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"rubric" poems
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak, well, attire me in slavic myths and i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too for a helium bubble to become a comedian, i know a jittery ******* addiction when i see one... if one thing the catholic schooling system taught me was how to avoid sniffing glue and how to recognise a Freudian apostle - still, with all the hippy **** you'd think sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism prescribed with paracetamol, catholic education just said: no no. **** me it's the late 90s and we're talking post-Chernobyl antics... but that's how i see the left, leftist politics, the right                utilises prefixes and suffixes in the old stance of simple pre- pro-                                     anti-                                             qua-                                                                -so so... the left? oh they're right in there... their prefixes are                                 Marxist- liberal-                                          Hegelian-              whatnot...                                                 they don't use abstract prefixes,                                           their prefixes are concrete,                         they want the porridge in their mouth to ensure a slur that never comes, among a range of onomatopoeias they argue from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd, via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother, ****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method; i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo experimenting, it's called experimenting with thought rather than practising with will, former no chance of footstep evaluation for cult status imitable -                                       the left intellectual has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro - it has to be concrete layered and a shut off perfect architecture without fault - it can't be what it is -                                       con- has to be conservative                                                   pro- has to be socialist                                      you once said legitimate transparency - but you didn't say legislation - well, the left understood it as legislation, the right too wanted legitimate transparency - the green party said we could have neither but could have the replanting of a thousand oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest... b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye - hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's fingernail toothpick! at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes! ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding! *** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
0
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
i don't talk
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak, well, attire me in slavic myths and i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too for a helium bubble to become a comedian, i know a jittery ******* addiction when i see one... if one thing the catholic schooling system taught me was how to avoid sniffing glue and how to recognise a Freudian apostle - still, with all the hippy **** you'd think sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism prescribed with paracetamol, catholic education just said: no no. **** me it's the late 90s and we're talking post-Chernobyl antics... but that's how i see the left, leftist politics, the right                utilises prefixes and suffixes in the old stance of simple pre- pro-                                     anti-                                             qua-                                                                -so so... the left? oh they're right in there... their prefixes are                                 Marxist- liberal-                                          Hegelian-              whatnot...                                                 they don't use abstract prefixes,                                           their prefixes are concrete,                         they want the porridge in their mouth to ensure a slur that never comes, among a range of onomatopoeias they argue from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd, via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother, ****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method; i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo experimenting, it's called experimenting with thought rather than practising with will, former no chance of footstep evaluation for cult status imitable -                                       the left intellectual has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro - it has to be concrete layered and a shut off perfect architecture without fault - it can't be what it is -                                       con- has to be conservative                                                   pro- has to be socialist                                      you once said legitimate transparency - but you didn't say legislation - well, the left understood it as legislation, the right too wanted legitimate transparency - the green party said we could have neither but could have the replanting of a thousand oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest... b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye - hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's fingernail toothpick! at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes! ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding! *** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
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70
Sable, the swallow rising as it banks over the white conduits of marrow in the body, rain slashes through the honey locust, along the long ellipse of its hunt as savage dragonflies rise from stems to cling, a deep sienna of doeskin tremors over their sting, catkins, an aftermath, melancholy to the skin soaked in white calla, its reticence assails the sleeping orchards of the heart, in its darkest sheaves, to cleave apart the soft joining of lips and silence me; for eternity is this moment, and the light you give cloaks me in a coat of flames, the burnt locust of slaughter, taunt the rubric of Christs hidden scriptures, as I night, the body, solely a vessel of shadow, returning through a field of windfall, ripe with wasps, echo you in me, a dream of a dream dream't, in the dim recess of light your lips close like a sutra over mine, a brutality of moments ground out of thick pine, as the fine agony of cricket ballets rise shivering, to stillness, this silence is a lotus, a blue psalm, throttles the throat, as a quorum of swallows gather between the swathes of sunlight and skewed shadows, and lift as one body, subsumed by our abandoned depths, out of exile, you have made me a homeland of truant light and as I night, lightning opens like scripture, a black plea, poured over some sore refuge, and so that I may never be restored, cloak me in a coat of flames, suffering an ecstasy of moments hardened in amber, over the white conduits of marrow in the savage body, writhe a black throng of swallows, assail the sleeping orchards of the heart, in its darkest sheaves, to cleave apart the soft joining of lips and silence me....
0
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 4:05 PM UTC
janette
The Black Kiss
Sable, the swallow rising as it banks over the white conduits of marrow in the body, rain slashes through the honey locust, along the long ellipse of its hunt as savage dragonflies rise from stems to cling, a deep sienna of doeskin tremors over their sting, catkins, an aftermath, melancholy to the skin soaked in white calla, its reticence assails the sleeping orchards of the heart, in its darkest sheaves, to cleave apart the soft joining of lips and silence me; for eternity is this moment, and the light you give cloaks me in a coat of flames, the burnt locust of slaughter, taunt the rubric of Christs hidden scriptures, as I night, the body, solely a vessel of shadow, returning through a field of windfall, ripe with wasps, echo you in me, a dream of a dream dream't, in the dim recess of light your lips close like a sutra over mine, a brutality of moments ground out of thick pine, as the fine agony of cricket ballets rise shivering, to stillness, this silence is a lotus, a blue psalm, throttles the throat, as a quorum of swallows gather between the swathes of sunlight and skewed shadows, and lift as one body, subsumed by our abandoned depths, out of exile, you have made me a homeland of truant light and as I night, lightning opens like scripture, a black plea, poured over some sore refuge, and so that I may never be restored, cloak me in a coat of flames, suffering an ecstasy of moments hardened in amber, over the white conduits of marrow in the savage body, writhe a black throng of swallows, assail the sleeping orchards of the heart, in its darkest sheaves, to cleave apart the soft joining of lips and silence me....
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60
*one reason why you're not read with a volume you expected, jedi-know-how, you'll be easily plagiarised.* **when i first came to england i fell in love with manchester united... the 4 - 4 - 2 line-up** peter schmeichel (dane goalkeeper), then ooh aah cantona (eric cantona baseball  cap), original wembley white towers... (white towers, charity shield newcastle united) so meh for the arch.... irwin... steve bruce... lee sharpe... gary pallister... (7) eric cantona.... george best.... mcclair, ryan giggs, cotton tomilisom, then roy keane... then davies cole **** the neville brothers... scholes and david beckham... **** stuck to azkazam fudge, it's still perfectly refrigerated in kazakhstan: steve mcmanaman will tell you; it's a random barricade question worth a shot in the rubric of a sudden challenge.
0
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
Untitled
*one reason why you're not read with a volume you expected, jedi-know-how, you'll be easily plagiarised.* **when i first came to england i fell in love with manchester united... the 4 - 4 - 2 line-up** peter schmeichel (dane goalkeeper), then ooh aah cantona (eric cantona baseball  cap), original wembley white towers... (white towers, charity shield newcastle united) so meh for the arch.... irwin... steve bruce... lee sharpe... gary pallister... (7) eric cantona.... george best.... mcclair, ryan giggs, cotton tomilisom, then roy keane... then davies cole **** the neville brothers... scholes and david beckham... **** stuck to azkazam fudge, it's still perfectly refrigerated in kazakhstan: steve mcmanaman will tell you; it's a random barricade question worth a shot in the rubric of a sudden challenge.
