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Alyssa Underwood Feb 2016
I'm kin to the caterpillar
hidden within seasonal sac
awaiting destined identity
tucked tightly into darkness
this secret, inscrutable place

Does it know it will become
a delicate creature of beauty?
Does it know it will soon fly?

I wonder...

do I?
Entre le sac et le ressac
Ma muse nage nue
Au cœur des vagues
De neige immortelle
De la nuit tropicale.
C'est un mélange de sirène
Et de sauterelle
A la queue papillonnante bleue verte et grise
Qui plonge à intervalles réguliers
Dans le sauna des abysses
A la recherche des sources chaudes
Des volcans sous-marins
Où dorment les champignons sauvages
Et où paissent les rennes
En attendant le moka saveur airelles
D'un Petit Prince abscons portant masque, palmes et tuba
Qui danse la rumba cubaine.
Quand ma très chère se déhanche
Elle skie elle patine elle surfe
Elle nage elle plonge elle sue
Entre les battements de conga,
Les glissés et les déliés de son partenaire
Tout en tricotant des pas humides de calypso vierge
Ad libitum.
They’re all the same.
They’re all the same.
Sterile cubes to the horizon; snowy stains
Crew cut lawns of
Neon ball-field grass
Blacktop floors, silver chariots past
Barbed wire cages of pristine wood sides
Maples spaced mechanically
Mother Nature cyanide
Hospital sheeting, board room meeting
Hollow caskets of dead visions
Creative color fleeting.

They’re all the same.
They’re all the same.
Optic nerve trickery; I must be insane
So far the truthful eyes can see
Flawless cookie cutter plastic sheen
Synthetic golden palace gleam
Manicured daisies spaced between
Another and another; cloned dollhouse genes
Another and another; recurring cul-de-sac dreams
Criss-crossed patterns; golf course greens
Castles of pastel kings and queens.
Thanks! Any feedback appreciated
emily mikkelsen Apr 2017
between the concrete river
& the park where the bums share a bottle
wrapped in a brown paper sack,

there is a cul-de-sac of plastic houses
holding hands & sharing manicured lawns
wooden cars that don't even make any smoke
drive down gray asphalt streets.

fathers that tell mothers they have jobs
wear down street corners sharing beers with the bums,
like they already are one.

all these paper families rubbing shoulders
until everyone has paper cuts.
going home to dinner around a table full of paper love.

suburbia is flimsy
paper towns shining white
smiling neighbors & shared lawns
paper people slowly falling apart.

couples with their tongues down each other's throats,
midnight in supermarket parking lots
dribbling beer in the backseat
they bought off the bums.  

they say,
I love you, I love you, I love you.
until she leaves for a paper husband
& he leaves for a paper wife.

now they live on two separate cul-de-sacs
with the same cutout love,
as the parents they despised.

& when they have kids one day
they will tell them
never kiss before driving,
never befriend bums,
or guzzle cheap beer in backseats,
or on park swings.
& never settle for a paper husband
or a paper wife.


remembering the love
that was flimsy,
but never paper.

100,000 miles away from where they grew up
& 3,000 miles away from each other
3 kids each & plastic houses
rubbing shoulders & sharing lawns

living in a paper thin suberbia
chafing under their paper love.
inspired by "Paper Towns" by John Green
em Feb 1
he lives in a house
that takes up the small corner
of the cul-de-sac
there are no windows
only a single frame
above the back porch
yet no one
ever dare to sneak a look
for fear they will
see the reason why there
aren't any
windows.

his wife
tossed her heart out
the top left
window
saying she'd rather
have it pump its
end
on the pavement below
than have something touched
by him
inside of her when she too
died.
after this, he promptly
took her
lungs
his were full of ashes
and he always felt,
he breathed better
with her.

his baby
his smiling, hauntingly joyful
infant boy
stopped too
only eight years
ago
when he wedged himself
between
the metal bed-cage
and went to sleep.
if you looked,
you could probably have seen
him
suffocating
through the bedroom
window.
as purple as
the day he was born.

