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Joseph Sinclair Nov 2014
Is humanism Utopian?
You really have to think about it.
Or is it rather more dystopian?
No, then I think you’d never doubt it.
It seems that disbelief is best.

Humanism owes a debt
to thinkers of the Enlightenment,
although I haven’t paid it yet,
I think of it as my entitlement
to settle it at some behest.

I very early cleared my mind of Kant,
experiencing a vast relief,
approaching his chef d’oeuvres extant;
removing knowledge to allow belief;
the opposite of what he had expressed.

It occurred to me I ought to dig up
(or should I say instead ex-hume?)
what constitutes at least an egg-cup-
full of wisdom that I might consume
with non-platonic zest.

But wondering how on earth to do so
and thinking he might hold the key,
I fixed my sights on Jean Jacques Rousseau
and set sail for my destiny,
while trying not to feel depressed.

Voltaire’s voices loudly rang in deaf ears
as did the Persian Letters of Montesquieu
and failed to still my latent fears.
And thus I felt no need to rescue
Adam Smith (morality-obsessed).

To put Descartes before the Horse-
men of the Apocalypse
War, famine, pestilence and worse.
Who could guess it would eclipse
my thought, wherefore I was oppressed.

Or take the case of Denis Diderot
a friend of Hume and others seedier.
and one you might consider so
rash as to produce an encyclopedia
to get his knowledge off his chest.

That precious quality of truth
was Mary Ann’s# description of it.
It would not take a Sherlock sleuth
to simply thus produce a conviction of it:
an elementary request.

I cut my questing teeth on Russell.
His secular logic had a profound effect
and seemed to stir each red corpuscle
inhabiting this fervid non-sect-
arian but doubting breast.

I later turned my eye on Dawkins,
and his concern with my divine delusion.
A sceptic whose inspiring squawkings
validate my disillusion
and emphasise an ill-starred quest.

And so I felt the pointlessness of it.
Progress is the best end for a man to see
And belief simply produced less profit
for reality’s dispelling of my fantasy.
So, in the end, I acquiesced.

#Mary Ann Evans, aka George Eliot, in *Adam Bede
JR Rhine Jul 2017
Take me to your *******
@cisgenderwhitemale
in salmon shorts sport polo
boat shoes and expensive cologne—

I, emissary of the InterPlanetary
Order of Eugenically-Minded Denizens (IPOEMD),
have come to rid the world
of this contagion—

who for too long has
beguiled us with their
wicked fashion sense
and appalling profile pictures

appearing on friends’ dad’s yachts
smiling behind a pair of Ray-Bans
with a glass of champagne
drunk underage.

Your valedictorian address
bored me,
your sexist racist homophobic xenophobic (etc. etc.)
inside jokes to your friends
on the lacrosse team
sickened me—

I’ve had to listen to you
brag about your ***** size
since puberty and your discovery
of Spike TV—

I watch you mock Black English
in tweets and hashtags
from locker rooms where
the talk can range from
racial slurs to ****-shaming spurs

(talk never to ****
upon its potential revelation
in a political campaign)—

I film your weddings
where you dance all night
in your Aryan enclave
to top 40 songs
screaming “This is my jam!!!”

I scroll through your #familyvaca2k17 posts,
the immaculate hotels and poolside views
concealing the succeeding flophouses crumbling adobes
and dog-ridden streets of dirt and infinite trash—

I see you engrave in bold
ALL LIVES MATTER
BLUE LIVES MATTER
AMERICAN LIVES MATTER
on every writable surface—

and as a meninist,
lament about the harrowing trials
as a victim of reverse racism.

[The white man’s burden
is to carry the weight
of their inability
to be anything
other than
incorrigible.]

I have come to rid the world of you
once and for all:

Taking the Gideon’s bible
from every hotel
and replacing it with
feminist literature,

burning down every
Banana Republic and
coinciding shopping mall,

cutting the brakes
to every Mercedes, Lexus,
and BMW with a
“Salt Life” sticker
on the back window—

You wear your ethnocentrism
like the sleeves of the cardigan
wrapped around your neck
swaying in the air conditioned wind
like a little cape—

[Behold, Cis-Man!

Whose superpowers include:

Getting away with ****
and perpetuating **** culture,

Minimal jail sentences (if at all),

Guaranteed college entry,

Speeding ticket immunity,

and impeccable draft dodgings.]—

I solemnly swear,
I make a pledge
to never procreate
if it will perpetuate
this vile sect of humankind—

I take a vow of celibacy,
I spill my ***** into the dirt—
not one egg will be fertilized,
not one will be conceived

to the soundtrack of Coldplay,
or Kid Rock, or whatever hair metal ballad
conceived you in the first place—

You are a logical phallicy.

You want to talk about eugenics,
you want to stop
breeding all the “retards
spittin’ on your kids”
at the amusement park—

Pledge chastity with me:
Interbreed,
undilute the strain—

and together,
we can end
the White Man’s True Burden:
Existence.






(p.s.
And it is with great irony
that I write this as one of you—
the Judas to your
Megachurch TV Caucasian Christ—

I write it because
if it were by one of
whom you’ve held
under your [jackboots to boat shoes]
since time immemorial—
they’d never stand
to read it—

for even mutiny
among these ranks
has its own
privileges.)
Grace Jordan Sep 2014
Its not love.

Now don't think I'm crazy. I swear I'm not, at least not mostly. But its true, its not love, it can't be yet, its been one night and I'd be a true psychotic if I thought it was.

Once I thought one night was love, but I was also high off the fumes of my own cruelty and didn't know left from right and Up from Toy Story.

But it matters.

Not in the way you think, God, I swear not like that. I am not mentally able to catch feelings right now as I stumble through the vacant halls of my own sanity, or better put, the filled asylum of my own insanity.

Still, though.

It was a night I could be me, a night I want to feel again, where I'm bare and broken and real and **** and that doesn't happen very often for me. My mask of smiles and lies tend to hide everything, but not that night, and not with you.

Here in this new sect of Wonderland I can be me , be Grace, with little to no question. Well, there's been some rejection and tears and pain and all the average Wonderland shenanigans, but its been magical. I feel like Wonderland is a place I can live in again.

In old Wonderland, I was beginning to suffocate, to feel the cold hand of stability take over me. But I am not ready for that, I'm ready for freedom and dancing in the rain and having *** until the moon goes to bed.

I wasn't ready to be in love with the Caterpillar. Crazy, considering I always thought it was he who was unprepared, but all along it was me.

Guess I can't live my life wondering what's just around the river bend, I have to investigate. I have to know. Things must get curiouser and curiouser, its how it goes.

Let my youth wash over me, let my childlike Wonderland wash over my eyes and let me be me for awhile. Its not normal for me to be this malleable. Everything used to be lies, but now everything is freedom, and for now I love it.

