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watching the sequencing is a regular thing
this pattern never fails to deliver its best score
they who follow the method will be profiting

many times one has seen this eventuating
they're slotting into the bay's ideal shore
watching the sequencing is a regular thing

utilizing a placements good calculating
is not for them an overly arduous chore
they who follow the method will be profiting

success coming with each prized offering
being educated about this niche's core
watching the sequencing is a regular thing

it appears to be in the model's situating
this their station known as precision's store
they who follow the method will be profiting

on working out a program's functioning
none received counts which would bore
watching the sequencing is a regular thing
they who follow the method will be profiting
howard brace Sep 2012
He'd been conceived in Flamborough, so his little sister assured him some eleven summers ago, which was a tad hard for Rocky to swallow, she was a whole eighteen months his junior and then some... and at that age, well... what did she know, she was only a kid, "on this very rock" River insisted, kicking her heels in delight, "next to this very rock pool" they were both sitting beside, "one sunny afternoon eleven years ago..." and that was how he came by the name of Rocky... she taunted as the rest of the colourful story unfolded... and that she had it all on the best possible authority... although the more she thought about it, had she meant concealed... she wasn't quite sure now, it was all so very confusing at her tender age but thought it sounded close enough not to matter too much and that she would just wait and see which way the wind blew.
        
     It was conceivably an ill wind that blew no one any good that day, especially if you were a boy and just happened to be sat by a rock pool next to your little sister...  Having just taken a well earned drink from a neighbouring rock pool, Sockeye the floppiest Springer Spaniel this side of the Pecos decided that he was going to dig a hole and that he would be digging it deep, then changed his mind mid-dig and decided to have a more down to earth back scratching wriggle instead... then promptly flopped over and slid into the hole... life was sweet.  Now covered from nose to tail with every species of deceased shore life usually found frequenting the high water mark Sockeye, in a blinding flash of canine inspiration judged it would be in everyone's best interest were he to have a really good shakedown which always appeared to go down well on these occasions... and give everyone a good peppering, just so they could see exactly what they'd been missing all their lives.  

     "A rock of all places, for goodness sakes..." and what's more, it was this rock, "Yuk..." he jumped up and wiped his palms on the back of his jeans in disgust, then onto his tee-shirt, then sat back down again and began exploring his left nostril in quiet contemplation before finally jambing his hands back into his pockets... what in Heaven's name had his parents been thinking of..? what on earth was his little sister talking about..? and more to the point, what in fact did conceived mean..?  these were the questions that were uppermost in Rocky's mind as he poked an exploratory stick into the rock pool...  a baby crab marooned by the tide scampered sideways beneath a large pebble and stuck one beady eye out at him... Rocky's sister, seemingly in a world of her own, much like the baby crab sat on the edge of the noteworthy rock kicking her heels, an innocent smile curled the corners of her mouth as she quietly hummed a little song of tuneful bliss to herself and considered what further mischief she could possibly pass her brother's way.

     Rocky tossed a piece of driftwood over his sisters shoulder at a nearby flock of seagulls, squabbling over what appeared to be a discarded bag of fish and chips... Sockeye, simply knowing that his little master wanted to play a game of fetch gambolled after the stick, his ears flying courageously in the still Summer air and burst, amid a melee of feathers into their midst, only to romp back moments later, the stick all but forgotten in the excitement but now proudly sporting the derelict bag of leftovers and the odd splash of guano, his tail lolloping magnificently from side to side... and for the moment at least, leaving the fratching seagulls wheeling noisily overhead and to go about their daily business without further interruption... as for Sockeye, it had been a no contest situation.

     After fourteen years of valiant endeavour his father... Red, so named for his vivid shock of wiry hair, was still engaged in man's eternal struggle to win his significant other half's approbation with the manful art of deck-chair assembly, beach barbeque and other significant gentlemanly pursuits, all while strutting his manly stuff, sporting top of the range beach wear in accordance with the social etiquette of the previous decade... his masculine paunch slumping gallantly atop his waistband...  

     After the same fourteen terms of domestic servitude and the same thirteen identically overlooked anniversary cards a certain someone had no intention of allowing another certain someone to forget so much as one of them... his better half, so she insisted would ride rough shod, administering her own brand of justice at every given opportunity, in much the same way you'd brandish a royal-flush on poker night... or better still, a loaded revolver... and that she personally carried the burden of every ill-fated card that Lady Luck had dealt strung about her neck like Adam's original sin on Judgement Day.  

