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Michael W Noland Sep 2012
[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero
this is a work in progress
Gigi Tiji Oct 2014
Clicketyclick —

sickly screens,
shooting
sixty
picture-frames
per second

Tickety ticktock, rapid-fire
photon cannons,
ripping holes
through our
faces

rectangles,
riddled with anxiety ridden
read scripts

the resultant
retinal scarring

Wicketywicked, weary eyes,
dripping with serrated pixels

triple dotted,
typing-awareness indicators
create silly suspenses,
inducing temporal
dramas,
emotional
micro-traumas

every second a slice
through my,
now practically nonexistent,
patience

Am I a server,
or am I a servant?

Eyes, sunken, with
withered skin

I'm waiting for my fix

Ding-ding
Bloop!
Pinggg
Here comes the dopamine! —

—Clicketyclick
allen currant Nov 2014
withered eyes a
crescent moon of
dusk under the
pupils red lightning
cracking across
blank pages born
from some unseen
space beyond the
corners

when the head lolls
back the neck snaps
to refocusing on the
unseen nothing in
the physical to grasp
at looking through
all layers of deceit
at an inside a
center that cannot
exist but is always
there

motion is the mirror
the frame the negatives
rolling seamlessly teeth
and sprockets a perpetual
rotation immune to friction
faction and conflation

singular in its mindlessness
just an eye bloodshot with
nebulae as everything
collapses in on itself at the
speed of light passing
through the central retinal
vein feeding information
into the unseen center of all
i am very tired
Camilla Green Nov 2018
"Hello, hallway, linoleum tile,
I can't really see you but
I hope you're there."

Green spiders crawl through my smoked-up veins,
their spindles weave their webs of red
under eyelids gravitating towards sleep.

Retinal film flashes; each blink is an
unprocessed, scared/ __ , broken reel.

"Put your hands," he says, "on mine.
Breathe, look into my eyes."

Shaking fingertips touch his; snowflakes
gently collide with sunny ground.

They were afraid to melt,
even though they might want to.
I wish it had been 33°.
Venusoul7 Jun 2014
I pick this Earthly slide into Summertime, this season to begin, propels forward in all sense of Time, history retrograde, etched in Stone for Centuries, Coded in DNA, programed Circadian bodies, impressions applied geometric thickly glazed coat, generously slathered across my Retinal Screen.

Setup complete for me, attuned to Solar frequencies, aligned to cohesive Cosmic driving motion spiraling Syncopation with all partaking rotational bodies, all timers set to synchronous, all ties to everything celebrating their teamwork well done.

Activity accelerates, as does the heavy heat, both inseparable, together climbing ****** into sunburnt sweat, steaming, sizzling Sunday barbecue to reflect the Flesh boiling together in sympathetic Celebration of our Seasoned Sun.

Longer days accommodate for memories and fun, commemorate the Force of Season, into swing, will soon be swung, centripetal to glaze a different gaze lathered across my retinal screen, reverberate through Atmosphere, redistribute composition, smooth bottlenecking, flowing out yet emptying to take fill of what flows in.

No change of Season, nor change of Heart, no redirection ever knows emptiness, no moment leaves a Void unfulfilled.

No moment when the smooth Transition stutters to a Stop. The sync is in the constant movement bringing balance in equilibrium by shifting tides, Spinning Stars locking in, programmed by Primal Cause, the Synchronicity in Everything, so Summertime comes, this Time in which we rejoice, knowing it's all been planned, beautifully executed by mechanics of Nature.

Trust in understanding a Power much Greater is in Control, we are here simply for the Experience.

...Not to much more, just in attending to the Transitions of Ourselves.
Cohesive Cosmos Shifting
Nigel Morgan Apr 2017
Shimmering Sea

Sitting at my cluttered desk
I’ve just attacked a rabbit
with a knife. Don’t fret,
it was an Easter gift,
a golden bunny bebowed
and belled, the chocolate
incised and brought to light,
rich and dark so keenly
comforting aside the coffee
beaned from Nepal.

Her gift so lovingly given
I bless her ever-thoughtfulness,
and turn my thoughts
to see her walking by the sea,
on the cliff path
by the shimmering,
glimmering sea, always
at her right hand, blue,
an April blueness
barely a footstep from
a vertical drop through
the light-filled air . . .


Heady Scents

Fox, she would say,
without so much as
a sudden sniff,
and carry on her way
alert to all and everything.
And I would wonder,
Fox? But I had not been
schooled to recognize
a creature’s scent,
though sensitive always
to the human kind:
that sweetness after ***
found in Cupid’s gym.
So the subtle coconut
of bright-flowering gorse
and garlic woodland-wild
when trodden under foot.
will have to do instead.


Brimstone and Blues

Well, the sea is blue today,
why not the butterflies too?
though seen, it seemed
for a second,
fluttering at her feet,
tumbling indecisively
in flickering flight,
then gone: to leave
a stain of perfect blue
upon the retinal cells.


Peacocks (not butterflies)

I thought it was a peacock’s cry,
but it turned to be a turkey
out in the orchard next
our path to the sea.

Such an unpleasant-looking
bird whose tatty hind-feathers
rose as its blood-red throat
trembled with venomous
indignation at our presence.

Sad creature,
so ugly,
a troubling form
lacking grace or line,
majesty or wonder,
colour or display
of the pave cristasus.


Skylarks

Larking skywards
in the soft spring
vertiginous blueness
of the daylight heavens,
on song with circular breath,
seaward and away.
We only saw it descend
and heard the formants
change of its harmoniced
voice as it brushed
the standing crop,
finally fell,
and disappeared.


Swallows

Martins maybe?
Surely swifts?
But swallows?
Not yet awhile.

Some similar birds
fresh from flight
across southern seas
appeared, tumbled over,
shook the blue air,
then disappeared, as
suddenly greedy for grubs,
insectivously joyful,
so glad to be over land
once more.


Stonechats

I take your word for it
(having still to finish
the birding book you gave
at Christmas). Sounds right:
the sound of two stones
being rubbed together?
This robin-sized bird,
though dumpy in comparison,
who likes to sit on a gorse bush
and flick it wings; a nervous habit
some might say.


Blue on Blue

The sea in your eyes
is blue on blue
dear friend, dear lover
of my earthy self
whose eyes are browny-green,
whilst your’s own cloudless sky,
reflect the still shimmering sea.


A Ruined Castle

In a gap between
Purbeck Hills.
the Castle of Corfe
stands tall yet ruined.
Kaikhosru Sorabji
once lived in its sight,
composer, pianist, recluse.
Owning a cottage
he called The Eye,
with a Steinway Grand
and a cat called Jami  -
he wrote long complex music
people found difficult to play.
Eventually forbidding
all performances, he died
aged 96 - in 1988.
A curious man.


A Complete Castle

This must be an Italianate folly,
hardly ruined but complete.
We’d stopped for tea,
both hot and thirsty.
You’d hoped for ice cream
but had to wait for another day,
another place.

Had we not a train to catch,
and two miles still to walk,
we might have sat on its balcony
high above the shimmering sea,
and whilst eating ice cream,
looked on the sight of Lot’s Wife,
that white and final pillar of chalk
far out in Alum bay.


A Chapel

Profoundly square,
on a cliff-top high,
buttressed to its cardinal points
with a single window,
with a single door,
this chapel stands
where St Aldhelm
of Malmesbury,
would sing his sermons,
and, just for fun, some
hexametric enigmata
(riddles to you and me)

From his weaver’s riddle, Lorica:

non sum setigero
lanarum uellere facto
Nec radiis carpor duro
nec pectine pulsor


I am not made from
the rasping fleece of wool,
no leashes pull [me] nor
garrulous threads reverberate . . .


A Lighthouse

Brilliant white
and thoroughly walled about,
squat and unmanned,
it sits begging for
a crashing wave,
a serious storm,
but not today.
The sea is still,
calm and gently lapping
against the rocks below.


A Steam Train**

At Swanage station
just in time,
and amply satisfied
by our twelve-mile walk,
we settled ourselves
on bench-like seats
in the carriage
next the engine as
56XX Tank No.6695
took on water,
built up steam
for the seven-mile ride
past Heston Halt,
past Harman’s Cross
to Castle Corfe.

