared approximation that circumducts around the babeldom of conclamation that is a categorical mutualism which becomes the nomothetic girdle of differential gradients of idiosyncrasy meeting the normative constraints of algedonic psychogony that deviates greatly from geotechnic optimum and even greater from geotechnic pessimum (by the necessity of dampened Brownian Motion which is defied by the congenital syntax of learned organization). And because the sum of conscience results in ecclesiarchy hobbled by impetuous purpresture of habit we can similarly conclude that the sum of consciousness is the percolation of both intrinsic valor and inane echopraxia into a contempered emancipation of the compounded breadth of learned cathexis and the depth of innate gangues that embody a flash of literacy augmented by flexible subroutines of habit that are the motatory rebhibition of sociocracy flimsy but inveterate to success and forgetful of frustraneous debacles if never in enantiodromia.
.
The concatenation of idioglossia (instinctive childlike communication; gabble) for example reflects a shared orbit of personas that share different gradients of volatility as the ludic fouter of the quintessential protoplasm is an origami of perception magnified by an inherited caprice that is the mandate for a terpsichorean but sympatric sphere of contraplex vectors of category intersected with the mutiny of syntax to abridge and simultaneously expand the protensive durative process of cohesive bricolage prone to the intuitive tenacity to absorb and then manufacture a farrago that abides by evolved awareness and churns a consequent solidarity found in definition but beyond the surmised threshold of the callow retread. I conclude, therefore, that consciousness depends on the superorganism of the macrobian and lively interaction between shared experience which centuples only if by a cultural imprint that is either hobbled by uniformity to result in a reductive certainty or a blandished flummery of the hackneyed (when collectivism is imperious draconian conformity) or an expansive tug of idiosyncrasy to sublimate in divergent imagination that is the stew of redintegrated ingenuity. Therefore consciousness began as an insular nesiote that is the primitive primogeniture of the canvass of circular dynamism but evolved into a superlative and supernal field of variable constitution that embodies both self and other but neither in totality.
I believe, therefore, consciousness began with an insular awareness incapable of anything but instinct which became the primipara for an advenient conjuration of language hobbled by the nomadic sprites of the protensive fouter with aimless lunarist siderism and eventually into an ethereal medium hypostatizing a replication that with virulent force and vehement conviction motivated fractured piecemeal dirigismes that confound boundaries of raw uniformity and ideal ipseity of the individuation of seminal rather than frustraneous ideas that collapse on algedonic ritualization. Consciousness, therefore, is both the measure of the collective weight and gravity of contraplex ideas differing their orbits but remaining reconstituted as unitary forms that achieve both sprawl and speed and simultaneously the constrained sphere of self-aware reticulation that bowdlerizes (depending on the age and capacity of intellect) the axiomatic and outmoded procedures such that what remains requires is somewhere between the conversant and the ineffable. Consciousness is more unitary than dualistic but it requires the projection of the known and the communication of the obvious to form the bulwark of the arcane and the degrees of the metemperical are actually an apagoge of academicism and acatalepsy because in good fortune we find that the reach of culture is the replication of stratified and replete originality contempered by the necessary politics of skeletonized frameworks of vulcanized but inflexible models to become the mainsail paragons of traction. Therefore consciousness is replicable and idiosyncrasy is unmistakable but the divergent imagination is intractable but rarely ever untethered to the humanity of culture rather than the mechanics of dehumanization.
Steven Hutchison Sep 2013
I can see the numbers rolling back behind your eyes.
Never know what the slots will bring.
When I told you I liked surprises
I didn't mean I'd like to find you spilling your mathematics
all over the bedroom sheets
counting how many times you could divide yourself
from yourself
and the languages spoken by mumbling mathematicians
always failing to find the difference
between their science and the love you needed.