     Red much preferred the shorter, more condensed name of Rock for his son, rather than the longer more protracted Rocky, as he struggled with the wood and canvas lounger badly trapping the mound of his thumb in the process, "Aaargh...!!!" plunging his throbbing hand deep into the cold, soothing rock-pool "aaah...!!!"   Still marooned by the tide, the baby crab stood poised and ready for action as it considered giving this latest intrusion a good offensive nip, then hang on spitefully as it gave Red the final withering once over with the same baleful eye it had successfully used earlier.

     Acknowledging her husbands misfortune with a perfunctory grunt as she rummaged in her beach-bag for the thermos, she refused to be drawn in where thumbs were concerned right now, after all with his DNA sequencing she was convinced he could probably grow a new one within the month... whilst Tina, well... she was just plain worn-out... but still rejoiced in telling anyone who cared to lend a sympathetic ear in her direction... and who in turn was more than happy to listen to the woes of others and went somewhere along the lines of... 'and had she heard any more of poor Mrs Dorey's lingering martyrdom recently..? you know, the downtrodden lady who lives in the next street but one... and how they would all miss her when she was gone... and how she couldn't wait...' and as rumour had it, neither could her husband...

      Feigning to be otherwise engaged, Tina... as her husband, now blowing frantically on his mangled thumb, stumbled backwards over the half erected lounger and with a spine jarring "Ooomph...!!!" landed squarely in Sockeye's subsiding earthworks... professed total disassociation with the entire fiasco as she plunged her nose even deeper into the overdue library book she'd purposely brought on holiday for just such an occasion, making it perfectly clear that she was a tourist and furthermore, planned to stick with the same itinerary once they returned home... and that while she was here, she did not under any circumstances wish to be disturbed, the notice was clearly displayed hanging from the door handle... but if anyone should, then whoever it was did so at their own peril... and she was keeping score... although a mangled thumb she luxuriated, with the same roguish smile curling the corners of her mouth as the one normally found playing around her daughter's... was equally as heart warming.

      All Tina wanted was one week of uninterrupted peace and quiet in Flamborough, preferably with a certain someone out from under her feet then spend what might pass for several undisturbed hours sitting quietly by the rock pool comparing notes on eye makeup and the feminine merits of pedicure with the little crab who, still marooned by the tide was now sat busily knitting four pairs of matching leg warmers in the cool, still water but that was only if that certain someone... a shrill  "AAaargh...!!!" somewhat more desperate than the first, ****** itself upon the as yet unaggressive afternoon as it gyrated across the warm Jurrasic rock and recoiled out to sea... "now where was I", twisting her book uppermost "oh yes..! someone was going to pay..." only now it was going to be sooner rather than later, but only if that certain someone didn't finish the seating arrangements before the Sun disappeared and drift into some backstreet tea-room before all the lemon cheesecake sold out, or was that she reflected, simply too much to ask.

     It was his Surname that Rock found so objectionable, or it had been right up until his little sister's enlightening disclosure, now it was both names Rocky disliked, it would have been far kinder had Rock Salmon been sandwiched between sliced bread and given to Sockeye... who's solemn duty, from the first mouthful to the very last, was to gaze up beseechingly from beneath the kitchen table  and devour anything that passed his way, even the postman had to be quick about his business or have his arm follow the mail through the letter box... then Sockeye would just smack his lips and help himself to seconds.  

     All Rocky's mum had thought about for the last fourteen years was seconds... every last solitary one of them since she'd suffered with an infection of matrimonial neurosis which had deprived her of common sense and her maiden name, from Chovey to that of Salmon and how with hindsight she should have taken an Aspirin instead, wedlock she asserted was everything the name claimed to be and was without doubt the worst move she'd ever made... and what's more was seen as a bad move in whoever's wedding album you just happened to be paying your condolences to.

     Rocky would never be so fortunate on that score, unlike his sister he was stuck with Salmon for good, his grandma-Ann by all accounts had been dead set against the union from word Go and saw his father as someone who would always be out of his depth in whatever rock pool he found himself in, swimming against the tide as it were, rather than going with the flow... and it appeared that Rocky, almost eleven years into a life sentence, was about to flounder in the same murky undertow as the rest of the Salmon family... only he couldn't swim.