Thank you for that night. Its a beginning, a new one, for Wonderland and I. Why?

Because for the first time in forever, Grace of Wonderland is free.
Kara Rose Trojan Sep 2011
Wherein without a mouthful of air,
He spoke of materialism with
a judge’s
            Merciless verdict.
His eyes so glazed yet passionate,
            He threw his thoughts to the ceiling,
Like rocks in a plastic bag,
            To see if it could make a bang
And his speeches are so angelic
Amongst the ignorant giggles
            And the frayed songs of yawns,
You really had to give him credit. For, you
See, he stares out at a whole different cosmic
Sect in a wanton orchestra
            Filled with red wallows of
            Flags and pride.
Scared jumbles strewn like flowers across this dying opinion-land,
He’s seen it all despite his accent.
He’s strummed cold and excited to be here.
His life is a rusting metal scrap
Tossed to the side of the masterpiece from whence it came.

He thinks that everybody must have been a spy…

No, wait, two quirks tossed in to
Hear the Man talk. It’s all a
Meandering walk from where
The toads squat.

He describes it as a war for the value of academic standards,
Which are now expiring before his eyes, and how we’re all
A bunch of rotting worms dying as we speak. The hope is
That the people from your life will be defeated by you,
Right? That’s how it goes in the war of everybody
Against everybody.  He desires to make all of life
Into a dream… but that would result in economic
Impediments.

Give him the $1 million, also known as “the cool mill.”
Everybody must have been a spy.

You couldn’t look for this logic
Beneath a rock
Or stuck in your lover’s hair.

He’s depressed because he is not asleep – he’s acutely aware.
He speaks like rapturous nuns,
  throwing themselves on to the cross
And begging me to ready the nails.
Big Virge Dec 2018
I Believe it Shows...
Good Sense ...

To RESPECT The ...

..... " INTELLECT " ..... !!!

When it ...
Comes to ... The Ways ...
My Words ... Dis - Sect ...
Current Trends ...
That Now ... DISPLAY ...
PROBLEMS Like .... Theresa Mays' ... !!!!!

Does Brexit GO ... ?!?
Or ... Come To Play ... !?!

Like Iceland Did ...
In THAT ... Football Game ...
That Sent ... England ...
Packing .... with HASTE ... !!!!!

Intellect that ... SPREAD ...
Like ... Brexits Name ....

Sent The England Team ...
Back To ... Their Plane ...
While Iceland Fought ...
... another day ....

WITHOUT ... Brexit' ...
cos' They ... REMAINED ... !!!

Unlike ... " Intellects " ...
Who Were ... QUICK TO CLAIM ...

That ... " Britains GREAT " ...
Like The ... " Good Ol Days " ....

When The Empire RULED ...
In ... BRUTAL Ways ... !!!!!

My intellect NOW ...
REJECTS ..................... Their CLAIMS ...
And Being ... CLOWNED ...
Because of ... My RACE ... !!!!

Because it's ... " Found " ...
A BETTER Place To ... " Nurture " ....
Who I am ... TODAY ... !!!

A Poet whose ...
Intellect is ... FUELLED ...
By Finding ... TRUTH ...
And Being ... Schooled ...

By The People ... Who ...
DEFINE ... My Hue ...

Much DARKER Than ...
THESE ... English Crews ...

Who ...
Choose to ... ABUSE ...
And Act ... UNCOUTH ...
In places where ...
They Should Just ... " cool " ... !!!

Instead of .. ACT ...
Like Hooligans ... Who ...
Keep Playing ... The FOOL ...
Until they're ... BRUISED ... !!!!!

By Those Who CHOOSE ...
To .... STAND UP To ...
Their ... IGNORANCE ...
And .... Racist Moves ... !!!!!

Right Now .... Of Course ...
The POLES Face SCORN ...
From Brexit' Hoards ... !!!!!!!

On ...
RACIST Grounds ... ???

WHOA ...
SLOW Your Roll ... !!!!!!

Let Me ...
Say This .... NOW ....

Are they ...
Dumb like ... Clowns ... ?!?

cos' i'd Like To Know HOW ... ???
These Polish ... " WHITES " ... ?!?!?

Are a ... DIFFERENT Kind ...
To Brits Who've CLEARLY ...  

LOST Their ............................................................. minds ..... !?!?!

Isn't Race ... DEFINED ...
By ... " COLOUR Lines " ....

They're clearly ... Sniffing ...
TOO MUCH ... White ... !!!

To CLAIM ... " RACISM " ...
As the name of The ... " Ism' " ...

That ....
RULES The ... " *** - is - ion " ...
Now Dividing ... Britain ...

So ....
What is it ... When Blacks ...
Face ... Race Attacks ???

An ism ... that now ...
Just Does NOT Count ... ?!?

Maaaaannn' ......
These ... HUMAN HOUNDS ...
REALLY DO .... Confound ....

Because They CLEARLY ....................

REJECT ...........................

Using ... INTELLECT ...
Or BETTER Still ... YES ...
Some ... COMMON SENSE ... !!!

Cos right now .. it's
DOLLARS and CENTS ...
That Has The Pound ...
On The ... DEFENCE ... !!!!!!

No More .... FAT Cheques ...
For ... Corporate HEADS ...
From .... FOREIGN Grounds ....
Cos' immigrations ... "drowned" ...

UNLESS You've Got ...
A Right To ... STOP ...
And ... NOT Face Cops ...
Because of ... Where ...
You're ... Coming From ... !!!

No RESPECT For ... Young Children ... !!?!!

Who Now ...
NEED HELP ... !!!

From England's WELL ...
of Stocks That ... SELL ...
Like Oil From ... SHELL ... !!!!!

But The Well's Run DRY ...
So ... HARDER Times ...
And BIG ... Price HIKES ... !!!!!!

Have Got ...
Some People Saying ....

"Yikes these people have
no exit plan, intellects just left
once Brexit SLAMMED,
the door to funds and immigrants
that actually help, our country run !"

And ...
There It IS ...
NO Jim to ... FIX ...

Like He DID ... Those KIDS ... !!!!

Whose INTELLECT ...
Got ... NO Respect ... !!!!!

I guess that's where ...
This piece should end ... ???

IGNORANT Heads ...
From ... ALL Continents ... !!!

Are Proving Themselves ...
To Be .......
FAR FROM .................................................. Well ....... !!!!!

And Lacking in  ... YES ...
Some ... " Common Sense " ...

Which is Why They DEFEND ...
Their .... IGNORANCE ....

So Use Their Heads ...
Like ... MURDEROUS Feds' ... !!!!!

Who ....
LACK ... Respect ..... !!!

So Choose to ................................ REJECT ............
What This Poem ... DEFENDS ...

Which is to ... Suggest ...
That We REJECT ...................................................... IGNORANCE ..... !!!!!!