A circuit made
in seven hours
by path and rail.
A day's walk from on the Corfe Castle ro Swanage and back via the heritage steam railway.Poem titles by Alice Fox.
In the darkly lit room
Hangs the smell of doom
As he babbles about his eyes

He seems bent on a mission
To paint a bleak vision
His elation isn’t disguised!

I’ve them aplenty
My eyes bloodied
In surgeon’s needles

Retinal detachment
Cataract
Glaucoma

There isn’t a trauma
My eyes haven’t suffered


His eyeballs roll
On the sclera
In perverse pleasure

I don’t mind
If I go blind,
The misery around
Doesn’t make eyesight a treasure


I haven’t met a man
To himself this inhuman
Treating the most valued lens
With such immense disdains

More than my suffering eyes
He says in glee undisguised
*I suffer your cruelty,

That’s when you say
It’s my way

To garner sympathy!
Damaré M Aug 2013
My allegiance to be a leader 
Leader of my culture 
Vow to righteous cultivation 
Raise my right fist 
And I tell you this 
I will never quit 
Low souls I will always lift 
My determination is greater than or equal to my liberation 
Truly in the past I've gotten content 
Bent 
Ripped
Torn
Hesitant 
Forgot why I was born 
I ask for your forgiveness 
While I'm a realest 
I know I have to be rigorous 
And stay consistent 
Because now days everyone who's put in position loses their coherence and fear the consequences 
Like why work so hard to be a star?and get everyone to witness, 
Get everyone's attention 
... 
But don't have a mission!
PUT A CAMERA IN FRONT OF ME
TAKE A MILLION PICTURES
MAKE A DOCUMENTARY 
I CAN BE COMPLEMENTARY 
GIVE ME ENDORSEMENTS
I DON'T EVEN WANT THE PROPORTION
I'LL GIVE IT TO THE DISTORTED 
MAKE ME A RAP ARTIST 
AND PUT ME ON THE RADIO 
LET MY VOICE BE HEARD THROUGH THE STEREO 
I hope I don't speak this into existence 
Because all I need is a microphone with my voice coming through the PA system 
It's a shame that I might need security 
But it's not strange that I might need security
If I attract too many brown faces and people who come from unfortunate places 
That's where they draw the line,
Speeches for memorabilia 
But my work will be erased 
Hope I don't sound incredible 
I would not sound ridiculous if you remember our intellectuals 
They don't accept anyone who's exceptional 
They don't want to see anyone who has a big dream in their retinal 
Hopefully I can manage with 
About 30 plus years of residue 
Give up? 
Naw that's just what the rest will do 
Fight for our lives 
And take a chance with my life 
Whatever it takes to restitute
Harry Bratton Dec 2018
Staring into the distance called to a halt lowly by a ceiling
With beams of clouds I have my essay planned, do the
Right thing when the morning comes, start early and lap lap
Lap it up… I missed a day will I be able to write it okay?
It’s only a draft, final assessment in the genesis of a new
Year as apocalyptic as it gets draped in gray by God’s
Gesturing arm lamp shading… why should I do it? To
Quickly bang it out before the deadline just to get it out
The way… daydream precocious bipedal insect monsters
Before the real thing moons God and his gang of whiskey
Parlour batchelors leaning on leather elbow pads admiring
The craftsmanship of the upholstery… the real thing is more
Absorbing always cutting off as I’m getting somewhere, start
In daytime and realize there’s nowhere to get, that’s the thing
Yelling stop think again, or fill every nook cranny and interstice
With feet free to walk in peace… they are antonyms I could
Never fit in, gaps that long ago gave up

Deserted wide areas of something, opportunity, you must
Agree are not expenses anymore by any imaginative feat
Dancing to deep scar/jungle depravity light reflections…
I can’t remember and don’t want to check over in case I
Get cut off -

Forget that’s true… (Something I literally cannot do)… I was
Enthralling, reading, writing, the {authorised} daydreaming -
Breakfast for dinner - dinner for breakfast - closer to the sun -
My legs have gone weak - I want to numb the static pain Spit-
Ting strangling cosmic debris from the satellite to the T.V…
It’s not that I’m not moving, I am careering just fine to turquoise
Blue sky, the bottom of a valley draped in a green screen sheet
Searching on my homepage for something more than my
Forest floor in the circular sky print of psychedelic white smud-

Ging print in the canopy tickling my mind’s eye giggles awake…
It’s that I’m not being methodical revolutions around a state I aim
To occupy, to occupy less derivatively… It’s not that… what is
This space? Living harmoniously, smiling on the front page of the
Daily Reality, not a youtube metamemetextraction everyone has
Different power to construe as well as they consume.. which, well…

Headlines to all cheer in support immaculately agreeing rather than
Memetic smearing in a forest snearing, no singing, no branches,
Hollow UVescence flood… hot sun burns ignorant eyes that power-
Point-slide nothing retinal light soggy cardboard calippo awkwardly
Bending, quivering like an Einsteinian physician’s space-time ******
You can’t see, squinting hard open town open mouth open source
Open eyes it is morning time morning square morning everyone everywhere
Square skulky shoulders and a brittle skunk twig head, not always there after
Shipping in a rectangular organisation of beds for fallen fruit everyone
Walks by, what is healthy? in society, what is homely what is dull housing
Ex-ice lolly sweet sticky strawb-red syrup marooning, baking to brown
Down backstage curtains poised in windy drapery drapery drapery…
Window hardware still there not to see any of the people, have you
Gone forever? The sun drapes savannah grapes out of place fire-soaked
Memories, temporary tent, arms and legs and back and Earth and one-
They’ve been the same thing begging to be vacuumed to a better outlook
Well away from towns bookmarking forests of knowledge seeming never
Ending turn to plywood, you can’t be in a vacuum better anywhere,
And hope strives away shooting through the replacement plastic funnel
Into a dropping everything…

Cornered - shopped - bussed - stopped - ticketed - one-wayed - one-way-
Systemed - ticketed - inspected - mauled - in the shops - for food -
For clothes - carred and parked in a roundabout way - merged in a
Motorway, by a dense grey matter, a concrete intelligence, one certified
Body of the indefiniteness of everyone's words, their words… our words…
That which is said… what people say… what we think… make a pretend wolf
Beg for a ready salted crisp at the the bar in the pub I leave the sound of
Those who hear everything better, I couldn’t hear a thing over the hoover…

A wild din falls on developing streets, silent and wide, stocky and broken,
Choking on ******* butterflies in my throat and stomach screaming… hold
Tears back while the sad song plays, that burst out of the interlude’s segue
To the beat picking up exactly what you wanted it to… wake up the pride!
I am trapped in a cage! Wake up the tribe! Is it on your webpage?

Where has it gone?
Cody Edwards May 2010
He closes his eyes as usual. That starts it.
Gallon blackness against thin skin but split,

Suffused with a million rushed and serene
Shades of purple and sickly, retinal green.

Squares and curves, utterly vertical rounds
Imprinted obsidian spheres, half-sounds.

A vague intimation of abyssal, milk white:
Horizontal paradigms on the coast of sight.

Yes, indeed the whiteness on the horizon
Flutters scop-musical like a lark’s blazon.

How it snatches up the blackness, losing
Clarity of its edge like madmen’s choosing.

It ceases growing yet consumes all within
The poor man’s eyes, traversing the din.

A pure, blank line that is born in the mind
Fills the soul nacreous, leaves him behind.

Goes it beyond him and stretches open.
Straight wide. Too wide. Much too wide!

The teeth he hadn’t noticed crush him dog-brightly

And pull him fast inside.

He opens his eyes as usual. That ends it.
© Cody Edwards 2010
Wormwood Jun 2010
Behind green eyes a retinal flash
subdues a gentle sense of knowing
with a half worn smile
she calculates line and speed
though unimpressed with detail
she's alert to every possibility
and snatches a glance there
her widening gaze settled
followed by a measured blink
of pure satisfaction
a buzz of a wasp
and a flick of an ear
all is well with her world.
© wormwood / lmc 2010
Posted : 9 June 2010
ConnectHook Apr 2016
♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♫♪♪♪♫

I:  Lyric Line of Flight

Cavern Club / black leather / German rockers /  proto-youth culture groped its way from Liverpool / TV slowly sped up / modernity invented / flown in planes / swallowed in pills / I watch the second Kennedy funeral on the screen in shades of gray rain / warming to mid-60’s hues / into the stratosphere / a lysergic surge / retinal after-images / intensities of nostalgic color / that British courtesy in understatement / Paul’s voice a bassline / George a guru of six-armed confusion / tasteful: now a meaningless word / it was Apollonian-Dionysiac /  my childhood’s soundtrack

II:  Poem

They grooved—as our world became another

up from caverns to psychedelic flight.

