"revisionist" poems
i seem to only see three constellations in the night
sky these days... the modo -
it be the sign of: the age of scorpio,
there's but the big & little dipper (respectively)
º
º
º
º
º
º
º
do these people really need to be spoon fed?
the smaller dipper is akin to the big
dipper, hence to write in the other
and last constellation (minus that odd rhombus
without a name) -
and believe me when i say: orthodox
astrology doesn't agree with me:
º
º
º
º
º
º º
i guess i managed to draw the right
schematic,
besides the point, there are but
three constellations in the night sky
around here, and one is a revisionist take
on the scorpio...
**** you hippies, and your age of aquarius,
this is what a scorpion looks like,
and nothing what you've indicated,
i'm starting to think that astrologists
did poorly in geometry class...
but i'll end it on a positive note...
*there is more dignity in being ascribed an
epitaph, than being given a "proper" burial...*
and by "proper" i mean: the leech family
members waiting for inheritance,
the sycophantic actors of attendance -
throw me into a mass grave, i don't mind
for a "proper" burial...
there is no dignity in whatever burial
ensues as many will do...
but allow man to transcend
the date of birth ** / yy / zz
and the date of death zz / yy / **
with an epitaph...
however "wise" the man was in life,
his dignity only arrives postmortem,
in the form of an epitaph...
but one epitaph overshadows a thousand
quotable mentions of the man, when alive,
but one epitaph of a david,
overcomes the oeuvre of maxims of a goliath.
whatever argument for light pollution exists,
even when in the scottish highlands
i didn't see any more stars...
there are only three constellations in play
on the night sky,
and one of them is the genuine scorpio
constellation,
with the orthodox constellation being
bogus, fake, unnecessary...
i, i've spotted the constellation of scorpio,
and i did so: with my naked eyes!
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 8:21 PM UTC
when self-inflicted
or as counter,
the adrenaline is missing;
mind you the hara-kiri:
the sudden thrill,
the sudden attack!
it paces the heart differently
from a belief in a self...
the heart paces differently,
it's an entire revisionist sub-plot
of the book of genesis;
it almost makes Dante pigeon-shit.
that's the problem with suicide
it's hardly adrenaline ensured
surprising, the predestination of it
being all top surprising as motivational
to provide us a new Cain of the future...
rightfully i'd rather be stunned
into a shock of adrenaline by a murderer,
than by injection of overpowering myself:
the adrenaline missing in suicide
is the real philosophical issue...
the adrenaline missing due to premonition,
the lack of shock... suicide in philosophical
debate is pure chemistry:
to commit suicide is to devolve chemically
without the required boiling points or infusions
of: suddenly.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
~
we the people,
long have known
the write of
passages and poems,
whether bellwether,
envisionist or revisionist,
too oft have thought
this journey long,
and weight of hope and change
to another there belongs;
yet i subscribe
that we as scribes,
can right this ship,
not merely write it's wrongs;
for we it's pride
with hearts ascribe,
and note-by-note,
as carpenters and soldiers,
we its authors and its poets,
in words, in deeds,
writers, of a patriot’s song;
with deepest definition,
and inner soul reflection,
it's stanza, chorus, bridges,
we must lovingly inscribe.
~
*post script.
i know i am but one of many, who disillusioned, feel alienated, and could just as easily choose withdrawal as my reaction to our nation’s political plight. this then my belief, my plea, my hope we’ll see, withdrawal is not an option, that our words, deeds and even our writings carry weight, and bring with them hope and change to each community within which we each serve. we are not merely writers of our history... we are authors of our destiny!
if you are not an American, hope and pray for us, please, for we desperately need your support!! if you are, pick up the pen... pick up the charge... be the change!!*
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
**** you and your little intelligentsia
group therapy sessions
basing its roots in caveman cartesian
theoretic - i know you know that
the blank canvas are the ********
and that artists work on that -
because normally grey citizens are no
blank canvas but a subordination -
but still, **** you, why not concentrate
on the blank economics of a beggar
to exercise your little intelligentsia
get-together sessions?