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23
Eskimos have a Gazillion words for snow. We have teraflop words for coffee. Wikipedia it! But don't get distracted by the Tales. Recounted stories of empires held together by zeitgeist brand, a belief, a set of ritual, buying in bulk, a role of thumb, opposable heuristics. They've clustered history in bunches like expanding matter, as if it matters who was king or Augustus. Empires & civilization held colloidal by the quirks of geology and brand feeding food-forward with ritualistic sacrifice in Megazillion iterations. From Fertile crescent to Nile Valley silicon, when we bind ourselves to brand, and move in belief, secure in synchronized stability, then comes the rubric cubes miraculously built high upon slave backs, holding pyramidal server tombs.
0
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 9:14 PM UTC
jojo-nguyen
Eskimos have a Gazillion words for snow
Eskimos have a Gazillion words for snow. We have teraflop words for coffee. Wikipedia it! But don't get distracted by the Tales. Recounted stories of empires held together by zeitgeist brand, a belief, a set of ritual, buying in bulk, a role of thumb, opposable heuristics. They've clustered history in bunches like expanding matter, as if it matters who was king or Augustus. Empires & civilization held colloidal by the quirks of geology and brand feeding food-forward with ritualistic sacrifice in Megazillion iterations. From Fertile crescent to Nile Valley silicon, when we bind ourselves to brand, and move in belief, secure in synchronized stability, then comes the rubric cubes miraculously built high upon slave backs, holding pyramidal server tombs.
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30
*why do people always pain themselves to write as if they could ever be understood, when so few read them, and even a fewer number care to understand? and why do so many ably bodied ******* themselves with writing? why have they lost the taste for fresh air and instead chose a wheelchair that writing is?* in legal terms - are you implying a play on synonyms or just simply stating: d'uh, i don't know what that means? ah, a limitation on the vocabulary, an atypical symptom of lawyers - when socrates attacked eloquence per se, he also defeated himself by ensuring law abided by the law of highest eloquence, and the rabble got diddly-squat, his attack on rhetoricians lost the prowess of attracting debased educators with himself the most debased educator: and instead attracted lawyers... thus the law of the eloquent, rather than the rubric of the least eloquent... lost an eye for an eye, lost a mouth with it too... i rather be fed eloquence and education and coarseness to equally educate than be fed a justice fed by eloquence alone, because if this is to be the equilibrating case, then serving justice will just be a case of speaking in a satin tongue of readied rhetoric as justice so called, and when speaking in a coarse tongue no justice will be made applicable... i rather be educated by someone in a coarse tongue than be brought to justice by someone in an eloquent tongue, i rather not be educated by someone in an eloquent tongue / i rather be brought to justice by someone in a coarse tongue (the mob), at least the coarse tongue is well equipped to address the many who require educating, unlike the eloquent tongue equipped to address itself and itself alone, rather than addressing the jury who blindly pass judgement, because the lawyer's tongue is not in the mouth of the defendant but in the lawyer's mirror of social strata of respectability appearing so guiding, kindly tying a bow-tie of applause.
0
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 10:50 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
coarse tongue v. eloquent tongue
*why do people always pain themselves to write as if they could ever be understood, when so few read them, and even a fewer number care to understand? and why do so many ably bodied ******* themselves with writing? why have they lost the taste for fresh air and instead chose a wheelchair that writing is?* in legal terms - are you implying a play on synonyms or just simply stating: d'uh, i don't know what that means? ah, a limitation on the vocabulary, an atypical symptom of lawyers - when socrates attacked eloquence per se, he also defeated himself by ensuring law abided by the law of highest eloquence, and the rabble got diddly-squat, his attack on rhetoricians lost the prowess of attracting debased educators with himself the most debased educator: and instead attracted lawyers... thus the law of the eloquent, rather than the rubric of the least eloquent... lost an eye for an eye, lost a mouth with it too... i rather be fed eloquence and education and coarseness to equally educate than be fed a justice fed by eloquence alone, because if this is to be the equilibrating case, then serving justice will just be a case of speaking in a satin tongue of readied rhetoric as justice so called, and when speaking in a coarse tongue no justice will be made applicable... i rather be educated by someone in a coarse tongue than be brought to justice by someone in an eloquent tongue, i rather not be educated by someone in an eloquent tongue / i rather be brought to justice by someone in a coarse tongue (the mob), at least the coarse tongue is well equipped to address the many who require educating, unlike the eloquent tongue equipped to address itself and itself alone, rather than addressing the jury who blindly pass judgement, because the lawyer's tongue is not in the mouth of the defendant but in the lawyer's mirror of social strata of respectability appearing so guiding, kindly tying a bow-tie of applause.
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35
What I learned in school, is what being damaged to does to you. It teaches you struggle is a bad word and that success is effortless if you’re not perfect right away you’re not right at all your words only have value according to the rubric your cries of pain are only noteworthy when the wound blisters scarlet red and sticks and stones are as harmless as the air used to launch them, never mind that they broke your spirit well before your bones they’re just kids. I was a kid too. Yet you locked me behind an iron desk for first an hour, then two, because despite how desperately I pleaded, you assumed that because you cared, that meant you couldn’t hurt me. I have no scars on my skin to show you, unless you count the words I never wrote because thinking about this made me choke. And writing about it made it real. You don’t get a scar when your body is convinced it can no longer draw breath, and you learn to count to four and hold for four before you ever open up a trig book to page four. I have scars because I am here to be healed, I am here, still. Trees that fall in forests don't scar, but the grove where they once stood misses them. This is how I rode my bike every day after school, I rode it back home safely as I could. Because I learned to shoulder my weight in gold and understand on my own terms that my gold standard is the only one worth anything to me.
0
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
Valience
What I learned in school
What I learned in school, is what being damaged to does to you. It teaches you struggle is a bad word and that success is effortless if you’re not perfect right away you’re not right at all your words only have value according to the rubric your cries of pain are only noteworthy when the wound blisters scarlet red and sticks and stones are as harmless as the air used to launch them, never mind that they broke your spirit well before your bones they’re just kids. I was a kid too. Yet you locked me behind an iron desk for first an hour, then two, because despite how desperately I pleaded, you assumed that because you cared, that meant you couldn’t hurt me. I have no scars on my skin to show you, unless you count the words I never wrote because thinking about this made me choke. And writing about it made it real. You don’t get a scar when your body is convinced it can no longer draw breath, and you learn to count to four and hold for four before you ever open up a trig book to page four. I have scars because I am here to be healed, I am here, still. Trees that fall in forests don't scar, but the grove where they once stood misses them. This is how I rode my bike every day after school, I rode it back home safely as I could. Because I learned to shoulder my weight in gold and understand on my own terms that my gold standard is the only one worth anything to me.
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41
*the feminine powerlessness of art, and the then again strict rubric of Darwinism's dictatorial regime to talk cool - sieg heil throughout, as a running honk! honk! (joke) on the sly.* a testimony to high school: don't ever listen to The Smiths or The Cure, or Depeche Mode.... or any of my uncle's **** list... the point being, you can swagger among Eucalyptus trees and feed the frenzy like any Ibiza patron might; cos' there's a koala rummaging your drawers so to speak: due to an episode of king's testicles in the attic - hey presto! a grand piano! hey presto! coronation's fireproof underwear! lovey dubby dub dub, and a coercive test for nibbling on a Maltese ginger... dabbling the fearsome offence... the only school Morrissey attended was nostalgia.
0
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 9:49 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
the only school Morrissey attended was nostalgia
*the feminine powerlessness of art, and the then again strict rubric of Darwinism's dictatorial regime to talk cool - sieg heil throughout, as a running honk! honk! (joke) on the sly.* a testimony to high school: don't ever listen to The Smiths or The Cure, or Depeche Mode.... or any of my uncle's **** list... the point being, you can swagger among Eucalyptus trees and feed the frenzy like any Ibiza patron might; cos' there's a koala rummaging your drawers so to speak: due to an episode of king's testicles in the attic - hey presto! a grand piano! hey presto! coronation's fireproof underwear! lovey dubby dub dub, and a coercive test for nibbling on a Maltese ginger... dabbling the fearsome offence... the only school Morrissey attended was nostalgia.