They look so young in melancholic light

harmonizing black and white to color.

So distant—yet within our life’s short span

they grow apart as the hair grows longer

(The West’s resolve to expire grew stronger.)

Quadruplex visage:  young god sold to man.

I crack up beholding the mid-Sixties

lost in late-night YouTubes, I start to break.

time past: removed from the complexities

Recalling every song, the beat, the shake…

They sang the primrose path to confusion

nostalgia replacing resolution.
a poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016

www.connecthook.wordpress.com
Joe Hill Nov 2012
day in
day out
they stare at me
unyielding
unblinking
dress me up in different colors
and change when they get bored
or leave me in the dark
I see them laugh at me
cry
scream
cheer
or just sit with lifeless eyes like I'm retinal morphine
sometimes sleeping in front of me
giving up on my looks
or more unnerving things
fantasizing over what they see in me
they pretend I don't see them back
they just stare more deeply
taking their time
or in a rush
open my eyes then close them then out the door
why don't they know I think
and judge them
or do they care
to them I'm just a television
Mike Arms Apr 2013
one hundred suns buried
in golden broken walls
mangled retinal mosaic
calibrated splattered traincrash
cutting through
featureless massacres

Everything on the table
burns and runs
molten copper into
drowned corners where
humanity falls in silence
Josh shuman May 2013
now
Swaths of color
bring subjective representations
of objective correlative
puddles sit
collecting in black retinal holes
becoming what we wish
or believe we know
creating ****
to break a never ending cycle
adonis, taken before her day
filth meticulously applied
to create an unknown class
an artifice
a ploy
aimed at degradation
filling broken vessels
drained of all that has been deemed important
now is as good as any moment
timeless all one and the same
spinning girl, the shepherdess
seen all as one
dissolving time and space
an altered aesthetic
flattening planes
all is over
and nothing has ever mattered in the end
Connor Smith Nov 2012
A gliding entity between ecstasy, my eyes grew from seeds
to inversely unbounded trees, oxidizing, breathing into the collective
a collection eclectic; the ripening ages convene the gods' pallette
so mortal and clean.  From the vantage of mauve mountains,
beholders pressed through the ravine.  "The bewildered be wild"
She crooned on to me.  


Deepening the night, scintillant ancestors dug
with Light, unearthing cherished retinal prints.
The vulpine maw imposed no sin, indigo glow
and a patina sheen, feral bliss had greased
the chain.  Lineages span millennia as scions cast
the sacred Heron, spear of the World beyond
the eros plane.

So She crooned on to me
Her sybilline Dream.
Dana Pohlmann Feb 2012
what is it about this landscape
early angle of light
bouncing from flat of glass to glass
in clean and eager cuts against
the visible shrouds of exhaust
expired breath of automobiles
darkly herded
swimming in their lanes
light still so separate from the dark
in the long arc of a hollow sun...
this dissonance the chilled shade whose eyes
close to brace the rising retinal burn
of an overbright disc resurrecting
illusions of warmth
what is it about this landscape
rimed with gold
that draws the wilderness in my gut
to grow hooves
to stamp and dig among the briers,
to eddy an inward sudden
too much a wayward compass,
those spooked adrenaline horses...
until I can answer this question
I cannot write the poem.
208
faked xray reports/forged retinal scans/phony lab tests/secretly amputated limbs
doctors office agenda
touka Jul 2019
here and there