there are less social securities in that
department of inquiry -
mental health and art... what's that?
you jealous of the caverns of the mind
crafting an escape pod to your
****** exercise of mechanisation -
**** on me, crosswords! su doku!
all matters of encryption!
endear your lack of creativity with
the synonymousness act of creativity
decoding encryption,
because you obviously can't encrypt
on a complete lack of encoding parameters (blanks).
you can't encrypt originality unless
you start with encrypting nothingness
with stars... and how often does that happen?
perhaps once... i care to make you
feel something akin to bombastic,
a football stadium size of appreciation lost -
skull kickabout with commentary:
to create the post-relativity warp
of quantity-quality, akin to space-time,
for indeed the answer to science's
space-time hyphenated couplet
is quantity-quality - and that's hardly a measurable
consideration, since there are too many particulars
involved, i.e. too many individuals, choices
and disparaging wills - too many particulars
in the hyphenated couplet quantity-quality,
since science is offering universal breadcrumbs
with its space-time rationalisation
for each and every for a share in populating
an insignificance, whether on a personal
scale or an impersonal / collective scale -
and both are indeed expressed,
the famous parasitical comparison found
in too many numbered essays by individuals -
but still humanism has a quantity-quality parabola,
while science has its space-time parabola,
and indeed both in dip, provide waves,
for example the former with Plato and Neoplatonism,
and for example the latter with
the revisionists of Einstein - the revisionist excavators
arguing precision to 100% proof of measurement
in exponential scaling of the mind theorising
a bus trip to Saturn like a bus-trip parallel-akin
to a 1 mile trip on the same vehicle in the earthly atmosphere.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 8:40 PM UTC
upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history.
my hands fit
irregular-sized gloves,
life summaries,
slightly worn,
marked down
for the discount table.
my creases are
covered up
underneath a few
genesis survivors.
a "handful" of
youthful blonde hairs,
failing to depart,
as time has requested.
these blonde survivors,
refuseniks to
time's ravages,
mockery makers,
of history book writers.
yet, these cohorts few,
are in cahoots with,
wave machines,
tidal decay suppliers,
gray color,
content providers,
to the balance
of my body.
nicks and grooves,
crisscross stitches,
vanity disrepairs,
someone is
counting down lifelines,
one million billion cells,
used up, only shells,
wreckage of death stars,
jails for membranes,
forgetful fabric memorizers,
crumbled fractures,
patches designed by
an unknown haute couturier,
a failed revisionist
of the original conception.
All our hands.
upon closer examination,
Jubilee finale,
arrival day of the
Halcyonian,
mythical bird,
powerful enough,
charm the winds,
calm the waves,
harbinger of
our demise.
that date,
initialized,
DVR recorded,
visible,
right there,
upon on all
our hands,
all our history.
Source coded
in a language
for which the
Rosetta stone
yet undiscovered,
but visible,
right there,
on all
our hands,
all our history.
Halcyon bird,
comes
when it comes,
though we,
always, surprised,
oblivious
to the obvious.
Halcyon bird,
coming, to calm,
and to lament loss,
coming,
to still the wind
and wave within
the heart,
repair the
deepest rent.
So these words,
caresses,
coming,
to calm and to lament,
from my hands
to yours,
asking modestly,
for acceptance,
for forgiveness,
for another's hands hold
mine, my heart.
