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1SP Mar 2014
Is it a bird?
Or is it a plane?

It's… It's… It's…

It's no limit to your dreams,
What you so desire to aspire to be,
All you must do as hard as it seems
Is believe that you can succeed;
Others may try to hinder you stride,
Some will so much as doubt you indeed,
But you cannot surrender to kryptonite,
Because I see the superwoman you are to me.

Dignified, poised, strong,
A superwoman you are to see;
Confident, able, young,
The superwoman you are to me;
What a superwoman, to the rescue
Even for villains whose ridicules tested you,
They cannot outwit the superwoman..
You are to me.

You have been mistreated,
By slander, blackmail, and betrayal;
Somehow you still stand undefeated,
No one has seized you to fail;
You are a heroine, a matriarch
A woman of admiration in any degree;
Willing to give and help from your heart,
And that's the superwoman you are to me.

Dignified, poised, strong,
A superwoman you are to see;
Confident, able, young,
The superwoman you are to me;
What a superwoman, to the rescue
Even for villains whose ridicules tested you,
They cannot outwit the superwoman..
You are to me.

It's Superwoman!!!
Terry O'Leary Mar 2016
The typewriters tap,
with a rat-a-tat-tat,
like a fourth estate rap
to provide us the pap
(that serves as a snack with a rat-a-tat-tat)
in a newspaper scrap
crammed with meaningless crap
from the editor's yap
(spewing flimflamy flak, booming rat-a-tat-tat)
after gashing a gap
in the daily recap
with a snip in a snap-
sounding thundery clap
crackng rat-a-tat-tat and a rat-a-tat-tat.

And the talking heads speak
with a rat-a-tat-tat,
of the news of the week,
tweaking tongue in the cheek
(with a click and a clack like a rat-a-tat-tat),
thus ignoring critique
'cause they're mild and too meek
in the midst of the reek
to report of the wrack (except rat-a-tat-tat)
whilst the pundits (oblique
when protecting the chic
of the upper class clique
at the top of the peak)
chatter rat-a-tat-tat and a rat-a-tat-tat.

The NRA ghouls
plug a rat-a-tat-tat
while their blood money tools
fill the Hill’s vestibules
(where deceit behind drapes drips a rat-a-tat-tat),
spreading folly that fuels
frenzied hands of young fools
bringing guns into schools
(at the drop of a hat there's a rat-a-tat-tat
splashing blood in warm pools)
for now anarchy rules
(which the hype ridicules
'til the temperature cools)
hailing rat-a-tat-tat and a rat-a-tat-tat.

Lawless cops, cutting loose
with a rat-a-tat-tat
spraying bullets profuse
without any excuse
(just a split second splat with a rat-a-tat-tat),
splay a rattled recluse
like a Thanksgiving goose
gushing cranberry juice
from six slugs in the back (with a rat-a-tat-tat).
To redress such abuse,
bend the branch of a spruce
with a neck in a noose
while Death's drums beat diffuse’
rolling rat-a-tat-tat and a rat-a-tat-tat.

War brings freedom to all
with a rat-a-tat-tat
(well, excluding the thrall
with fear, facing the wall
[ often smacked with a bat, throbbing rat-a-tat-tat ],
until feeling the call
to creep out of the kraal
biting back with a gall
[ with a *** for a tat and a rat-a-tat-tat ],
or to mangle and maul
if still able to crawl
and be part of the brawl
in a freak free-for-all,
midst a rat-a-tat-tat and a rat-a-tat-tat).

Holy warmongers praise,
with a rat-a-tat-tat,
any soldier that slays
and all rockets that raze
(the drones zoom with a vroom and a rat-a-tat-tat)
leaving smoky arrays
of gray ghosts in the haze
cloaking mute cabarets
(hushed, the hip and the hop, by the rat-a-tat-tat)
while ol’ Cerberus bays
with mankind in his gaze,
so society prays  
as it rots and decays
(Satan's trumpets of doom blare a rat-a-tat-tat)
until one of these days
in a flash through the maze
mighty mushrooms will blaze
with invisible  rays,
fin’lly braising the craze
of the rat-a-tat-tat,
   and the
Isaac Cook Feb 2011
Take a deep breath, its only 1 AM
Close your eyes and listen my dear, can you hear?
The dreams are calling, the day is falling
They are humming just listen
From the depth of your pillow, they whisper
“close your eyes my dear, rest your head here”
Don’t think, just hum along
They sing you a song of slumbers delight
Just hum along my dear, do not fear
“Rest your head, my dear, do not fear the dreams schemes. The tales they tell show your eyes the sand man’s story of nightmares folly”
This is not a joke my dear, just follow and hear, the dreams calling.
No longer humming they are singing this song of slumbers delight.
Watch now! The play they perform in this violent storm that is your mind!
Now that is kind. Just hum along my dear, so I can be so inclined as to stop this ridicules rhyme.
it was really 2 AM when i posted this. I am currently trying to write without cliches so, if you spot one let me know.
Jessi Bee Aug 2014
Mixed emotions
Unclear notions
I'm in roller coaster mode
Do I hold on?
Or do I simply just let go?
Honestly, I don't know
I'm not 100% sure of who I am
I'm growing, still learning
And constantly yearning
For a deeper understanding
Of this womanhood business
It's a very complicated existence
For instance

Society describes what a woman should be
So faintly
All of the descriptions I hear are nothing at all like me
And since I don't quite understand what I should be
When I make mistakes on my womanhood journey
Society ridicules me
But why? I don't know what I'm doing
And since I don't, shouldn't someone show me?

How should I conduct myself?
Why hasn't anyone prepared me for this womanhood test?
Society shouldn't just expect
That I should already know how to be
Independent, submissive, loyal, loving and trustworthy
Especially if no one took the time out to show me
I only had society to mold me
And clearly
Society doesn't know what a real woman should be
I couldn't learn how from TV
Those people, those images are nothing but deceit

So what's a girl to believe?
Oh, society you don't know either?
Fine, well when you find out
Maybe you should teach me
The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness.

It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice.

The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump.

I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life.

And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where?

Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-****.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks -

Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron

Weeping in the wind of chloroform

And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
before i pull this one out of my *** (again - listen, these words are not coming from either head or heart, it's best to pull them from the bowels, a gut-wrenching-feeling is more potent than that "something" that "something" delusional pulled from a clenched heart... as far as i know, the brain is incapable of emotions, it doesn't understand them, and since it doesn't understand them: it ridicules them)... which brings me to point:

(a) perhaps the idea of a soul is out-dated... why wouldn't it be, 21g worth of breath does not equal a soul... hence the autopsy of man, each detail studied seperately, the cardiologist knows the heart, the neurologist the brain etc., but some items work in a solipsistic mode... the heart is robotic, automaton pump queen (and not the kind of pump you'd get from Shveeden) - thump thump thump! come to think of it, most of our bodies are robotic, automated... lucky for me: i don't have to think about the heart doing what it does, it just per se does it... i'm not even sure i'm gifted with the a.i. brain functions... but there's an underlying principle that governs all of these items... some call it the self... i prefer: the Σ ultimatum... some would call it soul... but there has to be something akin to the Σ ultimatum that allows me to become detached from this body, while at the same time be bound to it: high blood pressure, heart attack on the horizon... take the high blood pressure pills... ****... what was (b)? oh... yes...

(b) i'm sorry, virginity doesn't cut it for me, lucky me that it was isabella of grenoble that allowed me to move aside from: god, prior to losing my virginity.... roxette: do you feel excited, you're still the one (shanaia twain), fade to black - metallica... i was such a romantic before i lost this dreaded curse... i was a romantic... 19th century style romanticism... but you really can see past this sort of romanticism unless you haven't ******... these days the right complains about cultural marxism: plenty of things to complain about... it makes as much sense as a pickle in a dollop of custard... or cooking with pale indian ale to make a stew: bad idea... wine, brandy, cider? fine... beer? terrible idea to cook with... but unless you haven't lost your virginity, you can't see what cultural marxism chose as its opponent: cultural darwinism... you know how little you hear about darwinism outside of the english speaking world? zero to none, yes, it's an accepted fact, but this fact does not permeate outside of the fact per se, the fact contains itself and the whole subsequent narrative because subconsciously stored... no other people than the people who found it ensure there are subplot proof statements of a reconfirmation of the validity... the whole social science bogus trap of rating people on looks... contradicting the meritocracy of that old Socratic saying: let me be as beautiful on the inside as on the outside... if you haven't ******: you're still the same old romantic i was at puberty... once you ****... well... cultural marxism dwarfs... yes yes it's there... so? but at the same time you can at least appreciate seeing the antithesis: cultural darwinism... the romantic needs to die the most carnal death via experience... all my ideals were shattered, this perfection of woman... i very much liked the idea / not even the ideal of a woman... but when the idea fizzled out and there was no ideal to begin with... i saw cultural darwinism for the very first time and... it was as ugly as cultural marxism so heavily criticized by the conservative right of the west... so... i decided to walk the middle ground, ignoring both sides (of the argument).