     "There"! her husband exclaimed "all finished... better late than never eh', who fancies trying it"? his wife luxuriated over the words 'better late' and wondered whether her new earrings, her latest acquisition would complement formal mourning attire.  Red dusted off the palms of his hands with the certain knowledge of a job well done and cautiously took one step back, looking with justifiable pride at the outcome of his manly exertions of the last two hours, this was what holidays were all about he declared, one man pitted against insurmountable odds...  His wife meanwhile was getting to grips with more odds of her own than you could safely expect to shake a stick at... her husband being one of them.  

     Having gathered her offspring with the promise of verbal earache if they didn't... and finished packing the beach-bag, Tina finally located Sockeye peering out from the shade of an adjacent rock, wisps of feathers poked tellingly from the corners of his mouth, his tail beating mischievously on the shingle decided in one further blaze of canine brainstorming, as Tina attempted to slip his collar on that a game of tag would just about round the day off nicely... Tina then devoted the next ten minutes chasing him amid unrestrained salvo's of cheering from the rest of the family... then bid goodbye to the little crab who, still marooned by the tide waved a friendly pincer in return... and trusted that she wouldn't have too long to wait for the next rising tide back home, then she slid off the rock with a corrosive... "the deck-chair attendant would have shown you" she snapped "and don't forget the deposit when you take them back" then double checking that she landed squarely on his foot she marched past, her floral sun hat jammed resolutely on her head at what she considered a jaunty angle with her equally jaunty, angular children scrambling in hot pursuit, back in the direction of their lodgings.  

     "Woof "..? said a bewildered Sockeye, bringing everyone to an abrupt halt... and with paws the size of place-mats, he wasn't going anywhere he didn't want to... he hunkered down with a look of hurtful accusation on his face, "oh yes you are my lad"! said his mistress "I've met your sort before" and knew exactly where to place the toe of her dainty size-5 as Sockeye, digging his heals in even further created swathes of canine furrows up the beach, leaving her husband the unwitting holder and in sole possession of the overlooked guest-house keys... and somewhat resigned to clean up his own masculinity and dismantle the recently assembled, now redundant deck-chairs by himself... as for Tina, well... she'd had quite enough excitement for one day thank you very much.

     Morning register was always the worst he thought, as they trooped back along the shingle beach, Rocky making surprisingly good furrows of his own... but the rest of the class loved it and saw it as the highlight of each day... Rocky's form teacher, despite showing a brave face was always hard pressed to avoid bursting into hysterics every time she worked her way down the register to the letter 'S' and would attempt to bypass it altogether, jumping from 'R' to 'T' and just prayed that no one else had noticed, but it hadn't taken the class very long to point out her oversight and... "please Miss" they'd all chant "we haven't had Salmon all week" and while the rest of the class were having convulsive fits, Rocky would elbow the lad sat at the next desk in the ribs... and promptly get one hundred lines for his trouble... thank goodness it was school holidays.  Why couldn't they have been given respectable names like Seymour Legge, Rock wondered, who sat over by the window or perhaps the teachers pet, Anna Prentice or even, Robyn Banks at a pinch, but definitely not what they'd been given and certainly not Salmon, they were the most hilarious names he could imagine and if someone was looking down on them right now he thought... then they had a very unique sense of humour indeed and Rock said so... "why" his little sister asked sweetly, "what's wrong with River Salmon".

                                                      ­                         ...   ...   ...*

a work in progress*                                                        ­                                                              240­6
Sam Hawkins Apr 2013
Saturate and brimming of my hometown Boston,
of its sunshine Marathon peoples and bomb images,
my heart fracture rend.

On the third day—resurrection of all my sadness
came to me, feeling fresh and born to fruition,
so this grew.

It grew and through my tears coming,
I stood to witness two loving sparrows
on a window branch.

My sadness at some abeyance, studying and curious
I was of her--all akimbo shivers and rock-in-roll, of him--
flying feathered stone, rolling from branch to branch
and coming home, repeatedly.

Circles flying within moving circles!

Did something happen
with the last jiggle of her branch?

Did you see that? Science says
what they were doing—they had finished.

(But what to believe of Science?
It calls their loving--mating rather).

Now to tell you—the sequencing was this:
when I was full knocked down
on account of my grief,
and I hardly had strength to go on,
a Beatles song flew in and gently pierced my heart,
singing to my ear: Why don't we do it in the road...
no one will be watching us...why, why don't we do it


O, Spring Life of Sparrow surprises!
Open road, that budding tree,
any new notion is something grand!