a crackle from the fire

an interruption in July's air

a forcible boom

where I wince until it lessens


but I smile, teeth persimmon orange

like those smoldering flecks of wildflower

that then fail their color, dwindle to the dirt


I picture my ivories falling out of my mouth in the same way

grey and withered


I rise, combust and fall

with these wild roman candles


like cassiopeia


I gaze in her general direction


dragged into the night by the hem of her peplum


I don't care to make out her shape

nor the throne she's tied to

by rope or by chain


her parable pressed into the scaffolding of the sky


a warning; an imposition
like sky-lit lithium
and its retinal imprint


I smile, teeth persimmon orange

turn my face

perception fails in such ways;
in these bold, bright, burning crossettes




I see figures






an arm extends
I̵̧̧̢̡̢̧̢̢̨̡̡̧̛͕̘̪̗̳͍͍̼̝̩̖̠̗̹̭͖̘̘̖̪̱̩̬̺̖̹͎͕̖͍̬̼̜͍̝͚̝̺̙̤̬̪̭̹̙͍͇͍̜͎͎̦͈̪̯̪̱̩̤̦͖̻̞̻̺͖̪͕̠̟̰͈̥̦̪͙͕̖͉͕̖̣̬̬͓̪̜̝͕͇̩̻̝̯̖̳̠͕͕̜̦͉͔̲̯̹͍̙̭̮̟̱̲͚͚̠̹͕̙͔̮͔̞͛͊̅̅̆̍̓̋͗͌̃͒̒͌͊̀̓̽̈́̒̇̋̉̓̕͜͜͜͝͝͠͠͠ͅͅͅͅ ̷̨̧̡̧̢̢̨̧̡̢̡̨̨̨̡̨̢̧̨̡̡̛̛̛͎̬̻̮̤͇͙͔̤̜͚̞̞̫̠̠̗̭̱͔̜̘͎͔͍͍͈̤̳̠͎̞̘͕̳̭̹̼̬̬̗̖͎͉̠̙̘̦̜̻̣̭͇̙̱͇͇̣̲̹͕̜͔͍͔̪̜̭͖̗̩̺͚̝̗̼̭̫͈̦̜̝̖̲̲̲̝͚̯͖̝̲͇̣͎͇̜̗̩̠͚̰̳̣̗̙̺̺̗̹̠̙̘̘̭̗͖̺̙͎̭̺̣̞͉̤̠̻̲̳̖͇̪̯͚͍̥̘͖̲̼̳͖͇̻̬̬͖̩̭̣̯͎͓̤͎̞͚̱̯͉͇͖̠̣͓̲͍͉́͒̓͗̈́͐̾͗̇̽̀̎̃̓̈́̊̈̆̓͊́͗͐̋͛̿͒̾̑̌̽͂̔͂̄͗̂͐̿̂͆́̍̊̔̎̈́̊̔̀̈̇̇̈̃̐͛̄̽̈̎̊͗̈́͒̅̈́͋͐̑͊̿͐̅̓̀̀͆̇̇͂͌̓͐͌͌͐͌͂͌̀͆̅̌͑͊͗́̀͘̕̕͘̚̚͜͜͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅf̸̢̢̧̡̢̧̢̨̡̨̧̧̡̧̨̢̛̛̛̛̛̛̛̬͚̥̯͎̘̹̫̥̹̥̟͇̘̱͇̱͙̩̰͉͔͖͕͉͓̣̲̲͙͉̯͕̦̤͖̮̼͖̺̮͎̞͈͈̗̦͕̪̮̮̦͕̦̜̭͚͎̙͓͉̗̤̱̼͇̯̩̼̫͓̠̝̱̳̗͈̫̲͉͎̩̟̼͓̘̳̼̭͙̣͔̹͇̰̤͙̻͈̖̙͕̯̠̪̲͔̹̩̬̻̖̬͕̗͉̯͙͔͍̪̳̥͇͖̗̙͖͉̰͇̻̝͙̱̱̯̀̆̈́͋̎͂̂̆̒̽̑̆͂̊̒͌̔͒̈́͑̓̇̆̈́̎̇̐͆̀͂̌̉͒́̄́͋́͊̔͊̉̈́́͌̄̋̿̔̀͒́̈̒͑̾͂͑̋̈́̀̈͂̄̑̑͂̿̀̎̑̂̓̏̎̒̇̑̍͑̄̾͂̿̍̉̇͗̊͐̌̏̆̌̊̾̂͋̌́͋̇̉̂̑͊̓̓̇́̊̒͌̑̈́̈́̍̈́̿̅̐͆̆̎̂̉̉́̎̎̈̾̿̉̅͐͛̀̎̏͌̈́̏͑̔͗̋̀̑̾̾́̃͗̐̀̑̊̏͌̈́̄̕̚͘̕͘̕̚͘͜͜͜͝͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͠͝͠͠͝͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅi̷̢̡̨̢̧̛̱̘̬̝̬̺̱̯͎̮̘͇̹̜̱̗̱͇̞͓̝̘̻̥̟̭͓̼͉̳̭̪̩̓̉͋͛̌͛̾͆̽͌̓̈̒͒̓̏̃̍̔̌̆̄́̿̅͂́́̓̏̅͗̾̎̾̄̑̈́̾͂̆̆̀̒̍͆̽̃͂́̈́̍̈́̇̓͋̕͜͠͝ͅn̷̡̢̡̧̛̖̥̲͈̤͉̙̣̮͉̪̤̬̺͍̘̟̹͍̤̮͎̮̯̭̙͉̘̗̯̳̩̠̫̥͔͉̠̠̣͕̦̤͎̹̳̗̺̲̥̝̻͈̗̟̰̟̗͙̱̼̹̬̫̠͚̯͔̞̞̤̹̼̮͕̠̻̙̅̂̏̓̈̍̓̿̈̾͗̈̊̿́̈́̌͑͋̄̀̓̒͛̌͌͐̽͛̽̀̿͛̉̒̏͌̽̄̑͊̃͌̀̈́̿͆̆̓̆̈̓̓͐̀͂̈́́̃̈́̿̂͌̆̊́̈́̾̒̾̈́̊͒͊̉́̊̅̃̽͑̂̀͑̃̎̊̈͆̅͗̇̾̏͊̏̑͛̄̓̈͗̑͌̍̆̈́̉̈̔͑̿̈̑̐͑͗͂͒̾͌̓̉̎̈́̃̑͆̆͊̉́̐̿̑͘̕̕̕̕̕͘̚̕̚̚̕͜͜͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͝͝ͅd̶̨̨̨̢̢̨̨̧̛̛̛̛̛̞̼̩͈̻̖̦̯̠͔̺͙͚̜̠̟̰̱̜̻̝̻͈͙͓̤̞͓͎̳̻͚̣̜̲̱̹̫̄͑̆͆͋͊̓̄̉̇̃̎̏̆̊̃̇̀̇̄͊͒̍͗͗̅̿̋̍̈́́͐̐̀̇̄̆̒̾̒͗̿̈́̎̓͋̐͂̈́̈́̈́̄͐͐̀̄̀̍̆̑̿̎̐͆͂̉̓̂̃́̉̉̍͗̐̇̐͆̒͒̇̽̄̒̐͊̾̎̅̈́̍̾̄̾͑̅̓̀̌̎̍̈́̓͗͆̀̆̒̈́̇̌̀̽́̾̐͌̑̉́̾̄̌͘͘̕͘̕̚͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ ̴̡̢̢̧̨̧̧̨̢̡̢̢̧̡̛̛̣͖̤͓̫̝͖͇͇͓̜̗̟͖͕̹̘͚̗̥̩͙̤̰̠̤̝̰̹̭̗̹͔͍̖̭͔̖̬̥̼̫̯̯̞̠̮̫̮̣͍͕̤͇̜̥̗̗̲̯̫̱͚͙̟̗̹̙̻̘̹̭̮̟̝̲͉̙͔̰͚̠͕̫̭͙̺̘̮͉̮͙̪͍̳͍͕̮̲̮͕̣̩̺̬̜̩̼̫̤̥͙̜͇͚̭̼̗̳̦̘͇̹̟͇̬͔̞̱̺̣̤͚̜̹̼̠̩̫̟̪̲̟̭̫͓̭̗̱̲̻̖̪̻͎̘̟̞̣̬̗̔̽̅͋̉̈́̈́̈̓̓̆̅͊͒̉̇͊͌̉͂̑̏̂̂͋̉͊̽͑͂͗̇̂́͋̎̉̈̅̊̀͑̈́̑̀͐̉̓̆̿̅̅̌̉̏̋̍̓̀͛̅̎̄̓̀̇̀̿̎̏̓͆̂̐͊͆̑͐͑̍̈̈́̒̌̀̀̕͘̕̚̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅa̵̧̨̧̛̛̞̘̼̗͎̱̪̯̺̳̰̝̤̼͕͎͎̻̭͔̜̮̫̜̞̭̤̖͔̰̝̳̼̪̭̘̠͉̮͇̹͔̻͈̺̹̠̰̭̳̻͈̭̱̺̣̤̘̥̘̦͈̤̫̘̺̟̮̬̼̫̯͍̞͛͂́́͒͋͊̃͆̈́̔̀̑̆́͒̒̐̉̿͋́̂̓͂̐̆̈́̈́̃̀̒̆͂͒̿̿̋́̽̍̓̑̿̈́͒̽̀̽̇̾̇̽̃̇͑̋́̈̋̇̉̽͋̐͛̿̄̈́̽̈̋͆̓̈́̏̓͛̂̉͐̾̃͑̆̄̽̏̑̂́̐͑̒͊̀̈́̾̐̉̊̀̔̍̎̀͆̃͂͑̏̓̓͆̏̇͑͆̋͛͆̀̌̇̐̓͐̎͗̌̊̔̏̒͗̂̓̀̂͘̕̕̕̚̕͘̚͘̕͘̚̕͘͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͠͠ͅ ̸̢̡̢̧̧̧̧̨̨͙̰̙̙̪̗̻͎͇̱̱̩̩̜̞̣̩̠̪̝͖͓̥̠̭̪̖͙̱̘̞̦̟͚̤̝̖͖̺̜̥͚̲̤̫̖͖͚̤̻̳̭͔̗̩̟̬̲͚͔̦̘̪̩͓͖̠͍̩͖̜͈͇͓͉̲̟̮̝̭͍̼̩̙̘̗̩̙̠̞̗̻̲̬̹̯̩̲̹̘̩͉̗̲̰̦̼̙͓̭̘̼̺͈̤̝̃̽̈̑́̈́̆́̀̇̃̒͊̋͌̑͛̊͒̔̉͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝͠ẃ̶̨̧̨̨̧̢̛̘̮̣̪̥̤̪͓̙̼̹̝͙̣̞̙͖͖̳͚̦̘͚̟͙͚̙̜͍͇̦̘̬̭̩̼̯̲̙̜̰̦͍͕̱̜̖̬͙̰̜̦̗͙̫͖̣͙͔̘̞̝͓͎̞͉̭͍̮̫̜̻͙̱̟̝̞͙͈͔͓͓̬̻̓̀̔̒̃̇̄̏̂̃̒̐̀̈́̽̅̾̈́̾̽͆̔́̉̓̋̈̇̾͊̐̊̑͗̾̌͛͊̎̓̎͋͌́̓͛̂̐̇͋̂͌̿́́̊̈́̌̔̐͊̏̽̈́̆̓̓̏́̃̏̾̇̅̈́͌̂̆̒͒̈́̇̆̍̒̔̊͐̓̒́̔̏͑͒̈͂́̈́̊̆̊̉͆͊̌̅͌̂̃͗͊̈́̓̈̀̔̍͌̍̈͒̔̍̽͐͛͒̈́͛̋͗̔͑̐̎͑̏͌̕͘̚̕̚͘̚̚͘̚͜͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅͅͅͅa̷̢͕̰͖̖̩̺̫̭̣̹̩̤͆̀̒̃̂̑̈́̃̄͘̚͝͝ͅr̶̢̧̡̢̡̡̛̛̘͕͖̯̫͎͙̯̻̜̙̫̲̙̙̣̳̱̮̬͈͓̮̳͕͖̭̙̟̫͓̝͚̫̥͕̩̤̤̬̝̱͈͙̱̻̲̤̗̺͕̼͍̟̠͚̖̦̝̠̼̗͉̹̪̺̹̬̗̗̩̲̥̥̤̞̪̹̳̥͙̩̖̹͖͇̮̝̞̮̤̳̰͓̻͓̻̳͔͖̖͍̻̤͇͕͇̅̿̏̓̽̂́̀̀̊̓͑̅̽́̿͂̒̆̇̄̈̽̀͆͗͋̔̽̇̈́̾̽̈́̿͂͑̔̓͑͆͌̾́̿͐̂̋̑̇̌͌̒̍̈̾̒̂̃͐̃̿̏̀̍̌͐͑͑̅͛́̅͊̔̾̏̈́͆̎̃̀̑́͐̉̀̾͂̏̈́̈́̏̔̔̓̓͆͘̚͘̕͘̕̕͜͜͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅm̵̡̛̼̫̖͍͓̱̬̰̣̺͔̠̣̤̱̞̲̌͂̆͊̃̀̏̊́̍͂͗̆̎̀̿̓̋́̃̌̐̆̑̈́̇̃̋̊̐̈́̊̔̊̈́̀̀͑͗̍͑̐̓͗̔̊̾̒̏͛̿͗́͛̄̎̅̐͛́̎̂̔̽̂̎́̐͐̾̓̏́̉̽̈̄͐̋̈́͗̿̎̉̽͑̌̓̈̒̑̿̅̓̓̎́̒̄͌̒̌̃͒̾̀̒̽̋̄̽̔͒͑̒̍̌͆͒͑͐̍̆̈́͑͗̃̔̐̊͑͆̀̀͂̆̃͌̿̐̉̀̾̃͆̓̈́͊͗̀͛̈̀̾̐̈̊͗̌̈́̎͌̀̚͘̚̚̚̚̚̕̕̕̕̚͘͜͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅ ̷̡̛̛̼̲̺̭͖̹̭̗͔̼̼̺̠̱̳̗͚͉͌̿͐̓̃̄̾̌͌̑̎͊̈̂̋̒̀̽͌͛̔́͐̀̐̃͛̾̈́͛̔̋̀̈́͒͆̎͌̌̂̔̄̈̈́͆̎͗͌̏̋̀̂͒̉͊̐̄̽̈́̏̆̆̐̄́̄͒̒̍̂̆͑͛̎̒́̐̿̋̍̅͂̓̅̀̿͋̃̉͊̿̚͘͘̕̕̕̕̚͘͘͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅͅş̴̢̛̛̛̛̛̞̱̗̳̭̯̬̻̟̬̻̰̙̮̬͇͚̬͙͍̦̟̮̺̹̤̬͔͕͎̦̥̝͉̳̅̎̒̉̅̋̓͑̂̉̅̋̔̑̔͗̿͗̎̈́̅̉͑̿̏̈́̌̐̍̆̀̄̈́̒̽͊́̋͑͒͌̀͗͒̊͐̒̐́́̄̐́͂́́̀̆͋̈́̄̓̒̌͊̀̊̿̌̌̓̀̐̀̈́͗̅̆̊̅͆̊̒̈́̉̀̃̿̓͌̃́̊͊͌̇̄̊̀̏̾̆̔͛͗̽̃͐̀͐̀̈́̅́̐̄̌̈́́̏̃͒̀̔̿̈̓̋́̉̾̊̿̎͒̀̌̈̇̿̋͂́́͒̓̊̓̌͛̆̏͌̄̓̿͑̃̉́͂͂̏̆̅̇́͑̓̉̚̚̚̚͘͘̚̕̕̕̕͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝ͅp̸̧̢̧̧̧̨̧̧̧̡̡̧̡̧̢̨̡̛̛̛̛̫͓̟͙̯͔̣̘̯̯̮̯̜̼̝̙̪̮̤̙̙̫͇̟͈̙͉̪͚̖̰̞̜̟̥͓̻͉̱̼̺̖̱̝͚̼̬̥͉̮̱̟͎̼̠̮͎͙̹̙͔͇̝̲͕̥̫̙͙̩͉̫̫̺̤͖̞͙͉̫͉̰̫͔͖̳̠̙̻͈̟̰͉̪͎̤̭̲͓̲̲̥͓̣̲̞̭͉͓̠̼̰͈̤̙͖̣̳͔̦͓̯͉͇̱͉͚̹͚̥̰̪̘̈́̄̈͂̓͋͌̌̑̔̊̾̈́̃̍͌̌̆̊̀̽́̒͛̇̀̋̀̑̀̂͆͋͐͛̈́͛̈̾͊͛̔̃̽̑͛́̇̎̇̀̔̎́̿͑̉̾̋͗͗̊͆̆̈́̋͑̑̾̎̈́͒̏̍͆̉̆̉̀͆̉̄̏͑̈́̽̋͌͛͑͑̆̿̇̈́̌̈́̿̍̾̉͊͛̄̈̈́̇̽̇̄͊͆͆͗̌̒̾̈̂͊͑̀̌̓̚̕͘͘̕͘͘͜͜͜͜͜͠͠͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅǫ̴̧̨̛̛̛̫͔̠̺̯̥͈͎͈̞̙͎͓͎̠̺̻̻̣͈͖̲̲̱̞̬̜̲̯͎̖͈͖̗̲̖̯̩̟̯̠͔̪̒͂͌́̀̾̌͑̒̃͂̔̓̆͗̔̎̀̔́͊̿͒͆̀͛͋͒͑͛͌̑̂̉̑̉͊̎̓́͋̾̋̆̈́̓̀͒́̊