(c) i wouldn't have come up with a point see, unless my favorite square schematic didn't pop into my mind, Kantian, as ever: the best philosophy is the antithesis of English pragmatism and overt-politicisation, so it has to be German, ergo? i will not explain these terms, i figured: if i nail a decent example to fit each category, that's enough: since you can then visualize the concept via the example:

analytical a priori                           synthetic a priori
there's a need to throw                   learning
a ball at                                                to throw a ball
a target                                                 at a target once
                                                            ­  the need has been
                                                            ­  established...

synthetic a posteriori                    analytical a posteriori
there's a  need to                           perfecting to throw
      throw a ball at                               a ball at a target
a target, in order
to perfect this need...

                                            baseball..­. cricket...
at least: that's how i define knowledge of something
simple without having to use mathematics
that Kant used to explain... 2 + 2 = 4...
mathematics isn't exactly a man's best friend
at explaining philosophy...
you write philosophy that alligns itself
to mathematics... no wonder: moths in books...
yawns, unfinished works...
i found that sports work just as well
as mathematics... and you have the already
primitive objects to work with...
rather than pseudo-objects: i.e. numbers...
the abstracts of perception: i'm actually 6ft2...
not 6ft1... karolína plíšková is 6ft1...
       as noted when watching her today...

  i'll admit, i'm always a bit shaky when it comes
to this sqaure, whether it's over-simplified,
notably the top left corner: analytical a priori,
i'm always of a mindset that wants to associated
this definition with: analytical a- priori...
  i.e. borrowing from atheism:
    to analyse something without there
being a prior to example...
               analysis without a prior example...
i guess that's the mojo of science... the driving force...
back to sports... bow and arrow...
   tools: target...
       whether a bow and arrow and a deer
to begin with...
or a hand and ball and a wicket to end with...

there's a need to throw                  
a ball at a target...

            and cricket was the precursor of
baseball, but prior to cricket?
   there was archery...
              and prior to archery...
   there was forever a fundamental need,
e.g. to go from point X to point Z...
   see... as much as Kant wanted...
   numbers don't really solve the "problem"
of explaining something: algebra would be
better suited... x + y = z...
                    with numbers either hovering
above, or below (in the instance of chemistry's

talking of squares... sūdoku...
well, if at any time the french were to receive a hard-on
in terms of inventing something,
the english: rugby, cricket, football, tennis...
the french really did read some of the hebrew
qabbalah literature, as i am doing...
magic squares...
       the secular version of this puzzle
first appeared on july 6, 1895 (the modern version)...

it came to us from India and China...
again... why do western cultural darwinists
always tell our genesis from
the perspective of: "out of Africa"?
aren't there elephants in India?
            i will not believe i originated in Africa,
i'm not an "out of Africa" sorry state of
incompetence... i place my origins in
the sub-continent... at least that's where my
current language originates from...
the great migration across the Siberian tundra,
rather than some African savannah...
after all the Bangladeshi and the Sri Lankans
(the tear of India) resemble burnt cinnamon
in tone, some even as dark skinned as
east africans...
   if the germanic people want to stick to
the "out of Africa" narrative (notably the English):
let them have it... i place my origins in

   never mind, now i'll write a name's dropping
history of how july 6th, 1895 happened...
the "magic" squares...

    from either India or China (chess from India)...
moschopulus of contantinople
  introduced them (the "magic" squares)
in the early 1400s... apparently ancient qabbalists
had knowledge of them
  (so... a trip well spent)...
                             rabbi joseph tzayah (1505 - 1573)
magnum opus: responsa...
             rabbi joseph castro: avkat rokhel...
tzayah in jerusalem wrote his major work
Evven HaShoham (the onyx stone) - 1538 -
   a year later the book: tzeror ha-chaim discussing
the Talmud: he never really bothered about
the Zohar...
               the hebrai word for "letters": otiot...
divided into two:
                         tav aleph (a line of aleph)
and tav yod (a line of yod)...
                   one is to never concentrate
upon the keter within the realm of the sefirot...
hence the matisyahu expression:
   king without a crown...
                         one example of a "magic" square
later dictated into a 9 x 9 newspaper puzzle?
      2     9     4
      7     5     3
      6     1     8     (up down across = 15...
my date of birth? 15th may 1986,
no coincidence, just stating an oblivion's
worth of a "point)... 15 x 3 = 45...
   and that's about as significant as any
                               insignificance can be...

album of choice?
    old horn tooth - from the ghost grey depths...

and without even associating the arabs
to the hebrai practice of gamatria,
i once inquired an old pakistani (who tried to convert me)
what: Alif, Lam, Meem
implied in the opening of the al-baqarah sutra
   he replied: god knew...
        so i thought, you don't know what
alif (letter) what lam (letter) and meem (also a letter)
means? you have to search for god
for the answers? good look making me into
a proselyte... mind you:
if the jews abhor proselytes,
while the muslims are so so oh so *******
welcoming... isn't that a tad bit suspicious?
how can a muslim convert me
when he can't explain to me what
alif lam and meem implies at the opening
of al-baqarah?!
            let's play some hijāʾī order game...
and the three letters...
       28 letters in total...
alif (28), lam (6), meem (5)...
    i'm not even going to go into the gamatria
mental gymnsastics related to any
   point was made upon the question being
asked... if a muslim tries to covert you...
and he can't explain to you
the significance of alif lam meem at the beginning
of al-baqarah... they're letters...
well... how is he going to explain to you
what's bothersome about those letters
to begin with? ALM... does that imply: zakat?!
to give alms? zakat being one of the pillars
of islam?
  **** me... i haven't even converted
and it would appear: i know more than the person
who tried to convert me!

.i. Yuri Gagarin and the yo-yo

if ever the potency of a "keyboard crusader"
existed, it's now -
   i can dangle a mouse above a bear-trap
and tell an elephant of a phobia concerning
mice any day of the week,
          when in fact i'm talking about
a mousetrap: nothing more.
     hence the exaggeration in the imagery
        or it begins with a story told in the 20th
             when women put down their mascara
brushes, men put down their swords:
never mind the voice in the wilderness:
       mind the voice in the crowd -
there's absolutely no reason to speculate
urbanity and tribal environments without
addressing, or regressing the crowd,
or as i like to call it: what Nietzsche said,
minus the Wake... but now inclusive of the wake
and the Bacchus cult of fun fun fun.
            the Wake in condor terms?
we congregate praying for something to die...
      i don't pretend to be whatever
that sachet of concrete-Cartesian labels entitles me
too:        for the most part
        people say 'i am' without a thought to
govern the rain shaman telling you what thought
is required to 'be', oh, a very old ontological
stipend: you need people to experience a collectivisation,
a herding, a "bound together" sort of mentality
before the critic arrives and says: well, that's not
what i'm really about.
                    a bit like the **** firs, mouth second
                but what heart they had, our predecessors!
what heart!
             they'd wage war over a woman,
a Helen,
                  would you wage a war against
the feminist version of Helen these days?
would you pluck a Scottish thistle over an English rose?
      true: you might be a bishop
and of lesser rank... but would you wage a war
over the women of these days?
my **** is in a pickle jar anyway! we have become
a *** of a species unburdened by an obligation...
             finally! we can become eternal bachelors
sort of ******* that we're here, and hear less and less
of sayings about the "things that matter".
            you know what vile? really really vile?
oh i know my contemporaries when i bother to
hear them talk, oddly enough never bother when they
think, i'm quiet content with a Godot stage of
a park bench and an old man as my company,
      i know Douglas Murray,
               i know the wild-eyed Icke,
but a thing that concerns me is why: the safety room
parallel to the leftist thesis of offensive speech
was put in play when a discussion took off
concerning feminism, between milo yiannopoulus
and julie bindel - that's like saying:
ask a pederast to talk for a heterosexual man
with a woman safe-space...
                                no one wants to hear
the heterosexual side of the argument....
  you'll sooner see heterosexual intellects have their
marriages come undone then get paired with either
side of the argument...
     little richard is in the pickle jar anyway,
and he's not coming out...
                it's a bit like ****** for dummies....
       hence i have to succumb to violence without
the glory, tongue waggling blah blah
when i'd gladly take a weapon and shove it into
a shattered cranium bone: had i the ****** chance to
do so!
           no heterosexual is taken seriously:
and won't be:
    of a woman to be like a rosy cushion on which
i can lay my head after the darkly toils of
    roofing, or laying bricks, or excavating the sewers...
no! let the Chinese do that:
the basic argument of slavery, although imported
therefore ****** ******* fine.
                         cryogenic fathers,
      pickled *****:      where's the middle in all of this?
     a coconut just fell from the Boddhi tree:
money!           and those that defend it,
don't know squat about the tribalism of squatters!
but hey! they have the ****** stage!
         i have a bench when someone approaches me
and talk, doing the best thing possible:
               knitting opinions -
i don't want the truth of opinions: i want a sweater,
or a pair of socks! that's metaphor for something
different altogether.
  keyboard crusader? really? can i ask you for
directions to the high street, in every single town
across the country? i can't find one!
         no one hears a heterosexual argument
on the various topics: because there isn't one -
                     as of the end of the 20th century,
working classes in the west striving to ensure
there is something mundane to do during the day
and kick back with the family in the evening
are the "inferior" neanderthals: who
haven't jacked into discovering a 3D reality
of what's otherwise a 2D computer screen and
aren't hooked on #crack;
honestly, so much debating ought to be opera,
and so much opera ought to be debating -
    ah: that famous tingle of utopian paradoxes
never in duality, but always in dichotomy.
   keyboard crusader?
really? i thought people were always moaning
about how many emails they receive:
   and never a single postcard from, say,
someplace like Venice?
           it's still early days,
                   and already we're brewing enough
cliches to replace all known nouns in
    the surrogate mother that's the dictionary
of our completed version of a soul -
if ever to be experienced upon meeting the omni-vocabulary;
jigsaws, i know my idiosyncratic version
of events, he says photosynthesis within parameters
                            of photon deconstruction of hydrogen;
'cos' it's sub; d'uh! i say god i say this perfected
version of nearing telepathy - you say god i hope you
don't mean satan's clause - great anagram to frighten
children with: the Babushka surprise of a Pumpkin head
laughing it's way toward: how easy life would be
if we had all that time to think it through as being hard,
rather than that mortal fleetingness in both thought
and body.