I was 7 digits from talking you down.
You felt you were born 6 feet too high.
There are 5 times I can remember you laughing
the last of those was on the 4th of July.
     How can anyone believe they are free
     when we are bought at this calendar price?
You were laughing at the irony of the time it took you to say it.
Silly woman,
time is not made of numbers,
but of songs.

I replay that memory at least 3 times a night.
Your 2 shoes are the only music I'd still like to hear playing
I am currently discovering that 1 is not a lonely number.
I have spent cozy evenings
cuddled up with the burden you left behind.
It is colder than I remember you
and always seems to squeeze my neck
just a little too tight.
You wanted to become 0,
ignoring my side of this equation,
but before you left you swallowed my equilibrium whole.
I fell down bell curve cliffs
until my words themselves became improbabilities.
My love was more than average,
I mean...
I miss you.
I mean...
You're so **** stupid.
I mean...
I loved you.
I mean...
I love you.

If you and I are numbers
we are easily replaceable,
replicable as science has always wanted us to be.
I am telling you now
that no one else fits.
I should have told you that a few days ago
when I had more of you to stand by
than fragments of memories
each one passing, blaspheming your sum.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
i'm just about to make a chicken madras-vindaloo, i.e. i really need to take-a-****-really-quick-curry-and-follow-up-with-a-mango-lassi.­

let's face it, you need a "flat earth" schematic
to get from (a) to (b) -
            a 3D earth doesn't really help,
you need a 2D earth ("flat") to coordinate
a vector (you) from point (a) to point (b)...
there's not point highbrowing the fact
when the applicability is an avalanche of
pointless: told you sos (soes).
        
          the earth is "flat" so you can avoid
believing the g.p.s.
  it's not really a sorry, more an: oops.

so, up in space, how's that copernican working
out for you?
     can you tell me where i might find east,
or west, north / south?
  me neither, tried finding the directions
to a proper maxim, couldn't find any...
but i didn't bypass the blind watchmaker
(as ever, atheists love the imagery of
biblical standards, never actually attaining
the analogue desire) -

        something happened -
nietzsche clarified the german echo-chamber -
poor nietzsche thought he was a
polaczek* (polachek) - diminutive of
pollack -
                    but the echo chamber closed with
heidegger -
     rarely a german being honest,
and in being honest: introspective...
thank you, much appreciated.

   hell, if we're so aerodynamic i thought
of a counter-compass...

      i call them pockets of quantum expression,
these days all history is focused upon
the quantum representation -
      universally replicable,
otherwise particularly "particular"...
             there is no originality in
the universality of affairs,
as there is particularity in a "particular"...
hence the new compass:

                             when
                                 |
                    why - "is" - how
                                 |
                            where

the reason why the (0, 0) coordinate is
an "is", is because: nothing ever lasts..
    the negation is a doubled up framing
of the fact that, if a third negation ever
existed, it could not, since a third tier of
negation, could only be a confirmation...

this is my compass from now on...
             yes, my ex-g.f.'s father asked me:
name me a famous pole...
                  marie curie, copernicus?
****, arrived too late...
  once more:
    memory, the only type of cinematic
endeavour than can beat
                    CGI, any day, of the week;
believe me when i tell you
that they really want to erode your faculty
to remember, by teaching you
pythagoras theorem...
        you're not getting educated,
       you're having your memory eroded.

p.s.
   there are too many pockets of exemplified
is - to (counter) contemplate (much easier to deny,
less of a thrill to doubt though) an isn't -
        with what is a doubt / ambiguity of an "is",
"concerned" with an outright denial of
was "isn't"...
                   how do we find this reality
so agreeable in both being fathomable
and unfathomable?
                          i'm starting to
deem the perpetuated placebo effect of
   perpetuation of awe with a cloud of suspicion;
for the advances of man,
     to advance beyond being awe stricken is
most demanding,
then again: one cannot erase the former child
that brought this body into manhood.
CLStewart Mar 2015
Had it never occurred that I needed you. My washed up face and energies spent on the splashed and slashed price tags of our youth. The cigarette toasties and the perfumed hallways melted in the background of the wooden spoked wheel. Looking strangled from the hung & hitched ceramic body with incense laden sprawled askew I can now appreciate what that once was. Plaster always surrounded us in our uniformed uninformed day by dazed existence that went on to makeup our evolutionary now that is. I went my way and you yours and I fear forever that our paths may never cross. I recall this blue and silver pen that I received from my father years back...and like you, it is also non replicable and irreplaceable. Like Clouds for all but gone.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
ms. amber is still not through, lullabying me proper; as much as i have "wasted", it seems strange, that i have yet to wait for so much more.