͂̈́͐̈́̆̆͂̈̎͋̍͌̆̉̆̎͋̋̋̓̎̌̆̇̋̕͘̕̕͜͝͠͝͝͝t̶̨̡̡̡̨̢̧̡̢̢̨̛̛̛̛̗̣̘͉͇̠̲̳̺̹̩̱̺̫͉̫̱̣̻̹̻̼͔̜̼̟̖̟̠͍̲͉͎͚͚͇̮̰̱͚͇͓̞̻̭̱͖̫͕͚̱͕͎̰̫̼̣͕͔̩̙̰̻̙̲͙̠͖͈̲̜̞̫̮̙̤̫̱͇̬̞̩̼͇͉͉͎͔̙̪̩̫̞̬̪̱̠̯̩̮̗͎̬͉̺̰̯̣̯͚̗͕̐̆̀̋̇̀̆̅̋̅͌̈͐̀͂́̇̒͆̏́̑̂̉͐̎́̾́̓͋̑̑̆͐͐̽̾̄̆̓̿̊̒̉̌̔̓̂͆̓̈́̔͆͗̏́̊͛̒̍̄̀̃̎̅̋͂̍̀̉͒̀̾̈́͐̾͆̑̎̈̎̾̄͗̃̅͋͌͂̌͊͛̉͐͆̀̇̉̉̽̅̏̏̔̀̋̔̐̉͑̂̀̂͑̈́́͛̓͐͋̐̿̽̇̌͂̒̐͆̂̽͊̽̎͑͆̈́̽͌̎͗̇̓͆̔̋͗̓̅̀̏́̌̀̔͗̿̀̓́̑̍̈́̒̃̋͑̎̀̎̊̓̾̕̚̚̕͘̕̚̕̚̚͜͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͠͠͝͠ͅ ̷̧̡̨̢̧̛̛̹̜̼̪͎͇͕̖͉̪̺̩̠̠̼̫͚͎̳͓̟͈̙̳͖̼̟̰͚̰̬͇̮̹͑̈́͗̓͛̊̓̽̐͊̄͐̔̉̀̓͋͛͋́͊̒͊́̽̌̅̈̉̽̏͒̄̑́̒̔̅́̓͌̌͋̀̽͆̓͂̋͒͒̇̒̽̊̈́̓̓̓̑̋̄̔̌͛̾̀̎͑̓̿̃̾͆̀̎̔̊̆͑͂̔͌̌́̓͂̊̐̓̃͆̋̏̃̆̈́͂͛͐̀͆̂́̋̔̉̐̈̐͐͂̈́̈͗̽͆͐̿͗̎͛̈́̎̽̋̅͘͘̕̕̕͜͝͠͝͠͠͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅį̶̧̧̢̢̡̨̨̢̢̡̧̨̛̝̣͈͓̮͍͍̦̲͇̯͚̞̤͓̜̲̱̯̙̞̰̺̳̠̲̭̙̗̩͔͈̠̖͙̱̙̙͖̻̗̳̳̜̙͍̯̩̥̼͕͇͉̣̩̦̩͍̪̤̜̩̩̠̲̤͇͉͔̜̮̜͍͕͔͙͔͓̣̬͉̻̠͙̤͍̖̤̲̫̗̲͙̆̋͐̊̈́̋̾̂͆̾̈́̐̀͑͌̊̍̀͋̿͆̇̆̓͗͂̇͛̽̉̊̃̂͋͑̐̆͛͆̓̈́́̋̂̀͆̂̋̿̈̂̎̀̒̈́̾̇̓̊̑̂̿͌̾̎̇͗̎̆͂͗̃̓͆̊̀̂͗̽͐̏͂͋̔̈̏͑̄̆̉̿̊͛̋́̏́͊̃̐̑͌̍̋͊̍͂̈́̔́̉̆͗͒̈͛̓̅͌̊͑̽̿̊̆̆̅̊́͋̾̌͒̔̔́͐̾͒̆͐̎̎̈́͐̈́̔̿̕͘̚̕͘̚̚̕̚̚̕̕͘͘͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅn̵̨̢̨̧̡̢̛̦̥͙̰̲̬͓̥͓͙͓͕͉̫͍̖̹̗̠͈̙̱̳͉̰̲̹̘͙͕̣̮̣͓̰̘̫̝͇̤͚͎͕͉̫͔͇̹̫͙̜̰̮̗̙̺͇̪̲̬̺̪̦̤͈̪̞̙̬̮̝̭̠̹̳̟̯̣̠̻̹̫̳̺͇̱̲̠̳̰̳͊̓͐͌̓̈̾̽̍̅͗͐̋̌͊̒̓͗̂̎̊̓͛́̓̈͑̂̾̈́̋̑̓͒́̚͘͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅ ̶̨̨̨̡̡̨̧̛͈̱͓͇̳̱̘̥͕͈̘͓͇͈͔̭̱̝̪̱̬͈̼̰̗͚̯̫̘̘̫͙͎̮͕̩̯̩̟̭̟̮̯̭̜͈̳̯̝͚̫̫̮̯̠͈̣͇̗̰̩̘̩͙̺̜͕̖̼̺̥͍͎̬̳̝̥̼͙͉̎́́͐̎̑͐̍̇̄́̑͛͂͂̈̎̌͆̋̒̈́̇͋̃̌̊́̅̇̅͋̃̊̒̐̒͒̌̽̈́͌̈́̐̓̍͊̐͛̌̈́̀́̔̈́̾̿̀̓̊̉̽̏̈́͘̕̕͘͘͘͘͜͜͠ͅͅͅţ̶̨̧̡̡̡̡̢̧̢̥͈̼͎͕̞͎̞͖̘͓͎̠̣͍̟̝̠͈̥̰̗͍͚͇̭̦̭̞̯̜̳̼̖͚̦̩̜̠͍̳͙̳͈͖͖͇̞̳̰̦̣̺̺͔̖̠͓͙̩͚̟̠̗̟̬̙̺̲͎͚̮͕̜̤̥̫͙̣͔͇̣͙̪͈͚͔̥̮̗͕͖͙̝͙͎̱̙̣̆̌́̃̾̈́̈̊̓͗̍̽̉̃̿̾̊͊͒́̉̈̔̐̀̋̅̾́̑̍̾̑̄͋̑̈́͋̅̀̒͂͗̄̆̒̈́͑̐̅̒̐͆̀̉̓̄̈̔̐̂̑̂̃̆̑̾̌̆̈́̈́̆̎̿́̈͆͌̆̍͐̑̈́͒̇̈́͒̓̒̑̿̅̈́̓̐̓̎̄̒̀͆͂͌̆͐̉̋͋̎̄̈́̂͒̀̑͌̅̈́̽͒̊̋̌̈́̇̽̉͊̓̽͘̚͘̕͘̕͜͜͝͠͝͠͠͝͝͠͠ͅḩ̶̢̢̧̨̡̢̧̡̨̛̛̛̛̛̱̪͓͙̤͓͉͎̠͇͙̱̣̝͙̳̫̖͕̜̯̝̖͔̼͔̘͈̗̘͎̗͇̳̮̲̹͎̗͇͍͎̮̣̣͍̱̰͖̱͙̞̻͖̭̥̙͕̬͎̮̼̗̣̠͉̱͔̟̠͉͕͔̬̮͕̝̦̘̤̩͔̱̲̫̹̯̘͈̥̳͉̼͉̖͓̳̱̬̗͚̦͖̞̦̘͓̗̫̲̫͉̹͎̳̫͉̙̥̰̰͔͕͎̙͉̙̦̖̊̀̂̾̆̃́͊̐͆͊͆͋̈́̌͒͂̒̈́̈́͑͂̓̀͒̎̅̒̊̅̉̽̈́́̐̅̒̓͆̌́̇̃̉̀̏̐̓̊͂͒́̈́́͛͛̍͌̆̂̀̃̒̌̒̐͌̄̄̀̾̒̍̌̋̑̀̈́̌̓̽̌̾̏̑̊̀̽̍̔̿̏͋͛̈́̋͛̂͒̈̏͐̿́͐̍̍̄̓̆͋̐̔̇̈̓̊͆͐̎̌͊̋̆̒̾̉̕̕̕͘̕̕͘͘͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͝͝͝ͅͅͅe̵̛̛̛̛̤̒́̋̽̂̊̽̃͆̉̀̇̂͂͑͊̈̀́͐͋̉̽͆͋͐̌̂͛͑̈́̑̒̔̈́̈́̆̇͆͆̓̈́̆̆̒̎͗̈́̓̈̔̋̅̀̌̄̓̎̈́̎̈̒̄͛̋̑̽̍̽̈́̋̄͌͐̎͌́̃͑̿̾͒̃̒͊̓̑̔̑̀̐̀̏̈̏̅̄͐̀̓̓̂̓̆͑̃̏͛̇̔̀̊̃͐͂́̀̕͘̚̕͘̕̕̚͝͝͝͝͝ ̶̧̧̢̛̛̥̠̳̫̝̳̭̞̟͎̯̥̠̹͕͕͇̮̻͓̙̻̼̤̙̳̤̩͑͌̿̂̉̑̋̎̎͑̓́͂̏̀̾̊̊͌̔̂́́̏̋̆͋̄̊̀̒̏̄̉̈́͑̄̃́̌̊̌͆̉͑̊́̐̑̃͋̈́̊͆͂̇̓̋͂͋͂͘͘͘̕͝͠͝͠͠ͅś̷̨̡̢̡̧̨̛̛̛̛͍̺̲̖̮̗͕͕̫̻͎̩͖͖̣͔̪͕̘̮͚͕͈͓̩̝̦̩̱̗̭͇͎͇̻̗̙̳͖͚͈̯̮̱͙̺̮͍͎̹̙̼̠̞̞̦͛͑͐͂̀̓̀̒͑̅́̔́̍̾̀́̓̽̃̌͊̽̋̔͂̋́̿́͑̀́̍̍̔͆̌̅̇̇̀̊́͆̿̽̉̇̌̂̑̀̉͊̅̋̃̽̌͗͐̆͒̀̈́̊̾̀̐̍̈̓͐̾͊͌̐͘̕͘̕͘̚̕̕͜͠͝͠͝͝͠͠͠͝͠ư̶̡̢̧̢̧̢̨̧̨̡̢̢̢̧̡̢̢̡̢̛̛̻̞̝̬͙͚̟̤͇̗̰̤͕͔̹̩̯̞͙̰͚̹̯̠̪̺̖̟̹͓̘̞̣͖͇̮̘̱̳̹̗̮̗͇̼̪̖͉̱̙̺͕̟̥̮̟̳͖̫̯̟͙̟̮͉̲̳̹̖̲͉̙̼̤͍͖͙͉̼͉̟̰̖̩̺̼̱͔͔̼̯͉̩̝̳̦͔̰̹̖̝̫̠̲̹̥͖̰̦͔̤̦̪̠̱̖̲͍̞̲͎̠̣͔͙̘̰͈̣̼͉̻͓̼̪̲̜͉͂̒̓̓̓̃͒͊̎̈́̅̂̽́̈́͂͋̂̐͂̀͐̓̀͊́̄̓̇̾̆͌̀̐͆̈́̏̀̓̓̎͛̿́͌͌̔͘͘͜͜ͅͅn̷̡̧̛̛̮̮̯̯̤͕͎̯̳͔̟̗͎̪̦̟̩̫̫͔̺̠͓̱̣̹̮̔͑̈̏̈́͋͛̍͗̈́͑͗͆̆͐͛̑̆̓̃̆͊̔̍̃̽̀̅̆̈́̀̉̍̅́̈́̈́̓̈́̈̌́̓͗̍̐́͆̑̑̉͐̆̈̍̅̐͋̈͘̕̚̚̕͜͜͠͝͝͠͝͠͝͠