ii. Macbeth

it really dawned on me, when i was watching the film
Macbeth (2015) -
            there was an eeriness to it, a near perfection
of Shakespeare on screen...
           honestly? i'd rather read Kant early on in life
while i have the vigour, and leave old age to Shakespeare...
but it truly was eerie all over the place.
      i do recall seeing Romeo + Juliet
          and reading the script, and imagining the fallacy
of word for word translation from theatre to cinema
of the script: the narrator a news channel anchor,
and everything said, word, for, word.
that film with DiCaprio as Romeo and Claire Danes
as Juliet - it just felt itchy, uncomfortable -
                            Shakespeare, word for word, on screen?!
     (surprise, then astonishment, not !? or astonishment,
   then the surprise, because: it didn't really work);
and it didn't! you can't adapt Shakespeare to the screen
and put everything in! i noticed it at that ******
generous scene in Macbeth concerning the battle
of Ellon... so i was like like... this isn't typescript...
(and thank **** it isn't) -
you can't depict Shakespeare word for word,
to be honest, Macbeth (2015) is the only worthy
translation of Macbeth (the text) into Macbeth (the movie);
all this scientific exactness in previous examples
like Romeo + Juliet, the Merchant of Venice
and a Midsummer's Night Dream don't work,
it's their precision making,
     a theatre cast can take it, but a cinema going crowd,
with all these cutting and copying and repasting
    succinct moments? it doesn't work!
maybe because there's no actual narrator in the staged
examples? narrator as a necessary character understudy:
surely Puck and the news anchor are there:
don't know about the Shylock scenario...
           but these screen adaptations didn't work for me,
too rigid, too formal... in the case of Macbeth?
finally! the long awaited piquant version of Shakespeare:
all that matters, and the rest is thrown into
poetic technique: imagery, metaphor,
                everything that's necessary can be given grammar
as image and not word!
       want an example? from the text...
the Royal Shakespeare
  from the text of Professor Delius
  and introduction by f. j. Furnivall, ll.d.
         vol. v (special edition)
Cassell & Company, Ltd.

        sure, it feels like a Roman Polanski moment
akin to the 9th Gate scenic affair of a bibliophile
fetishist, and it is:

     ... (the only enemy of enso poetry
is the bladder) ...

well the screen play first:

banquo: what are these?
macbeth: live you? or are you aught
                          that man may question?
       speak if you can - what are you?
1st witch: macbeth! hail to thee
                    thane of Glamis!
2nd witch: macbeth... hail to thee,
       thane of Cawdor!
3rd witch: all hail Macbeth! that shalt be king in-after.

but such disparity, such **** as if once
of Lucretia, then of the authority,
for i have before me the original composition:
which is not worth cinema -
nonetheless, a **** takes place:
an assortment for the abdication of a king:
or as ever suggested: the wrong footed path:
never was tossing a coin in a gamble
that of tossing a crown into the air
for a court jester to appear less amusing
and more scolding.

act i, scene iii: post the battle of ellon...
  if ever the refusal to give up Greek myth,
then Macbeth's witches
      and Perseus' Graeae -
                            or naturalise a myth:
like you might not naturalise a strengthened
economy.... canonise the nation
with Elgin Marbles - Elgin: less than
what's said to be the exfoliation of the Aegean -
a municipality somewhere in Scotland:
west of Aberdeen, on the Northern Sea's
battering of the coast...
but word for word? or how to write Shakespeare
into cinema?
                 herr zensor must come into play -
you have to bypass imagery in poetic tongue
and relay it with actual images, a direly needed

just after the three witches arrive,
enter Macbeth and Bonquo...

   Macb. so foul and fair a day i have not seen.
Ban. how far is't call'd to Fores? - what are these,
     so wither'd and so wild in their attire,
that look not like th' inhabitants o' the earth,
   and yet are on 't?
             live you? or are you aught that man may

                  (how word for word, but the words
waggle from a different tongue, namely that of
Macbeth, and not that of Banquo, hence
       you seem to understand me,
by each at once her choppy finger laying upon her
skinny lips: - you should be women, and yet your
beards forbid me to interpret that you are so.
Macb. speak, if you can - what are you?
         the witches. all hail, Macbeth!
     hail to thee, thane of Glamis!
         all hail, Macbeth! hail to thee, thane
of Cawdor!
         all hail, Macbeth! that shalt be king hereafter.
so does he really belong on the psychoanalytic
couch? is he really that necessarily wonton of talk?
  Cawdor v. Gondor - it's an ongoing narrative.
but is he in need of a couch?
                 what sort of talk is talk when
in fact the only talk that's need to be said is the talk
of man's sexualised naturalisation for strife,
and here: as if knocking on a door:
you want to simply hear the onomatopoeia of
the Kabbalah in a woman gasping for breath
while puny Jewish boys under strict rabbinical
studies study?

                mama, take this badge from  me,
i can't use it, anymore,
            it's getting dark, too dark to see,
feels like i'm knockin' on heaven's door -
      my big mouth and man as a piston
                                               Ferrari acrobat

(even the soundtrack is a shrill, a strangulation
variant of higher pitch of the bagpipes -
not that braveheart ****** of whisking out
a song like for the love of a princess addition to:
  and can i have a madonna to boot too?
it's piercing, a whale sonar above refrigerator
white noise hum for the new age Buddha -
and that's because all the poetry has been excavated
  to suit cinema: not theatre).

and this is the first adaptation of Shakespeare i actually
could stomach...
     the genius was in how Macbeth spoke the lines
of Bonqua - so the character didn't start smacking
the narrative ****** in terms of solipsism:
even Shakespeare can be attacked on this front...
        if in the movie Banqua said all that was in
the typescript: the film wouldn't have worked...
i don't know what the big deal is with Lady Macbeth:
i thought that in the olden days
Macbeth suggested to King Duncan that:
can i leave the warring if you **** my wife?
i can go on the contract that you **** my wife
and i stop serving you?
      first impressions: strange English.
well, i'm sure she's important as it might be said:
within the programme of Orthodoxy,
            but never catholic (metadoxy) tradition of
saying: way hey! ensnare the mare in a funfair!
       and play the game: pin the tale on the donkey!
heads or tails?      it looks pretty damnable
     in the first place: as all honesty hogs to pout and
***** a hoggish sneeze out of the story.