And INSTEAD ...
USE Our HEADS ...

To RESPECT ...

.... " The Intellect " ....
Take a listen here - https://soundcloud.com/user-16569179/the-intellect?in=user-16569179/sets/the-cmi-sessions
Big Virge Sep 2014
Is it ...
" Politically Incorrect " ... ?
For Me To ... " Suggest " ...

Our Lives Are ...
... " CONTROLLED " ...
By A ... "Secret Sect" ... ?!?

Is It ...
" Politically Incorrect " ... ?

To Be So Direct ...
When Airing My View ...
On Controversial Subjects ... ?

The World's In A MESS ... !!!
But Meantime ... " The Press " ...
Continue To Test ...
My Patience With ... LIES ...
That MILLIONS ... Digest ... !!!!

Most Stories ...
Have ... " DEFECTS " ... !!!
That We Should ... Deflect ... !!!

Cos' Editors Prey ...
On The Weak And Inject ...
Political Views ... With ...
IMPROPER ... News ... !!!!!

So ....
What Do You Choose ... ?

Mental Abuse ... ?!?
Or ... Do You Want TRUTH ... ?
On Which ... You Can Chew ... ?

Is It ... Politically CORRECT ... !?!
To Say ...

" Coloured " ... Not Black ... ?

When BLACK Is A Word ...
Used in ... Racial Attacks ... ???

Is It Wrong To Say ...

..... ****** ...... !!!!!!!!

When ... This Is A Word ...
That Makes Rappers ... Six Figures ... !?!

No Wonder ... Young Blacks ...
Are Now ... Pulling The Trigger ... !!!!!

Having Read Through That Verse ...
I've Got .... TWITCHY Fingers .... !!!

The Smell of Death ... Lingers ................................................
On ... MOST City Streets ...

So ...
Is This Correct ... ?
Just Ask The Police ... !!!

Is Crime On The incREASE ... ?
HELL YEAH ... I Believe ... !!!

But ...
NOT JUST ... " Petty Thief " ...

What About Party Chiefs ... ?

"They would NEVER STEAL !!!"

Come On People ... PLEASE ... !!!!!

They Steal Peoples' Lives ...
While ... Giving Out DEATH ... !!!!!!!!

So ... Will I Survive ... ?
With ... Life Signs NOT VITAL ... !?!

This Poem's ... " Entitled " ...

... " Politically INCORRECT " ...

Like Suggesting ...
.... " Collusion " ...
ENDED ... Malcolm X ... !!!

" Collusion ... Collusion ... "

Malcolm .....
Died In ... Confusion ... ???
From ... MANY Gunshots ... !!!

What A ...
HORRID ... Conclusion ... !!!!!

These Words Are CORRECT ...
Dis - secting ... Illusions ... !!!

So ...
What About ... " Clay " ... ?
YES ... " Muhammad Ali " ...

A Man Who ...
Spoke TRUTH ....
In His ... Poetry ... !!!

Well Maybe That's Why ...
He's Got ... Parkinsons' Now ... ???

Cos' America ... Knew ...
They'd Best ... SHUT HIM DOWN ... !!!!

Cos' The Masses Heard TRUTH ...
When He ... Opened His Mouth ...

" He fought on for TOO LONG ! "

Is The ... " Good Ol' Song " ...

Well It Seems ... " Kinda Funny " ...
I Think He Was ... WRONGED ... !!!

Well .....
That Comment ... I Guess ... ?
May Seem ... INCORRECT ... ?!?

But It's ...
One I'll ... STAND BY ...
On This ... You Can Bet ... !!!

Cos' ... Muhammad Ali ...
STILL ... INSPIRES ME ... !!!

A Man of ... TRUE SUBSTANCE ... !!!
With ... Heart In ABUNDANCE ... !!!

Who Did Not Believe ...
In ... Congresses NONSENSE ... !!!

Talking of Which ...
I Have To Say ... THIS ... !!!

When You Go To The Bank ...
Cos' You ... Need Them To Lend ... !!!

How Can They DEFEND ... !?!
DENYING Us ... CASH ...
When They've ... Got ...

A .... HUGE STASH .... !?!

But I Bet ... Write Out Cheques ...
For Their ... " Corporate Friends " ... !!!

Well It Seems ...
There I Go ...

INCORRECTNESS ... Again ... !!!!!

Incorrectness ... To Me ...
DEFINES ... Corporate Men ... !!!

But I Guess ... " Most of You " ... ?

Feel My Words Just OFFEND ... !!!
And Maybe My Words .... ?
Will Indeed ... Be My End ... !!!!!

Here's ....
ONE FINAL ... " Stanza " ...
To ... "Mentally Capture" ...

REDUNDANT ... Brain Matter ...
Absorbing ... FAKE DATA ... !!!

I Inject With ... INTELLECT ...
While These ... "Secret Sects" ...
PROTECT and COLLECT ...

While Black Folk ...
Live In ... DEBT ... !!!

Political Correctness ...
Has Got Some ... DEFECTS ... !!!!!

So ...
That's My Last Question ...

Am I .....