̵̢̢̨̨̧̢̧̨̡̨̧̨̡̡̡̢̢̧̢̡̛̛͙̙͔̬̘̳̜͔̻̮̪̣͓͙̗̦̙̠̮͇͕̖̫̗͔͇̬̪̹̩̪̖̘̘̣̺̼͙̩̤͇̳̲̖̯̩̻͎̭̭̰̪͍̺̳͖̫̫̥̼͓̲̘͕̺̳̩̠̬̥̲̫̘̟̗͙̱̟̤̘̦̹̦͎̞̭͕̥̮̤͇͖͙̬̻̞͚͔͙̘̳̺̭͕̳̗̮̩̫̰̻̭̱͓̤̪̭̺̲̠̦͎̣̬̗̲̹͓̭͕́͑͒͂̽̌̀́̏̂̌͊̈́̀́̋̈́͌̅̆̏̌̀̅͗͊̓̋̌̐̊͊̈́͋̌̐͒̿͐̃̍͌͒̅̿̑̾͛͐̐̀̈́́̽̈́̆̂͌̽̉̈̀̆͆͐͂̑͆̾̅́͂̆̓̈̏̊̒̓̎͑́̀̽̆̽̎͆̒̃̈́̆̄̈́̊̀̓̎͐̆̔̈̓̊̂̓̍̑͒̐̐̐̒͘̕̚̕̕̚̕̕͜͜͜͜͠͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͠
̶̡̡̡̢̢̡̡̡̧̨̡̨̧̡̧̨̢̢̡̨̨̛̛̱̬͉̝̠͕̻͎̰͔͔͉̳̫̝̮̼̞̩͔̯̱̩̥͙͎̱͎̠̼͈̝͚̦̱̞͉̣͎͚̞̞̱̹̜̭̪̪̫̟̺̥̭̞̲̠̦͚̪̠̖͔̱̼͙̙̬̩̮͈̮̞̯̤̱̣͕̠͕̣̝͙̼̺̲̮̬̼̯̥̪͕̞̪̼̙̯͓̠͓̥̫̮̤͎̭̟̭̼̳̘͓̯̦͈̱͕͖̭̠͔͉̫̫̦̻͙̩̲̰̜͇͈̱̭̘̝͚̭̩̝̫̪̝̣͙͙͉͉̯̩̖͍̘͓̎̑̐̑̎̋͋̂̔̄̅́̊̏̈́͗̐͐͗̐͐̓̃̌̑́͜͜͜͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅͅͅį̵̧̡̧̧̨̢̡͈̻͈͙͔̭͎͇̥̱̪̭͖͇̦̣͔͖̘̼̭̙͓̭̫͚̩͔̰̘̭̫͓͍̼͈̬̦̗̺̤̜͔̹̤͓̘̹̥̩̦̦͇̻̩̿̍̈́̅͑̏͌̄͛͋̽͛͐̎̉͗͗̋̾͒̒͌͐̚͘͠͠͝͠t̶̨̨̢̧̩̦̰̖͇̞̲̫̺͔̝͉̜͇̼̲͎̪̫͕͙͙̺̫̼̥̠̦͙̦͍̣̖̤̰̞͔̣͎̫͖̥̎̈́́̌͛̀͗̈́͊͆̒̄̂͑͐̽͛̉͆̃̀̊̒́̈̈́̀͌̏̾̽̀͛͑̏̄͐̂̓̈́̓̽́̀͊͗̉̾̀͊̈́͂́̃̿̂͂̿̒̆̽͒͗̊̀̓͛͐̌̕͘̚̕̚͜͜͝͠͝͝͠͠͝ͅ ̴̢̨̨̛̛̫͇̱͙͍͍͓͎͔̣̤̤̖̗͓̭͈̺̦̻̱̻̅͌͂͆̈̊̉̆̅́̿̃̒̂̈́̌̅̈́͛̍̒͑͆̉͗͂̋͂́̈́͆͌̿̿̓̊̈́̊̈̑̎͐̑̽͐̏̑̈́͆̋̇̓̄́̈̐́̀̎͌̋̐̅̃̄̎̇͂̑̓̍̄̚̕͘̚̕̚͝͝͠͝͠͝͝ͅș̶̢̡̨̻̹̱͈̮̬͉̣͕̼̤͓̺͎̒̆̑̎̈͛̇͒̎͛͊̏́̉͋̀̓̒̓̅͜͝e̵̢̨̡̧̡̢̧̡̡̨̧̡̝̰͓͖͚̮̱̬͈̟̻̭͎͚̜͈̣̫̤͙̣͓͍̩̼̻̭̖̜̺̭̱̺̮͈͓̬̺̰̺̳̞̪͍̠̘̺̞͓̙̖͉̩̫̗̮̘͙̱̺̥̞͖̖̟̱̯̳͎̮͍̩͎̭͇̰̪̺̤͍̭͔̬̻͚̹̪̟̺͓̱͙̹̫͖̙͙̙̰̺̠̪͍̬͈̖̻͎͙̤̻̳̻̱̥͈̤̩̮̞͎̲͖͈͕͙̥͔͖͈̖͖̦̪̼̟̙̻̻̫̙̝̬̯̻̭̘̜̻̤̭͔͍̗͈̝̜̻͈̻͖͙̗̣͉̣͖͖̖̬͈͓̖͚̣̬̓̓̐̀̑̍̉̒͋̓̓̅̆̈́͐́̈́̓͛̈́́̐́͂̑͗̒͌̄͆͋̀̀͛̐̌͗̓̐̐̿̍̈́̆͋͛̈͋͐͒̈́͒͑̅͊̂͋͌̂͑̇̈́̽̀̓̊́̓̂̕̕̚̚̚̚̚͜͜͜͝͠͠͠͝͝͠͠͝͝͝ͅͅͅͅţ̷͉̙̬͕̗͍̤̯͉̈́̊̍̏̒̅͂̔̆̿̎͆̎̇͋͘͘͠͠ś̸̡̧̧̛̛̛̙̜̺̜̣̪̜̬̲͇͉̪̰̘͍̖̣̩̤̯͇̜͙̳̲̳̯̬̫̹̝̫͇̙̟̙͈͕̣̱̯̮̲͈̹̩͔̲͕̫̤̦͙̮̺̗̠̜̦̭̺̩̭̲͉̜͙̙̬̭̦̬̥͔̗̩͕̟̩͊͌͑̄͐̔̈̂̑̇̑͋̓̀͌̾̔̀͑͆̄̍͊͑͐̒̽̒͋̀̉̽͊̉̆̾̊͋̾̈̒̏̀̎̌̒̆̄̔̇̂͒̿̏̈̎̃̅͆̍̃͂̊̎́̍̾̍̓̐͛̋̓̒̅̊̃͐͒̈́̇̅̈́̓̃̑̀͊̉̋̇̽̒́̓̆̀̔͐̕͘̚̕̕͘̕͜͜͝͠͝͠͝͠
JB Claywell Feb 2019
Sometimes there’s nothing left but the wolves.
cornered
confused
concussive silences
broken by howls
rivers of bile
iron filings
choked upon truths
landslide mind
sleep apnea
retinal scan
unidentified
alone
rivers of isolation
mercury tears
that don’t fall
they well
stay in the sockets
waiting for the next wave
numbness
sterilized
mechanical
depressive state
mauled.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications
Norbert Tasev Mar 2021
Is there anything moving in the redemptive descent? Discover the exfoliated tears on the retinal lines of broken eyes with compassionate regret! As the smaller beetles glide apart, a hesitant giant-foot tramples on them by chance! The given, idyllic anthill can hardly receive regular travelers and contemplatives back into its bustling community! In the gaping lap of depths - only they can know - undivided Dreams graze!
 