iii. shaken, not stirred

and indeed, how many a times
did not a neon blossom sprout,
thinking it might rattle an oratory
with an oak in autumn, and behold
a swarm of leaves descend -
not out of passing ease,
but out of wishful thinking
that some indentation might be made:
with whom the hands of will reside,
and yet: to no gratifying effect,
to whatever atomic-centralisation
dream, be that ego or be it hydrogen
(lending hands: so too
electric or thus negative, neutral and
thus proto) - shake foundation
and give a revising repertoire of
              the covering dust humanity
that once made famous: never
again to learn the humility of the start;
        to whatever centric dream that
does not waver in demands of orientation,
be it father (sun), son (shadow)
  or the holy spirit (night) -
  make them earn! be obscure!
            or simply say: in the community
of the stated congregation:
  i find all to be as night,
   and safer that plague the father:
  i am not akin to the shadow:
                   but the shadow in mirror.
so, a centric dream that does not
waver in demands for orientation,
has ever or will be enthroned in man's
heart as the stability of Sabbath's demands
       for less, oh so much less to agitate with!
as too, when the ancient appliances
were adorned by countless demands of
mimic, so too our modern
fibbles are to stage a usurping of
such things demanded and their mimic;
for with such disclosure does all fate
of anewed become burdened in what
history could be: shaken,
rather than simply a stirring of the void,
nothing more than the unburdening
of sweetening a cup of coffee, of that and
the layers: or bitter at the top, drank
through toward the sedimented sweetness -
and all that: hoping i could have retained
that silver spoon lodged in my ***
          when i first met her and thought about
consolidating marriage: so fresh, eager prune
of the flesh embodiment as first
    watered ash, then entombed in marble
and the eternal... ah
               but it was all just the faintest of dreams;
so lumberjack sleep ensued,
                      as did a kindred worth ethic:
we are a long way from Eden...
      there is but the idyll of the absurd fruition of
albreit macht frei... or a redefinement of
such stakes as: what occupies our days?
                    if not war, if not disease,
if not the Chinese... what does, occupy our days?
Alexis Oct 2018
If I should have a daughter, the word mom will mean more than just a title to her because when that word pops into her head she will think of her mother, her teacher, her support, and together we will sculpt our block of stone into the life we aspire to live.

I want her to embrace her Irish roots, so I will name her Cara after the Celtic word for ‘friend’. She will be a friend to all and love everyone and everything, and her name will remind her to always care for life and admire all its artistry.

I'm going to teach her to be like a tree; to transform the bad into good, and always give back to the world. She’ll grow gracefully but surely and as she ages, she’ll gather wisdom and experience from the world. She's going to learn that life is never constant and is always changing, but I’ll make sure that she always embraces the change with open arms; I'll tell her, “leaves are always going to grow and fall from your branches, but with each leaf lost, a new one will always sprout”. It’s no wonder that many great artists are so inspired by nature, as it holds an array of beauty, growth, and regeneration.

And every morning I’ll remind her, “Cara, don’t forget to laugh and smile today, because it’s never hard to smile at someone who is already smiling”. And when the day comes to an end, every night before bed just like my father, I’ll read her ‘The Giving Tree’. And once she can recite it word for word, we’ll read it together so that when she has children of her own, she can pass on the memories from her childhood and create tradition.

I’ll teach her that sometimes you need to take time to do absolutely nothing. When you feel those crashing waves of anxiety engulfing your body, clear your mind and be as calm as the glossy surface of a lake. “You are a still life - and like Van Gogh's sunflowers, take time and stillness to experience tranquillity and life in its purest form”.

“If you ever feel different and set apart from the crowd, embrace it and admire your uniqueness, and remember that no two brush strokes are exactly alike. The path to greatness is littered with rejections and ridicules, but I will be your walking stick; reassuring you whenever you feel weary”.

I'll tell her, “Identity can be easily misplaced in this fastpaced world of crushing expectations, so never forget who you are”. I'm going to teach her that there are times and places when she needs to be a formalist and follow every rule, but there are also times for freeform, where she can create her own.

When she turns to me in her times of fear and confusion, I’ll be there to reassure her and say “don’t be afraid, something you’re scared of or think is weird may just be something familiar viewed from a different angle”. She will learn that a change in perspective has the potential to reveal things that weren’t visible to the eyes before.

I’ll teach her to communicate through art; the universal language of neither words nor limits. Through abstract to express emotions and reactions, surrealism to illustrate the creative potential of the mind, and realism to capture life as it really is.

“And like the pointillism in the Island of La Grande Jatte, never forget to take in and admire every small detail of the big picture. You’ll see that the ordinary becomes extraordinary when taken in and experienced”. But I’ll also remind her to step back from her canvas every once in a while in order to see everything as a whole instead of obsessing over the minuscule details.

And when she comes to me with her palate completely covered with paint and no room for any more, we’ll wipe the slate clean and start fresh, because I'll teach her that when things seem to turn bland and unenjoyable, it’s ok to walk away and restart. And I’ll hold her and tell her, “You are the one who controls every brush stroke, every colour, every texture, and every layer, so remember that you, and only you are the artist of your paintings, and it is these fine works that make up your collection, called Life”.
Ayeshah Feb 2014
Selectively mines,  on conditions that I don't step out of line, don't dare ask too many questions because it makes you answer with more questions where I'm turnt into the bad guy,

the one who doesn't understand, it's all my fault somehow, it's because of me, I failed to give into to ridicules accusations or allow defeat, I was pushed past the point of breaking ,

I even lost me a few times, I've been insane for as long as I can remember but this time it's completely different, I wake to walk in fear every hours of the day,

I'm made to feel ashamed for loving you, told I'll never be as good as the one you're faithfully into someone whose not even known you not the real you not as I do,

seed after useless seeds polluted a once healthy womb, drop after drop tears fell ******* shadows passing me up,

leaving me for what may become a happy ending to this fairytale nightmare,screaming myself away flinging covers off of me, laughing as I cry  out darkness, so dark and the scents nostalgically unpleasant, the many times her scents lingered on you

even in thought I conjure up the smell of lies, the musty deceit, the filthy metallic accusations thrown at me

Selectively mines when it suites your ego and when it's not inconveniencing you, I'm turnt into the bad one the person whose always to blame,

                  the one who
doesn't understand,
                it's all my fault                        
it's because of me,
           I failed to give into
                           to ridicules accusations
                                                       or allow defeat,    
                                                  I was pushed
                                                     past the point of breaking

the reason you need her - where I no longer have a place, I had no choice too, I had to move on.

Hardest things to do when your reaching for a hand but end up with  straws, darkness and no help, dreams unpleasantly real, craving a touch a kiss, to be notice.

        Knock knock,    
                          whose there?

                                             No one....
                                       Just your
                                                  Wife of 11 years.

                                  Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright 1977 - Present ©
K.A.C.L.N ©
All right reserved ®
it's sad to give anyone all of you when you now only have very little to nothing left to give your self, I know for me trusting people is too scary, last relationship lasted 3 yrs and what went down in the previous one which was 11 ++ really both did a number on me.  never forget to trust your instincts.
Samuel Bass May 2013
Driving off onto the 101 rush hour concrete jungle, there are no exits,
only obligations to stay stuck in my mobile cubicle moving at the speed of slow.
Hidden flowers on the hillside bloom away mocking my insanity,
they cheer me on to see beyond these gray prison bevels.
Gray blocks hollow until they're filled with my humanity,
making me take the choices reaped with devils.

I feel like I've lived a day in one hour, it's so early it could be midnight.
Twisting and turning in my brain, the sun suddenly ridicules, feeding me a fresh case of insane.
I'm at a point of sorrow, sorrow of an exceptional quality, Grade A-farm raised, take two tomorrow.
The raven croaked nevermore, Juliet is the sun, dangren-burang1.
We have to go. I'm almost happy here2. Complacency rots insides, then refills with fear.
So - Listen to them - children of the night. What music they make3. Clamoring for sight.
There's no flesh or blood within this cloak to ****. There's only an idea. Ideas are bulletproof4. Filled with truths, synapse salvoes, loves, and drugs. We love what we eat and eat who we are. GERManic germs looking for psychological thrills. You work the guns, I'll rattle the hills.

Smoking cannabis to an over-extent, hope lost, old kung-fu and 80's movies won, I eat smoke for breakfast.
This sun is still mocking me, “Start your day, be productive, make a baby, then expiry.”
Stepping into society, I'm a satanic leaf-tailed gecko wanting freedom, abdicate, and let go your kingdom.
Halfheartedly half washed dishes in my sink; this entropy roller-coaster of highs and lows drives me to drink and think, then drink and smoke, making life one strange syrupy green swirl of mammarys and calamities filled with brevity’s of rarities.