... " Politically Incorrect " ... ???
Simply inspired by the question of ... What is it to be ... " Politically Correct " ... ???
Johnny Noiπ Sep 2018
Sand-written Christians claiming to remember
the computer's food,  in jeopardy & daughters
dancing enough in the Temple;           & heard
over the radio on the table;    naturally hidden
off a gypsy feeling the heat from burning
torches, ways corner holding the *******'s
picture of her mom; Jack's lover in sheath town could
bring to move more corporate leather desert
skinny lady's dawn planet body like a hairy mantle;
a shade; In the kissed him,               and as much as
they call it, Latin east of the garden to look
  at the lights of the flame of the knowledge
         of the plastic Einstein's abstract sense,
           the invisible is greater than the sight
              of the beat the bottom of the New;
moving sweat, receives fate come to be known
is a living being hot the skin,   which is the fall
of the leaves according to the letter;              to play a stranger
                                     the true lord,
is taken to read the goddess, in the middle of the book
of b/c leading to a hot start for you to speak to the queen
of the stomach, a teenager's clothes & the waves of the wide part
of the shore of ***** almost to stand still the middle of the night,
a witch holds the lady naked; 1 shall return against the writer
that he is already a-dying, blessed are they,
w/ their armed sect Moorish & thin, of course,
to leave behind the knees bathing  
       in the hot springs in the Hills?
[The cut is greater than the tongue of madness
                               of the sounds of a loud ****],
30 shall be the wicked desires of Asian investors;
Said the Christian, remember what the computer does;
I put food on the table, natural daughter dancing
enough to house music on the radio hidden off in the corner;
holding a gypsy & feeling burning torches;               the ways of prostitutes
have the same mom as Jack; lover's sheath in a state
where she is able to move more corporately, in its skin,
as the body of a planet; the light of the wilderness
of the ladies' skinny body like a hairy garment:
& they in the shadow; Kissing him, & beyond their means
call Latin east of the garden & look at the lights;
in the flame from the knowledge of the plastic Einstein,
in the abstract, the invisible things is greater than
the number of people viewing the bottom
of the trendy  new thing that moves the sweaty way to accept a fate
to be known,    that being to be alive
or to be hot on the skin, which is in the leaves of the
trees which   were according to the letter to play the
stranger in the future he is true, LORD taken in the Law
of the goddess, for you to speak to the queen
of the middle of the little book out of a hot start
to the ventricle of a teenager    the garments b/c the
waves to the shore of the broad middle of the night,
told by a witch who can barely stand the mistress
of the city,                he was naked;         Then returned
to the 1-in's, which is already dying,
happy w/ the sect in the arms of a Moorish one indeed,
to leave on its knees in the Hills?
the cut is greater than insanity,
a loud banging noise of languages;
                                                      the wicked desires of Asian investors
LS Martin Oct 2016
I can still recall the familiar smell of burning candles that ignited the hot air like a ceremonial perfume. But the presence of soft music, dim lights, and my Mothers unwavering smile all distracted me from what I was to truly encounter that day. That morning my Mother managed to push back most of my stubborn curls away from my face dressing me in an elegant but modest white dress. She explained to me that this was a defining point in my life and I was to look my best for it. It was the day I would walk down the church aisle with many other girls in front of church members to pledge an oath of abstinence prior to marriage. At fourteen years old I stood before my mother, before the congregation, and before God to make a promise not to share my sexuality hardly before reaching an age to explore it myself. This was called: A True Love Waits Ceremony. As I walked inside the entrance crossing between pillars I quickly noticed the Church walls decorated in hues of pinks and reds alongside matching drapes trimmed with frill to better represent the month of Valentines the month of love. In the act of taking my first few steps toward the podium I passed rows and rows of chairs where my fellow church members sat. There were some I knew and some I didn’t but they all gave their nods of approvals to me just the same. Participating in this ceremony was not only suggested but encouraged. As a symbol of my promise I was given a piece of jewelry which as a young girl I could not help but be excited to wear together with others. I was given what is called a purity ring yes given, not asked. During the time I was walking past the audience I felt the sweat of my mother’s palm as she held my hand or was that mine? Our eyes met and she gave a light squeeze of reassurance. When we finally reached the front steps of the great sanctuary each child turned around to face their parents to recite our vows together as one. While my Parents stared back at me proudly I repeated the words just as rehearsed, just like the others, and just as expected of me. It was not until years later that I would ever think about this moment again. This moment between moments where something unknowingly happens to you. Something honest but deceptive. Because no one asked me at fourteen if I understood what *** was only that I need not involve myself in it. Ironically my Sunday school teachers told me I was ready to make this lifelong commitment to abstain from *** just not old enough to engage in it. They instructed me this was my responsibility to hold myself at this standard of dressing and acting appropriately to help men not fall short of their sins. That my body a body not yet fully developed could inspired men of an impure nature a nature of which must be controlled. And since the vast majority of deacons, ministers, pastors, and church officials were men the only other *** to be considered as the primary focus for desire was women and consequently me. However when your fourteen years old no one tells you this. What’s more frightening is that some people do not see the error in it either. When you grow up in a religious sect it’s not necessarily discouraged to question what you’re told but rather that starting as early as childhood there is just so much indoctrination being imbedded for there to be any room left to give birth to independent thought. All I can draw from these events now as an adult is that humanity is flawed and sometimes completely inaccurate. When taking this into account it can only make since that when people get together to form a system, the system too will be flawed and yes sometimes wrong too. So when you grow up Baptist remind yourself not to confuse your faith in God with your faith in humanity. People try to be honest like God but the deception is that we are impossibly flawed and can never hope to be anything like him and that is the honest deception.
vircapio gale Aug 2012
.  .  .  .  .  .  .
.                 .
.  .   .   .   .   .   .
i would like a space marked out
wherein in silence i'd observe my sacral auguries,  
and insularly divine
amid mid-dawning light contingencies,
to sweep a magic sweep for sunrise-          
                                                             -tabula|_|rasa
and find, founded in a flout: a sect beyond sects
to section self sectionless~
inwrought helix interhelix nest~
and there reside attentively
()blinking()        s l o w      ...ly
in rainbow eyelash quiver flow,
arrows     soaring      ' '  '    '         '              'centerly
to        pin
   each
               whirl
of dream,
                       of sleep,
                           mneumonic residue,
                                             prehensions right    or wrong    clear through --
symbological goo, too--
all too evidently called
from out an obvious deep
oblivion of plenum om,
or so it's said it's seen
in clear eidetic percept room
of alter overmInd of mindstuff's tomb [*]
and form of selfish altar drama gone and soon
for looking in or out or neither both
oblique, about aboutness-mirror zoom~
to which what spectionism halves
behaving in a twofold twining intro free: the finest of the fine:
insight-interred        intuited sign

quiescently, albeit doubtfully at times, benign

.

.


.




.
'templum' is Latin for 'space marked out for observation of auguries' and is the root of 'contemplate' (which is one definition of yoga, 'contemplation')

sectionalism - exaggerated devotion to the interests of a region, usu. political, here, psychological

plenum - the condition of being full; fullness; a space completely filled with matter

eidetic - exact visualization of events or objects previously seen  

introspectionism - doctrine that psychology must be based essentially on data derived from introspection, as compared to behaviorism

*this write draws from Patanjali's Yoga Sutra, I.5 and I.6, in which the five vritti ('whirls';'fluctuations of the mind-stuff';'turnings of the mind') are listed:

vrittayah pancatayah klishta aklishta: thought-forms are categorized into five varieties, of which some are painful/selfish and others are non-painful/selfless.

pramana viparyaya vikalpa nidra smritayah: these (the categories) are: correct knowing; incorrect knowing; verbal delusion; sleep; memory.
Eliza! what fools are the Mussulman sect,
  Who, to woman, deny the soul’s future existence;
Could they see thee, Eliza! they’d own their defect,
  And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance.

Had their Prophet possess’d half an atom of sense,
  He ne’er would have woman from Paradise driven;
Instead of his Houris, a flimsy pretence,
  With woman alone he had peopled his Heaven.

Yet, still, to increase your calamities more,
  Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit,
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!—
  With souls you’d dispense; but, this last, who could bear it?

His religion to please neither party is made;
  On husbands ’tis hard, to the wives most uncivil;
Still I can’t contradict, what so oft has been said,
  “Though women are angels, yet wedlock’s the devil.”

This terrible truth, even Scripture has told,
  Ye Benedicks! hear me, and listen with rapture;
If a glimpse of redemption you wish to behold,
  Of ST. MATT.—read the second and twentieth chapter.