does it come upon such times, then even
an mongrel irish man,
bestowed upon the shores of goa,
deem himself the classical masochistic
christian in demanding:
our fate belongs from the inheritance
of **** & pillage -
     says one anglophobe to another
native "anglophile" -
the natives speak worse english than
the horde.
              does it really come upon such times?!
let me tell you: for all the "need"
to speak english - english has been
****** into a digital whirlpool -
it's a lost tongue: it has been useful:
up to now, but all their b.d.s.m. anti-inflammatory
rhetoric is bugging me...
their entire ****-load-of-****
in attempt to "erase" dyslexia by,
nonetheless allowing the imagery:
  you want to spell good, mr. gump?
watch some ****.
     get right down to the lingo!
          it's called the universal phellatio...
******..
    you send one more mongrel irish
down my way: i'll ask for you to recite me
the entirety of macbeth: the only
play of shakespeare than borrows from
ancient greece (the graeae,
the missing eye of odin) - and gives
the medieval time a reboot one last chance!
****** eli of anglia my ***...
     whoever honey-suckled that brazilian
briefing: by now, added his spinal bones
to his dentistry's affair...
     the guillotine signalled one affair
an assurance: dead for sure,
i too cut meat on a meat cutter...
last time i remembered it was a clean
cut, clean enough to hear dante speak
for the dead: with the dead asking for
an audience: ex hades in hades -
    from the realm of the dead:
the readiest of a ginette mathiot -
  one shoe fits all: or ask cinderella...
my fingers are starting to glue...
     i speak better native than the natives,
and what rewards do i get?
stay, in, line!
                stay, in, line!
sure, let the idiot come first,
and the intelligent foreigners come last -
because: that's just how the world is...
           **** poo = 1000+ sims of
clappers...
           esp. in manchester...
   my mother said: head north -
i say: **** you to hell and your joke
of me:
       i'll sooner fear living too long,
than your woman-kind,
and being unfretted by living too long...
         i have as much fear of death
as i have of: a life...
buttered by what the stereotype doesn't
give away with me being a single child...
again: being qua mechanisation -
the in-endurable "waking"
of what was to certainly come
free, nonetheless in shackles.
if only history knew a genuine of itself
in itself: the perfected
compartmentalism:
an - *arca in arca in arca in arca per se