5,000 images, 2 comedies, and a numb right arm later I've turned into dark matter, invisibly pulling all that matters together into a forever stretched infinitely, literally making synergies out of life-energies.
1) Yield to nobody when one is doing what is right. 2) Ender's Game, Ender Wiggin 3) Bram Stoker's Dracula 4) V For Vendetta
Aurora Maciel Sep 2017

fractal of light-
fractured thy young life ,
left love forever a widow.  

glint of rainbow wings;
my god ridicules thy feelings,
inclinational - grotesque - happy dealings;
moral, illicit love stings.

go into thy loveless living sleep.
shards of light fractals, daggers in thy heart,
fractures of thy soul, strewn apart.
you shan't keep love from The Deep.
Here's a little poem expressing my relationship with religion and being gay. I am personally a lesbian, so my life has been full of a struggle against feeling unworthy of love and forced devotion to Christianity.  Notice how "God" isn't capitalized? Thank you for reading and have a wonderful day.
Henryk Krzyrz Oct 2012
Self-cut ginger locks that ooze pretension
pontificating so bluntly about "Cinema"
He buys Sociology textbooks at GoodWill,
but they look good on a dusty shelf
don't they?

Mocking potential reactions to his
apparent ignorance.

A stoner who has never been high,
An existentialist who has never known what it is to die
A stargazer who has never seen the sky,
Highly expectant yet always refuses to try.

Ridicules what he doesn't understand
Taste so bland,
could swear he was conceived by the
FDA in a public school kitchen.
Katarina Arno Jul 2011
I am here little girl and I want your sugar.
Through compound eyes I looked at you. You are so large, clumsy and self-centred and I am called a pest.
I have wings, all of my kind do. Only some of you discovered an ability to fly.
I am resting on the fruits of Nature they call the fruits of they labour. What good would that labour do to them without the wholeness of Nature I am part of too?
You are waving after I slide through the air in that ridicules dance of hate and frustration. I am here because I am. It is the law, you fool.
We breed excessively too. It is not your exclusive right.
Those juices feed me just as they do feed your enormous organisms.
I am here little girl and I want your sugar.
A little bit to feed me, but I want to explore every part of it. I want to walk on it on more legs than you have.
You would feel no guilt if you smashed me, if you made a black-red smudge out of my body. I will be part of the soil again. So will you.
Walking on your skin is like walking on a dainty melon. You smell sweet. Exquisite.
Why are you so disturbed by my caressing?  
I’m sliding down you, ready to fly off. You are my runway. Be proud.
I am just like you, made from stardust.
We are partners in motion and we both have sweet tooth.
You may call me pest.
Still, I’m living, ******* the sweetness, flying and resting as and where I please.
I am here little girl and I want your sugar.
Emma Langley Dec 2012
I tried,
So hard
To make it work.

I tried so hard because  I hoped,
I hoped that you still loved me.
But you didn't
No matter what I did,
No matter how much I changed my self,
You couldn't love me any more.
It broke my heart when you left me,
And you know you did it
You never tried to fix it,
Just left me there like a broken doll
No one wanted to love.

He tried way to hard,
Couldn't he see,
I didn't love him anymore?
It was almost ridicules,
How much he tried to change.
It almost made me feel bad
when I broke it off,

Now when I see you,
I think of how you look,
And act,
And sound.
You sound broken,
Like I was all you had to live for,
And you will never be happy with out me.

Well I have news for you,
There are plenty of fish in the sea,
Go catch one
Madeysin Apr 2015
She said, I'll never love a man...
Who ridicules my weight,
I said then don't,
Who bothers me about my posture,
Being straight...scoliosis,
I said then don't,
Who says I can't wear this or that,
I said then don't,
Who questions my morales & beliefs,
I said then don't,
Who makes fun of the things,
That bring me relief,
I said then don't,
Who wants to have *** after the first date,
I said then don't,
She said, I'll never love a man...
I said then don't.
I ran down the steps to write this
Harmony Apr 2015
written April 20, 2015

Those that can't comprehend, are those being repressed
Those who only believe what they see and don't perceive that they're deemed to fall into those dreams and realities of those who they call leaders
But we're all cowards
Falling into each others words like lovers falling for each other
Sisters, mothers, and brothers
We're all one
But one does not mean together
When you're a follower
You see,
Our thoughts are twined together as children being fed Spaghettios that spell out the words we are forced fed to believe in
c o r r u p t i o n
Yet what are we really entitled to in this life?
A ****** good career, college education, a wife?
What's been said is done and what's been branded into our minds as a life worth living
Is no where close to a life we're living
An office job, long hours, rarely sleeping at night
A beautiful woman by your side, yet no time for the night
Three caring children you adore, yet abhor their ability to block you out
Care free living is all they want
Yet your rules and ridicules are getting in the way of the way they want to be
Care free living is what they see
No curfew and "no tv"
It's obscene
So feed the children plain Cheerios and have them know their opinions are brought up in life
And everything you say is neither wrong nor right
And that the world is not this wonderful place it's brought out to be
Because freedom isn't  quite as free as it may seem"
one of my favorites
Mitchell Duran Aug 2013
Ten hours past the seven hand
She says she wants heaven man
And I let her go
Through the fog
Through the mist
Through whatever way she must

Lies layer their own bent betrayal
A fair maiden enters brazen through the double doors
Shouting out, "She wanted more!"
The young are promising
Fallacies hot and empty like a dried river bed
Later unable to recall
That anything was ever said

To breathe onto your neck
To kiss between the specks
Of the echo chambers of nubile love
Experiencing adolescence in its pitter patter
We are the doxies of death
And the ministers of shifting frames

Telling typewriter you are the only
One that does not ask for forgiveness
Only begging for the serene and true
When the light shines brightest
The darkest doth flee

I roll my shoulders forward
So all can be pushed toward
A name to recognize
Yet with a face to terrorize
Each character in this play
Is a prize yet unpaid
In death we are the ones
That have not yet won the prize

Taste the florescent blast
Of a mercury cast
She prays to the song
Of a nymph born in the past

I hear you old one
You wheeze with your creased' delight
When you made your way
To the elderly street
The only one there
Who was wishing to meet
A soul who knew you
Before they saw you

And so you stood there
Underneath the birch of the born
And all mystery wavered within the song of the old
I saw it once within the eyes of the river
They asked for rhyme
And I gave them freshened time
All then grew quiet
Before I could dare to forfeit the next song

Near the mountains
Frost pressed against the rock and
We talked of the liquidity of love
While the tiger stalked the flighty dove
While whatever we were caring for
Was a rifle cocked in an aim forlorn
To the core of what we were wanting so
Was something other then satisfactions caress

Every secret that she met
From her mind past the teller store
What was more the can colored green
Was trying to see what the other had seen
Running along the other side of the conversation
As she dances and ridicules within
Her own forbidden and accepted restraints
To tell the difference between fear a la' hope
Is to kiss the devil amidst the gentile pope

Candle light glides across her freckled eye
The sigh of the angels is the same as the
Howl of the dogged' wolves of the afternoon
The soon to be forgotten sons inside Egyptian caskets
Make all the baskets made of wicker wrapped in plastic
Nothing more than a lie within the panoramic frame
Of hallow enthusiasm shrouded in rubber crassness

Can't you see my friend?
Can't you see you're made to believe?
There's nothing left to tease you with
Other then what is told to you
Venture out
Past the cities
The orchards
The towns, valleys, and the streams

She's a notch on your belt and
And a smell you've never smelt
Making you believe she's the only for you
Though inside
You know she's only going to make you blue

Tear the blinds from your eyes
The whispers are only quieter cries

A knotted wind surges through the waves
Outside a window shutters in a craze

There we sleep amongst the fray
Waiting for the morning
The only one we wish to obey
There is no other place that we can stay

For this is our home
And we will fight
And we will die
And we will live
So in the end one of us

