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Justin Apr 2014
The water you drink has been poisoned,
The air you breath is corrupt,
The cities we nest in will crumble,
The end is near and abrupt.

Let your feet carry you to a much safer place,
Far from the idols we built,
Cherish the life you've been given,
but wallow forever in guilt

We tainted the fruits of her garden
and burned all the gifts she had grown,
From her ashes we built up our kingdom,
and in her sanctum we knelt to our throne

And now it is her time for calling,
And now it is our turn to run,
The cities we built are all falling,
The end of mankind has begun.
patty m May 2014
I remembered it well

the rich mix of smoke, perfume, and garlic

one could almost taste the absinthe in the air.

Toulouse-Lautrec, was deemed acceptable

as we embraced his artistic vision

singing our Chason Realiste songs;

we are the people, the poor gaudy freaks
traipsing about with drink in hand
sliding stockings down
from thighs, spreading
our provocative
dreams while delving headlong into
decadence and garish night life,
trying to escape banality .

Ah Henri, the prostitutes, and there
were many, Marie Charlet
your first. Even with your genetics
and anguished tirades burgeoning,
she loved you well.

Tremblement de terre, your creation

we too contrive when mocked

to become carefree and

obsessively delusional.

Thin brushstrokes
touched dispassionately
and yet there is sympathy suffused,
a continuum of unarticulated
and variegated respite;
the allure of mouth watering treats
and trollops that take the woe-begotten
to stellar heights.

While we the hangers-on
raise glasses in salute
tonguing the inner sanctum of the Moulin Rouge
our astute imaginings savored while
craving even more of those
***** nights with ******* and bodies
exposed, ******* whetted blown upon.

Then too, our burrowed deep sensations might grind
out torch songs, even as the flames leap higher
to singe us all, we laugh and cry.

Curled flame we toast the unexplainable
creating an **** of molten light,
bodiesof heat brighter than stars.  

Thus we become the false dawn,

stripping darkness from the midnight sky,

an explosion of all we are and have to give

in our life long pursuit of Celebration.
Yaser May 2018
It was brought to our world from a primordial ether
that bore no resemblance to anything the human mind could ever know,
let alone comprehend.
And all those that looked upon,
stood before it, uncertain,
not of the creature,
but of the sanctity of what they once held above all as their truest sanctuary: the mind.

To feel it slip away
into an abyss not much unlike
the birthplace of the blasphemy with which they were assailed,
was a welcome turn.
A new escape.
An impenetrable sanctum
Kalesh Kurup Apr 2016
"Will you wait for me?" He asked
Hesitantly, she: "How long?"
Hope and doubt intense, he: "for 60 years",
"Don't be a stupid, no one wait for anyone, that long": She
"But you said we are the soul mates,
The only key that fitted the lock"
She was long gone; into a dot,
Midst the temple lamps, round the sanctum


Hurried, she sent the message of the night and switched off the phone
"Love you; Miss you, my battery dying; Will text you tomorrow"
Amar replied "Me too darling, missing you and love you crazily"
Akbar replied "Hug me close and sleep tight honey, dream only me"
Adil replied "Take care my love, good night and sweet dreams"
Antony was angry, "Why don't you keep the phone charged?  Good night"; he was the hubby!
And the stupid opened the door, hugged her in
And whispered "come in, my soul mate
The only key that fitted the lock"


"Take me for a ride; I want to be a carefree pillion today,
Floating away with you..."
Holding him tight, legs across, she let her hair loose
“Fly the bumps, I want to fall all over you” she held him tightly
From the pillion of the bike, she longed to see all spectrums of life
"Faster you stupid, I don't want to spend a lifetime as a pillion"
Then one day, she climbed the hills, for good.
He wandered the plains for long
Within their own, they kept a grudge to themselves
For, not letting the lock and key to know
They only fitted each other


“I take you to be my wedded wife
For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer”
“I take you to be my wedded husband
For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer”
Until the God sets us apart
Honey turned the first leaf on- ‘Money!’
“My money is my money, and
Your Money is our money, Stupid!”
Then it was all about I, me and mine
Lock never knew there was a Key
And the Key went from the fights to flights and a final freeze
syncopation Oct 2018
That’s what it felt like when we lost you
To the complex maze that became your truth.
A self-enlightened mind
Impermeable to light, to touch, to time.
An inner sanctum of make-believe so outrageous, so utterly unbelievable
Made of illogical truths only you sought achievable.

