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Alex P Gara Nov 2011
To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose life partner is beauty
Who makes more sense in a minute of listening
Then we do in a lifetime of talking
Who paints olive trees and cypresses
And now knows it's not called crazy
It's called pain, and it will pass

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who wakes up an hour before he falls asleep
And yet, never stops dreaming
Who rewrites morality with every fraction of information intake
And remixes truth until we're left bobbing our heads
With no other choice than to just feel it

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Whose children are freedom
Who walks in the rain while we plain get wet
Who wants nothing more than to want nothing more
Who only makes routine out of celebration
And love

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who ties masterpieces to rogue kites
And whispers nonsense into researcher's ears
Who knows that nobody is perfect
And takes the words "meant to be" very very seriously
Who exists
And is **** proud of that

To the last street sweeper on the eve of the apocalypse
Who revises his rewrites of morality
When information intake is remixed by reality
Until we're left shaking our heads
With no other choice than to think

Wait for me
And save me a glass
Our fountains fragrance is better than perfume
lick orifice and love the sense and sensation of song
I began to devour our beautiful masterpiece of blooms
there is no greater drink than love that has blossomed along ...

Its the home of fantasy and desire of exotica
with each mutter of voice, I want to materialize
the delight surpasses all other tastes to be so ******
flesh to flesh, a beauty so full of discovery and naturalize ...


I adore so passionately, as anticipation arises
with every moment, my paradise is our fountain
my desire of tasting, with tender expression of revises
smooth on top....lips go moist, on our love mountain ...

Debbie Brooks 2014
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
on this page i write pain, and the html censor revises it with flower... need for a positive vocabulary feedback of life in general?! what is this hippy ****, what's the point of writing the raw when you're revised as well done, missing the Tartar alt.?!

variations on E.C.T. as catalogued by
Sylvia Plath in the Bell Jar -
Ken Kesey's One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest -
mute Indian the winner in that one -
Hubert Selby Jr's Requiem for a Dream -
or perhaps from?
never mind - the mild electric chair
for therapeutic purposes, gamer crew and
the virtual reality mask - so many profess
to needing one - IQ enhancing stereotypes -
but there's me with a bottle of whiskey
and some spare time -
the professionals speak of an undoubted
pain threshold -
so instead of outright killing each other
we masked it behind outright necessity of
turning **** sapiens into guinea pigs -
clap... clap... clap... clap... and that clap
already resounds prior to this marking and forth
toward another century of the desert of
Darwinism - ever hear that joke?
a chemist, and physicist and a Darwinist
enter a bar - a chemist orders Hapsburg 98% proof
absinthe, a physicist order a shandy,
while the theoretical biologist (Darwinist)
orders a gene atlas and pseudo **** safety pins to mark
his route should he be drunk, and should be,
but isn't, he's on a rampage of walkie-talkie steroids
befitting only the tongue - raps and raps
without rhymes - 'buddy, drink something!'
'i'll drink a smoothie of aborted fetuses,
in that Christian calendar: the feast day of a would
be Mozart', oh hell, a would-be ****** too...
you have to much capacity and the claustrophobic
area of expression, believe me, they won't let
you fill your full potential -
take to rank, take to surgical instructions -
the man in charge at Oxford says:
please don't use frightening words electroshock therapeutics -
but i swear that's what it was?
treating momentary lapses in apathy - angry,
jealous, psychopathy - i.e. people uncomfortable
with the idea of Σ (totality, given neurology and
the brain myth, found elsewhere, or in / as total) / soul -
leave them be, we need psychopaths to give us
consumer gratification for the and in with the existence
of corporate sister nationhood -
well, unless you want a start-up in the sense of
a French Revolution - that one's booked:
only in America - elsewhere we're just Palestinians,
throwing rocks and paper-drones at metal -
testing out Newton and not the Einstein's parabola -
algebraic notation *x
(time) hyphenation y (space) -
which means given algebra there's a third missing,
from Kantian standpoint of 0 - a z... god?
or, wait, refrain from Darwinism's anti-social collective
of a personal will - oh i don't know, improvise!
but what critique came to Communism (post-theoretical
socialism) came to the project of a multiculturalism -
this time round it wasn't the Pope that undermined it -
still, people confuse an attack on Communism
with an attack on Martial Law - the actual critique
came against Martial Law years December 13, 1981 to July 22, 1983,
we feared the Soviet invasion - why do you think
my communist party member grandfather lives
without complaint? of course the first to complain
are the farmers - before them the nobles drank,
got bored, cured boredom with borderline paedophilia -
the bemoaning - the king ****** me last at Versailles -
i lost my virginity and i subsequently lost my
ideal, i defined reality with a symptom.
so once we warred and killed each other -
but since we're a bit more pacified these days -
we decided to internalise warring with each other,
and instead of killing each other we decided to
experiment on each other - the reinterpretation of
E.S.T. into E.C.T.; prices start at £89.00 for the basic
kit to imitate death row simulation... you the funny
thing is... once you've experienced a brain haemorrhage
you became a slight sadist - you want the pain to come
to finish you off - some say the soul is bound to bones -
animation, pure and simple - that the non-existence of
soul is proved by the remain of bones - but that's
whiffed away with the Hindu practice of cremation -
and that's dark comedy given the Nazis -
it's almost like the Nazis wanted to end the debate,
the already Gothic practise of burial and bone-keeping -
as if invoking the geometry the soul would pick up first,
the abstracts of mechanisation, the canvas readied for
ether muscles and juice - ****** ended up
Hinduism on amphetamines; ****, i think i lost a bracket (
somewhere... oh well, i guess i must end with ).
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
It's already hard enough to say anything accurately
without further obfuscating and camouflaging the soul.
The faces in the funeral pews are impassive, impatient
and the dead woman cares not what's said, isn't even present.