this man tore out
the last window in his home.
he wanted nothing more
than to shut out the
night
and the day's harsh rise of
gold.
it hurts his eyes to see a welcoming world
just as much
as the dark.
danne Sep 2018
for decades
we looked
to the stars
bowing
to the mat
we weep
burning the incense
combing for memories
that doesn't make sense

we whispered
for the tide to change
and when the sun rise
to kiss the soil
long lost dreams
return to our souls
we were atlas
no more

time to leave the cul-de-sac
their reign was over
we have kept
the phantoms at bay
Andrew Rueter Jul 2017
My tires went over the cracks in the road
As I drove by people standing on the sidewalk
Exchanging words, emotions, dreams
I passed them on my way to the cul-de-sac
To exchange money, drugs, humanity
The pedestrians penetrated me
With piercing eyes of persecution
They thought they hated me for being there
But their hatred is what led me there
They injected hatred into my life
The way I injected ****** into my arm
They injected banality into my life
The way I injected ****** into my brain
They injected austerity into my life
The way I injected ****** into my heart
They prayed that my sedation was of a more permanent nature
Before that they prayed for the permanent sedation
of my ****** nature
Wanting me to be fully awake
But not fully alive
They snuck into my mind
And exchanged emotions with emptiness
I snuck into their house
And exchanged furniture with emptiness
They exchanged words with the police
Who exchanged my freedom
For everyone else's peace of mind
But the exchange between the excommunicated
Exacerbated my exiled existence
The steel bars placed before me
Paled in comparison
To the bars that surrounded my heart
And faded from memory
When the Xanax bars entered my system
Until I couldn't walk anymore
Making me Professor X
Hiding out with the other mutants
Trying to lecture the world
That zombies turn to demons
If the exchange isn't examined
When they exit their enclosure
Sidewalk standers turn to explanations more elementary
Eliminating empathy
While elevating themselves above us
This is the epitome of our exchange
Carlo C Gomez Nov 14
No man is an island
But some are a cul-de-sac
kyss Jul 2018
I walk down the street
late at night
a sense of paranoia
mixes with fright

I hear footsteps behind me
voices whisper in my head

I look back
all that's there
is a stray cat

it runs into the distance
I'm anxious to get home
each passing minute
feels endless
I wish I was safe at home

I pass a beggar
throw some change into a cup
but he gets up
and starts following me
block after block

I'm starting to get scared
as I walk down a dark street
three right turns
and he's still there
behind me

I hurry, and pick up my feet
but he simply walks faster
matching my beat

he starts talking
asking me questions
where I'm going
if I'm single
if I'm interested in a bargain

I ignore him
keep walking
he's still there, right behind me

I finally reach home
turn onto my cul de sac
check the locks three times over
make sure they're intact

go upstairs
shaking with what could've been
pondering why
this always seems to happen
to me
trf Feb 2018
temptations wear me,
frothed cloth and feathered clinch,
hallow helium exhaling smoke rings,
glass ripe with flames.

*****, *******, rescue me,
powder and fog, won't you let me see.

cut the line,
don't sweat the shirt,
this great escape,
for what it's worth,
memories,
lost to dirt,
hear these pleas,
fear my hurt.

*****, *******, rescue me,
powder and fog, won't you let me see.

with a draw i write,
forget my body,
forfeit my mind,
bring it back around,
to cul-de-sac town,
alarms wake my dreams,
i'm lost and found.
try askin the dark where the light comes from
Jeremy Betts Feb 2018
Just look around you and you'll notice that every day there's another sucker born
Another mother fuucker trying to pick around the thorn
But there'll never be breath blown through the victory horn and there won't be one to worn
Cause the new norm is news meant to deform not to inform
Leaving only torn fragments of real mixed with lies, a new truth is born
And it's one that defies the meaning of truth so it's armor for our thoughts and soul that must be worn

Cause it's forced upon every sense, attached to ignorance, illegal for an opinion to be drawn
It's a new dawn where rational thinking is gone, new laws signed in crayon
And it doesn't matter what paawn gets passed the baton when an election comes along
Cause it was years ago that this corruption spawn with a freedom slogan button on
And it's the divide that's grown from a line to a deep chasm of a wide canyon
That'll be our legacy, the legend we pass on till we feel defeat and meet the same demise that fell upon Krypton