What led you to this I can only hazard a guess
Was it divorce, insecurity, a lifetime feeling like you were less.
Why has it come out now when time has already been the test
Was it the lack of medication, a lack of rest.

My brother you are wounded.
Your mind an open sore.
Rest your weary soul.
Torture and pain no more.
patty m Mar 1
Darkest Passion
if I defer the grief will I diminish the gift,
the legacy that is yours and mine?
Teardrops of sorrow infuse with loss
shadowing the living,
shall I enter as you have;
or will you awaken if I touch you with my lips?
I will say nothing to the shadows of darkness
trembling against me,
drawing me nearer to earth's bedding,
as we coalesce in the inner sanctum,
a pale chapter in indeterminable time.
Demon of destruction has set out to destroy me...
From morning to night it feeds out to control me...
But the Light of Christ has enabled to comfort me...
Mandated from Darkness it sets out to capture me...

Fortified by the Armor of the Almighty...
I fight the battle with Divine Splendor...
From the deepest part of your soul your Umi tries to control and overpower Yami.
From the deepest part of your soul your Umi* fights control Yami* (Umi:Darkness Yami:Light)
Objective is try to not let Umi win over Yami.
We shall fall in battle weary, armor broken, divine splendor shattered...
Ready to give in when the Highest...
Saves us from doom from complete darkness...

The Radiant Morning Star shall emulate light into your soul essence...
Furthermore, restore the power of your Divine Armor...
Conquering the pestilence that roams in the dark...
Destruction demon weakening prayer empowerment rising...
Then we drawl in the Heavenly sword...
Which shall slay the demon decapitating his head...
Hallelujah the judgement from heaven has been made...
Stand united Brotherhood of Light...for this is an ongoing battle between your Life and your Soul...
1 being alive to do as much good as possible pleasing The Almighty daily and at all times. 2 Allow God to be in control and your outlook on Life and what it brings the good the bad the ugly...Christians must stand war ready for our spiritual temple to wedge war against principalities, dark powers, witches, witchcraft, spells, plagues of doom, prophecy from the other realms, dreams, illusions, perdition and lastly soul contracts.  Jesus Christ the intermediator and The Father and the Holy Spirit...
Lucifer doesn't sleep doesn't eat doesn't give up from the day you take your first breath till the moment you take your last...

Let God help you can truly feel free of worldly chains... disobedience to The Almighty and Denial of the Work of The Spirit Of Fire...
Eight blue flamed tongues...
The immortal and unimaginable power he holds...
The Holy Spirit the doppelganger of The Father...or The Almighty One...

Allow spiritual sleep come be awake and allow the force of God the Omnipotent, Omnipresent the One Ethereal Benign Being...

Love is his ultimate power the Alpha and Omega. Beginning and End. Existence recreating itself within itself...a world of random possibility. But with direct order from its atom microorganism the human being. We choose right from wrong we are given "Free Will" and in the end God shall judge all...

~Stand Prepared for Judgement Day~...for HIM known as God shall judge according to his divine will and perfect impeccable truth within truth a experience so drastically real you will know exactly where your headed....the Heavenly Realm situated in the ultimate realm of the Multiverse. Or Hell the Eternal Sanctum and punishment of Wicked Corrupted Souls, souls that denied The Holy Spirit Of God. Within the Heavenly Realm this majestic immortal being  exists the entity known as God...
From there inside the Holy Throne to the right of The Almighty...sits the Only Begotten Son (Ultimate Atonement for Humanity: The Lamb, Jesus Christ) then his Querubins,Seraphims and Messagers. Followed by Holy Beasts and 24 Holy Kings...

The power of Lucifer Prince of Darkness...God Demon. Ruling over Leviathan, The Black Legendary Dragon, a hierarchy of Demons from Pride, Lust, Gluttony, Wrath etc.