Can see another day
Mitchell Duran May 2011
Sensing the year which twists **** out and last
A break in the mold that I never said I knew
How fast can the mind move?
The human mind move?
Is this another theory in a relative world roaring
Moving like the vibration of a trolley car train
A memory emoted like Beethoven's last movement
To listen is to hear the sounds of the world
To breathe is to kiss mother nature
Behind the ear
A sight will always be a fright if looked upon all night
These voices
These ridicules
These echoes of shadows that illuminates the naked cave of tomorrow
Is a thought transferring from one time to the next
No vision is seen
It is felt within
Throughout these picket white fences
Lay the dormant seed of corrupted obsession
Twinkling at a first glance
Dancing the joker's prance
With bells that light up exploding into all of our eyes
These were the thoughts of a man thought putrid yet divine
And soon
These dinner bells that we thought of so well
Will evaporate like the first fog
On a virtual shore
We are the shadows in the night that pressed on
Because that is all there is to do
Press on
M Epperly Feb 2012
With you I'm at a lack of words but I'll do my best. 
Good thing we agree on emotions to fill the rest. 
I feel blessed to have been able to meet you
And only you have had the effect on me that you do

Everything you do and say, we seem to blend
It's weird to say, but I could get used to this trend
You deny it all day long
You're gorgeous, you and that fact need to get along

I love how your smile lights up your face
And only can make my heart race
I can't express the way you feel
And the way you make my heart flutter, it's the real deal

But not necessarily in the way you think
Your mind will be in a roller rink
Round and round in circles
I don't want to hear talk of ridicules

You make me happy like I can't explain
Like aerodynamics lift an aero plane 
I feel like myself once again
Like how my skin feels when it'***** by rain

It's refreshing like the quench of a thirst 
But there is one thing I must say first
You are something special
So amazing it's meeting my thresh hold

You make me want more, bring me to beg for a kiss
I'd drop to my knees for such bliss
The way you look in my eyes
Brings me up more than any of my highs

The connection we share
The way you care
I'm blown away
And here I lay

Wondering what you're thinking
Trying to be smooth with winkings 
I can't believe how hard I try to impress you
The feel of your lips and my urging, it's true

I can't help but think about it
I don't need mapquest to map it
I know what I'd have to do
But it makes me pause, is this the same feeling by you

I really don't know how to bring this to an end
But it's something I want to explore to no end
What fate has for us in store
I have no idea, just know I want more
Stephanie Lynn Mar 2015
i am the center of my own disaster;
the victim of my own demise
although i fell in love with the thought of happily ever after
i grew to love the darkened skies

reach out to me
love, open your eyes

i live and breathe for your existence;
are you here for mine?

dancing to silence beneath the glow of the moon
you twirl me in a spin to fast; just a step too soon
i catch a glimpse of my fallen angel,
for he's been watching too

i took the hand of chance and laid beneath the stars
in a moment of passion that had to happen right there; right where we are

an unforgettable unimaginable pair to par

imperfections speak ridicules
to the sanity we seek afar
an addiction to the feeling of being wanted;
yes i do concur
and i solely promise to want you forever
right here in the dark
(C) Maxwell 2015

Tu n'es certes pas, ma très-chère,
Ce que Veuillot nomme un tendron.
Le jeu, l'amour, la bonne chère,
Bouillonnent en toi, vieux chaudron !
Tu n'es plus fraîche, ma très-chère,

Ma vieille infante ! Et cependant
Tes caravanes insensées
T'ont donné ce lustre abondant
Des choses qui sont très-usées,
Mais qui séduisent cependant.

Je ne trouve pas monotone
La verdure de tes quarante ans ;
Je préfère tes fruits, Automne,
Aux fleurs banales du Printemps !
Non ! tu n'es jamais monotone !

Ta carcasse à des agréments
Et des grâces particulières ;
Je trouve d'étranges piments
Dans le creux de tes deux salières ;
Ta carcasse à des agréments !

Nargue des amants ridicules
Du melon et du giraumont !
Je préfère tes clavicules
À celles du roi Salomon,
Et je plains ces gens ridicules !

Tes cheveux, comme un casque bleu,
Ombragent ton front de guerrière,
Qui ne pense et rougit que peu,
Et puis se sauvent par derrière,
Comme les crins d'un casque bleu.

Tes yeux qui semblent de la boue,
Où scintille quelque fanal,
Ravivés au fard de ta joue,
Lancent un éclair infernal !
Tes yeux sont noirs comme la boue !

Par sa luxure et son dédain
Ta lèvre amère nous provoque ;
Cette lèvre, c'est un Eden
Qui nous attire et qui nous choque.
Quelle luxure ! et quel dédain !

Ta jambe musculeuse et sèche
Sait gravir au haut des volcans,
Et malgré la neige et la dèche
Danser les plus fougueux cancans.
Ta jambe est musculeuse et sèche ;

Ta peau brûlante et sans douceur,
Comme celle des vieux gendarmes,
Ne connaît pas plus la sueur
Que ton oeil ne connaît les larmes.
(Et pourtant elle a sa douceur !)


Sotte, tu t'en vas droit au Diable !
Volontiers j'irais avec toi,
Si cette vitesse effroyable
Ne me causait pas quelque émoi.
Va-t'en donc, toute seule, au Diable !

Mon rein, mon poumon, mon jarret
Ne me laissent plus rendre hommage
À ce Seigneur, comme il faudrait.
« Hélas ! c'est vraiment bien dommage ! »
Disent mon rein et mon jarret.

Oh ! très-sincèrement je souffre
De ne pas aller aux sabbats,
Pour voir, quand il pète du soufre,
Comment tu lui baises son cas !
Oh ! très-sincèrement je souffre !

Je suis diablement affligé
De ne pas être ta torchère,
Et de te demander congé,
Flambeau d'enfer ! Juge, ma chère,
Combien je dois être affligé,

Puisque depuis longtemps je t'aime,
Étant très-logique ! En effet,
Voulant du Mal chercher la crème
Et n'aimer qu'un monstre parfait,
Vraiment oui ! vieux monstre, je t'aime !
Morgan Danielle Jan 2013
officially, the title resembles
the power that makes me tremble
love grows quickly

we hide together
in plain sight
my heart is mended

though i hurt you
i lied and we lie
together in bed

guilt tears at me
with sharp teeth
and glittering eyes

betrayal flaunts
its hold over me
it teases and ridicules

i haven't hurt you yet
and we both know
to our cores

you're hungry
for love
you fall

Judgson blessing Feb 2015
I can be anything except such a humbug .but the likeness of life made me the nut im .in fact i cant help vanishing and mumming such as clam or sap headed or something .when i come to look at  the ***** of it ,im up with terms: SOCIODREAMOLOGY and DREAMECONOMY .two words that i laid mine that it impart me ,as my quality of poor Socioanalist to jabber about, a deep perusal i meant.Sociodreamology:our actual trend of life and pregnanted, or our cast of mind or our virtue in fact constitute in sort;  the "common heritage" of all of us or our "common-social ".now we hang up to this 'common-social' up the whip of new "social-consciousness" drops along and shows in a new trend of thing.such a trend are the fact of some genius well bestowed gifted thoughtful minds .that from their dream conscious; anyway, in practice :teach or indulge us by act of behaving or writing or speaking {lecturing or social communication stereotype }the venue of new trend or tide ...altogether it heaves around by logic tact new world that bans down the old fastidious one we were up till then : philosopher,a novelist ,poet ,painter,journalist ,editorialist, nonfiction writer ,fiction writer,hack writer, song writer,script writer,movie,actor,fashion designer,cartoonist,lecturer,...and or sometimes pastor ;hold the searching log-fire of the social consciousness-awakening ;the real deepest buried aspiration of human-being.all human being or maybe some only have in our deep ***** what can shape the concrete meaning of our glory.but nevertheless the glory that lays in gloom ,faltered by our unawake .so the SOCIODREAMOLOGUE or people may lecture ,behave ,or write about new things ;but the element cast constitutes the sleeping vision that lays dangle down our unawake .but them are social awaker.whereas such new fact hit upon the seizure of humanity soon as uttered forwards ,hereto unknown .like and an ability of whirlwind dispatch we grab it frenziedly at its size and tame it as mellow as we were on know of it for life long .the sociodreamlogue seems discharge of of his duty then and will be up for the more of it .they are what makes our system of things grow more reasonably and more factual .nothing more except that is within our grasp escape their conduct. they give command the nature-culture ...for more that can not have the revelatory bowl  of savant .all things drive in but they are the lengthening shadow of only some thoughtful minds .more significantly as the perceive deemed to ****** ,some sociodreamlogues cast of mind is quite far beyond the grasp of understanding of most of their fellow citizens ,sometimes more than thousand years are  needed to catch with their mind .sinister fact ;some of them were grieved by some maso-sadonist or maniac in the fresh triumph of their oeuvre .some so may paddle in phantasm or ridicules cant be anyway without a precedent of conflict of nerve ;the somehow game of casting a well intent erroneous appreciation on one other art .but if you are sociodreamlogue make sure your dream no alter our life such into doomed commitment, although drive us into green expenditure ......catch up with me for the second term:DREAMECONOMY
Mike Fashé Jan 2013
Condemned to a body that can not move,
Speak, or even have the strength to open one eye
I’m paralyzed
Drenched in a foul smell of fear
Barely have the will to scream
My tongue is stitch
Within my mouth
My vocal chords are ripped from my neck
To endure the agony the bleary world has secluded me to
With enough will power I was able to slightly open my left eye
The atmosphere of my surrounds was not the world the walked upon
A world of constant shock
With the little strength I had to move my eye was enough torment to bear
A world that is hard to explain
Only to be there to feel its ugly nature
A world that blinds the eye
To have your soul collapse
In the state hopelessness
No returns
Parasites feeding off the joyful thoughts of lovely memories
That soon turns into bitter nightmares
That becomes reality
Voices from left & right
That ridicules you for hope,
But in reality it just wants you to suffer its pain
Laugh; be amused, you’re its toy of pleasure
Desperately I try to move
Scream for help
Or even cry, just to feel something other then misery
At the moment of silence
Easily manipulated like a child
For candy
I thought this world of torment was over, but only to see a bleary man standing at the corner of this deluded world
Watching me as if nothing has happen
Why do you stand there?
Why do you mock me?
Are you even human?
No response, but only more pain is afflicted when it starts approaching me
Facing death literally 2 feet away from me is terrifying enough
No poor soul should endure this madness
In honesty, Death, cruel punishment of every soul’s demise I advert you on this grim second of my life
Strike me as you please, just end this horrid madness
And let me escape this world I dare not to think.
I soon to reawaken into the land of the living
Grateful to have chattered the unfortunate chains
Of the world of the unpalatable madness lurking around us
Despite of this ordeal
I feel this is only the beginning of something that yet to seize us into its world of disaster.
Paley's Hoems Feb 2013
There are ridiculously fragile moments
in the midst of the night
Where the ridicules and redemptions
of a previous life
Replay and reset
But they left their manners at home
and refuse to forgive or forget
Yue Wang Yidhna Jan 2019
I see a world of people insisting
Upon absolutes
Within the current of perpetual
Change and uncertainty