It's crazy how we as a society love to single out one to staple blame on, makes it simple
But every man that's held an oval as his office might as well have been a floating carcass, dead in the water from the get go
Don't just agree cause I said so, that's half the problem yo, go do your own research bro
And know that they fear intelligence so go gather up a couple library's full
And don't jump in half cockeed like you only got one teesticle
Give it your all, fuuck being humble, we keep this shiit up we're all in fuuckin trouble
So burst this bubble, let it trasnform to rubble, forget being subtle
It's time to break huddle and be a factor in this much needed rebuttal
Screamed in the face paced on this ancient government scandal

But fuuck it. I'm only one person and not the one to change it cause I'm not perfect
But my imperfectly perfect plan sits perched in dust, never to be touched like it's deadly sick
Like a dripping diick, you pretend you don't have it 'til the graphic turns horrific
Then they say it's fake news but you're looking at the problem, starring derectly at it
But it's me that's ignorant and insignificant? I see it different you one percenter priick

I have a thought, just a notion, top of my head, tell me what you think
How long can we survive on the brink? On a doomed vessel destined to sink?
Holding the knowledge of where the boat is weak, have known about the leak but putting off repairs till next week
We can see the old, rusty chain of command, it's obvious who's the weakest link
But if we the people aren't in sync we're all gonna drown in the drink
The spiked cool aids laid out just waiting for that sly wink
The nod to give the go-ahead once we're in to deep, swerling round the bottom of the sink

But there's more of us then them so I say we push back
Take the power that we hold off the rack, grow a pair of metaphorical baalls in a metaphorical nuut sack and attack
Put on Hatebreed as the soundtrack and dish out some payback
This is a call to all who can't just lay back like seats in a Maybach and watch the train skip off track
You don't need an almanac to predict this fact, the shiit storm is here, lead by a maniac
And if we don't take our country back then it's our fault, not theirs, that the future seems bleek and black
Let that fact sink in and fill the crack like plaque stacked from years of no contact
Then get back to me when you see clearly that the peace tready that was eagerly signed so freely is actually a death contact

You can't dispute that once you've read the small print on the back of this sinister contract
And realize we've given to much slack but we do hold the rains, we must pull back
But mustn't hold back, can't afford to hoard the ball and record a sac
It's already fourth down and forever, standing in our own in zone taking the snap
A hail Mary is our only hope, but it might be crazy enough to be the key to the exact play we need to get the lead back
We lose this game and that's it, no respawn, no next season to fall back on, blap, extinction just like that
But fuuck that **** Jack, I'll fight till my last breath escapes me, I ain't going out like that
Can't give up with my back turned to a population under attack
Cowering in a ransacked bomb shelter resembling the shrieking shack
Can't do it, no matter our differences no one deserves that
But I'm going to need all the help I can get to keep this flaming wreckage off the tarmac

So please, as soon as the Kodak filters been lifted and you see the mess that we've been gifted
You'll come join the million other kindred spirits that have enlisted
No longer tainted by politicians political poison, no longer frightened
Instead, our ability to sift through the ******* has been heightened
With no blinders I'm enlightened now, our vision has readjusted, the true path brightened
Our senses now sharp as a tack like they've been augmented, you look frightened
And I'm ready to attack, take our lives back, combat tested
And mother approved, well connected, you've been vetted
And we've all come to the conclusion that it's time this reign of terror ended
Way past time for this regime to be upended
Quickly removed and  permanently suspended
Only then can we drop the act, we won't need to pretend
And we can say, "
I am
a cul de sac
traveling with
two hands
on the
wheel

you are
a
los angeles
freeway with
your hands
everywhere
but where
they
need be
Shadowed windowpane
Walking under the ladder
A black cat with glassy eyes
Crosses the street
Where am I?
I'm stuck in a cul de sac
"The Sphinx-riddle. Solve it, or be torn to bits, is the decree.-D.H. Lawrence
lmnsinner Apr 2017
Nov 2016 - The Fall Line


~

all the lines of man-made yellows,
so tempting threatening...inviting,
the subway platform, the street curb,
the highway divide
the double parallel equal sign that has no solution,
remaining hopelessly empty,
defining the watery soluble
inequality of null