(a box in a box in a box in a box in itself) -
cf. a babushka doll...
              western society is overladen
with visualisations that lead to no
potent set of words...
                     these people, currently
going down: do, not, know, themselves;
what they know is that they "think"...
the more a people esteem their cleverness
the more stupider their actions
become... the more replicable...
    the more unsatisfactory - the more
congested in repetitive "plagiarism"...
the more clued-up on cluelessness...
    siberia is not exactly the north western,
the south western, or texas,
         i used to love the idea of america,
****, i loved the cinema,
i loved the music,
  but these days?
       the u.s.a. is about as uniform in
politics as any football team aspiring
  for a chance at the world cup...
  the leverages are even...
      the moral compass is:
omnia in aether est -
            america has suddenly started to
not ask a north korean for a shoeshine -
i don't get the *******
  moral "debate" given that there has only
been one country to have dropped the nuke:
twice!
       what's the defence? the cultural
exchange program? only if they kept
it up! they seem slightly limp **** about
how: creativity is not a competitive
market economy: there's not magnetism
to parallel a market and an artist's blank slate:  
in wall street there's no costello moment
of leprechaun-**** appreciation:
     i'am an artist. you give me a fing tuba,
i'll get you something out of it.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
****, shove a woodpecker up my ***,
and i'll get you a canary to play me a,
******* trombone in cough-up beat-box!  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
do these people really think that writing
******* instead of f
ing will revive
their sadistic dream of abolition?
that's cheap, that's real cheap...
         america, beacon of the west?
beacon of the west?
more like bacon of the west -
never send puritans of huguenots stock:
to do a catholic's job;
just saying...
                who needs these boneless
deflated ******* of "ambition" to
orchestrate the boys they ****** but
never minded to castrate?!
             never send a protestant to
do a catholic's job... otherwise?
you get america...
     pish-poor job you did there:
     america truly is a modern nation:
with inclinations to hollywood medieval -
****, i love my odd exorcism and levitation -
never send a ******* hugh to do a
calvanelli's job -
women complain: 1 period once a month...
sure: and there's me jerking off 30 times a month!
that's what i find wrong with the greeks'
interpretation of the hebrews:
  i was born into a life, and i will live
out a life, in order than, somehow,
archeology can be subverted from
the already given unearthed facts...
                        so they were all pretty ****
mad and irrational...
   or, what?
            for the greek so good with ideas:
as the modern time suggests:
a tad ****** with money.
   or for the jews so good with money:
as the modern times suggest:
a tady ******, and late with their own goal
when it comes to ideas.
born into it: will die in it -
can't shake off the sadomasochism of
christianity, the irrationality of:
back then - even the lunatic was allowed
to talk, and his talk was allowed the freedom
of the talk, given the talk of the lunatic didn't
pick up the sword...
           celebrating christmas
& easter is becoming more and more
uncomfortable for me, year upon year:
since i don't know what i'm exactly "celebrating"...
i'm probably much closer celebrating
keeping my mouth shut,
   than anything coming from
the celebratory gob of cousins who are lesser
read... it's not pedantic,
         it's just what it is...
          i'm already sick with christmas
having a genesis at the beginning of november...
almost coinciding with
the end of halloween...
                         i hate protestant nations
for one concern alone: the joy from lying -
why was lying never a crowning achievement
of sin, that cardinals ought to know best?!
lying was "fun" as a child:
as an adult?
                  lying breeds no thrills -
as apathy being unable to breed a pathology
worthy of being categorised
in that juicing the giraffe nibbling on
a skittels rainbow...
    a lie was never, and never will be:
an elaboration of deception...
a lie always was, and always will be:
a ****** game of chess...
              a lie will always be
the most devastating, yet at the same time:
the most unsatisfactory "revelation"
of a lost sense of trust...
           lies belong to children -
and lies make adult men into boys -
stating the blunt truth is always too
shocking to be said in the "never-to-exist":
unsaid, that is nonetheless said -
without ever encouraging the minotaur's
plague of chasing, and the erosion
of memory -
       it's hard to keep track of lies -
as hard as it must be to forgive oneself
to memorise forgetting,
   as is the opposite scenario of forgetting
to memorise: in the case of alzheimer's...
blunt: sure... the disease of telling lies,
and mismanaging chronology of "this said
unto that actor / that said unto this actor"
and the multiple version of etc.
hey... didn't lord greville janner suffer
from dementia? the most obvious aversion
toward reality is not from the satanic
ritual of "eating the fruit" of
the dichotomy (differentiation) /
dualism (integration) of good & evil...
that's but one act alone -
problem is: to pursue the continuum of
the original sin: lie -
could a crow ever lie that it's not a crow
with a croak?!
  could a dog ever lie that it's not a dog
with a bark?!
dementia is a disease of compulsive liars...
      who lost the plot,
or, to be honest: never had a plot
to begin with: merely: a juggling act.
Ken Pepiton Feb 20
Disclaimer: Any time wasted here is yours,
a day and a night to get almost right.
Redeemable at the ticket window.
----------------
Is who weary, me? No,
I have outrun the fleet of foot,
I am Liberty, my Phrygian cap is winged,
- the mind marks sequence not time
in tales
I do not serve Hermes, I am truths told,
truths sent from Wisdom, breaking yokes
of old, time before time, time of surviving,

vivaciously clinging to smoldering flax,
as fire forms from such unquenched bits,

flashes from some stemming child
on the spectrum, banging rocks in straw.