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19
Oh programmed youth youll forever be confined by the lines you're assigned Youre taught by a rubric for a purpose so no other thoughts may surface Youre wordless worthless
0
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 11:05 PM UTC
addy-henderson
Programmed Youth
Oh programmed youth youll forever be confined by the lines you're assigned Youre taught by a rubric for a purpose so no other thoughts may surface Youre wordless worthless
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6
*you know, i can **** before i become homeless; yes? ok... cheerio.* when i experience no intelligence after being educated, it's hardly an expectation to experience any after... desirably hoped for, that which offers up the antonymous by-product that's despaired after so freely, and all those more profitable affairs of a literate nature to engage with: to be enslaved likewise missing; oh the gravity as nothing falling, the tears on my cheeks with vide cor meum, ah, but you see, i can stomach a cage and being caged, should i be forced into a freedom that's only homelessness. oh so many insignias of pause that were never given a mathematical rubric of allowed deciphering! that grand pause of arithmetic in the undecided length of pause between (,) (.) (;) and that italicised pause of (:) readying (a) list(s) of emphasis; let alone the hyphenation of all the lost emphasises of Pompeii (embark tongue tied into the grapheme æ); or embark asking between the threes that are direct and indirect articulation of plurality, given then the anti of pluralism is god, and that's neither direct or indirect, consolidating the direct as prayer and the indirect as atheism.
0
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 7:15 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
vide cor meum
*you know, i can **** before i become homeless; yes? ok... cheerio.* when i experience no intelligence after being educated, it's hardly an expectation to experience any after... desirably hoped for, that which offers up the antonymous by-product that's despaired after so freely, and all those more profitable affairs of a literate nature to engage with: to be enslaved likewise missing; oh the gravity as nothing falling, the tears on my cheeks with vide cor meum, ah, but you see, i can stomach a cage and being caged, should i be forced into a freedom that's only homelessness. oh so many insignias of pause that were never given a mathematical rubric of allowed deciphering! that grand pause of arithmetic in the undecided length of pause between (,) (.) (;) and that italicised pause of (:) readying (a) list(s) of emphasis; let alone the hyphenation of all the lost emphasises of Pompeii (embark tongue tied into the grapheme æ); or embark asking between the threes that are direct and indirect articulation of plurality, given then the anti of pluralism is god, and that's neither direct or indirect, consolidating the direct as prayer and the indirect as atheism.
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26
Earlier I did not know god as God and gods were my friends. now I know God and God and I have a master. Long before my time, my pagan lands were deluged by the sword of the believers. and so it came about that growing up under the rubric of the believers I, an infidel pagan, think like them. so, I approached the high priests and professed my faith in the one Saviour seeking innocent acceptance and they asked, Do you believe in the One God and His sole and final apostle? well, that depends, I said, on how you define 'One' and what you mean by 'God' and who can be called an 'apostle'. I was too pagan for the believers. so I approached my pagan brethren and asked to be admitted into their fold seeking innocent acceptance and they asked, what Order do you belong to, my friend, and what may be that of your fathers and their fathers? well, how matters, I said, the Order my fathers belonged to, or not to any, when the Spirit lights my heart? I was too catholic to be pagan. And so it is that time passes. Ever wandering by the margins of creeds. That yet neighbour me on my land. Earlier we did not know god as God and gods were our friends. now we know God and God and we have a master.
0
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:59 AM UTC
prabhu-iyer
Believer, infidel
Earlier I did not know god as God and gods were my friends. now I know God and God and I have a master. Long before my time, my pagan lands were deluged by the sword of the believers. and so it came about that growing up under the rubric of the believers I, an infidel pagan, think like them. so, I approached the high priests and professed my faith in the one Saviour seeking innocent acceptance and they asked, Do you believe in the One God and His sole and final apostle? well, that depends, I said, on how you define 'One' and what you mean by 'God' and who can be called an 'apostle'. I was too pagan for the believers. so I approached my pagan brethren and asked to be admitted into their fold seeking innocent acceptance and they asked, what Order do you belong to, my friend, and what may be that of your fathers and their fathers? well, how matters, I said, the Order my fathers belonged to, or not to any, when the Spirit lights my heart? I was too catholic to be pagan. And so it is that time passes. Ever wandering by the margins of creeds. That yet neighbour me on my land. Earlier we did not know god as God and gods were our friends. now we know God and God and we have a master.
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35
"Take a throne, we're all royalty here" Said the Master of Ceremonies to The Peeping Tom, The Spokesperson, The Wretch and The One Man Band He pulled out the syllabus It said that each of his colleges must fulfill a duty if they wanted membership into this social club The One Man Band had to seek out a impudent amputee, a touchy nomad and give them brochures to a day spa The Spokesperson was asked to to find his inner child, his feminine side and his sensitive side while making good conversation with Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand and ask him why he holds a grudge against Bosnia The Wretch was given the task to sell Avon products to those who looked like death warmed over and sway their urges to burn their candles at both ends Lastly, the Peeping Tom was told to teach the languid, rough and tumble lipid worshiping people the number line then pass out pamphlets on healthy living After reviewing their work and the rubric, the Master of Ceremonies congratulated them, they were in "You will all now be a part of history, figures on this brotherhood's timeline; you fit the bill!" They all got up as the Wretch footed the bill and went on to go wassailing -Tommy Johnson
0
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
tommy-johnson
The Unreliable Society of Dry-heavers No. 39
"Take a throne, we're all royalty here" Said the Master of Ceremonies to The Peeping Tom, The Spokesperson, The Wretch and The One Man Band He pulled out the syllabus It said that each of his colleges must fulfill a duty if they wanted membership into this social club The One Man Band had to seek out a impudent amputee, a touchy nomad and give them brochures to a day spa The Spokesperson was asked to to find his inner child, his feminine side and his sensitive side while making good conversation with Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand and ask him why he holds a grudge against Bosnia The Wretch was given the task to sell Avon products to those who looked like death warmed over and sway their urges to burn their candles at both ends Lastly, the Peeping Tom was told to teach the languid, rough and tumble lipid worshiping people the number line then pass out pamphlets on healthy living After reviewing their work and the rubric, the Master of Ceremonies congratulated them, they were in "You will all now be a part of history, figures on this brotherhood's timeline; you fit the bill!" They all got up as the Wretch footed the bill and went on to go wassailing -Tommy Johnson
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12