Yet my hands wave on,
each wave, a day,
an entry in and on my handy ledger,
where recorded,
**upon closer examination,
my hands,
my history,
the what is
as well
what cannot ever be.**
------------------------------------------------------------------
* http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/halcyonian
(Halcyonian, a mythical bird, said to have the power of charming winds and waves into calmness, associated with death)
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 3:55 AM UTC
i never understood why people decided to couple such symbols into images esp. in fictional narratives rather than see the sound in lipstick smooched for symphony; how hard you try, the a to z will not provide you with a mental cinema image of a giraffe; more like a gaff, and what's a gaff in photo? leopard on giraffe or a giraffe on a leopard, because it's all very fine telling the narrative of traffic coordination evolution coming back from africa with the zebra to suit pitchfork stoppages in hay on the redneck lazed walk. the sole reason why it's understood: fiction is the use of lettering for the creation of images, poetry is the use of lettering a bit like a waterfall for a bored emperor apprehensive of the sound of thinking; and philosophy is the reverse of all that, strike two flints together, and enter the realm of ideas with the onomatopoeia of the image - given that onomatopoeias act like surgical scalpels, or a miscarriage of ideas bundled up for something else by kandinsky; actually, saying that, onomatopoeias are images in motion, prior to the movies, when all you had was a painting embraced by a fancy rim - still life of decay of the royal flotilla on the thames with a mouth moving: chatty chatty boor of a bloke who talked.
i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
a salmon with other sea fish cropping up flying
into a butterfly net:
before the assemblage of bacon
into the mouth watering eye.
i see the dead sea when i cry,
and i wager
to have seen a thousand flamingos
strut invoking tide -
on a boneless march into marsh of
a bubbled gill of fish popped for whatever name alive,
or dead in the disco crescendo for a nixon:
tears of a robot had always the glory of man laughing akin;
since annexed was the dualistic ambiguity
of the theatrically mistaken two masked.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
Caught red-handed,
You reach for the first thing
Your grubby metacarpus can find,
Be it a sabre or quill.
You ****** and parry away
In your journal,
All in the hopes you might
Besmirch me,
And strike it rich
At the same time.
But like Dido, Queen of Carthage,
Your bags of gold
Contain only sand.
This is your hapless undoing,
Mr. Hamilton,
Despicably so.
Don't use me as a crutch,
Fall on your own sword!
Talk about a fair amount
Of revisionist's history,
But we'll save that for
Another day...
Suffice to say:
History is in the eyes of the beholder.
Feb 11, 2020
Feb 11, 2020 at 4:37 PM UTC
In the Alps of you and me,
There can be no victory.
The problem isn’t that you’re unfavorable,
The problem is that I don’t care enough to be capable.
Captivated by our loyalty and then berating our backstory,
Another mystery, special delivery.
No longer caged in your palace chorus,
But in my memory palace you remain victorious.
A revisionist history,
A thousand times I am sorry.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 2:45 PM UTC
I shall clear the air
of mystery
with a bold painter's brush,
blending cold facts
from blacks and blues
to soothing grays....
and callow eyes of every hue
shall dance and pray
on the tombs of villains
and buffoons
as if they were Gods....
~ P
(6/13/2013)
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
Upon closer examination,
my hands, my history.
Irregular sized summaries, slightly worn,
like gloves, marked down for the discount table,
my creases covered up underneath genesis survivors,
a 'handful' of youthful blonde hairs,
failures to depart as requested.
Refuseniks to time's ravages,
mockery makers,
yet, cohorts of, in cahoots with,
wave machines, breaker bringers of tidal decay,
gray color content providers,
to the balance of my body.
Nicks and grooves, crisscross stitches,
vanity repairs to counting down lifelines,
one million billion cells,
wreckage of death stars, jails for membranes,
forgetful fabric memorizers, crumbled fractures,
patches designed by an unknown haute couturier,
failed revisionist of the original conception.
All our hands.
Upon closer examination,
Jubilee finale, arrival day of the
mythical Halcyonian,
the date, initialized,^
even DVR future recorded,
visible, right there, upon
on all our hands, all our history.
Source coded in a language for which
a Rosetta stone, yet undiscovered,
but visible, right there,
on all our hands, all our history.
Halcyon bird,
comes when it comes,
though we, always, surprised,
oblivious to the obvious.
Halcyon bird,
coming, to calm, and to lament loss,
coming, to still wind and wave within
the heart, repair the deepest rent.
So these words, caresses,
coming, to calm and to lament,
from my hands to yours,
asking modestly, for acceptance.