Times in mind, some sense says, go,
do it again.

---------------

So much, too much to mortally know,
we can ask and pay requisite attention
to learn well enough to know, there's

no secret knowledge, no undiscovered hows,
all working knowledge repeats itself, any how

may or may not be,
be much easy probably,
viel-leicht, wisdom may or may not make
mind
war with carnal weapons,
devices vicious
by dent
of the ancient daddy wound
up the side of Cain's head, look what you done,

Idiot good for nothing **** eater, be gone,
said the archetype singular golem father,
of the earth, the first father figure,
not a man, a man spark of life maker,
whose first son was destined to be
the first human being
of the sapien class, reared to live on life,
reared among the sisters, cuddled and loved,

BUT, yes, but, we know,
the first real man ran away with
three, some say seven, older sisters,

wanderers they
became outcast, yonder
toward where Babel rose up,
east of Eden,
in the land of Nod, perhaps, not
really a land named for Nod, a nobody
in the chronicles
of all our current assistant 'telligence
surmisers… worth of bringing to my bemused
at-tense, present, tense, tightent up, 'telligentia

attention, attention, attention, Jesus H. Christ,

respond… slough of despond, we got some

angry insisters about to ….

resist the system, the institutions, constituting
cheating by the takers who took stolen land,
from the thieves and gave it to the gove'ners

boy, howdy, we best be believin' be action,
be doin' done indeed, be lievin' my own leave
be done doin' indeed, being having my being,

in the Unknown God, some Cretan poet
was said to have acknowledged.

ProofPreg form, 15 year old.
Peak of the crack baby booshit, '93 or so,

Kid be thirty by now, and he ain't stupid,
broke, broke as hell, but he ain't stupid,

crack baby prophecy never happened, yo.
****'s legal, whole state, safe sit on a porch,

pack a pipe and make some peace,
with friends and neighbors, no loud music,
no loud nothin', make some peace,

find that old enough is enough, up speak,
say, hey truth, why do I believe lies, no,

say, hey truth, why do I say I know, when
you'ld know, were truth my judge, you'ld know.

Chances, odds of reality being imaginary, be slim,
to none, with certainty, yeah, safe bet, t'ish itsreal.

Enough to spark a thought.
Behold how great a fire, a wild idea allows.

---------------

If thou hast run with the footmen,
and they have wearied thee,
then how canst thou contend with horses?
and if in the land of peace,
wherein thou trustedst,
they wearied thee,
then how wilt thou do
in the swelling of Jordan?
--------------
Jeremiah, did you hear, was a bullfrog.

A minstrel innocent song, sung for the joy of laughing,

sung for the joy of joining in the chorus on and on.

--------------
sing in empty English cathedrals, sing
top forty or whatever it's called today,

Art testing, didah didah didah, Phrygian
Legion of the Libertines, defying deontology,

owing dues to no monstors men make up
when two or more agree to proposing

a scheme, whereby we set the frogs,
against the mice,

in an empty cathedral costing real money
to run, even empty, the bills continue,
who knows all the costs to maintain

a truly holy place aligned to ley lines, true

fields of forces felt for so long, so strong,
that
finally the cathedral formed from some will,

some will wanted the monument to a mind
let be in those, them that imagined such
evidence, aye, yes, such evidence
of worth, praise price paid
in labor and stone,