*yeah, let's compose the alphabet in music for each letter we try to sound like a wine bottle cork unplugged from vintage; it won't work, i known, but it might get a few skidding on gizmo go go, trying to democratise iran: try turning iran sunni first, you, you defrosted snowman worth a carrot and two chalk coal ******** writing: hardboiled into sight of believable. oh here comes a white man talking privy aloud with the rapper loosing breath, but keeping it up and replacing the pelvic hinges with easy, drool, rhymes; a kind of rubric tablature of scores for rodeo with alternative sounds to: moo, ow, ah, broomstick shoo, take the cow for a milking home from the dead bull dazzled into genesis on t.v.; or that other literati spectator sport of not reading but talking oneself into academic bibliography for an intro.* the great thing about being an alcoholic... you never quiet know when you're drunk or hungover; but it makes up for great twilight sunsets pooh lonely; ah ooh smooch - kisses a honey stick stuck to **** in a hollywood crescendo of                      paparazzi and applause; and anorexia; and dyslexic oiling for a facelift: that's called smiling i have you know -                           enter michael jackson - hippie hip he; if i die aged thirty, i'll be happy to have             been frisky twenty-nine into a thong. *or, alt., tell ****** about the swimming pool and the tadpole kenyans sprinting into impregnated landownerships of priests: sounds like this: pst - herr führer - die schwimmin poolst erst niener jessy ovens geeignet. no one said that african buttocks couldn't bayou the ships ashore, but they did; what?! i'm not the 12" dangle! you keep up racism, i'll keep up mozart's austria; alt. please see how censoring adjectives in relation to objects gives you a false moral subjectivity that's only a matter of pleasantries.*
0
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
or tell ****** about the swimming pool
*yeah, let's compose the alphabet in music for each letter we try to sound like a wine bottle cork unplugged from vintage; it won't work, i known, but it might get a few skidding on gizmo go go, trying to democratise iran: try turning iran sunni first, you, you defrosted snowman worth a carrot and two chalk coal ******** writing: hardboiled into sight of believable. oh here comes a white man talking privy aloud with the rapper loosing breath, but keeping it up and replacing the pelvic hinges with easy, drool, rhymes; a kind of rubric tablature of scores for rodeo with alternative sounds to: moo, ow, ah, broomstick shoo, take the cow for a milking home from the dead bull dazzled into genesis on t.v.; or that other literati spectator sport of not reading but talking oneself into academic bibliography for an intro.* the great thing about being an alcoholic... you never quiet know when you're drunk or hungover; but it makes up for great twilight sunsets pooh lonely; ah ooh smooch - kisses a honey stick stuck to **** in a hollywood crescendo of                      paparazzi and applause; and anorexia; and dyslexic oiling for a facelift: that's called smiling i have you know -                           enter michael jackson - hippie hip he; if i die aged thirty, i'll be happy to have             been frisky twenty-nine into a thong. *or, alt., tell ****** about the swimming pool and the tadpole kenyans sprinting into impregnated landownerships of priests: sounds like this: pst - herr führer - die schwimmin poolst erst niener jessy ovens geeignet. no one said that african buttocks couldn't bayou the ships ashore, but they did; what?! i'm not the 12" dangle! you keep up racism, i'll keep up mozart's austria; alt. please see how censoring adjectives in relation to objects gives you a false moral subjectivity that's only a matter of pleasantries.*
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15
i've seen the commentary... but let's do the ratios... youtubers sometimes tend to boast about their subscribes, notably dr. steve turley, 100K (100,000) and styxhexenhammer666   30K (30,000)...    yes, i know that a chris isaack track is, a tad bit too much reminiscent of Abba... point being? my turn... so...         the ratio... i have 138 followers... but my post popular "poem" ranks at around    4,700 views... an average dr. steve turley video ranks in at 20,000, and with subscribers numbering 100,000...           whole styxhexenhammer666, 30,000 subscribers, but at average counts of views at hovering past the 1,000 mark... now the ratios... please let me be wrong, please let me be wrong... 0.5 for dr. steve turley lopsided ratios: 100,000 / 20,000.... styxhexenhammer666 comes in at 30... 30,000 / 1,000... me? i come in at... ha ha! 5,700 / 138 34.057...            i'm not boasting... but i hate to see decent people boast about their prescription rates, but then...                  0.029... but within the confines of    giving an answer back... you get the picture... their viewers plummet... the ratios do not add up... i'd boast, sure as hell i'd boast... but... i sorta don't feel like it... i never saw the bonus side of boasting when it came to numbers... more subscribers, than views?            big ******* problem... so... proud, concerning, what?! oh... wait... i just figured this out differently... 0.033 (styxhexenhammer666) and 0.2 (dr. steve turley)... oh wait... dr. steve turley: circa 74,000 subscribers... and the average viewership of a video circa 21,000?     3.52....               0.02837.... ola! village people!           counter ratios... views : subscribers counter to subscribers : views (in ratio)....             that age old relativism of "success"... give me a minute, i need to work on the schematic rubric... views : subscribers | subscribers : views (a) ~5700 ÷ 138 (a) 138 ÷ ~5700 = 41.30 = 0.024 (b) ~1000 ÷ ~30,000 (b) ~30,000 ÷ ~1000 = 0.033 = 300 (c) ~21,000 ÷ ~70,000 (c) ~70,000 ÷ ~21,000 = 0.284 = 3.52 (a) denoting me, (b) denoting sythexenhammer666 (c) denoting dr. steve turley so wait, give me a minute... since we're all so happy ******* a boasting match... i have... less subscribers... but more views... than people who have more, subscribers... but less views? i know i'm fiddling with the numbers... but to use but one instance... i have more views than i have subscribers... while these youtube vloggers have more subscribers than they have views... interesting... but if everyone's going to be playing the ******* numbers game... i thought: might as well bring by bucket and ***** into this sand-pit, and see if i can play along with these kids... citing my attempt at a massive ***** you never know: it could work!
0
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
ratios against youtubers
i've seen the commentary... but let's do the ratios... youtubers sometimes tend to boast about their subscribes, notably dr. steve turley, 100K (100,000) and styxhexenhammer666   30K (30,000)...    yes, i know that a chris isaack track is, a tad bit too much reminiscent of Abba... point being? my turn... so...         the ratio... i have 138 followers... but my post popular "poem" ranks at around    4,700 views... an average dr. steve turley video ranks in at 20,000, and with subscribers numbering 100,000...           whole styxhexenhammer666, 30,000 subscribers, but at average counts of views at hovering past the 1,000 mark... now the ratios... please let me be wrong, please let me be wrong... 0.5 for dr. steve turley lopsided ratios: 100,000 / 20,000.... styxhexenhammer666 comes in at 30... 30,000 / 1,000... me? i come in at... ha ha! 5,700 / 138 34.057...            i'm not boasting... but i hate to see decent people boast about their prescription rates, but then...                  0.029... but within the confines of    giving an answer back... you get the picture... their viewers plummet... the ratios do not add up... i'd boast, sure as hell i'd boast... but... i sorta don't feel like it... i never saw the bonus side of boasting when it came to numbers... more subscribers, than views?            big ******* problem... so... proud, concerning, what?! oh... wait... i just figured this out differently... 0.033 (styxhexenhammer666) and 0.2 (dr. steve turley)... oh wait... dr. steve turley: circa 74,000 subscribers... and the average viewership of a video circa 21,000?     3.52....               0.02837.... ola! village people!           counter ratios... views : subscribers counter to subscribers : views (in ratio)....             that age old relativism of "success"... give me a minute, i need to work on the schematic rubric... views : subscribers | subscribers : views (a) ~5700 ÷ 138 (a) 138 ÷ ~5700 = 41.30 = 0.024 (b) ~1000 ÷ ~30,000 (b) ~30,000 ÷ ~1000 = 0.033 = 300 (c) ~21,000 ÷ ~70,000 (c) ~70,000 ÷ ~21,000 = 0.284 = 3.52 (a) denoting me, (b) denoting sythexenhammer666 (c) denoting dr. steve turley so wait, give me a minute... since we're all so happy ******* a boasting match... i have... less subscribers... but more views... than people who have more, subscribers... but less views? i know i'm fiddling with the numbers... but to use but one instance... i have more views than i have subscribers... while these youtube vloggers have more subscribers than they have views... interesting... but if everyone's going to be playing the ******* numbers game... i thought: might as well bring by bucket and ***** into this sand-pit, and see if i can play along with these kids... citing my attempt at a massive ***** you never know: it could work!
Continue reading...