------------------------------------------------------------------
^http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/halcyonian
(Halcyonian, a mythical bird, said to have the power of charming winds and waves into calmness, associated with death)
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 4:35 PM UTC
Do not be offended?
For part of this poem is true.
Once upon a time in America there was segregation.
Which made America look bad in the eyes of other nation.
We uplifted one.
While degrading another.
Especially when it came to the segregated water fountain.
Even the movie theater and eating counters.
Do not be offended?
Cause truth is written in the correct histories books.
Not those that the revisionist want to over look.
Once upon a time.
One group learned in schools.
While others in shacks or least made up of one room.
Oh, please don't be offended.
For part of the truth is constantly told.
People over look that Rosa Parks was in the right assigned roll of seats.
Theirs ran out once they was completed.
Then they expected her to get up and stand.
We know, who was the woman?
And one was a less of a man.
But that was the accepted Jim Crow' law of the land.
Do not be offended?
For if you are.
Then you must question's your heart.
Cause God witness it all.
Ministers tossed in jail.
Three killed trying to make things better.
And this group lay blame on "so called, outsiders."
Churches bombed.
Children's killed.
Still they attended church.
Makes you wonder about the sermon's message.
Do not be offended.
For truth usually hurt.
When you see the acts of the governors and police officers.
Who wouldn't wanted to be Bull Connor?
Ordering attacks of dogs and fire hydrants.
I guess treat people like you want to be treated.
Doesn't always work.
Unless you are serious taking in the correct message at church.
A lesson we ALL need to learn.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
evolutionary revisionist
screaming about alien DNA
and the Annunaki
teaching ape-men
on the Sumerian plains –
looking at the southern skies
for the coming of Nibiru
sending red horns across the horizon
bringing back the overlord giants
another round of ****
and zero-point energy –
fallen angles look like greys
travelling from heaven
in shiny silver disks
abducting the impoverished
for genetic manipulation
and artificial insemination
attempted creation
of a hybrid nation
my lament is not taken seriously
and I slip further into the fringe –
cattle mutilation no longer garners
a press release
five million people with similar memories
are all discounted as crazy
so the masses can sleep
believing they are alone
and special
in the universe –
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
your dark past
casts long shadows
in your new light
lies defined
projected far and wide
in sharp relief
no protection
revisionist excision
cuts deep
inconsequential
exsanguination
for all to see
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC
The carts rolled out of the warehouses
And trawled each single street,
Each drawn by a giant Clydesdale with
Those massive hooves and feet,
They creaked along, and they struck a gong
That excited furtive looks,
While the men that day, who rode the dray
Called out, ‘Bring out your books.’
They watched the shimmer of curtains as
The people peeked outside,
For many were loth to show themselves,
All they had left was pride,
The law brought in by the ****** left
Trapped all but the pastrycooks,
For they could retain their recipes
At the cry, ‘Bring out your books.’
They said they were saving forests from
The pulp mill on the bay,
There wouldn’t need to be paper with
The pads we have today,
And too many things were incorrect
Had been printed on a tree,
Were sitting on people’s shelves, defunct
In ideology.
The people set up resistance, they
Had loved their tattered tomes,
And many a shelf was burdened in
The meanest of their homes,
‘The government’s trying to dumb us down,’
Was the universal cry,
‘Go out and save the forests, but
If they’re already printed, why?’
The spread of ideas is dangerous
They could rot you to the core,
And too many things on liberty
Have been printed, long before,
Perhaps it would have been better if
The people couldn’t read,
Taking away the books at last
Might take away the need.
The drays that rumbled along each street
They had stacked the books up high,
But there was the odd revisionist
Who complained, and grumbled, ‘Why?’
A squad broke into each suspect house
Where the owner locked the door,
And tore the books from his fevered grasp
While screaming, ‘It’s the law!’
But mine, I hid in the garden shed
And buried the others deep,
They wouldn’t be getting their hands on them
The ones that I wished to keep,
There’s so many fake and useless things
That they’re legislating for,
But to take our books and our liberty
Would be like declaring war.