’Tis surely enough upon earth to be vex’d,
  With wives who eternal confusion are spreading;
“But in Heaven” (so runs the Evangelists’ Text)
  “We neither have giving in marriage, or wedding.”

From this we suppose, (as indeed well we may,)
  That should Saints after death, with their spouses put up more,
And wives, as in life, aim at absolute sway,
  All Heaven would ring with the conjugal uproar.

Distraction and Discord would follow in course,
  Nor MATTHEW, nor MARK, nor ST. PAUL, can deny it,
The only expedient is general divorce,
  To prevent universal disturbance and riot.

But though husband and wife, shall at length be disjoin’d,
  Yet woman and man ne’er were meant to dissever,
Our chains once dissolv’d, and our hearts unconfin’d,
  We’ll love without bonds, but we’ll love you for ever.

Though souls are denied you by fools and by rakes,
  Should you own it yourselves, I would even then doubt you,
Your nature so much of celestial partakes,
  The Garden of Eden would wither without you.
Nhlanhla Moment Apr 2013
A rider's quest, ****** reverie
The colour of your soul invites me
The essence of you humbles me
The smoothness of your skin makes me melt
Your eyes glow and kindle my darkness
We sparkle, we shine as we undress
Dripping oils, Burning incense; ****** chemistry
Your body succumbs as I stroke your waist with my keen thumb
I wrestle you and you take whiffs at my neck
I collect your scent and
pinch on your ******, biting on your ilium sect
There are colourful and organic effects
This passion inspiring unprotected ***
STDs, *** a child to pure serendipity
Raw and coarse, hissing and grunting
Panting and rhythmic crying
Warmth all around
Bone to bone, close and bound
Music playing in the background
The day is bright and shining
The ocean of love deep and wide, let us dive in.
I wrote this on Valentine's Day to signify that ribbons, ponies, cups and hearts are mere metaphors under the shadow of *******.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
there may be a time when I'm removed far enough

… but no, not today, today, I ask
new mercies, and
I recall, that's on auto. Hapsthappeneverday kinda thing.
Time after time.
That is a miracle, time.

Really smart
people, that class that feels included in the
we, the
people, politico-intellect-ism trend sect,
they think the math is there to prove

time is
what clocks do, (Royal Institute Youtube watch it)
                                                  
that we,
that ain't me, ye see, I got

removed far enough
to see the blurry
next res
bigger picture more pixels than an eye is said able to see

So for everlasting ideas,
like hell and
heaven,  

the re act
to my act is the power
to act. Eternal motion as perpetual
as can be imagined by mortals, for sure.

Get it together or you leave a huge hole in the fabric of reality JBP

play the role your hand finds dealt,
your special way,
words count inbetween the sayer/hearer
the idle wons are wins not worth the weight, don't fight
the value system that makes life spirial,
swirl of a wand, mathematically
bowing to magi
Fibbo, go viral
with my wind.

this is your life role,
the one in eight billion role.
the star of the show as the hero of hormone wars.
it's all in your head,

how did it *** there, howditgit
this way
this is crazy. No, you never saw crazy, old dude.

Ya had yo'own knows sparkin' at the grindstone,

whet the edge,
or put to more labor..

removed
far enough from this world

my bubble
is in it not of it,
… since 1970. No ****. Outathis world…

Crazy was the melding  from the sixties to…

I was thinking, to about the mid-eighties, but
now,
you and I, we travelled to the beat of several
different drums.
Olde dude,

If you put your nose to the grind, ******
you may have missed,
in fifty years,
more
than you imagined, now, is a new day time.

Some seed never sown back when, can be sown and
grown right,
now.
That's good.
I'd say some words I've helped be heard have

made the world some better'nitwas when we stopped.

time to roll.

Sisyphus, right. 'Never missed a trick time
it takes to roll the rock up,
then in between tick time
to roll the rock up,

onus minus the roll down, the unshackled wireless
inbetween shameless blameless
imagine
happy ever after…
How?
Pretend, the end.

Push, happy as hell.
tick, time
to roll the rock up,

Incorrectness of value of value from the gitgo,
like buttoning your shirt wrong from the first button,
as soon as you fix it, it's fixed.

Nothin' you can do?
Do nothin'.

Think, Sisyphus, happy

Happy he's not in that time we are so removed from
now
slow and steady kinda wins the race, she said that,

Ben or me? Where does the thread un-ravel?

Extended time model, Rogan in the back ground,
what myth has the fear factor guy,
a little short power-lifter-kick boxer guy,
some smart, quick of wit, a hunter,

who was asked, in Thailand,
Have you seen the true beauty of the elephant?
I was asked that, in Thailand,
by a saffroned monk at a kickboxing match
in the jungle in 1968.
Synchroni-city or what?

Who could steer it's  hearing
by a clock and fail

to hear the rhythm of the rock rolling down the hill,
inbetween
the tick…

Sisyphus says time is more effective,

if-ity-ish when,
and only then, when ticks hapt to be

at the very point of return
time
the roll back
no rush, no dread no worry, imagine

time ticks at the sharpest point of the story
at the very very very tippy top
point in time

defining you.
Shame, sticks to you like tar.
Marilyn and Monica and Marla and all

Fame to blame, to shame for being  a believer that
there may be a time when I'm removed far enough

to ignor my own ignorance and innocence
of ideas that possessed
fools

A murderous assault on your attention span,
musicals, those people really live near enough my bubble,
that I can find
ripples

from decades I missed, this is 2018, how can it get better?

The grand wizard cat. pop. elephants are so sweet,
dam,
rewound. Really,
cool, I know what he says next, it's funny before it's funny.

Today is a real good day to get away. Binging Rogan,
testing a mystery fruct-ification
of a single seed from
a sack 'shake.

----
As you move forward in time how do you measure

progress
lo-res thinking, 72 dpi 1984 Macintosh. Hello

now there is reality at the speed of thought, imagine

this was once the speed of thought.

===
why are you in pain? Do you know any lies you believe?
Do you
urge others to suspend their un-belief
to hear you think

listen
ridiculously (is that a good word)

listen, people become interesting, from a distance,
thank you,
I'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
Earlier on the Sisyphus Happy channel
in a cozy nest*
the sect of snakes
did reside
with the chief asp
holding a strong
preside

none would ever move
until he gave an okay
to defy his edicts they'd
be thrown out of the shay

an uncomfortable position
the servile vipers were in
each of them had disclosed
secrets to the overlord's ear tin

after a time the snug abode
imploded on the leader of the sect
the underlings obtained some smarts
*and wouldn't willingly genuflect
Fashioned by grace amazing and mercy
Divine. Wrought by his unparalleled Passion:
His suffering, death and resurrection--
The cross of Christ in Calvary
Is the lone bridge, the only ladder
That reconnects man to his Maker.