111
i only think of a japanese robot thinning air in marathons: editing in secret, while i speel the acronym a.i. into aerodynamic informatics for a breeze and wavy hunches true: i wondered - would this much assure me to buy a mandolin? i bought a mandolin once, but instead of gobi dried up ****** - instead i was lodged into essays and existential qualms relieved: entering a 1960s l.s.d. disco to suit a broken heart for a tongue flip of disco into **** i thought of a flirt though, played the mandolin in scotland, beneath a window for a vine, jagged & jarred the bricks with nails to climb & clutter, and wished for serpentine thorns to clothe excess sight with light through spider's diadem kept, webbed; landed a longshanks' bonus with excess strides to counter the "debility" of elongation instead; took two windmills with me into don quixote, and out popped the pepper queen of diamonds sneezing, aged cougar. so? my one grand delusion is a robot precisely spelling me wok twang wrong; i know i'm drunk, but that's hardly an excuse to equate soberness with sanity and stupidity clothed in spelling relieved, so simply undone above the rubric of welcome detention in lines of surd names after mother smith.
0
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 9:28 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
my one Gandalf delusion
i only think of a japanese robot thinning air in marathons: editing in secret, while i speel the acronym a.i. into aerodynamic informatics for a breeze and wavy hunches true: i wondered - would this much assure me to buy a mandolin? i bought a mandolin once, but instead of gobi dried up ****** - instead i was lodged into essays and existential qualms relieved: entering a 1960s l.s.d. disco to suit a broken heart for a tongue flip of disco into **** i thought of a flirt though, played the mandolin in scotland, beneath a window for a vine, jagged & jarred the bricks with nails to climb & clutter, and wished for serpentine thorns to clothe excess sight with light through spider's diadem kept, webbed; landed a longshanks' bonus with excess strides to counter the "debility" of elongation instead; took two windmills with me into don quixote, and out popped the pepper queen of diamonds sneezing, aged cougar. so? my one grand delusion is a robot precisely spelling me wok twang wrong; i know i'm drunk, but that's hardly an excuse to equate soberness with sanity and stupidity clothed in spelling relieved, so simply undone above the rubric of welcome detention in lines of surd names after mother smith.
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31
Nothing about it makes any sense, the way she puts me on the fence. Arbitrary grading masquerading beneath the facade of a rubric, it's ******** and I'll prove it.
0
May 30, 2012
May 30, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC
shashank-virkud-1
A-/B+ Erroneous
Nothing about it makes any sense, the way she puts me on the fence. Arbitrary grading masquerading beneath the facade of a rubric, it's ******** and I'll prove it.
Continue reading...
9
14 Every song or sonnet singular in its intricacy, in time it becomes something other, hyper-personal and resonant. 14 things may burst into millions. 13 Three times I've felt alone this minute. I should stop tallying hours in my schedule, messy rubric. 12 11-years old and jumping off mud-mounds, playing King of the Hill. The strongest rises to the top. The cleverest usurps. 11 One thing for certain: we are human. We are not human. 10 Six times in school I got detention. It was often due to my willingness to be a follower, silly sheep to a slaughter. 9 Five languages of love we are sure of, no more so far. 8 10 tally marks looks a lot like less. Some things, like people, refuse to show their face. 7 13 is supposedly an unlucky number. At this age I uncovered a part of myself I did not know before. Discovery. This is luck. 6 A dozen is meant to represent 12 because it is simpler, same syllables only one less letter, a convenience. 5 If you flip an eight on its side you can see forever. 4 Seven times I've thought this poem gimmicky. 3 [redacted for time constraints and continuity] 2 The artist places her pen to paper and borrows, not stealing so much as salvaging, wrapping old presents in neat new bows, satin or silk or rough twine. Nine variations on the same subject. 1 Four lids harbor two eyes, a galaxy, universe, each hiding half a heaven from view.
0
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 3:23 PM UTC
christopher-hendrix
14 things
14 Every song or sonnet singular in its intricacy, in time it becomes something other, hyper-personal and resonant. 14 things may burst into millions. 13 Three times I've felt alone this minute. I should stop tallying hours in my schedule, messy rubric. 12 11-years old and jumping off mud-mounds, playing King of the Hill. The strongest rises to the top. The cleverest usurps. 11 One thing for certain: we are human. We are not human. 10 Six times in school I got detention. It was often due to my willingness to be a follower, silly sheep to a slaughter. 9 Five languages of love we are sure of, no more so far. 8 10 tally marks looks a lot like less. Some things, like people, refuse to show their face. 7 13 is supposedly an unlucky number. At this age I uncovered a part of myself I did not know before. Discovery. This is luck. 6 A dozen is meant to represent 12 because it is simpler, same syllables only one less letter, a convenience. 5 If you flip an eight on its side you can see forever. 4 Seven times I've thought this poem gimmicky. 3 [redacted for time constraints and continuity] 2 The artist places her pen to paper and borrows, not stealing so much as salvaging, wrapping old presents in neat new bows, satin or silk or rough twine. Nine variations on the same subject. 1 Four lids harbor two eyes, a galaxy, universe, each hiding half a heaven from view.
Continue reading...
65
Man, oh man. Not this **** again. Now I'll be torn between the two. Make up some elaborate story in my head for me and you Should I pick this guy? He makes me laugh. Should I pick that guy? he's got money, even though that's not everything... its more than half. Lets put them on a rubric. Whoever scores highest wins my hand. But the boys have a different plan. Seems like, whoever scores highest wins a hand down my pants. But I went ahead and set my self up. Acting like I'm surprised that they wanna **** Because I chose to ignore the obvious signs that they weren't up to much.... Do insane people notice it when they go insane? Because half of my brain thinks these boys want me, but the other half knows its really me who wants them And half of me thinks I might be a little off my rocker but the other half knows to keep that bolted in a locker. Do the insane conceal their crazy parts until explosion? As if they ****** eats away like natural erosion. Do they feel it happening? Can they see their own symptoms, and hide it, until one poor victim, glances into the soulless eyes of the crazy murderer of hearts Saying "I allow myself to be torn apart"
0
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
jay-3
Sanity.
Man, oh man. Not this **** again. Now I'll be torn between the two. Make up some elaborate story in my head for me and you Should I pick this guy? He makes me laugh. Should I pick that guy? he's got money, even though that's not everything... its more than half. Lets put them on a rubric. Whoever scores highest wins my hand. But the boys have a different plan. Seems like, whoever scores highest wins a hand down my pants. But I went ahead and set my self up. Acting like I'm surprised that they wanna **** Because I chose to ignore the obvious signs that they weren't up to much.... Do insane people notice it when they go insane? Because half of my brain thinks these boys want me, but the other half knows its really me who wants them And half of me thinks I might be a little off my rocker but the other half knows to keep that bolted in a locker. Do the insane conceal their crazy parts until explosion? As if they ****** eats away like natural erosion. Do they feel it happening? Can they see their own symptoms, and hide it, until one poor victim, glances into the soulless eyes of the crazy murderer of hearts Saying "I allow myself to be torn apart"
Continue reading...
