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"septa" poems
Batshit crazy, Batshit soup. Am I just lazy, or caught in a loop? Batshit crazy, Owl **** soup. Razor blades, Razor blades, Razor blades, **** Love is not a competition. Love is not a game. You see me as a player, and it's a downright shame. Batshit crazy, Owl **** soup. I am totally lazy, and caught in a loop-die-loop. Glass houses and baseball games Angels wings and tar SEPTA lines and pine trees Can take you pretty far Love is not a competition Love is not a war and acting like a soldier is really quite a chore! Silly souls and wacky words Dragonflies and tar I want to make some art with you but I don't know how you are it's Just another slide down the razor blade of life into a bowl of sour owl **** Batshit crazy, Owl **** soup. Am I crazy, or am I caught in a loop? Razor blades Razor blades Razor blades ****
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Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
Sour Owl ****
Today, I was sitting on the SEPTA, on my way to work as usual. Suddenly, a Secane Bro appeared. This wasn't just any bro, it was a special breed, rare and only to be found at the Secane station between the hours of 7 am to 9 am and again from 4 pm to 6pm. These are the Indian research bros. They come in with gelled hair, starched shirts (ranging from pink, sorry, salmon, to white) and the indelible odor of Indian cooking and men's cologne. For a more science-driven bro, a heavy backpack is essential, while the cooler bros have headphones and briefcases. The bros are often self-conscious and gang together. They rarely have a female companion, since such a thing is against the bro-code. They always sit together, or at least in the same car. Most of all, the bros have hope. They are ambitious, flying fish in the dreary SEPTA morning atmosphere, zealous believers willing to jump through whatever loop and hoop to get their own piece of the American dream. Dream on bros, dream on.
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Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
The SEPTA : A Satire
I ponder what my parents told me, “The light in your eyes is back.” Not because I am happy, (or sober…) Its because I stare at the dimly lit skyline In the City of Brotherly Love, In a melancholy manner. While I could make some cliché allegory Of a cigarette being another source of faint luminescence. But I am a college student, A speck of a presence drowning in dimwits, With such bright futures ahead! (Along with a large sum of debt.) So while I sit and stare At the city lights, Soaking in suicidal thoughts at the SEPTA station. Remember the light in my eyes Is a reflection of those city lights. Dimly lit, Not aflame. I have no one but myself to blame.
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Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 3:37 PM UTC
Dimly Lit
Cultures dissected … structured refusal Cloistered eruptions dearth to accept Rising triumphant they steal from each other Defining their existence —by what they reject (Septa R5: September, 2023)
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Oct 7, 2023
Oct 7, 2023 at 9:53 PM UTC
Schismogenesis
Tapering to a point time pierces the veil Unharvested moments a gardener’s tale Dug from the furrows a voice has been freed Whose final word spoken —eternity’s seed (Septa R5: June, 2023)
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Jun 27, 2023
Jun 27, 2023 at 3:33 PM UTC
Final Word