Are you with us...Christians Warriors Of Light...or against us...

Decision is crucial here we are battling for your eternity your salvation...

Come now calls the Lord come home...

To a Wicked Generation Lost in it's inevitable end and final resolve.

Don't be Godless remember Love is what God is made of...come ye weary lost souls come...Amen
©Franko the Christian Poet
Demons vs Angels the battle rages on. Love vs hate battle rages on. The color of your skin... racism must be abolished.
Hannah Marr Apr 20
Today the magpie cried 'salvation'
As I woke to tangled sheets
Binding bare, shaking legs.
My bed released me hesitantly,
Reluctant to entrust me to the day's devices.
Stormclouds buzz behind grey eyes
That vacantly watch steam rise in wisps
From a cup clutched in trembling hands.
Marshal the troupes,
Pen, paper, caffeine fix in hand,
An orderly retreat into the inner sanctum.
Today the magpie cried in dawn light.
I rolled over and went back to sleep.


You shine like the Moon but
Your illumination is like a SUN
Thus many a times I think of
Standing beneath your shadow
To experience and feel
YOUR inner darkness of LOVE

Whenever life has become difficult
And the being of my heart
Has felt like a depleted temple in ruins
I think of placing
- Your eyes
- Your smile
- Your face
- Your feet
- Your being
In place of an IDOL
To bring back the true glory to
Our LOVE'z sanctum

Many a times I think of
Drinking your LOVE as much as I can
Let the world also witness that
If ever I come to my senses
From the intoxication of your LOVE
They might see me breathe my last & die

Many a times
I think of showing you your eyes
So I can protect YOU
From the LOVE of my eyes
The same way you protect me
From the LOVE of YOUR eyes

Many a times
I think of bringing my fire
Close to your being's storm
So to extinguish myself
Annihilated in your LOVE storm

Many a times
Every single moment I'm alive
I die and live in your LOVE

Many a times I've thought
Just like that
Let me try to forget YOU
But I am unable to - I can't

Many a times

Dania Elmayer May 27
She once told me to yearn for love
means the void, inside
has not learned ,love .

When the time was grey .
I would think of what you told me ,
chasing what never loved , hurts what does .

There is beauty in the rain
just like there is beauty in your light .

The saint in the shadow,
high in the heaven her sanctum remains
a loving and an enduring , figure to embrace .

What has never killed your heart has never touched your grace .
Ike Aug 29
It's not that I'M crazy
We are locked in a world
Of barbs and razor sharp

The radio, TV, phone, your diet, your *** life

They say we are depressed
Give us pills
Blame it on our childhood
But believe in a burning Bush

And convert yourself
To faerie tales and
Alternate facts
That the world isn't a festering pile of **** we made for ourselves out of ourselves.
All the **** and famine aside,
Everyone is happy and as long as you don't have to deal with it, it isn't a problem.
It's only on the TV.

The fact is
It really is all ****
We blew it
And the reason I don't give one flying **** about ism and proverbial sanctum
Is the very same reason I try to drink myself to death
On a regular basis
Philipp K J Jan 16
If this vast azure emptiness can prove
An aghast endless vacuum measure
Take it for granted, research process sure
It will fuel your thought resources, true.

Mining specks and dots in deep space treasures
Boundless designs shine assigning pleasures
Unfurl within mind in gaseous beams
Overflowing the banks of conscious streams
Filling the utmost sanctum with soft skills
Milling vacuum with colorful quills
Calming the pulses with embracing lulls
Warming all lives with fundamental pulls
Creating a sense of duo, I and you
Love and dislikes and points of view.
Feeling satiety in charity
Finding synergy in activity.
Minting amity in society
keeps you young aged muddling in daring dreams
Deeply engage you cuddling realms supreme.