The poet gets innumerable do-overs, it's one of man's wonders,
revises his vision of his mother and plays her piano, posthumously.
Why not say it simply? Hers was a comity
and a tragedy. As are ours. And perform the history that surrounds us.

Are caskets boats? The ship of death rides Charon's waves
or perhaps on that solitary day you happily kayak to the huckleberries.
Is the deeper sadness incomplete achievement or never to have tried?
Any attempt to decide this question for others is to badly behave.

The pablum of Christianity, esp. the Catholics, re the after life
must be rejected. It's necessary. To be replaced by community,
perfection of the human project, nature's intelligent partner.
Dusty, sadly habitable houses along the funeral route, shapeless

people crossing themselves when ambulances or hearses pass.
I wanted to describe the sweetness of her life, how she was part
of the problem and part of the solution. How love and evolution
are passed like loaves from person to person down the generations.

Find the humor in the cholera. When my father died
he waved like a surfer riding a wave or a clown riding
an elephant out the circus tent. Mom follows the same law.
The many ways a spear can pierce a warrior's jawbone or armor.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Andre Baez Jun 2013
Watching as the seasons change
Such as acts in plays although
This is not a game but a claim
Not in the name of fame but
More towards what can be gained
When like souls jump from a like
Plane and follow a similar train
Of thought that can sustain
Pains that are more often faces
Between two insane minds that
Crave one another breathing heavy
As cranes that hold up the world
From unbreakable chains of bonds
That may at times leave one crazed.

However, who am I to say, a word?

One word can mean nothing
Yet, quite on the contrary it can
Come to mean each and everything
Even when the word is barely
Known or heard or even dreamed
Up by someone who screams
Of cursed missed opportunities
Or in some cases the hope that
Sunshine and the breath of life brings
To every being along these branches
And among the tallest of trees
That reach towards the heavens
Even without wings while wearing
Rings symbolic of the love between
Individuals living the fantasy in
A true and large reality that moves
In movie screens from scene to scene

However, will teachings be learned?

Children all about yearn for the
Chance to return to separate worlds
Of peaceful turns between friends
That wouldn't leave burns on ends
Of hairs and spur on sins as
Hate revolutionizes and revises
Love while churning the emotions
That lie within our children that learn
The unexpected and expect the
Devilish lies that lie in minds that
Spurn the solid earth as they earn
The opportunity of life in a hearse

However, my body lifts, and my mind drifts...
Brendan Watch May 2014
My cellophane soul
music akin to jazz-
ercise revises your
body until all that's left
is cliched telephone
lines drawn beneath your eyes.
Lawrence Hall Jun 10
Lawrence Hall HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                       Book Removal Training

                   The orange flames waved at the crowd as paper and
                   print dissolved inside them. Burning words were torn
                   from their sentences.