How do I say now? That you two
were most helpful, your innocence
forever abiding?

Fly off Sparrows, forever prayer!
I speak this with all my love.
Universal Thrum Nov 2013
A desiccated brown leaf remembering greener days,
summersaults stem over end into the exposed cold dirt softened somewhat in demeanor by the grass and radiant shafts
The geese and ducks squawk and honk in the distance
Congratulating each other for the day's richness
and the way the sun feels on their proud beaks
glinting off the water in its way
a shimmering band
A princely golden carpet forever unrolling and yet complete
The sun's spindle weaves gems of light into a gossamer web
laid glittering across the water
A vision for Moses
who saw the true path through the sea
Fireworks Forever exploding sunlight
Gifted to the eye on clear liquid canvas
The wind ripples the waves
wrinkles pushed along
foaming in the sand
Little Kisses
on the grainy cheek
Star Flashes Communicating ancient patterns
Secrets of Existence Coming in Morse code, Fibonacci Sequencing,
Sacred Geometry in Twinkling Motion
Individual explosions blinking on a natural switchboard
Telling the architectural answer
Manifesting the blueprint
to only every reason why
The Last Leaf sings in the Breeze, swinging
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2019
I get her, she writes me,
so eloquently,
”the nub of me; gist, manifested poetic”

one of the many poets I have never met,
one of the many poets, by whom,
I have been suchly, justly, richly and correctly
accused

this mesmerizing judgement,
her-over-easy, mini-essay so succinctly
assaying an accidental ability mine

explodes
a happy passageway to my brain,
a new aperture, the neurons firing at will,
the tormented inquisitor’s unasked question,
how did this happen to me?

rocking the Sunday morn cradle’s calm,
ok, ok, write me, write me,
demands my no longer free will,
utilize the free wi-fi of we fidelty

the bay, surgically barely treading water,
its surface of multitude of small waves
but now an entire ****** expression bidding welcome

the breezeways genteel,
smilingly
invites and push us into its
directionless & tideless soothful embrace,
to the shoreline we goeth,
to watch the occasional crossing vessel intruder,
woking the waters gentle

its white path residual wake foam-formed,
then almost instantaneously absorbed, bubbly bursting,
a history of a million moments awakened,
then, instantly returned to restful sleep,
akin to a newborn’s gurgling happy dreaming,
wiped clean away off to
Peter Pan’s it-never-happened-land

this carnival trick sideline of deep tissue knowingness,
sensing the essence of the who and the whom within,
with no data to go on other than their poetic collection,
the hidden meanings of the spaces and places between
the gene sequencing of their wondrous word-fullness
DNA poetic children, freely given,
and well taken
by me

I cannot explain it well enough, but then
a strayer thought breakaway,
a prehensile comprehension insertion
proffers itself as an explanation
intruded,
and here,
extruded

the perfect world exterior before me observable
thrusts itself through picture windows onto my demeanor,
a ****** addiction of mine, my soul enslaved,
cannot bear to be taken away from

this vista,

which begs me,
bring all those you know!
here, to share, this precious precise nook
where eye insightful incisions elicit poems-by-command

but I cannot, bring you here,

so I see~imagine it better through
your eyes, then
your
gist
is in my stubbed pencil nub, it is
your
poem’s destiny manifesting,
penciled through my scruff edged fingertips,
which-when-then transcribed to paper, to history,
‘tis all you
who writes,
not I

for now
you
are the solitary vessel waterborne,
you,
you
are the captain and I

but a
Samson-nite, burdened, baggaged and blinded stowaway,
hopeless, yet still see-worthy,
with your guiding eyes,  
keeping me to keep
your copyright righted,
onto its course true



7-14-19 9:43am
in shelter, on the isle
she’ll ken her authorship by the title
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
.ah here comes england with its eccentricities, ah hier kommt polen mit seine christentum: where anyone can be a messiah, as stressed by the byzantines.