So what? if this vast thought mine be blanked out
Will the ghost mute vacuum follow suit?
If sense aides guide a slow downward exit
And mind bids the fairy lids to close it
Will the sun bewail, bemoan and eclipse?
Or will the same smile prevail on red-lips?
If souls sunset in seamless sea of mind
Will lights spill out; team up to stay behind?
To form anew a fresh long microwave
To indent a start with a soul suave
A new spectrum to perceive the forces
For the soul that constantly resources
That differently formats transceiver courses
The energy that cannot be destroyed
But that which can be candidly portrayed
On a vast emptiness fluidly stolid
On a continuum vividly solid
On a clean canvas without dimensions
In a brave new world that cannot mention
A name which is beyond comprehension
A frame that doesn't fall on known convention.
Heather Moon Feb 2014
So my father,
he goes into the store to buy his $10 a pack for cancer
while he still attempts to hide his addictions from my sister and I.
Now I don't think it would bother me oh so much
but his frugal attempts to sweep the dust under the rug is like using a mop instead of a broom...
We see the crumbs leading to your door from the cookie jar.
Yes, we all have flaws, but you,
weave shamefully through the under layers of darkness, devoid of any resemblance to a heavenly nature, you fall like a night creature weaseling through crooked creaky cement alleyways, your gremlin spirit set ablaze.

LIFE, I revel and roll within the taste of each second, I run the grain of life across my tongue until saliva fills the creases and far reached corners of my mouth. I tap my finger to my lips like a true virtuoso, a connoisseur of life. Life.

My father's addictions completely derail me,
not even so the notion itself, I mean yes, but his blatantly obvious ways of avoiding confrontation not only from us, but also from himself.
Like Pinocchio's nose, my fathers back gets hunched more and more, his breath quickens when we draw close.
Father you are not prey, in fact if there be a predator, it is you unto yourself. I can no longer help but to roll my eyes when you tell me for the fourth time in the day that you must take out the trash so as to have a smoke.
I am fed up, excuse me sir, the trash will still be there no matter how many times you take out the "trash" .
The only "thing" that won't be left after you're repeated offenses of the benign chore will be you're dignity because you are so naive and ignorant in the way you dodge truth. How can you live respectfully when you don't respect yourself? Nor do you value what you are spitting out to your own daughters.
I am addicted to life,
I breathe it in with passion,
I embrace the truth within me
and have an eagerness to expand my wisdom.
How come father you do something that you know is a betrayal to yourself? How come you hide away in that old bar, the one with the flashing(flickering) light on the outside, dingy worn out red leather(plastic)booths on the inside, the bar located in some musty  little hole in you're brain and a blind spot on you're heart.
You sit in the back in a lonesome booth slumped like some chump, stuck in a stump, you ooze and wheeze not even grasping for air, no fight left within, you are like mucus, a toad melting into the ground. Sinister and swindling in the greed of you're gut. Your ***** mopey yellow eyes and the shameful acceptance as you indulge in the baths of life's luxuries whilst you poison your body, trash what you hold dear and continue to block out that little annoying voice.
The voice with the cracks in it,
worn out from you're games, the voice that nags and pleads. The one that catches you before you order another round, take another smoke break, the one that pulls you, tantalizes you with it's simple sweet natural charm in hopes of distracting you from your self harming ways.
The voice that chimes in the second you raise your fist to punch me. The voice that is screaming at you when you lock eyes with mine and can see my fear.
Yeah that voice, the little punk one that returns even after the crime of your actions has been committed.
After the music stops and it's just you and the world.
but even then
I don't think you will hear it.
You're living on the edge of the pavement father.
No you wont hear that voice, not when you're twisted and contorted into the sideways way of things. You killed that voice long ago, when you wound yourself deeper and deeper like a clock in time,
when you twirled yourself into that little empty pub, with a quiet pool table, with no hope, a sanctum of greed.
Yes, you're guilty, yes it was you.
It was you who killed the voice inside of yourself.
You killed it when you traded
your dignity and your truth
for yet another
$10 dollar pack of
and forfiet.

Even Mike from Picture Loans don't wanna banter
'bout the football: I must be Mr. N.S. Senshawl.

My fascias & guttering are gagging for it,
but Safestyle never call: I must be Mr. N.S. Cenchall.

Nadir? It ain't bloomers baron Asil
in Cypriot sanctum tranquil:
it's me, myself & Mr. N.S. Senchall.

All the shitposting edgelords
catsitting for their exes Saturdaynight
are still more cool
than Mr. N.S. Senshaul.