David Lewis Paget
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
I have previously,
and this is forbidden knowledge I am about to indulge you in,
(feel grateful perhaps)
I have previously been accepted here before.
In my blueish age
of 13,
deemed enough of a literary
writing reams,
cartoonish spools, overspileth
sounds about right,
and history was recorded!
Little did your establishment know that
years into the future,
in a plasmatic stopwatch,
I'd be
frantically,
absolutely sweating bullets!
attempting to erase
the pubescent penning about
Lord knows,
depression and gym class.
and after, said to no one in particular
in a completely
revisionist fashion
"bless this mess"
so how about it old friend,
another round?
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 10:22 PM UTC
Life: The Pages Between Birth and Death
The book too thick to actually choose to read.
Cross-referenced with words too lengthy to even sound out.
Adjectives and adverbs, metaphors and similes
Neatly describing each seminal moment
That no longer makes sense.
A book dust covered and yellowed.
Pages dog-eared citing someone's past interest
In whatever was actually printed however many years ago.
Saying "Not the read I want,"
As I place it back on the shelf.
Avoiding the unavoidable,
I pass on it.
At least for today.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 5:18 PM UTC
poem
Forgotten heart attacks sleeping by the back door Mercury in retrograde channeling spiritual warfare crooked teeth pealing wax work set in sixes off of tables and chairs
***** hands casting crystal corners in my head yesterdays tea poured over the infinite misunderstanding divinity thickening the air that's already wrapped tightly around the time that steals so much space in my bed heavy eyelids slipping into controlled chaos sighing out larkspur symphonies dead men don't sell secrets they hand them out for free.
comment
i know you're pursuing a dead-end take on punctuation, and that's much worth the acknowledgement, but i can be a puritan sometimes, i too transcend the distributing norms while equipping them... but i only think of catching a breath... i can spot the obvious avoidance usage of punctuation when i can; but to me the fact that it's hidden is like a sobering artefact of modern critique of art, i.e. that your avoidance of punctuation would spell out a need to keep the poem fragrant's worth of a crossword puzzle...and that much is needed when reading poetry...poetry has to be a lessened musicology, and has to become an encrusted form of puzzle... otherwise it will not survive. thank you for considering this revisionist approach.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 10:30 PM UTC
How easy to distill the past
sifting out impurities
so a clean silky edge
will soothe another’s tongue.
Serve up what flatters
spit out distasteful lapses
swallow raw memories
let them sink
deep into the silted
heart of gray.
The lies we
tell each other,
tell ourselves.
We are all revisionists
editing our histories, omissions
catered to the prevailing
whims of taste and culture
until intimacy unmasks us.
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
and who would have thought that there would be such
certainty governing ι (iota), as to effectively stress it
all the ****** time? guise it in whatever pronouns
you want, either modern or ancient and if ancient
then bound to psychiatric theory - but who would have
thought that so much pinpointing was to be allowed
over ι? and yet there are hordes of people without
a clue as to who they are and what identity to rattle
the world with... pinpoint above the iota...
if it was absolutely precise, and if it was truly identifiable
with a great accuracy, i'd find people in shackles of
certainty, hardly deviating from that's already apparent
to them... but it's not the case... so presumptuous
to ascribe iota (ι) that sort of certainty when ascribing
it a holy pronoun status... there's hardly a pinpoint
about the iota, hardly any certainty, always the spontaneous
venture, and that's still bound to what aesthetician you
speak to...
ᾠ (oi)! wriggly serpent of
arabic in greek, wriggled in, subscripted, prefix: al-,
then the l'ah the l'ah, la la la... la la... mmmbop! handsome,
innit? kamoze... na na na na na na na na na na nah...