I too am lost among
That insist upon the moment truth
Though they are constantly falsified

Those that have too much faith in science
Give not enough credit to faith and intuition

Too many souls seeking absolute answers
Too many souls only accepting absolute answers

“There must be a reasonable explanation”

Or reasonable within the current paradigm

Yet, perhaps what you needed to see a
Wider world is to take that leap of faith
To the next paradigm

There will be no “Theory of Everything”

If you are not considering everything

‘Truth’ can become mockery
Within mockery there’s often more truth
We are willing to accept

As Arthur Schopenhauer said:

“All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident”

Violent opposition to ridicules
Are evident of acceptance
Disguised as its antithesis

Often such mockery is not intended
But interpreted by a self holding truth
Afraid to be exposed to the world
Thus fighting back whenever it is touched
Leading to its unintended manifestation

Perhaps it is the dearth of a deeper love
In the absence of a truly unconditional love
That gives me fear in what it is to be accepted
There is no ‘Truth’
There is no ‘absolutes’
There will not be the 'acceptance'
That I seek and sought
Inspired by War and Peace and Julia Zarankin's course on said text, as well as some recent observations. Mostly Tolstoy's journey to a truth that will never be found.
Mitchell Duran May 2011
Man broke into a million peices destroying the world
and sizzling the faces that the God thought they made in
But there were many reasons and many treasons that said
They were destined to no longer
Have any season
Through the thick of the trees
Love snapped and grasped
The idea that man is merely an insect, a plague
A fire that started and hasn't stopped burning
Where were the angels when mistakes were made
And streets were not obeyed
And New York burned
And Love turned in on itself
Where phone calls became abolishments
And tears fell down the faces of a thousand ridicules
The in between became seen as all the while
Exhaustion ****** its way into oblivion
With welfare daring
And poor men sit staring
With faces that twirl in my sight
The after delight
Gun fire and marmadukes and flowers bleeding blood
All of the above
The formation of a million roses burning a soft hue of blue
Remembrances of what it used to mean
To be a child
Running around with no one caring if you lived or died
Or ever even tried
For they forgave your stupidity
Your naievty
And now we make mistakes of a illusions of grandeur
This is how we will die and this is how we will begin
The scratching of the God's is upon us
And we don't even hear it
We don't even smell it
We don't even sense it
Because we have forgotten
We have forgotten
We have forgotten
Because we are all so
On top of it
Brian Pickering Mar 2017
The plumber came to call or The self-draining P’trap

To all the plumbers I have met, and yes I've met a few,
Domestic pipes, commercial pipes and civil pipe-work too,
Blow torch and solder, flux and joints,
Tricky bends and straight bits, in perfect counterpoint.

Then of course the big stuff, pipes bigger than your shoulders,
Not supplied by DIY, only bought from stockholders,
No solder for this job, a welding torch’s the thing,
Careful tack, align no crack, weld a perfect ring.

All the pipes are connected, whether large or domestic small,
Fill with water and pressurize, hoorah, no leak at all,
Flush the pipes, flow is fine, a job with a happy ending,
Pack the tools grab the kit, thank god I’ve finished bending.

The domestic user is dabbling, with a little pipe-work flair,
Can’t be that difficult, just one joint here, or the odd joint there,
All seems fine, fresh water in, waste water out,
I’m not going to spend money, on a plumber’s callout,
The waste seems not to drain well, gracious, how can that be,
I connected what I thought was right, no it can’t be me

It appears the waste pipe is blocked, gone are the comforting swirls,
This must be where the gooey stuff goes, and all those hairy curls,
I can clear the blockage, how difficult can it be,
Now, the water goes down the plug hole, around a wiggly bit, I see,
I think they call that a P-Trap, that’s all technical news to me
An old wire hanger, with force of water, will definitely do the trick
Plunge hanger down the hole, wiggle it round a bit, give it a flick,
The water hasn’t moved an inch, and the wire is firmly stuck,
Time to remove the P-trap, and deal with the unpleasant muck,
How difficult can this be, what could possibly go wrong,
Get the tools, lay on my back, this shouldn’t take too long,
Gripping trap tightly, with little effort it should unscrew,
Nothing moves, try again, it’s ****** tight, I think the thread’s askew,
A tap with my hammer, will loosen this stubborn joint,
No movement is detected, both sides are still conjoint,  
A mighty whack should do the trick, just to make my point,

A thin stream of water, is dribbling down my arm,
Success, I grab the trap, twist like merry hell, and to my alarm,
The stored bath water gushes out, the mood is far from calm.

Pushing the trap together again, trying to stem the flow,
A loud voice calls, from the dining room below,
What the hell are you doing, water’s all over my Chapeau.

Sorry my love, move your hat, it’ll be fixed in a trice,
Me thinks, If I don’t fix this very soon, I’ll need a flotation device,
Just a five minute job, am I kidding myself, my mouth is all agape,
I hunt around with my free hand, and grab the gaffer tape.

I unwind the life saver, and wrap it around the leak,
Let’s consider the situation, to avoid my wife’s serious fit of pique,  
Keep my mind focused, what could possibly go wrong,
A solution is required this very minute, that won’t take overlong.

I’ll wedge my hammer, beneath the troublesome trap,
This will give extra support, whilst my plan, I have time to map,
As I swung the hammer into place, there came a mighty crack,
A hole appeared in the bath end, I suffered a symbolic heart attack.

Time to call the plumber, and hang my head in shame,
My wife’s assessment of DIY, will never be the same,
Emergency call out was swift, a smiling youth at my door,
Lead me to the problem site, and I will probe and explore.

An estimate was made, whilst ******* air through his teeth,
What Pratt, he said, has been working on the trap beneath,
Is it bad, my wife has strength of a gorilla, it’s beyond belief,
I’m afraid it’s a bath, a trap and associated pipe work, good grief.

It’s going to be expensive, there’s the bath and tiling too,
I can’t do it straight away, but I’ll put you in the queue,
Said he was interested in the engineering feat,
Designing a self draining P-trap, was a little hard to beat.