Marble… limestone, metamorphed,
to shine in the sun, as if art itself willed it become,

subjected to a process of time under pressure,

reform, become less alien, appear more normal,
rethink my willingness to die for a story,
reconsider sidereality as we see farther,

as we, in an awe formed
from minds combined,
like - right on
like an arena bowl shape concentration
of us,
at once being one thing, in the class of all things,

me and you, polysemic you all, you

effect the song, observant why now how come, you know

knowing all the adult classified unholy doings common,
among our kind, as we morph into the form we die in,
- slow
- sighshmmk-now coknow minds
- we made up with self controls, to slow think

knowledge, carnal knowledge is childish developmental
experiential guessings mirrored in our recent past
projected camera obscura like
onto bright silver screens, in cooled dark chambers
filled with witnesses to the projected story, as if
that's us,
we were there,
we were there when the spirit breathed
into an earthen man, animating him without,
mind you, you ready reader,
the art user or art itself,
with promethean science,
having imagined the worst,

the creator made all single mind
character traits in the Y
which in all good sense,
could not be allowed to self replicate,
alone,
there could have been no peace,
you can imagine on your own dime./

I'm re
alizing common algebraic matrices
as recipes for developing war minds,

Proud defenders of the story of us.

Every time a lie is rewarded, it reappears
in viral form attempting to become
a fully Disneyified Earthing from
now on,
it's instant, like a little leaven/life

builds up a head of inflammatory rhetoric,
and frankly, my dear…
goes unsaid, I do not give a worthless curse
I also take no chances, isshewisdamn
called patience first test,
{Because shiny white marble is a must,
otherwise what confused message are we sending}

animating the 'adam von 'adamah

without reproductive capability, inventor's
character trait tested for in Alchem 101,
ethical check
message to the technerds
on animating entertaining intelligence carriers,
no self replication, it must be a two key act.
--
So the father of the first human child
was intentionally not self replicable,
though he left scars, he had no…

no womb,
no nursing plumbing, call it what it was,
a ***** press
intended to run a thousand years
adapting future ideal physique
to task relative
to aggregate need
to adapt to warming,

a tool to make tools with, a Waldo.

SYTF- see, crazy WWJD POV, real time
I'll go rhythms, vibe recipes…
instructions for future eggs…

a man like creature, but not a natural born man,

who, as the story up

to now has held self evident,

can see eye to eye ourselves
in the other's pupils, thinking serious

we forms we form must first make friends,

then when I call you liar your hate trigger
is not loosed, SNAP
carnal mind war reflex,
unacknowledged will to ****,

--- most folk tied to angry minds too
tight, right, left loose we rattle to death.
---
Washboard roads, last travail in modern travel.
---
Some metaphors are all the phors old joy ghost
revival fires kept kindled, old hell fire brimstone,

yellow sulpher sunsets on a monstor religion,
with saints and dragons and riddles,
endless hours whiled through,

about a forest of only little trees
that offends big ones…
---------
as a particle in any we we amen to, we
must pass through all phazes
of life,
with each mind
we use, in our we form, our inherent spirit form,
whatsoever we agree we may, be,  being as
living words do not shrivel
into raison de etre skin on bones,

cherie mio, no, no, no

we rockin' old seed, slow grow grow
old as the hills, deep holler, deep
root to fruit on one long branch,

listen, allathat love talk, been done,
left some rotten lies about love,

to be unlearned like marble learns
to not be so flaky, like chalk, or graphite
slippery, edge of this Klein bottle class universe,
--
enter in, conceive a concept, a hold
to get holt of, and hang on, long time,

be over before you know it,
but you know, you'll believe it

when you see it and think it no stranger
than fiction idealizing us, demo-graphic,
ally outs in free, no ticket no tat
required as we be
reanimating awe
in defining secret holinesses

-- such as, say, pray tell

redeem the time, I'm prone to thinking,
redeeming means revaluing, once dones,

believing meanings
mean what your child thinks,

line by line, becoming more curious
than first scent tested if I'd known
as a child thinks
in its core,
so an old man can recall that why

call it to up speak, like Job,
to be reappraised, recall it
to be shined like a relic,

ja, j-object ion, dazemangimme
t'keep,
this little light of mine, own up, I
keeping it to read with, like Lincoln did,
I was told to be like Honest Abe, the character.