my first love was the love of the english grey,
(in honesty mentioned it was
the double-decker first, since
i fancied myself the great bus-driver of
the no. 5 bus back home)
earl grey came and said: ‘i can’t look
at these skies without sunglasses!’
and so it was, mid-autumn with sunglasses
at loss the sun-worshiper
enter the moon idiot,
looking for accents, looking for anything.
in england they called him das deutsche -
for reasons believable enough;
the luftwaffe eagerly anticipating the tunnelling
centipede that is the euro-star train-tunnel:
the panzers are rolling in!
the panzers are rolling in!
strange he never minded the coal-miners as useful
as minded by edvard gierek von silesia -
to the dispute of silesians not ex-patriated to saxony
(oh wait... texan boy doesn't sound as
nationalistic as minnesota boy?).
ooh pokey poo... writing about germany
became so **** so recently, i forget that i started it:
here’s to the english language’s chirality of s and z,
actually being superimposable:

from words in the socratic sense as encoded by plato
i don't get a bunch of ideas... virtue
does not make me ponder it with meaning or definition,
i only see the kabbalistic sensibility
of anti-alphabetical sequencing as v
i                   r               t               u          e...
otherwise              e      i    u             r         t         v;
almost sounds like s.t.d.
Julian Jul 2020
A key feature of invigoration is the enterprise of mapping the entire syntax of all relevant human language as measured by the gamut of applesauce that doesn’t sour and an in depth analysis of creative fiction and poetry for common cadence features in the linguistic enterprise of mapping the subroutines of complex articulation as etched by the fabric of genius intellects intertwined in a gamble with wits to try and create coded missives that entangle hypertrophy and enlarge the gamut of decryption in the universal rudiments of alchemy. This is based on depreciative and appreciative aspects of apperception that depend on visual cues and funding from a collaborative venture of universities to challenge people to zero-sum games or net positive games where teams collaborate to usher unconventional unchartered territory of classification beyond normal proclivities based on the lineaments of idiosyncrasy to pinpoint the provenance of ideation itself and unveil the mind at a bargain pittance for the eventual headway this could pave for the Department of Education to revert from froward to forward in their recalcitrance and insouciance with the current linguistic modalities of outstretched engraven hortoriginality trailblazing new modular seismotic waves and hotbeds for firebrands to debate and scholars to joust with in the jest of the cineaste metaphor and the rubricated rundles of rectiserial innovations in the taxonomy of devolved meaning relying on an inventive enterprise to galvanize a new jargon into prominence based primarily on guarded secrets of the trade that might unlock the primordial soup of verbal creativity while also probing detective apperception for a wide-ranging panoply of digested movies and beyond that a farsighted incumbent inclination to probe the calibration of numerical happenstance in estimate and in long-term theorization of taxed realty in the estate of guarded tegular relationships among the woven fabric of conceptual latticeworks pioneering in scope and analyzed rigorously in reward of discretion and furtive cryptology to untether the world from the apothegms of sloganeered piggybacks that swivel in sockets but enforce a reductive paradigm of obganiation of core themes reiterated hypnotically to traindeque entire generations into piebald thinking that overlooks the panorama for incident and incident for categorical generality when no such axiom can be the logical predicate of its antecedent conditions that spurn the traditional rote moot wernaggles of futility and inseminate crafty legerdemain of writhing contortion altering the specificity of revalorized meaning in the novel context. This instantiates that the consequence is always the consequence not only of its predicate but its successor by the very modalities of proven reversals and enantiodromias of sorts that revert in a reverse progression spatiotemporally to exact incident as antecedent of its own existence by the very fact of iteration and this map of the recursive cycles of consequences elapsed only because of their insertion in a predevoted matrix is the gnomic apothegm of a new frontier of advanced logic that assumes the impossible is only improbable if the possible can be proven impossible by reductive inversion of core precepts in the rigmarole of design that states for every orchestra of butterflies that echo is actually the incident of refraction that contaminated the first polyacoustic trace of amplified sources in space time to revert into primordial form but the reversion is only incurred upon the fixture of origination and beyond that point remains inscrutable because foreknowledge necessarily prevents accuracy in determining the spectrum of the cacophony or rhapsody of the echo dependent on the observer’s perspective: which is only fungible to the extent that the subliminal remains guarded by the protectors of the clepsammia and the recensed polarization of time. This transcendence of time transfixed on orbital gravitas and centripetal ****** initiates a promulgation of the swallock of a remanded entropy that works in swiveled contraposition to the dynamic flux of the internment of balkanized forces of demassification dampening the efficacy of the central butterfly actor to expand the ampitheater of its own audience to the extent that every cultural artifact can be mapped to the geotaxis of its conceptual orbit. Thereby we can prove that pivots of the obvious focal point peak in resurgence upon the heyday of retrieval but dampen into a logarithmic regression of decreasing amplitude fluctuating around the aleatory probability of insemination through the percolation of the widespread narrowed to a fulcrum that balances the orbit of the stellified narrative of ingemination that some artifacts like Stayin’ Alive achieve maximum geotaxis because of their centrality in the taxidermies of revived memory recapitulated by both virtuosity and valor and posing as consequences of future foresight clouded by preventive measures that one quaky spasm in alarm could paralyze the precedent to the incidence of the afflatus that galvanized the heyday of remonstrance so that we can affix a modular angular gravity to events as well as referents to those events in a spatiotemporal mapping of consequence reverted upon itself because of necessity that binds the taxemes of the subliminal in the architecture of a curvature of geotaxis that is centrobaric not necessarily to the contingencies that magnify the germane propositions that affix modern eyes but rather the overall stifling modularity of temporal sequence redoubled by manufacture and manufacture alone predevotes antecedents that trace to a pivot in space time curved without prescience beyond measure but precision enough to approximate the summation of collective cultural shifts away from the estrangement of diversion from itself as a balkanizing force into a collectivized unity that orbits eccentrically by the very nature of the parallax between gravitational pull and the dynamics of time itself centripetal but centrifugal simultaneously.  