I cross the informationsuperbillygoatsgruffbridge,
data unharvested: I must be  'NIFOC In Norfolk'...
'Drat & dratdrat, wrong username!'
blushed Mr. N. S. Censhawl.

Happy Hanukkah card was a circular
from the Inland Revenue.
Wasn't even addressed to
Mr. N.S. Senchawl.

In my hibernaculum, awaiting the business acumen
of a Sally Army mercenary, knocking to sell
me a doorbell that plays, 'Jingle Bells,
Mr. N.S. Censhall smells'.

Neither chaplain attached to suicide magnet estates,
nor my own personal Semitic Jazz Zeus, ministers
to unspeakably forgotten O me of little face,
Mr. N.S. Cenchawl ,
unseemly as all the major faiths.

Even if I rescued Meghan Markle
from Mr. & Mrs. Shackles' tumbril,
in sadiemaisie bunnyland black swaddling
on the road to Much Marcle,
the press would still misspell the hero of the hour's name,
'Mr. N.S. Censhaul'.

On my birth certificate, impasto vitiligo
of correction fluid furs the phobile mome no.
at my mum's hobile mone. & my name.
I cannot decifur
if it's Mr. N.S. Senchaul
or Mr. N.S. Senshall.
Or 'Mysteron Is Sensual'.

Has my mind gone blanket,
or is it a sense shawl?
Now I feel like Wolverine,
at least a vulperteen.
Militaryindustrial *******, sob,
did they massacre my memories, bub?
Defuse my dreams of a life less stabby?
Contorture me into this cybertiger Caliban,
Now I feel like Wolverine's
wisdomtooth, a pain deemed
so negligible
- like Mr. N. S. Cenchaul.

Stan, Stan!
Baker,  M'intosh, Zodiac Killer,  
Dr. Livingstone,
Mike from Picture Loans,
do you copy, over?
It's me,  Mr. N.S. Dooberry.
There is no resort in this broken paradise
i once knew to be life .

I fade into the bleak shore like a burst of dusk,
losing the hunger to breath.

Abhorring the masterpiece of my beauty and reminding nature , that silence is for the best .

Silence is my disease .

For i have learnt that screaming out is as futile as remaining ,
and i have been to this cave ,once sanctum
learning that some souls find meaning in tragedy .

So what remains of me that hours ?

Silence, and isolation
Michael John Sep 2018

all in all
when it comes
at the end of
two parts
a smile
or a frown
a brick wall
a white line
ends own
a choice
a refusal
a moments
the birds
all taken wide
and around
up down
soft stones
i know you
no sound now
have a break
take her nice
and easy
somehow begin
do not sigh..


you take a deep
i want to high
do you recall
o the rail bread
the sanctum
the sunshine
the water crashing
and that small calm
said why
what did you do
i will not say
you will
no i will not
why should i
you say
no you
it is taboo
the devil
ah yes they
what do they
don´ t
you know
no,call it
not they
where is the fun
don´ t say
oh ****
here we go
china plates
when did the rot set
with a key
and zap
i might have been
happier before the
four stroke
i´ m not sure
it is hard to be
but still we are just
a blooming accumilation
of what has been
and some of that
is not too pretty
if you know what
we mean
but of course
who does
are now
and will be
for ever
silence wins
that is a common
can be interpreted
as no
best say perhaps
i think that
is lunch..
NRIKO Aug 2018
How wonderful it is, I say, to the retreating
yellow form of your feelings I mistook
For Infatuation, you’re a romance heckler
far and far away from
Accepting fruition within classrooms and
being labelled as an angel.
And it was within forbidden hell of
euphoria, I found
You nestled in the society’s psyche
neither content or calling
For help. Neither did you neglect the
pink spectacles of the society,
Even found yourself moulding and moulding
into a fungi green
That I could not recognize, within that
half-sanctum, half-oasis I found you
Bathing in, you were already out of
its waters.
And I was no longer seeing you within
the dry desert or the sibilance
of my desires, but instead
in cement woodlands and
Within artificial communication and
Intimacy I gave willingly.
Now how does it feel, to have your
heart in one piece,
How does it feel to not use
whipped cream to fill in the
Cracked, salty sections of your
own ***** that,
Out of confusion, continues to
play its favorite song but
in all the wrong beats.
Somehow within cacophony I found
you, nestled, comfortable in
Bogus, fraudulent wings of a former
angel- who now weeps under our
Feet in theory- Somehow, somewhere,
I lost you within an epiphany
That reeked of bliss and pleasure-
Somehow, we end up losing
Twins of the heavens when all is well.
How wonderful.
How wonderful it is, I say, to your
lost, secretly-weeping figure
That I can’t tell whether transparent or
yellow your figure is.
But I keep speaking-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To love the first angel I’ve set
my eyes upon-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To lose an angel, no matter how
phoney, to a social heaven.”