~~

The Fall Line

first heard the phrase months ago in Argentina,
standing before the c-shaped Iguazu Falls

the fall line
where the crystalline basement rock
erodes away the oncoming soft sedimentary,
there, where,
a waterfall is nature-gifted

so intuitive, so obvious,
what else to call the water's owned edge,
line of demarcation,
where we grow captivated,
mesmerized, knee weak,
traumatized and tantalized

knew that instant when spoken,
The Fall Line,
saw inarguable symmetry to so many lives,
would be a someday poem

selective service phrases stored and
someday up recalled,
a thousand, maybe more,
waiting for the confluence of
time and place,
to be a mother

letting my fluid sac burst,
giving birth to a concoction symphonic,
the emotions waterfalling, cascading,
the precision, vision seconds,
when words

pour, gush, surge, spill,
stream, flow, issue, spurt

~~~

silently crafted in the weeks and months prior,
the unconscious drowning in ache and pain
of suffocating drudge sludge of everyday living

all the lines of man made yellows,
so tempting threatening...inviting
the subway platform, the street curb,
the highway divide
the double parallel equal sign that has no solution remaining empty, defining the inequality of null


the vision infection of the majestic fall line,
so accessible in an instance of overwhelm,
cornea implanted, the sounding call of sweet blissful
whatever

one more additional addiction unshakeable,
jumping from fall line to fall line,
it's the game I am played,
but the controller
is not in my possess

for the joy stick that drives my actions,
toys with me,
the human fool jumping
from fall line to fall line,
unsure of what he desires,


salvation or saving
11/26/16
Nat Lipstadt Aug 23
The Deepest Twist

<>
for my friends who know that when HP says this my 1300th
poem, it’s off the mark by hundreds; nonetheless
1300 is worthy number to celebrate your affections
nat
<>

you return back my older children, fully grown,
my eldest word babies who never ever visit,
blessing them anew, lavishly, with special wishes

I,
take them,
with both hands, a reacquainting occurs,
the old words, deep twist, now hurtful hurt because
reimagining when and how easy they came to be birthed and
how the replication of that process is now a
practiced impossibility

how they burst forth, in purple majesty, wheat waving,
wholly formed, bathed in holy water, leaving no stretch marks,
only just an empty sac inside instantly needing,
needling me into auto-refilling right away

even the twenty four hour, hard deliveries,
long and arduous, were so easy created faust-fast,
that the errors of typography contained,
became lasting hall marks, iconic nomenclatures of
passionate loving-nonpareil

now, well past point of urgent addiction,
unlike then every glance, each sidewalk cracking,
lamppost shadow casting was
a sea story for a deep dive delving asap

I,
supplied answers for the internal badgering incessant
happy ****** need, mine, to go, spill the words,
cab or bus motion nursing them,
now they come slowly strolling,
semi-formed, needy, inconclusive, reused,
and feeling as trite as a cloth coat from an old thrift shop,
so wanting for tender loving care,
which is to provide when you are
four score

wondering how easy it was in prior times when inspiration
fell like a deciduous tree’s fall colorings gifts or
as little children’s nightly multitude variety of dream tales,
when whole worlds uncovered, nay, universes,
hidden between summers green grass blades,
or in unique snowflakes

the semi-forgot love affairs that parented poems
by the score of scarred orchestral scores,
now love circle-turn in holding patters in the
crowded skies above nyc,
awaiting for a trafficked man to give permissions
to “run-away”land that rarely is granted

once, poems in turbulent fluid born, noisy ripping of skin,
****** by the emitting of  constant calming tenderous words,
wonderful drippings, so many multiple births in a moment,
even the OBGYN is complaining,

give other poets a chance at parenthood!

the awesome anger of human tragedy is now so shopworn
from over experience,
even god visits less and less, for it is written,
nothing new under the sun*

though soon his annual visitors day approaches (Day of Atonement) and god will require new
words of human comforting,
a new poem acknowledging that being godlike
is ******* hard work,
for humans are annoyingly capable of incredulous kindness

how can one justify allowing unlacing acts of insane violence to tear
the hand stitched lacing fabric that’s ever ready
to bring us together in an instant elegiac joining

the truth is every one of todays poem are clawed,
shovel dug out from cavities and crevasses,
your new words of recognition of the oldies but goodies,
iron of irony, make it hard, hard, painful to write
without an epidural to numb the painful