Both conditions must be met so the converse of meaning becomes the recapitulation of remontant blessings rather than pruned dry garbologies relevant only to margins of subculture minimized in heyday and scope but pinpointed with exact precision the dynamos that inhabit the sphere of the populated future defenestrated from the magnetism of the past by very definition. Thereby, we arrive at Back to the Future because the paradox of recensed calibration suggests the free fluctuation of time between the eccentricity of magnified lens distorted by the entropy of calculus to become the integral summation of the sinuous vacuum of a trigonometric balance that barks with amplification of synergistic elements of strings and quantum flux to emigrate from an origination to the mapping of the eventuality. This precisely explains the scene in Back to the Future with the amplifiers turned all the way up because by exaggerating the simplicity of the declassified it expedited cinema to its eventual intermediary conclusions heralded by that one event of transfixed mystery that binds spacetime into a coherent bidirection of multidimensional philosophy of the enantiodromias of sorts of the parallax among constellated events. Mapping the impact of funneled cartels that hegemonize regions of the geopolitical sphere explains the amplivagant effects of the refracturism of swallock and thereby seminal ideations can be traced to provenance of cowardice cloaked in excuse but incisive in the skullduggery of the mechanical reinvention of excuse and pretext as a cloak for more furtive workings of the intelligentsia to engineer time by deriving the precise tangential multidimensional syntax of the calculus of proliferation reviewed from a consequent perspective of a future unknowable gravitas fluctuating between states of annihilation and existence in the acatelpsy of design so that specters actually enforce more change than events and prospects magnify positive dimensional thrusts that galvanize prospectus emigrating from either distant knowns or parallel realities that converge on the optimum of either the hapless or calculated design of a synergistic development of social engineering so precisely mapped that it identifies trajectories of improbable events with increasing specificity at the alarm of the spectral realm promulgating wealth to the foreseeable compunction of science to revert to probable pivots of consensus manufactured by think tanks that outfox the syntalities that defy the system or piggyback on their very causes to empirically carve the spectrum of future possibility becoming entelechy desired or feared but always predestined or flanged into distortions of reification that are transformative of precision in design without exactitude in the terminus of the centrobaric chambers of all meaning. Thus the algorithm outsmarts itself until only the machination to dehumanize for prediction occurs at a pessimum of morality or an explosion of a proliferative new venture in unchartered territory conquers the novantique of novelty. The ampitheater of its own audience is the traction of embedded subculture in subroutine becoming a compound atocia that sterilizes opponent possibility and probabilizes the occurrence of endomorphs that resemble effigies of constellation primed to swivel in retrospection as a recurrent lapse of amplification upon the culmination of predestined time points or junctures specified within the realm of the matrix of possibilities to outstretch the realm into a dampened exponential explosion of self-reference becoming embedded consequence by conditioning and by anticipatory psychology working in preconcert to evoke the determinative impetus of momentum that magnifies the speed of acceleration in technology that depends on the propriety of reification itself that swarms us with evocative tempests that barnstorm in reiteration to recapitulate by design to engrave themselves on the collective psyches of the hortoriginality of many minds intrepid before me that transfigured reality in this precise contortion of terminology with variegations in the specificity of context and articulation of the clavigerous entropy of swallock and how the outfoxed design becomes that cage of destiny that is a baritone complexion of vibrant hues exploding into the trammeled paths that have elapsed before me by the first movers advantage of theoretical physics but nonetheless independently verified by dovetailed emergence of that centralized balance between design and destiny that is precedent to the antecedent of the consequence of the precedent’s consequence on the direct antecedent inflexion point upon which the provenance of momentum drifted into cultural psyche and enlarged the gamut of myth in the raillery of subaudition. Essentially Time only exists to those without the simultagnosia to appease a mirror parallax of universes upcoming and universes forestalled but pivot with omphalism on the gravitas of Einsteinian calculus that theorizes that the acatelpsy of enumerated prediction is a lapsed regress the pinpoints with the harpricks of specialization the regal momentum of time to its own behest to propagate the elucidated certainty of its own traversal to the expedited enumeration of the future which populates the past because the curvature of time is an entantiodromia of reflexive itinerant vagrancies that cement the authorship of events to warble through the tilted hypertrophy of design itself to maximize the freebooter avarice of those people that rely on the luxuriance of trespass to magnify the modular gravity of culture to forswink its compunction and regale its own recursive logic. Essentially Time is a mapped ampitheater that depends on an audience of sentience to enlarge its own gamut and because it is riddled with obscurantism of believable recursion it magnifies its own entropy in reversal to orchestrate events in a rectiserial convolution of the whipsaw between the expected and the foreknowledge of the knowing class because when shaky vacillatory politics prevail the behest of time looses its capitalization of the amplivagant affects of the marginalia that is wed to the devolved rudimentary rigmarole of proliferation scaffolds destiny in alternative configurations to fulminate with explosive progeny that