- enriko. aug 5. 11:45pm
Matthieu Aug 25
A thousand desires burn the night
Reflecting cracks in a thousand lives
Lived them all, they pulled me back.
We eagerly consume what holds us back.

Psychosis or the clouds contorting
I can hear the angles falling
What chances an insatiable thirst
Strike hard and fast while the world's asleep.

There's nothing there to hold my hand
For now the sanctum calls me down
Follow me past the dreams of men

Push the door, Push it forward
Lean it against the hatred here

Through the grove and past the falls
Lay in ruin the hopes I sewed.

Weaved are the webs that hang in the breeze,
Are all the things that could have been

If you could know before it ends,
Would it have changed the waves or shifted lens?

Bring about the heart attck,
Let me hear deslotation ring
Waste my soul for all to see,
I hoped for more,
Never be.
Hell with Manu! Manu go to hell!
The wrath of your interpretation,
Put us under an inhuman subjugation.

You turned a group,
Dictators of a merciless culture,
Transformed us worse,
Than a scavenging vulture.

You gifted us the psychology of the worst slaves,
And robbed our culture, worship and God,
Who is there to get us out from these graves?

For centuries till now continue our struggle,
We are forced to live with worst strangles
In the poisonous jungle,

We the humans treated much worse,
Than dogs insects and poo eating pig,
Our scars wounds and blows,
Still remain untouchable and big.

Poisonous **** declared the crops untouchable,
Proclaimed itself the most unconquerable,
Less than a second it takes,
To **** the poisonous weeds with a cutter,
Throw them into the useless gutter.

Landlords, who rule the land and hill,
Put the lives of untouchable crops to a standstill,
Multiplied the existence of poisonous ****,
At the expense of the healthy crop seed.

Our journey in the doors of
Movements, struggle and legal
Was quite a win,
That proved out to be absolutely lethal.

We won successfully in the battle of right,
Till the end of the topmost administrative fight,
We lost to erase your caste ridden thought,
That is useless rigid and tight.

With your caste names,
You remind and hurt us, with useless exhibition
In hearts, we created die hard flames,
To take up the long term ambitions,
And get us out from these addicted inhibitions.

From mother's womb to a cemetery,
We have a same human life,
But when it comes to temple sanctum,
You **** us with a political double edged knife.

We built the temples,
You played a gamble and created troubles,
Pushed us to convert,
Got our identities to subvert.

World belongs to everyone,
Our life does not hold value.

Nature belongs to everyone,
We do not have access to water by Vedas virtue.

God is equal to everyone,
But we are restricted entry, as an oppressed queue.

There is no use to argue,
Of course it is untrue,
Let's put ourselves to the rescue.

What's next? What's next?
Let's create a new humanity societal text,
Let's create for ourselves new religions,
Let's begin to reach out to the next generation,
Work with them to build new revolution.

Let's create a new religion,
In nooks and corners, all areas, rural and urban,
That treats humans as humans,
And give life to the humanity slogan.

Change the rules! Yeah change the rules!
Throw into gutters all these useless fools,
For human lives, there can be nothing to tally,
Human life remains invaluable and holy

Being human is my true breed,
Crows and cuckoo belong to our creed,
Mountains and sea belong to our human group
Be proud, you will belong to this peaceful troop.