28
the english don't know how to drink ***** sorry... they don't... by the way? the english artifact of saying sorry? it doesn't actually mean an apology... the apology always comes too late... but english nightclubs? the english? they don't know how to serve ***** ***** is never served on ice... i'm losing followers? am i? good... i like my self-imposed censorship... i like weeding out the soft pockets... of people with weak stomachs... for all the celebration of Darwinism? peer into my eyes... if you really want to serve ***** ***** isn't whiskey isn't red wine, served at room temp. being allowed airing... mind you... funny fact... six cloves of garlic dumped into a bottle of red wine, matured for 2 weeks... 3 x 25ml of the wine... apparently curbs your appetite... don't ask me whether that's inclusive of a placebo effect... but when you're drinking ***** proper? you don't add ice... and keep it at room temp., you freeze it... to below -10°C... vodka isn't whiskey! i know what warm **** tastes like, i once fused red wine, and, having ****** into the holy grail, and subsequently drank the concoction... come to think of it... ******* the Vatican colored flag of extraction into a sacrament? you need ***** to be served below the freezing point of water, given that, 0°C is a baron of quality differentiating water from ***** alcohol evaporates at around 70+°C... p.s. interlude: i was never fond of the imperial rubric of Fahrenheit and ounces, pounds, miles, inches... and all that quirky "genius" of measurements... mathematically? i'm aligned with French... but you don't serve ***** at room temp. with ice cubes and a mixer... given that ***** has a lower boiling point, you serve it under the "niqab" of waster becoming ice... so you serve it... as something, equivalent of gomme syrup... you drink ***** that appears syrupy... like any single malt puritan when it comes to whiskey? there are ***** puritans out there... you don't drink ***** lukewarm, or slightly chilled... you drink it at a temp. of a gomme syrup... liquid -20°C... thick... with all the alcohol poisoning bacterium dead... appearing excessively sugary, but not really... night clubs that serve ***** not stashed in refrigerators like butcher's meat? don't drink the ***** in those places... if it doesn't have the smoothness of a gomme syrup? sliding down your throat like a mollusk on amphetamines? the epitome: ***** and orange juice?! you ******** me or opening a ******* parachute while stranded to the the ******* ground?
0
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
how best to serve *****
the english don't know how to drink ***** sorry... they don't... by the way? the english artifact of saying sorry? it doesn't actually mean an apology... the apology always comes too late... but english nightclubs? the english? they don't know how to serve ***** ***** is never served on ice... i'm losing followers? am i? good... i like my self-imposed censorship... i like weeding out the soft pockets... of people with weak stomachs... for all the celebration of Darwinism? peer into my eyes... if you really want to serve ***** ***** isn't whiskey isn't red wine, served at room temp. being allowed airing... mind you... funny fact... six cloves of garlic dumped into a bottle of red wine, matured for 2 weeks... 3 x 25ml of the wine... apparently curbs your appetite... don't ask me whether that's inclusive of a placebo effect... but when you're drinking ***** proper? you don't add ice... and keep it at room temp., you freeze it... to below -10°C... vodka isn't whiskey! i know what warm **** tastes like, i once fused red wine, and, having ****** into the holy grail, and subsequently drank the concoction... come to think of it... ******* the Vatican colored flag of extraction into a sacrament? you need ***** to be served below the freezing point of water, given that, 0°C is a baron of quality differentiating water from ***** alcohol evaporates at around 70+°C... p.s. interlude: i was never fond of the imperial rubric of Fahrenheit and ounces, pounds, miles, inches... and all that quirky "genius" of measurements... mathematically? i'm aligned with French... but you don't serve ***** at room temp. with ice cubes and a mixer... given that ***** has a lower boiling point, you serve it under the "niqab" of waster becoming ice... so you serve it... as something, equivalent of gomme syrup... you drink ***** that appears syrupy... like any single malt puritan when it comes to whiskey? there are ***** puritans out there... you don't drink ***** lukewarm, or slightly chilled... you drink it at a temp. of a gomme syrup... liquid -20°C... thick... with all the alcohol poisoning bacterium dead... appearing excessively sugary, but not really... night clubs that serve ***** not stashed in refrigerators like butcher's meat? don't drink the ***** in those places... if it doesn't have the smoothness of a gomme syrup? sliding down your throat like a mollusk on amphetamines? the epitome: ***** and orange juice?! you ******** me or opening a ******* parachute while stranded to the the ******* ground?
Continue reading...
99
Pumping an uncontrollable substance through my heart Hope this feeling never ends or I’d be torn apart A magical sensation with every pleasurable pulse This must be illegal, something for the adults Every moment, every thump, makes me lose my thought Lets runaway together with the thrill of getting caught Shuttle me thru your loops of vibrational divines ****** my flesh with your soft hum while I slowly unwind Make me lose myself with no method of meeting time If your admiration is at the top of the wobbly hill, then I’ll climb But understand I’m wrapped around your finger with every minute that passes by I’m in a meeting with your roots with nothing on, except a tie This must be the so called meaning of life Listening to every word and every piece of advice That you simply can not only be mine But is like your part of me, somehow connected to my spine A strong emotion I can’t get rid off, where is its rubric? Maybe your suppose to be a part of me, perhaps you’re my runic This is such an indulging pleasure I can’t confuse it Because I’m not in love with you girl, I’m in love with music Jonathan “Prototype” Pizarro Copyright 2011 © August 30, 2010 11:12am
0
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 9:29 PM UTC
jonathan-pizarro
Vibrational Divines
Pumping an uncontrollable substance through my heart Hope this feeling never ends or I’d be torn apart A magical sensation with every pleasurable pulse This must be illegal, something for the adults Every moment, every thump, makes me lose my thought Lets runaway together with the thrill of getting caught Shuttle me thru your loops of vibrational divines ****** my flesh with your soft hum while I slowly unwind Make me lose myself with no method of meeting time If your admiration is at the top of the wobbly hill, then I’ll climb But understand I’m wrapped around your finger with every minute that passes by I’m in a meeting with your roots with nothing on, except a tie This must be the so called meaning of life Listening to every word and every piece of advice That you simply can not only be mine But is like your part of me, somehow connected to my spine A strong emotion I can’t get rid off, where is its rubric? Maybe your suppose to be a part of me, perhaps you’re my runic This is such an indulging pleasure I can’t confuse it Because I’m not in love with you girl, I’m in love with music Jonathan “Prototype” Pizarro Copyright 2011 © August 30, 2010 11:12am
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23
Contains More Than Kernel Of Truthful alienation, expulsion, ostracization from body politick if member of society resistant, indifferent, adamant, et cetera despite differentiation (across the figurative board) intolerance opposing ethos, asper unspoken social graces extant (albeit manifested amidst diverse livingsocial variations) within rubric of global civilizations primal, oral, nonverbal, et cetera codas automatically decreeing manual Kant instilled from cradle to grave impossible mission scant acceptance toward recalcitrant challenging precepts via rave and/or rant thus when born into whatever culture, steeped with historical paradigm one can protest superficial nigh cities til ivy blue in the face, or try to concoct a feeble rhyme but culture club richly identified, endowed, brewed from heritage long time ago until the cows come home to roost hence creative pursuits one direction can turn to swiftly tailor if harried styled with perceived restrictive parameters and cuss like a sailor with song and dance routine (perhaps appearing on Dancing With The Stars), or choosing subterfuge viz writing nefarious malware code, wheremailer daemons spring to life, when computer code following infinitely jesting illogic causing exhaler (case in point - myself, hoot ends tubby humorous) as yukon gauge yet another Internet end user might experience greater reason to rage against the machine before turning rogue gushing renegade, stage jing anarchy against disparity with equal pay, cuz a working wage aint nuttin boot peanuts so if strong willed, hook hairs if you appear like a putz just realize doggerel of this pooch iz gaseous boot utterly without guts and hangs around the junkyard with other nerdy mutts.
0
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
matthew-scott-harris2p
No shucking Small Talk...