No one who has traversed
That Golgotha-link hath ever
Fall'n into the deep r'ver
Of hell 'neath, nor by damnation
Touched in Satan's condemnation.

"Hey, what about so-and-so prophet,"
Said one, "and such-and-such sect?"

I do not, sir, over religion quibble.
Compare to grave matters--trifle.
Get books and the Bible. It's futile,
Argument, making a sage an imbecile.

And why lose friends to gain foes,
Multiplying instead one's woes?

God doth not any man in life compel.
Each soul chooses 'tween heaven and hell.
Yet his love daily he whispers to you
And i. College cobber, that is true.

"Oh, you are just a pedestrian
Writer, without wits and sans brain,
Like an *Onitsha-market author."

"Thou art also a paltry poet, a bad bard.
Folks should simply thy collections discard.
For i can nought make of thy poetry ethos.
Your works wherefore are but bathos."

Hallelujah!!
Praise i Jehovah!

"Hell. Away now thou pedantry."

Thanks for your commentary--
It's heavenly--erudite Professor.

Faith ferments finer than wine.
Thy decision it is with whom to dine.

The self-righteous, the holier-than-
Thou art, who prefers to leap
Over to God on his on major merit
Will always go under the heap--

Thinking he can close the chasm
Created by sin,
And cover the gulf caused by transgression
By ritualistic rules and doctrinal devotion,
But ends up in some bedlam--
In Sheol's loony bin.

Broad are the twain heaven's arms
Filled with warmth and soothing balm
Often open to embrace prodigal souls.
I come from Kashmir
where land is green & white snow bed
and I come from Kashmir
where roads aren’t black but are red.

I come from Kashmir
where Daughter Tajamul brought Gold
and I come from Kashmir
where daughter Nafiya craves for her father’s body and lost his soul.

I come from Kashmir
where journalists get Peter Mackler & Pulitzer awards
and yet I come from Kashmir
where journalists get charged under UAPA as a reward.

I come from Kashmir
where Thekedar gets benefits under the Roshni Act
and I come from Kashmir
where an internet shutdown of 551 days was for every sect.

I come from Kashmir
where Gupta g ranked 1st in the country
and yet I come from Kashmir
where youth have to carry ID’s to prove their identity.

I come from Kashmir
which was known for its cultural dress Pheran
and I come from Kashmir
which now has more business in selling Kaffan.

I come from Kashmir
which Allama called the valley of braves
and I come from Kashmir
which now is the valley of Graves.

I come from Kashmir
which was called Earth’s Heaven
and yet I come from Kashmir
which now is the World’s Biggest Prison.

I come from Kashmir
where Chinars paint the autumn gold
and I come from Kashmir
where every spring, new tombstones unfold.

I come from Kashmir
where Dal Lake mirrors the moon’s glow
and I come from Kashmir
where blood taints the rivers’ flow.

I come from Kashmir
where children dream of books and play
and I come from Kashmir
where childhoods vanish in smoke and clay.

I come from Kashmir
where lovers once whispered in gardens wide
and yet I come from Kashmir
where silence now walks side by side.

I come from Kashmir
where poets wrote of love and fate
and yet I come from Kashmir
where verses now carry only weight.

I come from Kashmir
which history books fail to define
and I come from Kashmir
which lives between the headlines’ lines.
A voice from Kashmir—serene on the surface, deep with unspoken stories.
Classy J Jan 2019
Making an *** of myself while asking myself, does cash moo when these cows Plow over poor fools?
In Cotten fields with brothers floundering,
But still gotta give grace even if monsters starve ya to death.
For they only concerned about cashing their cheque’s, and saving their necks.
Such is the carnal nature of wendigo’s,
Who egos keep em entitled and keeps the dough only flowing to their sect.
Leaving us to fend for ourselves in the wrong neck of the woods.
Evil twisted as some ******* story of a necessary moral good,
With these dark fascist crow puppeteers designing the hood.
Whilst demons like Regan test us like lab rats, pushing pills down our throats with police beating us with batons to our backs.
Backs that built the foundation for these pigs to thrive on while they watch as we slowly die.
Maybe that’s why the hood is also known as the projects.
A project for white supremacists to always have a usual suspect.
Should’ve known my skin colour would get me shot down for nothing like Malcolm x.
Assassinated because we’re deemed as a threat, So how can we live good lives when the cards have already been set?
Man!
I thought that the police was supposed to serve and protect, but corruption comes in and now a brother got to protect his neck.
Maybe that’s why ain’t a **** thing changes?
When one’s race determines the length of their jail sentences.
When ones gender determines whether or not another gets away with ****.
For goodness sake!
Devil please take a hike!
And God please give me the strength to cut up all this red tape!
Because at this rate, society will end up worse then the Scorpion album from drake!
Cause we just like his secret love child for we are in need of some ******* support.
Life is a *****, for if it was a **** star it would be easy but also expensive like a private resort.
So unless you actually started from the bottom it might be impossible to make the charts.
So when life is weighing you down, at least you never had to **** the ***** of a tattooed clown.
In order to try on a Burger King crown,
Then Letting one’s ego run wild and as a result your music becomes watered down.
But every day one a tone’s ah for their sins ah, and for drake it was the coffin Pusha T buried him in ah!
****! Fatality!
Such is the price when one makes a fatal mistake.
For you can’t have everything and that slice of cake!
You can be a model all you want but it doesn’t change the fact that your fake!
Just a manufactured mannequin pushed out at a flat rate.
For uniqueness is just a moded state.
And for the most part we are all bargain bin plastic sheep.
Man humbleness makes ones knees weak.
But loss or gain is all just something that we reap.
So be careful what you seek.
And be sure not to advantage of the meek.
Or else you will get put through a saw mill.
For if you underestimate your opponent you’ll be killed.
For real though man I swear this world has no chill!
The Church in its awesome majesty
Looked down, from over the hill,
From faith, to hope, to travesty
It stood, and is standing still,
So proud in its fine regalia
Its ritual, and never the least,
Its potent God who would wield his rod
Deter the jaws of the beast.

The Bishop of Saint Ignatius Church
Was a proud and holy man,
Who wouldn’t suffer the jibes of fools
From Rome to Afghanistan,
And certainly not those down the hill
In the new Masonic Lodge,
That beastly, secret doctrine that
He advised his flock to dodge.

He’d stand at the steps of his church and stare
Down at the barbarians,
He hated Lodges, he hated Mosques
And Rastafarians,
‘There shouldn’t be anyone else but me,
I hold the eternal God,
What gods they worship could never be,
For they’re all distinctly odd.’

While down at the Lodge of the Masons
They were cool with their golden rule,
They had to believe in a god as such,
But how, it was up to you.
For some would practice the Baptist faith,
And some Presbyterian,
While some enrolled in the Primitive state
Were a type of Wesleyan.