A temporary repair was fashioned, with fiberglass and tape,
I cleared the mess around me, and quickly made an escape,
It was some days later, I thought I’d clear the gutters,
I could tell the family were not keen, by their groans and their mutters,
Not to be diverted, I disregarded all their ridicules,
I told the wife I’d start right now, but she’d locked away my tools.
pauldeeeeee Jul 2011
these days, society aint nice.. so i can probably steal rhymes from your mind and sell it back to you for half price.. i might even do it twice.. they should stop rolling that dice.. stop treating us like mice.. writing became an escape, a vice.. trying to make people not take their advice.. cause mine's more precise.. this world has been overturned by ignorant thinking and ****** up lies.. they've charged us with having too much screams and cries.. making our world their daily heist.. learning how to pick up a knife and splice.. does the sight of me keep you guessin? or do you understand the stressin? the aggression.. are you waiting for a confession? or do you see why i have this depression? this free expression.. my consciousness cant fathom this recession.. wont understand why people look down on my profession.. i write.. cause i choose not to fist fight.. and even if i teach people how to survive, i also teach them how to get as high as a kite.. so they'd understand that life isnt just about fighting the blight.. we must emerge from this back night.. stronger than we were, armed to the teeth with pure light.. my imagination soars up in te heights to meet the maker's knight.. asking him about how i can help to stop people taking their flights and look inside themselves to find the true meaning of their life.. this is where i found the schools i need to educate me on how to end pain and strife.. this is where i found myself shattered and torn like getting cut by sharp glass of a knife.. this is where i found out that i wasnt ready to have her for a wife.. i needed so much to learn.. to step into the fire but walk out without any burn.. i stop myself and ask myself what i really yearn.. i yearn for truths.. but are these truths enough to make me move forward? these pains push me toward doing something good.. but my principles are never understood.. cause nowadays it's just all about should, would, or could.. sometimes i would plead, cry, and beg for change to remain the same.. unpredictable, imaginative, and never on the same page.. i no longer want to be locked up in a cage.. nor to be ridicules on stage.. and i no longer want to be controlled by this rage.. i want to be me.. able to create and learn anything just by being free.. able to sing songs and write poems with humility.. and all we have to do to achieve this is to just be..

Antipodean Dec 2014
She says to me

These boys have no game

She shows me their text messages

And ridicules them

Really tearing them down

She wants me to flirt with her

Egging me on

Desperate for the


She reeks of it

She is 6" heeled shoes

She is a tight mini skirt

She is taunting eyes

Telling me to play her game

She is hot water

And cold showers

She is a tigress

A man eater

All in a young petite frame

I am just a big old ape

Trying to survive day to day

And I don't have time

To flirt
Alice Penny Oct 2011
Taking down the pictures,
and all your little notes.
It's like a mental torture,
and my heart can't cope.

Putting them in a box,
like boxing up my feelings.
I can't breathe any more,
as I stare at the ceiling.

Lying on my bed,
thinking of the past.
I was sure and so certain,
that this would last.

"Obviously not"
ridicules my brain.
There goes my hope and dreams,
washed down the drain.

You said I gave you hope.
Obviously not enough.
My heart, my poor little heart,
just isn't that tough.

My heart is broken.
Look what you did.
I'm a broken mess.
Just a poor little kid.

Our first kiss.
Our last goodbye.
The nights we spent together,
were they all a lie?

It's actually happened.
I can't believe it's here.
The day has finally come,
to shed my last tears.

Oh and trust me, they will come,
they will come thick and fast,
and all because of you.
How long will they last?

And I don't understand.
You don't seem sad at all.
I thought you loved me,
but you just seem so cool,

About this situation,
which we have in hand.
I suppose I need to move on.
We live in different lands.

I miss you even more now,
and I am tired of my thoughts.
Shut up and leave me be.
I beg of you.
Leave me be.
Nick Huber Dec 2017
What do I do?!?!?
Answer me!!!!
Don't leave me alone.
A nod of the head will suffice.
Should I smash the mirror?
The face that stares back in dissatisfaction?!
Do I blind the eyes,
So they can't look into my own?!
Do I take the lit candle,
place it beneath my face?
Burn my skin, shave my face,
Change my look entirely?

Why can't you answer...
You don't have the time, or is the answer too painful?
It doesn't matter.
I have braved many storms.
Faced the sea in defiance,
Bound my wounds in gauze,
and counted the time it takes the sun to set.
I can handle you.
You who ridicules, charms, then throws my smile away.

You can never run!
I know your secrets!
I know your name!
And someday, your taunts,
Will fall on deaf ears.
I'll look into the mirror,
And stare back,
At my own lustrous eyes!
When I go through my own negative self-talk, I fight back. Even if I don't think I can succeed.
Shileigh22 Mar 2016
We say we are original
That no one person is alike

Yet how can we say this
When people obsess over celebrities
Or everyone wants to be
A part of a trend
From dances to poses

Originality is craved
Yet never truly made
Songs hold the same meaning
Words have the same impact
People think the same ways

So when one person
Thinks outside of the box
Society ridicules
And denies this person
The right to originality
We say it was already done
Pink Taylor Aug 2010
I'm fighting for happiness
But it's slipping through my fingers
like the sands of time
that it took you to take your words back
-stop stealing mine
I don't like your sweet teasing ridicules
they burn through my fingertips
whenever I touch you
your kiss seals my lips
from screaming like I want to
Your embrace imprisons me
From running like I yearn to
Your heads stop the fists
I need to make
Your caring eyes stop the tears
Product of the burns you placed on my heart
There's a gaping hole in the emptiness that I put between us
I'd like to sit close
But you don't deserve it
Punishing you
for the shame
of putting me to tears.
She fell in love with the man we called husband
We were all part of her love story.
As she walked towards her future and
with watery eyes turned to wave us goodbye
we sealed her fate with cries of "don't worry."

"He's a good man and he'll take care
of you and the babies you will bear.
In five years time you will get used to
The rhythm and pressures of marriage.
Be like your friend, Ta Sallah...three children and counting."

She fell in love with a man she called husband.
Did she or we assumed, planned and gave our blessing
To what she considered a curse and prison.
They said they found him naked and unconscious
Hoping to consumate the union which he had bought.

The doctors wondered why his daughter was huddled in a corner
But the riddle was solved when she was named as one of the wives.
"He was biting me," she said in between sobs.
The poor thing wasn't even mature enough to understand foreplay.
She was not in love with the man we called husband.

He lies unconscious on a hospital bed while society ridicules her for her actions.
Now, he's the victim and she's the criminal.
He took her innocence yet all you see is a wicked woman.
There lies your mistake...
She is the infant bride of a bearded old man.
Keone L Friesen Jan 2014
I'll write you a poem if you want but it wont mean ****
i'll paint you a portrait but it'll never hit.
stop all your ridicules, go join your rituals all you want to be lovers.
I'll paint when i feel i'm in my right, I'll write when my minds being destroyed for that's when i write best .
I have met the hipsters. They're boring just like the men on 5th. The real fun is with the stubborn hooded congress man in the brick building with the flowers. This hopeless town of phony's is getting old, someone make a statement something bold! i want refrase .. that's one thing the hipsters may do if they're not so busy buying so called hip shoes.
Lets go out and riot! its a lot better than sitting in a coffee shop being quite. Romes doing it why not us? oh yes of course what were doing to the air and people is no big fuss.
Have a good day whilst i ramble in my mind. I'll let you know when there is something i might find.
By Keone Friesen
Mercie B Apr 2013
The night in its ever-looming loneliness taunts me and at the same time it encompasses everthing that I am, or so it may seam.

You see the days they may linger, however it is the night that tortures me with dreams that are not wished to dream.  

I try to quite my stirring mind, to calm the sea of thoughts inside and find slumber in the evenings grace.

Once again, like many times before, the darkness ridicules me, it allows tormented memories to creep back in, I awake and wipe my tear stained face.

The Moon, the undeniable queen of the night, mocks me with her soft soothing glow like a double edge knife she also shine her light to guide the sadness headed my way.

The stars they penetrate the darkness with their brilliant beams but they show the world the madness inside me that is most detetmined to stay.
Like great enemies turned into friends or the other way around,  it is just the night and I locked in a never-ending battle of love and hate.
The greatest weapon in her arsenal is silence for it is one I can't defeat, my only choice is to endure it,until the morning comes, for only the dawn can change my fate.
Katarina Arno Jul 2010
What a lovely time of day
The time is so slow
Sun and the road are trembling
In a slow motion
I walk
The time is so slow
And it will speed up
It will go so fast
I’ve been chasing it
While I’ve chased you
I lost my memories
I lost that day
When I saw you
I almost saw your eyes
You’ve been singing and waving
And being ridicules
But I forgot the feelings
Like I forgot my intensions then
Just like destiny forgot me
And Universe lost me

— The End —