                                       -The Book Thief, p. 112

And now burning words must be torn from free people
For if people read they might think about things:
Why does the Party’s Jesus hate everyone
And why are weapons superior to ideas?

Can a hangperson’s noose teach us to love
Burning crosses comfort a frightened child
Why do the cult’s censors fly our flag upside down
While stealing books from our children’s hands?

A state that trains people to purge library books
Is a slave state



Florida revises school library book removal training after public outcry
Story by Douglas Soule, USA TODAY NETWORK

Florida revises school library book removal training after public outcry (msn.com)
Butch Decatoria May 2016
I can't believe how much I love him

   don't stop these spells of static stirrings
   won't wash it away, like sleep
   in my succint showers
(rightly, comely in my hand)

And still I absorb
the absolute-arrangements of him,
the bear-bulk hulk of him

still I swoon,
   aroused with naive-named niceties
   ceremonial dreams of touchable torches...
And I am overcome,
by flagrant fuels, aflow
ever the more juvenile
   for who am I / to have
   the grand spectacles of him...?

I can't imagine why I love him so
   can't begin to convince or list it
   don't keep this leaping lush of laden love
   ungoverned / inside...
I won't ignore it
I can not hide
I want to tell him
   like laughter spreads its joy
   he's a riddle to be reveled in,
Want to know the questions
his face the answer I want to see...

It is he that silences
the noise of me,

it is he that revises
the mistakes of me,

it is he that spends
the worth of me,

it is he that lifts up
the truth of me

I can't believe
I can't begin

how much I am
                            in love with
him...
Picture this Jun 2015
Your love comes in many guises
need not be profound
the smallest gesture it revises
feet firmly on the ground
The little note and chocolate treat
left as a surprise
your smiling face as you greet
enough to win a prize
Do not need expensive gifts
with you at my side
your company is enough
a wave becomes a tide
My dreams become reality
by your ever loving vote
tilting scales in my direction
on you I've come to dote
SassyJ Feb 2018
Lay as the rain tears it’s way
In trenches drenched eternally
As the waters draw sequences
Pat the dreams of April showers
Gently mesh on the downing dew
Resting on the daring ventures
Textures of the enduring greys
eyes patched with persistent blues
Let the fire burn to a summer day
Simmering it’s light on a bloom
A blossom of the drooling *****
Leading to the winter starry lens
Black towers of the night draw close
Flickering with a drowsy tamed sheen
Reflecting the loony daring moon
Water remains a confession eye
A mirror that stays and revises
It’s February
usagi Jan 2023
uncertainty sets me ablaze.  
I combust and I implode.

Life revises itself and I lose my balance
I am a child again, feeling unsafe, feeling the floor cave in from under me. My arms outstretched,  I reach at everyone and everything just to grasp anything.  But everything disintegrates from my grip and I slip through the cracks. Broken bones and bruised, but you tell me heal every time.
How?
lend me your arms
winter Mar 2020
oh
resonate
can i tell you of how i met the void?
i long to
but the story itself is too long
i travel only to search for someone
who's ears are as patient
can i tell you of how i met my death?
i long to
if it weren't for my heart that scratches from the inside out
every time i speak of my one unspoken instant
my so solemnly celebrated instant
that haunts me and drives me and revises my charge
i take each step only for the instant that urges me forward
and forwardly marches like a puppet
i am my own string and bones of a larger hand
the one from deeper down
deeper than my own hands can reach or grapple
i can't blame myself for each and every person
i've morphed myself into being
unknowingly, unspoken
i can no longer blame myself
for that of which i have no control, that of which being myself
it is the drive, it is the core, it is the heart, it is the hand,
it is the instant of my death
i long to tell you the story of it
tell me you have the time
but only tell me if you have it
if you are ready to spend the march
not by stopping time
but by defying its presence
by shredding it into something greater than
what we could ever acknowledge it to be
it is the time spent
it is the words spent
it is the surging and the opening
and the long walk into this aching direction
let me tell you this story

— The End —