There was only a single Catholic
And he wore a glued on rug,
He wanted to still be young at heart,
Was known as the Grand HumBug,
The Antidiluvian Mason’s Guild
Was the name he’d chosen himself,
The others differed, but he was keen,
And he was the one with wealth.

Their God was known as the Architect,
They carried the masons tools,
The set square set them apart from all
The disbelievers and fools.
They worked on their secret rituals
And kept a goat at the back,
For leading a blindfold novice in
And guarding the Lodge from attack.

The Bishop heard that a Catholic
Was leading the Masons there,
He fumed, choked on his rhetoric, but
Was heard to firmly declare,
‘I will not shelter a wayward sheep
Who has taken to ways I hate,
The only fate for a traitor here
Is to excommunicate!’

He gathered a dozen priests to march
With candles, down to the Hall,
Surrounded the base heretic’s Lodge
And named HumBug in his call,
Sprinkled his holy water ‘til
It fizzed, and gave off a smell,
Doused his candle and closed his book,
Consigning the man to Hell!

But Humbug patted his glued on rug
Went out, untethered the goat,
He let it loose on the dozen Priests,
It butted the Bishop’s coat,
They ran in confusion up the street,
To the church, set up on the hill,
While the goat was hard at the Bishop’s heels
Like a demon released from Hell.

It butted the Bishop’s altar and
It charged, knocked over the font,
Scattered the pews for the devil’s dues
In a hellfire sacrament,
While HumBug muttered he might end up
In Hell, with his Mason’s sect,
But the Bishop’s God, had failed with his rod
In a clash with his Architect!

David Lewis Paget
Mitchell Nov 2011
Neither the soul lies in wait or
My mind hangs by bloodied stakes
No not me is forced in restriction for
Through light comes a love which
Is neither clothed or naked but
Protected by the ones who live within it.

Through the apparitions of former
Ones, lying awake in the wake of history
Castle tops spin their stones weary from
The sun and all of its penetrating waves
Pedestrians on their kneels wailing for
A forgiveness they truly don't have to beg to give.

We walked through forests of mist and
Stones wet from the tears of ones who have lost
I nod toward the mountain where the fountain
Rests in a serenity of mysterious eternity where
Infinity dances alone with her bells and her brother
Hell whose hot to trot for inside he wishes he had
Never put up his hands and fought.

How we got to this world of foreign ways and
Mistaken miseries, I will never know, but the
Tired baby with all her maybes makes me wonder
If the dawn was made for her and her only.

These many people who wander through the streets,
Their faces shining but their souls beat,
Out loud I scream but no sound doth come from my mouth,
If I stay here much longer I don't think I will last a month,
For friends are shaking in their nil to none accounts and
The roads are being paved for the next with their hex
They wear with pride but they do not truly know where
High markings come from or where it future blow.

Hours sleep amongst the sands of time with pillows
Crafted from the mice of the coming millenium with
Their whiskers, their greying eyes and their jet black
Hair and inside they bear a weight which we can never
Know, it hangs on their necks like a child's red bow but
So we are christened by the highest of saintly prayers,
Whisked away to forgiveness, though few refuse to hear
The chimes of euphoric illusion, a shining diamond, a
Pool green as peacocks feather robes, nodding off for soon
We will all have to go.

Libraries hold the old shelves of thought of masteries
Gripping tight the leather and the cloth administered by
Their ministries, ordered by the highest sect. to break the
Mold, though too far and regress forward into a high
Revolution of solutions by chance of creating a medallion of
New toys for the nots to be curious about and later be shot
Admitted in the eyes of the clouds and the sun and all of nature
Piles of bone and skin and blood and elastic tendons we hold
True to the one attribute that is acute enough to carry home,
Though where exactly too, hope to see quite soon.
Ken Pepiton Mar 2021
}} who would lust to list to a guy named Waldo? I asked…
This guy I know, Al, he says it contains references to mort-ifying experiences, AND those could boost our points made, so AI suggests I read: Ralph Waldo Emerson, from 2021-
If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument.
A man must consider what a blindman's-buff …
{*******, looks it up, it's like Marco Polo in a public pool}
he goes on
what a blindman's-buff is this game of conformity.
{ he assumes his audience is a we, We all play, back in his day, this game was considered religion, and
religion was some form
of Christianity, the rest were heathen,
in that game,
conformed religion was the only winning
peace time occupation,
which Blake bitten poets might imagine fitting into,
who knew?
at that time, now
the game is set, default mode
on cult startup,
first hook is, God called you because
you are like us a loser without hope, without help,
Tetzl, build me a tourist attraction,
make the Germans pay,
then
have all the ******* artists paint its walls
to prove each believes
the story the edifice shall tell.
{listen, she whispers, hear her first entreaty only once}
Now breathing is like expanding the game:
inspirational sci-psy-psi, know as we say we know,
we are those who know,  ecce ****,
-------- those evil inquisitors, were me -
-------no - I was Jaques De Molay,
sure, ri-ight,
and I'm Oscar Schindler, when he saves Anne Frank.
HEY
WE CAME TO EXPOSE A SHADOW...
so the seeds we sow
grow where hearing ears
cross reading eyes and all
the best ideas come in double

space-ing to allow for lines that wrap at the frame, fully phreakin' justified, on any screen with leading letting space be normal, thus limiting out of bounds imaginary
reasons
why lines come in expensive short lengths,
||
last issue of The New York Times composed using hot metal (2 July 1978) was titled
Farewell, Etaoin Shrdlu

|| the hot metal was lead. Like bullets, but letters.

In this medium, messages know
there are no valid reasons
for long justified lines and
space is not only there there
between lines that start at 10, to leave fixit room,
an ancient way of making room for right in wrong code.
Add a lin -oops line
Etaoin and Shrdlu and lorem ipsum, too
RW-if old waldo had been enabled,
as I am,
with mortally infinite paper
and ink visible to any eye,
Now Waldo, tell Seri to spread the word, y'back..
.
he may then
have written in my short line attention span,
concept upon concept
except ...
reception
falters…
WE LOST THE HOOK>
NOBODY KNOWS WHERE WALDO FITS THE PICTURE