Contains More Than Kernel Of Truthful alienation, expulsion, ostracization from body politick if member of society resistant, indifferent, adamant, et cetera despite differentiation (across the figurative board) intolerance opposing ethos, asper unspoken social graces extant (albeit manifested amidst diverse livingsocial variations) within rubric of global civilizations primal, oral, nonverbal, et cetera codas automatically decreeing manual Kant instilled from cradle to grave impossible mission scant acceptance toward recalcitrant challenging precepts via rave and/or rant thus when born into whatever culture, steeped with historical paradigm one can protest superficial nigh cities til ivy blue in the face, or try to concoct a feeble rhyme but culture club richly identified, endowed, brewed from heritage long time ago until the cows come home to roost hence creative pursuits one direction can turn to swiftly tailor if harried styled with perceived restrictive parameters and cuss like a sailor with song and dance routine (perhaps appearing on Dancing With The Stars), or choosing subterfuge viz writing nefarious malware code, wheremailer daemons spring to life, when computer code following infinitely jesting illogic causing exhaler (case in point - myself, hoot ends tubby humorous) as yukon gauge yet another Internet end user might experience greater reason to rage against the machine before turning rogue gushing renegade, stage jing anarchy against disparity with equal pay, cuz a working wage aint nuttin boot peanuts so if strong willed, hook hairs if you appear like a putz just realize doggerel of this pooch iz gaseous boot utterly without guts and hangs around the junkyard with other nerdy mutts.
Continue reading...
54
as space sufficiently expresses, or succinctly paraphrases with the concerns for time: or hue, or suntan, or baritone hummed weakening into a humph... crazy-bone etc.; sometimes poetry is so much more than the usurping of onomatopoeia... life is the essence of being timed, but that's hardly the essence in the space we occupy - over-versed thinking never formalised toward an outer-reaching imagination that might become copper-raindrops' worth of Disney, or a way memory is made adaptive to cure dementia... yes, space is the essential component for the compartment of life... i believe time has no place in what's to be called life, i believe time exists, but on an Olympic scale, in the metres and millimetres, on the minutes and seconds scales... space is the essence of life: so diverging from known apparatus to unknown operations, thus so diverging from known operations to unknown apparatus... and so on and so forth, until dinosaurs roar and we merely say: yawn - arrogant in our guise. true, space devalues time; as said the people between us who we never had a meal with, but had the crazed look of craving an unnecessary contentment with despair. can i guess at something? i like your alphabetical onomatopoeia, i.e. pun for knocking, a sorta p p p / b b b, not necessarily needing the suffix for rhyme, why is it that poetry requires the echo, why not rhyme upfront? anyway... but it's there, that alphabetical onomatopoeia... a repeating of the first letter, like opening an oyster... which contradicts the orthodox methodology of rhyme... meaning that there's a repeated seance of an opening... which (although alphabetically staged to a prevailing repeat) equips the reader with many more surprising alternations - basically you begin with what rhymes alphabetically, but not necessarily phonetically: the lost suffix -ing via i had a cat called blinding, and he said all things were shining...  one of your poems enabled me to spot this reversal of poetic orthodoxy, in that the rhyme became less musicological, and more rubric enlisting a coherent schema, such as a list... or rhyme via propped first, and cascading into oblivion, never really minding the waggling tail of a bouncy-ball of accepted verse. aardvark and acupuncture... the rhyme begins with A, and ends as it should end, diverging, so there's no feel for a repeat akin to drum or rhythmic bass... otherwise: shout an A into a cave and hear an echo... that's what poetry is damnably worthy to congest one's thinking with... don't rhyme: echo! and ensure that echo is alphabetical rather than musicological. perchance lessened talk, i too would have revised this example with some worthy emoticon.
0
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 10:52 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
Time is not the essence of life.
as space sufficiently expresses, or succinctly paraphrases with the concerns for time: or hue, or suntan, or baritone hummed weakening into a humph... crazy-bone etc.; sometimes poetry is so much more than the usurping of onomatopoeia... life is the essence of being timed, but that's hardly the essence in the space we occupy - over-versed thinking never formalised toward an outer-reaching imagination that might become copper-raindrops' worth of Disney, or a way memory is made adaptive to cure dementia... yes, space is the essential component for the compartment of life... i believe time has no place in what's to be called life, i believe time exists, but on an Olympic scale, in the metres and millimetres, on the minutes and seconds scales... space is the essence of life: so diverging from known apparatus to unknown operations, thus so diverging from known operations to unknown apparatus... and so on and so forth, until dinosaurs roar and we merely say: yawn - arrogant in our guise. true, space devalues time; as said the people between us who we never had a meal with, but had the crazed look of craving an unnecessary contentment with despair. can i guess at something? i like your alphabetical onomatopoeia, i.e. pun for knocking, a sorta p p p / b b b, not necessarily needing the suffix for rhyme, why is it that poetry requires the echo, why not rhyme upfront? anyway... but it's there, that alphabetical onomatopoeia... a repeating of the first letter, like opening an oyster... which contradicts the orthodox methodology of rhyme... meaning that there's a repeated seance of an opening... which (although alphabetically staged to a prevailing repeat) equips the reader with many more surprising alternations - basically you begin with what rhymes alphabetically, but not necessarily phonetically: the lost suffix -ing via i had a cat called blinding, and he said all things were shining...  one of your poems enabled me to spot this reversal of poetic orthodoxy, in that the rhyme became less musicological, and more rubric enlisting a coherent schema, such as a list... or rhyme via propped first, and cascading into oblivion, never really minding the waggling tail of a bouncy-ball of accepted verse. aardvark and acupuncture... the rhyme begins with A, and ends as it should end, diverging, so there's no feel for a repeat akin to drum or rhythmic bass... otherwise: shout an A into a cave and hear an echo... that's what poetry is damnably worthy to congest one's thinking with... don't rhyme: echo! and ensure that echo is alphabetical rather than musicological. perchance lessened talk, i too would have revised this example with some worthy emoticon.
Continue reading...
2
Take your sacred space and shove it through your discontent. Drag it in the tracks you scuffed through the dirt as you played pretend and projected images in the ever-being present. Take your sacred space and use it as a rubric to grade your suffering. Grade the world around you. Judge it, score it, trap it. You think patterns define the space? The more consistent the more real?  Expound your philosophies, esoteric enigmatic illusions. Yeah, you know the words but your voice betrays your soul betrays your essence betrays the foundation you've yet to establish on validity. Cause and effect are undeniable: this arises, that becomes. Nothing exists independently. What are your origins? You are the problem, screaming about solutions but afraid to face the reality of your situation. Paint your picture on the wall with neon colors, apply symmetry and Platonic shapes. Call it sacred, a flower of life. Stand on the street, peddling your essence. I'll be by the  river contemplating a more mundane geometry.
0
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
d-simpson
Mundane Geometry
Take your sacred space and shove it through your discontent. Drag it in the tracks you scuffed through the dirt as you played pretend and projected images in the ever-being present. Take your sacred space and use it as a rubric to grade your suffering. Grade the world around you. Judge it, score it, trap it. You think patterns define the space? The more consistent the more real?  Expound your philosophies, esoteric enigmatic illusions. Yeah, you know the words but your voice betrays your soul betrays your essence betrays the foundation you've yet to establish on validity. Cause and effect are undeniable: this arises, that becomes. Nothing exists independently. What are your origins? You are the problem, screaming about solutions but afraid to face the reality of your situation. Paint your picture on the wall with neon colors, apply symmetry and Platonic shapes. Call it sacred, a flower of life. Stand on the street, peddling your essence. I'll be by the  river contemplating a more mundane geometry.