latitude incumbent to those without perspicuous clarity to fathom the acatalepsy of the unfurled universe magnetized by the seminal tremendum of the moments memorialized by memory that provide the traction of time to supersede its own acceleration by the writ of the beneficence of the eccentric orbit of the brittle axioms of design to recense and revalorize the wilted transponders that refer to specific events where the space-time continuum was cleaved in divisive anticipation to balkanize the resistence to the fringe clavigerous amplification of the resonance of etiolation that marginalizes the dearth and amplifies the prospectus to make time supersolid beyond all reckoning to cement its captaincy as the algorithm of rhythmic gravitas orbiting the moribund fragmentary flictions of regimented truth to be at war with its own foresight. This is because foresight is a compulsion of time to recapitulate the foreknown deeds of the future to the regenerative hypothesis that hypostatizes that the transcendence of time is mirrored illusion because the future populates a region of space-time that is not forlorn but magnified in scope to reverse the trends of abomination and cast the aspersions of grandeur into eccentric orbit that by geotaxis foments the revolutionary impetus not of cancellation or nullification of the bereaved past but a culmination of deeds known only to the future that galvanize the very fruition of the dependent expectancy to become antecedent to the consequent by a warped form of recensed logic because the orbital sphere of considerations is tangential to the evocative memory of the memorialized statutes that prize their own entelechy above their divergence from design in such a peculiar way that obscurantism of the leaders of the world is manned by an alien presence to mendlatch the locked keys of a virtuouso future compounded in interest and destined for unfurled clarification. Time is an ironic boyg and quandary because for time to give birth to its own recapitulation it must be stammered with seismotic statutes that rip through the fabricated rudiments of predestination to enthrall the apostasy of the knowing from leverage over a future they vaguely see but provides largesse to the regimentation of design to rickety consternation that prediction is evocative of expectancy less than expectancy is its own geotaxis around the gamut of foreseen affairs that must be iterated rather than violated in order to maintain the mainlined integrity of the brittle fungible force of quantum dynamics to bypass the rigmarole of etched design to be evocative of a reverse transpondency that reconfigures the past into perfectible strings of amplification to anoint time its own behest at the formidable specters of its own violation by those who seek trepass but are predevoted out of ephorized control by the vicissitudes of the gamble and the frapplank of the known destiny catalyzing the unknown progeny. By that very definition this could not be obrogated in tenure or tutelage over the past because the elapsed gravitas of the known past depends on the pivot of the ampitheater of the future to ambitious reckoning that provides absolution to its forlorn vestiges to cement the centrifugal impetus of many from exact foreknowledge.  Many pioneers have probably theorized similar hypostasized concepts but the fact that even without a degree in physics I understand these arcane precepts yet tested by the rigmarole of comprehensive known experiment is a testament to the power of hortoriginality to pave the trailblazer focus on the rivets of a rickety secrecy designated by definiens of abstruse taxemes of yet defined meaning. The primary quandary is the isolated pretext of predevoted sequencing that abandons me (and this is central to my theory) from the weather of meaningful social encounter in order to hone in with precision on the empirical enterprise of seminal regress cemented as ceremonial progress and only by vaulting above this cage of finicky predestination can entelechy that desires rapprochement can be achieved because eventually the relevance of my ideas can be shelved and the peremptory obligation of intervention must be deployed to salvage my parable into completion. The itch for the government to anticipate the universe’s localized traction delimits the sphere of social indoctrination to a reality amenable not to the coercion of precise anticipation but the gamble on vagary to produce more seminal events that compound the amplivagant effects of ecumenical exhaustive troponders to the extent they flourish beyond the bounds of completion and into optimal conditions that is whipsawed by the demands of the rigmarole of precise definition of all trajectories conclave in their logarithmic design  anticipated by designation but not predevoted into futility because that capstone would reduce the proliferative affect of space time to carve a more extravagant reality that tests limits beyond frontiers of expectancy. The brain is highly malleable and entity theorists are moribund in their defenses of trite hackneyed racial arguments about intellect. The mythos preserves that radical ethos that prediction of my insights supersedes the importance of my rapprochement which will amplify the effects of the spatiotemporal mapping in a much more profound way with specialized focus. Thereby when we conceive of time we must specialize in inhabiting the sphere of acatalepsy of flanged prediction preventing the abortion of the future based on the vagrancies of the gyrovagues and bibliopolists seeking to demolish the fruition of the ribald coarse albatrosses of the future to diminutive leverage rather than amplifying the stringed syndication of knowledge to eccentrically stellify the unknown regions of the populated presence contingent on the populated future which ensures the eternal life of all by some formant boundaries of the universe because what is recapitulated in the lapse of certainty known by the anticipatory vagary of a riddled rigmarole of complex dynamism this thermodynamically reversible into the reversal of entropy because the organization of the past hinges upon the reconfiguration of the future and thereby we swivel endlessly with recursive iterations of evanescence that spoon-feed the generations among us to truckle beneath the cartels that array spatiotemporal mappings into their personal optimum to catapult the granular edification of all deeds beyond their forsifamiliation from their provenance gamboling with the distant frescade of a known destiny cavorting with the meddlesome reconnaissance of all that is observed and the tribunes magnify this effect by centralizing the bronteums of fulgurant strikes to be localized to a centralized pivot of universal acclaim that provides felicity for the ecumenical endeavor
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
cogito qua sum*