Here's Waldo: 2021, with no ******* comments…
---------------------------
The objection to conforming
to usages that have become dead
to you
is,
that it scatters your force.
It loses your time and blurs the impression
of your character.
If you maintain a dead church,
contribute to a dead Bible-society,
vote with a great party
either for the government or against it,
spread your table like base housekeepers,
— under all these screens I have difficulty
to detect the precise man you are.
And, of course,
so much force is withdrawn
from your proper life.
But do your work,
and I shall know you.
Do your work,
and you shall reinforce yourself.
A man must consider
what a blindman's-buff is this game
of conformity.
If I know your sect,
I anticipate your argument.
I hear a preacher announce
for his text and topic the expediency
of one of the institutions of his church.
Do I not know beforehand that
not possibly
can he say
a new and spontaneous word?
Do I not know that,
with all this ostentation
of examining the grounds of the institution,
he will do no such thing?
Do I not know that he is pledged
to himself not
to look but
at one side,
— the permitted side,
not as a man, but as a parish minister?
He is a retained attorney,
and these airs of the bench
are the emptiest affectation.
Well,
most men have bound their eyes with one
or another handkerchief,
and attached themselves
to some one
of these communities
of opinion.
This conformity makes them not false
in a few particulars,
authors of a few lies,
but false in all particulars.
Their every truth is not quite true.
Their two is not the real two,
their four not the real four;
so that every word they say chagrins us,
and we know not where
to begin to set them right.
Meantime nature is not slow
to equip us in the prison-uniform
of the party
to which we adhere.
We come
to wear one cut
of face and figure,
and acquire
by degrees
the gentlest asinine expression. {;}

There is a mortifying experience in particular,
which does not fail
to wreak itself also
in the general history;
I mean
"the foolish face of praise,"
the forced smile which we put on
in company
where we do not feel
at ease
in answer
to conversation which does not interest us.
The muscles,
not spontaneously moved,
but moved
by a low usurping wilfulness,
grow tight
about the outline
of the face
with the most disagreeable sensation.
>
I find I digest short lines better, and waldo doesn't mind being paid a bit of attention, he had some ideas that breathe easier in this century,
Mehma Kunwar Jun 2014
Lets travel to a land
where nobody knows which creed
I belong to
And which sect I possess
Where nobody knows my name
And people are less bias
Have one colour,
One faith which they cling to
Where to judge is to sin
And where nobody asks
who am I
But
what am I doing..
Do what you feel you should do, have pride, have confidence despite whatever this world says. If you think you can make a difference, I believe you can!
Johnny Noiπ Nov 2018
Thomas; the sand to return little by little to the genital organs, breast cancer's strong pieces of fat to the commandment of thine own eyes;
sect of the Jews on the ground, sat down and the fish of the shore of the empty burning with paint, the bright buried the void of Satan, a monster,
a monster, the glory of ringing in the abstract, they were broken off the ***** of the sacred *****, the peak of the opening of the bear of things, waiting for the food of football in the child's picture auguring people
of the city to Google; a dove, surely the city, the police dog's books' cool ghost deserted the question of origin; bad, brought the floor all flames; loved in the shade; rain, rain, flesh, food, fool; the blond that enjoys the victory of the policeman's ******* fingers deep in Ivan's planet, the fighter easily stuck around for hours letting her ability to live be covered by سيزر, Belgium - Jordan: Belgium Asia and the Iranian players, and it's easy to go to Niger, parents and brothers and spouse hall life. ايئن always the best performance among the reaping delegation of death and Master Yoshiha's wireless phone. Oh First, global warming or climate change and is Alexandria able to access the Romans? It is not enough to trade, he said, "You have to understand certain parts of the question." This is the ninth day of the meeting, "I must take into account the burden of the prophet Isaiah?" 'Crisis last question. "Type ميلين 149 ايشيا country of Asia to Greece, city of Italy, 1490, in South America, Asia, Latin America, 14, L4 = 9%, health and safety representatives in Great Britain's Center. The United States,
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and white covers of Italian art; a game to the south in the country and a continent.

O ring sacred monster Satan's empty hole
with an abstract kneed the smell of smoke,
waiting for the revolution eating picture
the pain of piles is the captivity of *****
and her daughters google **** and cold from
a lonely, holy, a question of origin conflagration
throughout the city, the world is loved
by the sergeants, the cops since the angular
motion he brought the area of ​​the injury
of Laura's shadows, I fell down in the rain
of the women in the shadow of a fool,
yellow on the interest of the victory
of the victory they profess themselves to use;
I took hold of the drawers to lower to the toes
of the world, Ivan the clear,
skirts the torment of a great Muse's talent
around three hours beating antioxidant's remains
in the autumn death V the gain of the violation
of his own lean to speak in the same way
the light of the lover I hunt with the other hand,
the shearing house of
SassyJ Apr 2016
ohhh Soul raptured and captured
Fractured in moments of reciprocity
An outward doubt of censorship
Widening smiles of spoken misfortune

A tear, a mend, the exposed laughter
Tributes of adventure rouse the sheep
Rumoured lines of defensive solutions
Evolution with a tenancy of dissolution

Hearts of hearts, a distanced resolution
Insulated in clenched stimulant jokes
Introverted cells taking a pick of self
The ***, a sect, to solve and save the rest
Funny how comedians make fun of themselves. Inspired me to work on a long neglected comedy set..... here we go, I'll pick on myself!
Reece Mar 2013
Draping a well-worn shawl that was once a vibrant purple over his tired shoulders,
the pale skinned, grey eyed writer hunched over the battered typewriter
He knew for a second that he was indeed God
Not in any bastardised sense of the word but the truest form
He click-clacked at the keys and made words as if he were the first magician,
tricking the masses with wizardry of the most absurd kind
and preaching his word for them to follow
From the pictures of his mind he tapped away,
creating great monolithic structures and clusters of characters,
each with defined personal traits
Mere seconds before ink blotched paper they existed in no universe, and now,
now they were defined, realised and serving a purpose
God truly does love all his children
Alas we know not of who God truly is
Each group would have you believe a new story,
each sect within those groups would differentiate between themselves
and we are no more enlightened
You see, God is real but only as far as we are real
extasis Jul 2010
A point
sequence
perchance a pattern
things constantly intertwined
perfect circle
golden ratios
where there are 2's there are 3's

but in the end...mystics

Our lady & father as named in scripture

sequential gatherings
we join as community worshipers

there are patterns as I walk
numbers as we talk
non-believers gather on us
Herald, we walk as words from your mouth into eternal
shall we seek forth that which repeats onto itself, changing again and again into familiarity?
Or has it been found already?
Perhaps before the eye could see it or the mind conceive it.

We take hope upon the chance
That this is but the process into something, we have finished in ages past
For what would it be to know the answer, without the how, without the meaning?
We may know the how, given time,
however the meaning hasn't been seen yet & the purpose has faded as other things become clear.
Must there always be this strict balance?

Perhaps the comprehension of such balance is a sect, missing among a unitary spiral of knowledge.

Always this path is uncertain, I navigate it as much as can be done, but this vessel is fickle & prone to deranged bouts of change.

As I think, breathe, see, hear, vibrate, pulse, fluctuate with life...there is nothing and I revel in it.
I watched the movie π (by Darren Aronofsky) a little while ago. Wonderful movie. At the time I related to the main character, and I was compelled to write something.

— The End —