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1
oft times as a child crayola crayons occupied concentration to color, with a hue and a cry would erupt if the merest and faintest mark trespassed violating some shade dee rule, i'd decry cuz even as a boy, a peaceful nonconformist/ nonestablishmentarian streak now finds this guy proud to be among the minority removed from the madding crowd, though blurt out a friendly "hi" when within of the vast lines of humanity entropy vies to get the upper hand until ban ky moon: secretary - (at time of this writing) general of the United Nations doth raise an hand gesticulating with lie sense to subdue the crowded housed planet fitness even if his magic doth manage to ply a temporary truce among scrabbling mobs of hoodlums, some regurgitating spoon fed pablum patois bred from an era quois wanton vengeful retaliation, whence faux recapitulation initially evidenced from hooligans who try to wrest control with mortal kombat full commando from elected officials, who abhorring violence must vie trump petting for state military don protective gear bound by parochial training to counteract mutiny why hill chaos runs amuck law man dating rubric with force of arms and crack of firearms, which forced quiet riot doth aim to don the mantle of government control, whereby foot soldiers i.e. boots on the ground - operate asia single blame less force to be reckoned with, cuz the supreme arbiter of power - who thru a coup d'etat did claim sear of power forces opposition to sing condescending swan song toward ruler de jure, which includes a price tag i.e. at least one vestal ****** dame
0
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
matthew-scott-harris2p
Paint by numbers within delineated bound lines
oft times as a child crayola crayons occupied concentration to color, with a hue and a cry would erupt if the merest and faintest mark trespassed violating some shade dee rule, i'd decry cuz even as a boy, a peaceful nonconformist/ nonestablishmentarian streak now finds this guy proud to be among the minority removed from the madding crowd, though blurt out a friendly "hi" when within of the vast lines of humanity entropy vies to get the upper hand until ban ky moon: secretary - (at time of this writing) general of the United Nations doth raise an hand gesticulating with lie sense to subdue the crowded housed planet fitness even if his magic doth manage to ply a temporary truce among scrabbling mobs of hoodlums, some regurgitating spoon fed pablum patois bred from an era quois wanton vengeful retaliation, whence faux recapitulation initially evidenced from hooligans who try to wrest control with mortal kombat full commando from elected officials, who abhorring violence must vie trump petting for state military don protective gear bound by parochial training to counteract mutiny why hill chaos runs amuck law man dating rubric with force of arms and crack of firearms, which forced quiet riot doth aim to don the mantle of government control, whereby foot soldiers i.e. boots on the ground - operate asia single blame less force to be reckoned with, cuz the supreme arbiter of power - who thru a coup d'etat did claim sear of power forces opposition to sing condescending swan song toward ruler de jure, which includes a price tag i.e. at least one vestal ****** dame
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55
certain words don't provide adequate ontological modes, they provide ontological medians or means, but not modes, for example, a good comparison would be to compare two words, only two words: a. atheism              and b. apathy. dissect the words during a syllable cut as a meaningful prefix, in both examples that's a-, what do you get? a- (without) god (/ theology), contradictory given that atheism is a type of theology, a logic to disprove the existence of something, but it's still a theology of some sort, now the second example: a- (without) pathology (/ailments of range whether phobias or their antonyms, psychological constructs that are stressed more prominently than serious pains that leave everyone psychologically paralysed by that parasite of pain). in terms of ontology, in simpler terms simply qua, which is more important in human affairs? qua apathetic or qua atheistic? personally? i think the former - there are more obstructions in the former's rubric of obstructions than in the latter's, given that it's a rarity to be suddenly struck down with plagues and prophetic ailments of ill fate... i don't care how cool it looks, to be an atheist, you could only be a true atheist if you were illiterate and couldn't use the alphabet (that old chestnut from the book of genesis, in the beginning there was word, and the word was god), or if you were part of that famous experiment done by frederick ii hohenstaufen where a bunch of children were raised in a phonetic celibacy by nuns, just to prove what language was spoken first; well the experiment conclusively produced a bunch of mutes... i guess extending the experiment's parameters to animals would never work: try forcing a cat to bark, as many vanities of "proven reasons" died when kublai khan moved the horde east without due respect for peace-loving mongolians.
0
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
the frederick ii hohenstaufen linguistic experiment
certain words don't provide adequate ontological modes, they provide ontological medians or means, but not modes, for example, a good comparison would be to compare two words, only two words: a. atheism              and b. apathy. dissect the words during a syllable cut as a meaningful prefix, in both examples that's a-, what do you get? a- (without) god (/ theology), contradictory given that atheism is a type of theology, a logic to disprove the existence of something, but it's still a theology of some sort, now the second example: a- (without) pathology (/ailments of range whether phobias or their antonyms, psychological constructs that are stressed more prominently than serious pains that leave everyone psychologically paralysed by that parasite of pain). in terms of ontology, in simpler terms simply qua, which is more important in human affairs? qua apathetic or qua atheistic? personally? i think the former - there are more obstructions in the former's rubric of obstructions than in the latter's, given that it's a rarity to be suddenly struck down with plagues and prophetic ailments of ill fate... i don't care how cool it looks, to be an atheist, you could only be a true atheist if you were illiterate and couldn't use the alphabet (that old chestnut from the book of genesis, in the beginning there was word, and the word was god), or if you were part of that famous experiment done by frederick ii hohenstaufen where a bunch of children were raised in a phonetic celibacy by nuns, just to prove what language was spoken first; well the experiment conclusively produced a bunch of mutes... i guess extending the experiment's parameters to animals would never work: try forcing a cat to bark, as many vanities of "proven reasons" died when kublai khan moved the horde east without due respect for peace-loving mongolians.
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I can’t do it Not like you want me to I’m not a God I’m mortal just like you I loved you once I needed you like air But then you changed You became a lion in its lair You controlled my thoughts You controlled my fate My heart turned on you My love turned to hate Then one day I left I may have saved your life Evil had its suggestions About a gun and a knife Maybe you knew this As you heard it in my voice My mind turned to madness I had no other choice But now calm breezes blow Just like when we met You said God brought us together You said let us not forget But it was time That softened my emotions I traveled alone But I am unable to walk on oceans I thought of holiness And the words of Jesus I wondered about humans And if he did deceive us What are we capable of After a journey into darkness? How can I love someone Who is no longer my princess? Am I to forgive And forget When tomorrow awaits With further regret? How can I forgive What I cannot trust? How can I love What a commandment says I must? I read the words Of the stern rubric But I am a failure I cannot play the music In the unholiness of my offer I can only give you this I will never hurt you But I cannot offer a kiss You must let me go And realize what I say You may believe in God But my sin does not pray The decision has been made You are forgiven But I will walk into the fire Because today only Jesus has risen Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved. Mark Lecuona
0
Jan 28, 2012
Jan 28, 2012 at 8:20 PM UTC
mark-lecuona
Unholy Forgiveness
I can’t do it Not like you want me to I’m not a God I’m mortal just like you I loved you once I needed you like air But then you changed You became a lion in its lair You controlled my thoughts You controlled my fate My heart turned on you My love turned to hate Then one day I left I may have saved your life Evil had its suggestions About a gun and a knife Maybe you knew this As you heard it in my voice My mind turned to madness I had no other choice But now calm breezes blow Just like when we met You said God brought us together You said let us not forget But it was time That softened my emotions I traveled alone But I am unable to walk on oceans I thought of holiness And the words of Jesus I wondered about humans And if he did deceive us What are we capable of After a journey into darkness? How can I love someone Who is no longer my princess? Am I to forgive And forget When tomorrow awaits With further regret? How can I forgive What I cannot trust? How can I love What a commandment says I must? I read the words Of the stern rubric But I am a failure I cannot play the music In the unholiness of my offer I can only give you this I will never hurt you But I cannot offer a kiss You must let me go And realize what I say You may believe in God But my sin does not pray The decision has been made You are forgiven But I will walk into the fire Because today only Jesus has risen Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved. Mark Lecuona
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