dumbing down

when I am breaching my waters, I am hard to spot,
we ancient humpbacks live beneath the deep distanced,
cold waters for many more minutes
than we need surface for breathing,
the show-off fluking, less and less,
and when we birth,
every two years,
must bring the calf-poem to the surface instantly,
to breath, lest it die,
all the while repeating to ourselves:

what was miraculous writing is now nearly invisible,
to blinded fingers that arrhythmically cane tap,
words difficult to recall, recalculate, recalibrate
into a wholly poem

only the **** tears,
that same shameful violin permanent-accompaniment,
they laugh at me when now, they alone
come first quickest, all too easy,


appearing nataurally,

without a formal
written
invitation
“He says, "Son, can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

Sing us a song, you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright”
Anna Miller Oct 2017
I.
It was the beginning of a mild Indiana summer, the kind when your lips are still recovering from being chapped through the inconsistently cool Midwest spring and your skin starts to stick to vinyl when pressed against it for too long. It was a summer of cold-sweat chronic nightmares and letting go. This is when I told you I would be leaving that fall, said I was doing it for myself, said it would be good for you, too. I’m not sure if you believed that. I’m not sure if I did, either.

II.
I spend the morning of the move on the living room floor with all my things strewn out in front of me, figuring out what to leave. I watch the light filter through the blinds, shifting across the floor, trying to guess where it would end up when I finally depart. I clean the bathroom for an hour, trying to leave everything prettier than what I had made it. Don’t worry about it, you said, it will all be a mess later, anyway. When I shut the front door behind me, it sounds different. Absolute. I circle the cul-de-sac three times trying not to cry, watching the trees start to shed their skin. I wonder if you saw me.

III.
We play phone tag for weeks as I try to put off the inevitable. In a stroke of bad luck, the real you answers on a bitter Sunday evening, instead of the recorded message I had heard so much it now sounded like a dirge. I say nothing at first, and then everything I possibly can. I did all I could; I tried to make it up to you, you reply, ambivalent. I agreed even though I hadn’t wanted to.

IV.
We took a Polaroid of our hands clasped together the last day we saw each other. I later cut it in half and threw it out with some rotting orange peels. I had wanted to burn it but remembered how I get around fire. I retake the photo somewhere on the west coast with my new boyfriend. I call it a memorial. I finally say goodbye to your red sweater long after I had already done it to you. I wash it five times trying to get you out of it, pressing it into my skin to make it all mine. When it doesn’t work, I throw it out to rot in refuse with the Polaroid and the orange peels. I call it giving up.

V.
I am such an unreliable narrator, how I paint myself tragic victim in every story, and you, culprit. I wonder if I’ll ever let you be the martyr. I think maybe you were the one who suffered, even though I’m told that can’t be true. It’s just Stockholm syndrome, my therapist says about the way I condemn and praise you in the same breath. I still don’t believe her. I think about my grandmother and her mother and my mother and me, and all their bad blood in my body. I tell her victims can be monsters, too.
Graff1980 Jun 2017
The city sounds of ordered chaos, the constant wave of people crossing back and forth like a human tide. Strangers cut in and out of their tiny groups and barely miss colliding. Honks and bleats hasten the crowds pace as they race to cross the road. Some people stare at their phones, others watch the road but no one looks directly at another human being. Somewhere, near here and in-between there just off to the side a stranger sits mumbling, barely coherent.

“Watch me.”

The age lines run so deep into his skin that they might as well be built in. White stubble paints a drawn slightly sunburnt face. Deep dark blue eyes scan the city life for some unknown relief.
A red line catches his eyes, followed by a childlike voice singing playfully. “Watch me mommy.”

Tiny matchbox cars race around a shallow hole. The little cars cross dips and dirt ramps increasing the young boy’s excitement, as he mimics his favorite show. They crash into a partially exposed root. “Brrckkkeeech bccccch.”A fake explosion sounds. Dusk begins to fall as the cars settle into their makeshift cereal box garage. Smiling and dusty the boy crosses the small road, then the tiny parking lot, and comes home.