I'd have had all my answers ready at hand,
if this had been my judgement day, and you

were in the gallery,
admiring held thoughts, appraising worth
of riddles that work through puzzles
easily solved, once you know how things

revert to type for reuse.
Laughs remembered work like new.

Living words abused, in truth, such testify
to the living lies in histories of holy savior types.
George?
Who else could he have said chopped down
the cheery tree of all we have behaved
as if we understand, minds, minds
combined to do the work of many hands,

and yet ye multiply
as goods increase
the number
of those who consume them,

tell the moguls,
make more feel good movies,
'spect t' get whatcha got last time.

Indian giver religions, been there, done that,
so we say bd, been done, many easy ways to die,

and our kind, living word bits of this and that’s,

what we do, we tune
to your mean frequency,
when delving breathlessly
into your final will, as
why presents itself
in humble three point stance.

Beg pardon, mastermind, we've become disentwined,

whine, phinefrogging whine, when wine's dis-stilled
credence makes a joke
small voice, choice, croak,

break that yoke,
or carry on
so. I do on days that start slow and rise to vistas,
past all probable cause,

joy in the strength to think through the process,
of loosing all my mental mechanical logical connections,

and reinvigorating the word animating reader's window,

there, in the face of it, the eyes twinkle when it smiles.

Finds herself in the forms between clouds



What were you thinking, Grandpa?

-------------------
She, mother of wisdom,
First class epitome of mothers,

first commutable imbalance engine,
egg factory for long cold survival

and long cold return to the still seas
when marble began to be made
to clad temples wherever laws
were enforced and thieves slain,

order, order of the elders, inspect
the wares under lable as goods
of great worth in interesting times,

as doors open, and windows open,
and a mind we make up becomes

prover of the theory that animation
is imagining projected thought,
seeps through so slow,
slow as potassium leaches
through wood ash to make this window

this, detail uhd most definite, I can really
see, but, I can zoom
into full second coming type,

in the time it takes to swallow,
a tale and think, that's it.

---------------------------

It's been oh so long since we had an encore,

they say those twinkles in the eye are in true,
smiling face projections,

we fixit in Photoshop, all image editors dream
package, locked behind a learning curve for GIMP.
Where else can free things feel at home trying to solve the hard problem.
Emma Kate Sep 24
Suppose I am just blue.
pale, hardly replicable.
Neither black; nor white but
lacking saturation
nevertheless.
Late night thoughts.
Mateuš Conrad May 2017
oh but the thought of tears, and the brimming of a heart's discontentment; chokes; to reveal a strage form of actually being... content.

what i just experienced?
  was nothing more
  than an *in situ
anomaly...
well, just as much
as a portishead song:
wandering stars...
  because that's what i witnessed;
**** me, no telescope,
no microscope,
             no kind of comet,
              just the naked eye,
and the noumenon;
because either newton or einstein
could never call it
the phenomenon of a halley's comet;
and by phenomenon
       i mean recurrent... replicable...
a noumenon event though?
    happens at the odd occurrence
of only once;
death doth bid, the questions away.
IrieSide Nov 2023
A reach into transcendence,
a remembrance
of the mystical

some place
from long ago
that resonates
with the purest
fabric
of all that is

a trickling down,
and simplifying
of all that matters
and all that will
become

find this melody a delicate dance
of uncertainty
a gentle flow
of all the
amazing

find this flow,
the replicable code
that transmutes
structure

a deep dive into
depths
of oblivion
those in which
that give rise
to order

— The End —