'ere *** d' 'otstepper... chilli chilli in sprechen dingo...
roughing up the woof downunder.
and wrote a surah about the byzantine defeat...
true up to the point of mongol and the mamluke...
for if not the serpent to teach man handwriting,
what animal? is not the serpent the jurassic spine
and our pause for thought? or what does predate
the discovery of dinosaur bones if not bonsai
morphed into welsh and chinese dragons?
exaggerations of sleeper's intuition collectively?
to bow, or say: prior: all things worthy of a palette -
then the revisionist meteor, then all things condemnable
and bound to excess - gluttonous eyes staring poignant as if
gnats stuck to venomous arrows with a thirst for st. sebastian...
for what audacity asserted that it was always to be so:
a pinpoint above ι? there was no universal agreement -
as is to say: a god of the omni realm will never consider
a peace treaty unless the people abide by the mantra om
and subsequently flourish... and what animal taught us this
wriggling? should we rewrite our stance basing all
metamorphosis from shouting to a hush and then compound
with statement: genteel reader away from the serpent
and haloing the worm, that too wriggles? it all depends which
aesthetician you speak to... if you speak to me,
i'll tell you this version of human history's worth of
soap opera.
Nov 18, 2016
Nov 18, 2016 at 5:37 AM UTC
“**Hineni, Hineni; I’m ready, my lord.”
(For Evangeline Ruth Hope**)
<>
*”Hineni is Hebrew for “here I am,” and is the response
Abraham gives when God calls on him
to sacrifice his son Isaac. It is also the name of a
prayer of preparation and humility, addressed to God”*
<>
*what you do not know
is that this word,
was spoken with a fist beating
a pin into the praying man’s chest
recited daily,
shades of hopeful, reverent resonance,
a shaded resolution, disguised as a quavering variable,
a statement, a questioning, an unsteady surety,
all of the above
this word, rooted in my genetic consciousness,
been ready repeated since my first whispering
was I ten years aged?
first time, full on bowing
on the synagogue floor, not fully understanding or
ready to confess my selfish need for forgiveness,
my forehead resting on my stubbed fingers resting on carpet,
worn thin by my predecessors ancestors,
who now comprehend more, but then, never enough
these same fingers, that write this collective,
Hineni,
a word repeated oft, flavoring of the who
of who I am, a training in soul fracking from
early childhood, its import, powerful beyond
today’s identity revisionist empowering
let me plainly speak, in the original language
taught to me with that other tag along, English,
a lingua franca, a dialect that can never capture
a soul presenting himself in substantiated readiness
for the whatever exists in between
hallelujah and hineni, where the rubber soul
hits the road, stumbling on hands and knees
on a forest path of roots and soil, where sunlight breaks tween
branches, are road signs to look up, look down, look within
I know your name,
Evangeline Ruth Hope
analyzed its components,
cleverly constructed Greek and Hebrew rooted,
bearer of good tidings, following Ruth in, to hope,
you a Moabite in Mormon Utah, preparing
yourself for exposure, practicing humility
unceasingly seeking
good
that is how it should be
cannot translate well enough
what was this gift given to me
learning as a youth, a wanderer, tribal member
where beseeching is second nature,
and accepting personal responsibility fully cardinal,
fiddling prayers while standing unsteady on
the roofs of extreme shakiness
hineni is then but this:
a prideful admission of strength
ready ready ready, here I am,
completely unready for the unknown future foretold,
hineni I know
here I am,
ready or not,
find me so I can be found,
cease, help me cease, my foundering,
confident in my willingness to
find a way*
netanel
9/12/19
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 8:27 AM UTC
Amsterdamiss is
typing into an internet comment section:_
but she's gone.
by the look of her little square
picture.
Her blip in the fetish
It's a costume
leaking through the build up for it>gumming up each pixel> disappointing us.
and don't forget
to bite down
when you' chewing gum.
or just scraping something historic from the front of a nicely shaped
building
our fingers
are
red
as the blood flowing through the veins of our revisionist
history.america
can **** you babe.
we are exceptional.
and they're showing it on the disney channel
and out in the street-like folds that peel out doing at least
45
without looking
on the places on my body.
if you
scroll down, some kid calls her a ******
but i'll let you hate me
if you want to. as i correct the dead smile of the news reporter.as she
feeds some sort of loaded question into the
screen
like: "you just have to thank god at times like these, don't ya?"