Long ***** white hair falls messily across the man’s worn face. All but a few awkwardly placed teeth are gone. Some are yellow while others are darker and rotting. His breath reeks. The emaciated figure feels the cramps of hunger pains. A brown speckled haze clouds his vision, followed by a slight coldness and dizziness creeping over his body.

“Watch me.”

Cardboard swords clash in a titanic battle of good versus evil.  Until the young victor jumps upon his sawhorse stead. A yowl of pain sounds as his tiny sac is smashed. The pain jolts upwards and inwards causing temporary paralysis. Thin legs scrape the wooden brace dragging chips of paint down with him as he falls off his fake saddle. The victor is defeated by pain. A few seconds later the internal pain passes and he is up and at it again, running straight for a large tree. At the last second he swerves barely avoiding a painful collision. In his mind a red cape swooshes behind him as he flies off to save metropolis.

The summer heat draws pit stains on the old man ***** orange tee. The neckline is stretched and has an almost circular pattern of moisture. Barely able to move, his sick stench draws the attention of flies. Bugs buzz by almost as frequently as strangers walking by.

“Watch me.”

Tears fall from the tiny child eyes, as he stumbles in pain. A deep **** runs red with lines of falling blood. His mother picks him up and carries him to the neighbor’s car. She whispers soft word of reassurance. The tears eventually stop.

The man clenches his chest. Pain permeates his being. His breath is lost. He stumbles falling harshly against the cold grey cement sidewalk. Tears fall. He reaches for strangers pleading weakly for their assistance. A foot smashes against his left side, causing more pain to flame up; while forcing him to edge of the sidewalk. The crowd keeps moving.
A stranger snarls “get out of the way you ***.”

“Watch me.” The old man whispers as he recalls his mother’s warmth. Soft kisses planted on his forehead. Sitting in the dark living room safely snuggled next to his mother as a scary storm rages violently against a small house.

“Watch me.” He cries. His voice, obscured by the city, fades and is forgotten.
For a time I kept an eye out for the more obscure and exotic
substances, tracking research chemical vendors who had
the most up-to-date wares, drugs that were relatively
unknown, drugs so new they weren't illegal yet.
You couldn't imagine the range of products.
Stimulants, downers, 'noids, 'roids, *** drugs, study drugs, etc.
Not many hallucinogens unfortunately,
But that's a different art. There was
your standard battery of illegal narcotics,
******* knockoffs of more popular drugs,
Drugs designed to evade tests but retain the effects.
Then there was the more experimental stuff. Suffice to say,
This part of the internet is strange and lawless world.
Not like the wild west, more like the backstreets of Seoul.
I spent many a night trawling through the listings
in search of the most recent pharmaceutical innovation,
I sought to keep up with the current affairs of
this rapidly evolving world. A couple of years ago
a certain vendor's listing flagged my attention
and, on an intuition, I acquired a mysterious assortment
of synthetic cannabinoids for far too little.

Thus, I found myself with several improperly labelled compounds.
It took me many months to even partially identify them
and the vendor went dark before the results came in.
However, that intuition was correct:
One compound
was entirely novel.
No mention of it online.
No IUPAC name. No history
of human use.  No prior trace of
its existence. An arrangement of molecules
that had never before seen on the face of this planet.
Imagine that, I found something new. From its structural name
I guessed it had been designed to circumvent whichever analogue act while hopefully retaining enough activity to lend itself to abuse.
These were part of a far more dangerous class of drug
than I would have preferred, and I would
be glad to be rid of them.

There is something very wrong about the circumstances in which
these compounds came to be in my possession. Legal or not, they were part of an unregulated human trial; a consequence of prohibition.

I had submitted them anonymously to a laboratory and stipulated that they make the authorities known if indeed it was novel.
I retained a tiny sample of each identified chemical
for my own experimentation, but sent the unidentified compounds
to the proper authorities in case they too were novel.
As to my own dilemma.
Many a psychonaut
dreams of being the first being to experience
the unknown effects of a novel chemical.
Like Hoffman or Shulgin before them,
It is the highest honor one can think of,
To explore a configuration of consciousness
previously unknown to the human psyché.
However, I declined this once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity. I chose not to retain the superpotent or novel ones.