Let us get up, where we fell
And put this curse to the hell.
India suffers from the world's toughest disease named caste and untouchability. When we rewind through the history, we can understand that Manu’s interpretation of Veda, as Manu dharma created the evil ground for castes to hit its foundation strong. The person from the oppressed and suppressed class sings the poem. In the midst of the poem, the poisonous weeds are those inflicted with caste ridden superior thinking. Landlords are the rulers of the land or present politicians in India. Healthy crops are the oppressed class. Till today the pain of those in the oppressed classes had been unremoved. Caste ridden superior thinking is a psychological thought instilled through generations. From drinking water to honor killings, caste has taken its never reached big form. It's time we respond to it and work towards creating a world without any discrimination. I dedicate this poem to all caste warriors in India like Dr B.R Ambedkar, Bharathiyar, and Periyar, Jyotibhai phoole, vallalaar, vaikundar, and Rettamalai srinivasan and ayoddhidhasa pandith. It's time we reach out to the next generations and first teach them to treat humans as humans. It's time India wakes up to this human crisis.
Grantland Mar 4
Strange sounds in the night
A lofty conclave of owls
Meet in their sanctum
While camping with my wife last summer I was awoken by a sound I couldn't identify. I walked deeper into the woods and found, in the beam of my flashlight, a gathering of owls staring down at me with large, alien eyes. I felt elated to see these magnificent birds in the wild, but knew that I was trespassing on a gathering I couldn't fully understand.
you want a 6 pack?


listen in on
rip jordan b. peterson
  (full version)
jordan peterson vs.
jordan peterson...

  this beats the lazy affair
of canned laughter...
prompt: laissez-faire
       all manner
of intelligence
is lost when this editing
  i never liked
clever comedians,
simply because...
clever comedy was
          never: comedy...
it was just clever,
   with canned laughter...

this **** is a revival
of the seemingly ancient
slap-stick humor
variation of
staging theatre...
i.e. without a precursor


i mean,
the video editing that
went into this stuff?

you giggle
to the point of
imitating someone
going to the gym,

working for that
i mean:
my ***** dropped,
i cried,
and ended up
with a jaw-line
as clenched
shut as a bull terrier
and also
an ease of breath
coupled to
the letter G
     as muttley.

  some go to the gym,
some just giggle,
the end relief
is pretty much the same...
hey, sure,
as long as i'm
not aware of
            me being a plagiarized
      if it's oh so funny...
thank god i received
a free pass on
learning to six-pack...
ingesting the sort of
           stated material.

i've had the laughs
come against me...
             i just brood;
you just need
the right level of acidity
to allow "things"
to, ferment.

      but that shamien
genius editing...
   it's like a revival
of slap-stick humor...
it's bypassing monty python...
can you even begin
to feel,
the experience
of disinhibited laughter,
a more riddle-free
sense of schadenfreude
via the case
for stumbling,
   and not being
investigated for i.q.?
less lady gaga,
   bradley cooper:
night at the oscars (shallow)...

sha la la la....
and some other song to boot...
the innocence
of the experience
of comedy,
so far lost,
in staged spite...
in the terror
of the staged theatre...

first comes
the innocence
to invigorate comedy...
while all over
variants of comedy
come, subsequent...
mind, body, soul,
wrapped in shadow...

i can't relearn a sense
of comedy with the current,
puddle's worth
of experiencing
dipping into the sea,
come night,
and our bodies are
worth no little of the little
scrutiny they're given
to begin with...

    just when comedy
can become as innocent
as standing naked...
rather than fooled-by...
allowed the base
of replying: ha ha...
and crying with a stomach

       until then...
as much futility of intelligence,
in debt
to a comedy of
contra wit,
contra void,
    needed to write
one spaghetti pasta's length
of ridicule...
contra: i own
the sanctum,
the cage and the caged
to make counter-argument...

   no one cares what
you feel!
  who's expected to begin
to care about what you think?
poetryaccident Aug 2018
Destiny guards the door
to the sanctum most avoid
when the signs point away
to the dogma put to page
some would say the way is set
the path etched in the stone
trod by dedicates to the cause
not looking up beyond their lot.