.
"it really is a miracle, isn't it?"
as we stand
in front of the fire that's taking just about everything.
in front of the shot-up restaurant.
in front of my shaking hands.
******* savages
all of 'em
it's the middle of the night, babe.
don't you have anything better left to say to me?
at least
give me something to feel shame about.
it's coming
down
to you.
-
I say something mean.
not yourbabe. might be your babe.
**** like a snapback-
Melfina tilts her head back
i'm garbage
with a fresh grasspour
fade to green, as the sun beats us senseless .with shotgun shells from the center of orbit
to breathe as this. as the saltwater beads up around the
little wrinkle of her
nose.
she can save us.
but
there's nobody to hold your love for you, when you're too ****** to grip it.
_/ \_
\ /
/ ^ \here's a lucky star for you, babe- you're gunna need it, here at the center of it all.
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
Darwinism has much more
to do with phonetic encoding
than with theorising
an absence of theology
(with signs an absece of the
practice of 2 + 2 = 4), or
trying to depose god or Tsar
of Henry VIII prior to the bishop
the cardinal... the priest, a dog...
forget genesis or creativity,
remember dentistry...
in vacuum who's the happiest?
a dog... and by god's grace we're the
remnant of his existence, dodging dogs
in mirror not so chiral...
merely saliva... and by demand
i know how to berserker a revisionist
stand-off for a lampoon to say but one
ensured non-differential letter!
hence him less operatic than her,
with her ******** vowel ooh ooh ah
and his netting stability in Cumbria and
Shropshire and suburbia in general,
i.e. hula hoop... a sexuality of symbols,
to think any man might treat
vowels as feminine and consonants as male...
hmm!
Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
tame the dragon,
earn refuge
among the lions...
com si, com sa.
and there i am,
fiddling with *****
on my neck and chequers;
at least chauvinism
engages with women
and women love it,
the fascist boots stomping...
march approved:
goose stratum.
but misogyny?
they can banshee their way
into Arnold's: the ghosts
we should be afraid of...
but can't be bothered...
aren't really edible...
or marriage prone...
for that matter.
it's almost like we created a world
where Sheba was correct,
copper skinned peoples
copulate and we just watch,
revisionist re-counter with south
america... an aztec singalong...
truant peoples: scientists
**** among cyborgs.
well... if my logic of arithmetic is wrong,
then how did the umlaut not count
as two: or a prolonging?
given the grapheme was given
an antidote of grappling siamese?
Æ or aesch or ash...
gravity of the book of genesis...
the beginning was bound
to be ugly...
but it didn't take the crucifix
to shape the world,
but as the advent proved: it did.
ä equals aa - surely -
likened to the aesthetic of pull
of throttle -
unless dot dot is also hyphen
or macron for the above indicator
ā...
***** of a language, english,
english is a ***** of a language,
everyone speaks it!
cyborg mega-tech pa pa -
that's goodbye without etymological
basis worth of an investigation;
rotten core? aqua:
a- (without) -qua (as being) -
well that thing became congested
as what could be managed: a clepsydra;
originally robbed, perpetuated
robbery. translated? vater.
and then father comes along.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 12:45 PM UTC
Did the clues betray the fantasist
from Uncle Bulgaria on the Cornwall move
alas his mother dies yearly
twice so far anyway
as the wind cries liar
but lets take a specialist narcissist
too busy planning a wedding on that train
from Vietnam to volunteer
in Uganda or Gambia
as voices speak in head
been there done it Mr Revisionist
he was at the barricade at the Bastille
hoisting the tricolour he writes
as ladies swoon
he's done them all
our Chamberlain is now Revolutionist
fighting for a New World order on keyboard
after he left the RAF
do let tell worthless bullies
the clues are in plain sight
the contempt is resounding
even Buddha knows that
Apr 6, 2022
Apr 6, 2022 at 8:03 PM UTC