When I try a novel compound it will be on my own terms, and
the endeavor will be a worthy one. Even more to the point,
Safety first.
I am a little annoyed I had to skip over them, I cannot add them
to my scoreboard, but I did discover a line I'm unwilling to cross.
If I am to try a truly novel compound it will be of my own making;
And I'll certainly not be investigating this avenue
of substance, it's really more of a cul-de-sac.
That class of compounds is the scourge
of many a council estate. In prison they call it
bird killer, on the street they call it spice.
That lone psychonaut learned some terrifying things
about the world; one should tread carefully
and be mindful of what they seek out.

A story from the depths of the darknet.
Ryan O'Leary Jul 8
Poetry, in some strange
way are passwords, or,
at least, the sharing of.

Every now and again, I
am requested to re enter
it, but, I forget what it was.

Reset, a bit like the GPS
lady who turns our cars
around when we are lost.

Cul De Sac, (is end of bag).
this is when we silence
the ***** for wrong info.
aisha zoë Sep 2018
sapiens, sapiens,
unable to comprehend stimuli you are
so blind. I am
so bored with you
you simple man

miniscule fruit fly:
the thought of comformity a nuisance
the cul-de-sac does not tempt me
you can lick the soles of my feet from
where you are at

you might think I, being endowed by
drastic opinions and drastic moods,
would be keen to take drastic measures but alas;
the most persistent thought is apathy

so if it please you then so be it;
there is no room in my mind
for chasing after
ants and flies the size of bread crumbs

and that you may read this gives me no
thought of joy or pain or anything;
if the crown fits then so be it
that it might sit upon your head
and I a jester in perpetual, nihilist laughter
10:07 PM September 24 2018
False Poets Oct 2017
An excerpt from           An excerpt from
a poem by T.S. Eliot.     a poem by the False Poets


Between the idea          no permanence in juxtaposition
And the reality              where Falls the Shadow, the shadow
Between the motion.     a divisive notion caught between
And the act                    composition & action, the response is
Falls the Shadow           Falls the Shadow
    

Between the conception grayed outline indistinct, the cognitive sap
And the creation              leaks, contradictions irritating birth sac,
Between the emotion      whereupon Falls the Shadow emerges
And the response            the response conclusive, occlusive, collusive 
Falls the Shadow             Falls the Shadow
                                  
Between the desire          juxtaposition insertion, need to achieve
And the spasm                 the blurted ****** of spurted letters born
Between the potency.      in the potent white seeds of black words
And the existence            coming into existence as a riptorn issue,
Between the essence        essences of scents blood+logic foretelling
And the descent               birth & death, descent & the ascent, both,
Falls the Shadow              Falls the Shadow

Between the desire            the desire desired, completed,
And the spasm                   the latency uncovered,
Between the potency         the potent toxins of spit and tears
And the existence              the birth fluid of  of existence
Between the essence          the formulation of the human essence
And the descent                 from blood dust to blood dust is where
Falls the Shadow.               Falls All the Shadows
October 2017
Morning wood huh !
Up again nice and working
Looking for a *******
Uh do i have an appropriate sized one ?
Contemporary **** again
Numbing your mind again
Eyes wide af everytime
Stimulus to the fetishes
How lonely are we that we need to touch ourselves ?
Nothing can be as weird and intense than this
But its too normal to eradicate
Basic **** basic *******
And that juice that lady in the **** loves so eagerly
I mean seriously ?
Why would someone want to be choked ?
Start a fight instead, it would be more fun

After several insertion in and out
Repeation after repeation
Why wouldn't you insert differently everytime
Gotta have a motion
Gotta have some ******
****** for that lava to come out of volcano
Slimy ****
Disgusting and demeaning progeny producing shampoo liquid
Has **** made us confident in bed ?
Well with my small sac set as compared to longed longetivitus penises, Iam insecure af
Why would you give us a guide to such sacred art
We should have done weird **** without telling anybody

Its all women's fault .These oppressed minorites
Always complaining and *******

Dear diary help me Iam sleepy
But before that i must bust a nut to Halle Berry

I wonder who discovered jizzing ?
#offending sarcasm
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