The providence may be shed
resisted once the lot is cast
even when the writing posts
on the wall none can ignore
concession made to wisdom’s breadth
only a rebel would demur
to a calling few may hear
silent to all other men.

Ascension becomes the right course
soaring past the doom foretold
the loophole seized at last
while conceding kismet’s role
the choice is made to turn the key
bending life to transform fate
nudging open the gateway
by the fate we make ourselves.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180813.
The poem “Turn the Key” is based on the Terminator movie quote, “There’s no fate but what we make for ourselves”.
Heather Moon Sep 4
May you return home
To this beating heart

Like a bird at dusk,
Retreating softly.

To the place
Where flesh intersects breath,
remember this
taste of heaven,
The holy matrimony
Between spirit
and body.

May you return home
to this divinity,
Where blood meets bone,
the symphony of sound and colour,
Sparks aliveness in every cell
and each
movement you make.

May you return home
To this tender beating heart,
To the centre
Where the
Earth washes over you
And the Sky holds you
And all your prayers.

May you return home
To the fragrant orchards
Of your own blooming soul,
The sound of your own flowing song.

Remembering the importance
You have here,
how this very place is where you
create your own special magic,
The magic the world beckons
from you
At this time.
Listen gently.

May you return home
Sweeter than ever before,
Dip your toes in golden honey,
fill your belly with the moon, and
Bath your heart in the sparkling oceans.
Fill your own cup with your light
and fill it
Beyond the brim this time.

Easy love, difficult love, patient love, silent love, peaceful love,
loud expressive love,
Slow love.
Allowing yourself
To seep all love
into every crack and crevice
Of your thirsty being.

May you return home.

May you return home
Write the love letters
You always longed for,
Fill your aching sorrows
With your own inner knowing.

May you return home,
To the dance of how you truly move,
Releasing constraints,
Feeling laughter and liberation
With every drop of the shoulders.

May you return home,
Wiser and plenty,
Stronger and ready.

May you return home
To a rich rolling field
Across the plains of
Your own naked spirit.

Drench yourself
with the nectars from
An orchestra of flowers
In full bloom,
Make the intangible tangible.

May you return home,
To your own ambrosia,
A Sensuous oasis.


And if the waters do not flow
So easily,
Maybe they are hiding.
Be here in your weariness,
Be here in your discomfort,
Be here in your acceptance,
Be here in your gentleness.

Be here in this now,
In your stillness.
This sanctum,
This temple
Of light.

May you come home
However you are,
Light and Soft, like a butterfly
Worn and weary
From footsteps and long days
or even years,
Etched into the fabric of your soul.

May you return home,
To your own
Resting place
Of peace.
To the silence of this forest,
The valley of this chest,
the flow of this winding river.

Your own arms are waiting
Ready to hold you.

May you feel the softness
Of your own pulse
And smile
With the remembrance
Of your own
Special light.
Conor May 31
Once there lay a blatant fool,
Wandering the abyss,
The never ending darkness,
Consuming all.

It’s reckless hands they do caress,
Trick the eye into seeing beyond illusion,
Illusion be but the light,
The epitome of the inner sanctum of night.
Old and Tattered.

Stuck cold.
Like the vicious snot in my throat.
Nestled platoon of dew.
Molding the tunnel.
Configurated Japanese combatants.
Planted in the deepest of the deepest.
The twitching of subtle brasses.
Lightly hugged by breeze.
It's nice up here.
Balance in intimacy.
Of such is feared.
Too young of Neil to use such diction to describe such another half.
For only fiction can thread through these lines.
As intimacy is scarce in the lands I walk.
The melody sits sweetly.
Like a whisper.
So clear like a resting lake.
So pure As the calm eyes that appear from the tree line and sing into the soul.
Standing here all alone.
The lingering glow of something that was.
Into something that wasn't.
Or something that never was.
Gentle like the strings "Down by the river".
An acoustic outcast to live for.
Burnout in a sanctum covered pine trees.
Cinnamon water, and blueberries.
Folded cough drop wrappers to be used as cigarettes.
Woolen blankets.
Year long beard.
Three year hair to the shoulders.

Garrett Johnson.
Tim Buckley road trip.
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