The blood-boiling instinct-greed of visceral possession is only the exception! - From the micro-world below, where can murderous virtue be measured by certain methods? - The chattering company of loosely swinging golden boys and chirping kittens has never seduced; there, many people blamed emotional ammunition for luring exploited defenseless people and believing! Are the reports left to themselves simply because Someone always betrays them with words?
 
Deliberate yawns in deep dark gaps, however, cannot dissolve; the redemptive gaze of self-forgotten serenities can no longer be forced on the other! Greed became an indestructible umbilical cord: as many gains as possible in the jingling pockets of compromisers; but even the only comedians of Judas who are now giving themselves up are all sneezing or lurking! Secret doors open to everyone, only the secrets can be kept by the Spirit alone!
 
Is it too much to envy overstretched reciprocity? You’re forced to wear the shower spikes of mutual compromises on purpose if you want something more out of life!
bulletcookie May 2016
Don your jaunty hat boy
sing a merry song of chase
"Love abides, or love abides not"
Through hillock and forest greens
legs on strings pulled puppet
this and that way and back

a lilting voice and nettles' *****
flowers' color impressions
etch into retinal rhythm tick
delight running rampant rouge
when lost in streaming gardens
summer's youthful roose et ruse

-cec
Kate W Mar 2012
I am slowly learning that
perception of the self is a foggy image indeed
and that way we see, more or less,

is a distorted retinal image

created by
whispering synapses
that do not always tell the truth
Gigi Tiji Mar 2015
I yearn to someday make something of utmost individuality.
But it seems today I'm pensively turning blank pages perpetually.

It seems I'm marred, and it's
macrame macrame, same thing every time.

Presumably, light of it comes, but with what am I left as it goes?

Retinal scarring! Badum poots.

Maybe some knots in the cords of my back and creases down the corners of my every smile.

What comes up
must go down
dimple dimple frown frown
Come on outside for a while!
Sunshine daisy daffodil!
Hills and valleys, mountains
and canyons it's a whole
life story out there

But then I sit down
sit down,
and pluck the same strings
same strings.
Different order
same strings.
What'sit bring?
What's it bring?

Today I sit down
sit down
to tell you a story.
It's a short story,
but it's also a long story.

Like a mountain range you see from miles away without walking it's entire length.

I was a little monster with blinders on.
I took to my parents in a way of which I'm not too fond.
I was an orb of obsession and wrinkles of scorn on her forehead.
I was particles and waveforms trying to ride a bicycle.
I was ropa vieja mistaken for some kinda soup.

Papá!
You taught me how you saw the workings of the universe but you worked it like a cockroach. You turned me into low tail low tail grinding on the guard rail. Ready to flip over the side and tumble tumble crash. I was ready to die. You sewed my face onto screens of LEDs screaming with the cries of unclothed children. and you left me crying Mäma!

Mäma!
Saving grace grave face I'm sorry for what he's done to you. I see the weight of over two decades worth of ball and chain dead leaves still dangling from your eyelashes. I see you ripping them out from the roots when it gets to be too much. I solemnly sit beside you at that cursed kitchen table trying to wish on as many of my own so that yours may grow back without any fault. Oh, but I see them sprouting out all crooked in all directions and whenever you bat an eye you run the risk of years of silent tears tumbling on back in an attempt to finally be heard.

I've learned that no truth will come from the wishes you make on the lashes you take with force. Let 'em go with grace. Leave them alone and let them fall from your face like the loudest raindrops.

Our wishes come true just as we speak —
and listen...
Bryce Perry Jun 2015
In addicted evening
I crawl
on my knees,
The caps wearing away,
my eyes burn retinal filmstrips
every time I
Am reminded.
Hug me please, warm
green night

Arrive with your purple tents and
drive stakes through
the mid-October arch.
The spires aching in wingtipped sky
That awful afternoon,
That God given night,
The wonderful hours left alone
And minutes visited together.
In a statement said simply,
I guess it was worth it.
I am not afraid of the dark.
Nor do I fear the thoughts in my head.

But the bugs.
Aye.
The ******* critters in my brain.

My fear, I’m afraid, is they power they have mustered-
Controlling such thoughts; destroying slumbers when days-light dims.

Like solar paneled viruses that attack at the core of emotion,
Ripping through the Limbic system.
Erasing Memory; Re-circuiting Anxiety.

Taking the wiring from retinal output and re-coding each message.
Hacking the server until ants become Godzilla
And “hello’s” read as “goodbye”.

Twitching fingers and feet that scratch at the skin.
It’s these ******* leeches in my skull that **** my nerves dry
Til I’m hot- **** no, cold.

And the extermination comes:
Sunrise.Coffee.Interaction.

It’s like they live to die by the hour of midnight,
Only to do their time through rummage and destruction.
Hatching eggs in my nails, Chewed away by discomfort.
Growing to new forms by lights out.

Rehearse.
React.
Repeat.

It’s these bugs that I fear;

Fearing the darkness.
Fearing the thoughts inside.

It’s these bugs that I even doubt this ****** piece of work.

Yet these bugs are what created what you now have read,
The over exaggeration now etched on paper.
And it is the small bit of me still left alive at night behind them,
Refusing to see this truth when the extermination has come.

It’s no plead for help; No cry for sympathy.

I am me as you are me-
So please take me as I come.
March 14th, 2013
Abhishek Sinha Oct 2014
Hours in the rain,
Trying to feign,
Smiles and frowns,
But could never drown, in your pain.
You ceased to be,
And I couldn't foresee,
Things happening around,
Silence was the only sound.

Should I be or not be,
I couldn't set my mind on thee,
Inconclusive was the answer,
All you wanted was to check my grammar,
I saw that smile in your eye,
It matched the purple in the sky.

No, is not the intention,
Neither is yes the solution,
Somewhere in between I hang,
Delusional is the yin and yang,
'I saw a magical creature, mom',
Yelped the kid across town.

I wish I could forge,
The look in your retinal gorge,
Simple exuberance overrode,
The bridge we forgot to erode.
You cannot just overlook,
The hardship we undertook,
In this apocalyptic,
And ever so cryptic,
This absolute reality, so majestic.

And I forget to mention who,
You!
Just you.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
in times of peace, “subculture” art becomes all the more aggressive to substitute actual violence with its cartesian extension: imbued by a masochism never really experienced, hence with an exfoliating sadism experienced by the onlookers who forgot: never really experienced.

a: a vector defined by an open field (index v.)...
the: a vector defined by a narrow corridor (v. palm•).
it’s a completely different story should
pronouns become subject to definite / indefinite articulation,
famous for the dittoing out of the ego in existentialism
(in the latter ex-) not even vaguely apparent in sartre
(-ample proofs!)... ultimate freedom with the price of ultimate irresponsibility i.e.,
no point being witty on the page... you have too much time
to revise a joke & play on words... mind the sarcasm... it’s already
delayed standing in greenwich asking for the japanese 8am in winter.

•paradoxical cross-reference, as much akin to the retinal
  image upside down to enable man to not distinguish
  the northern hemisphere from the southern hemisphere
  and make him sane grounded on a spherical orbital -
  i.e. indefinite coupled with an index and definite with a palm,
  although out of bracket... these two lines make perfect sense,
  unless the bracket content is coupled to ensure
  the open field / index (finger) v. narrow corridor / palm
  are staged to a prose linear development / chronology, e.g.
  the renaissance came before the enlightenment,
  then nothing makes sense... and it makes
  perfect sense for a banker to criticise newtonian physics /
  mathematics as completely useless,
  then there's no use in anything that's even vaguely complicated...
  only because it's not in vogue.

you can only prove to me a belief in atheism
once you make language as much incomprehensible unconsciously
as you can make language as much complex consciously;
i will not accept regurgitation of another "atheists" ideas
as your atheism focusing on a broken arm as the misery
of all miseries... ensure me a complication of language
you can explain... stating that you only intended
the complexity to be incomprehensible unconsciously
(aha! siamese adjectives!), rather than incomprehensible consciously;
i mean... i've reached the ultimate anti concept of poetry,
instead of rhymes littering my page i faced the antidote
to rhyming by focusing on kindred words:
direct / indirect            unconscious / conscious
comprehensible / incomprehensible... this is the opposite
of writing rhyming poetry... no wonder i get muddled
and don't sound pretty enough to repeat jive
with                                                        ­ five
of all possible tail offs.

— The End —