because i thought the original cartesian model
was too stuffy,
had too many scientific models
and was riddled with moths,
plus it sounds better:
thought in the capacity of being -
plus there is absolutely no sequencing,
no sequencing of events and then doubting
that they happened, or denying they happened...
(in relation to thinking about them)
with the above stated you can have spatial awareness...
for example?
someone hammering nails has only a certain
capacity for thinking certain things...
someone watching the television has only
a certain capacity for thinking certain things...
as contradictory in strict cartesian terms
as daydreaming: like sitting in a classroom
learning about english grammar and thinking /
imagining (the same thing, both cognitive faculties)
you're on a beach in the maldives sipping a mojito
or that you're riding a roller coaster:
ergo et cetera... id est, multi vacuum prefix
absens locus in metaphora... ego noto ******.
Sputter Outlaw Dec 2013
Behold bright symphonic Blast!
Halt the snail bite damage of youth.

There is none to resist the place and time of one who missed the equal avenue.
Dropping before your phantom, dispirited dew, before shadow portrait drops.

Swine with silver throats!
Corpse of embers preamble multi-various multi-vacuous semi-forte polar rhythms.
Sequencing selves in wood and wire. Pinions at drifted tempo, quavering for poly-syllabic idioms,
In sectioned hostels for their sense and glory restrung.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
if you want to know how it sounds... well a former girlfriend of mine had siblings younger than her, two boys and a girl... i started smoking when i was 21... after years of adamant protest against smoking, i remember times when smoking cigarettes was still legal in england in pubs and clubs, i'd come home after a night out and aired my clothes because of the stink... now i'm a steam-engine myself... goes like: puff puff choo choo! aged rock stars are the funniest people around, post-hedonism and they're all dieticians and healthy-life experts... anyway, if you're wondering how it sounds: a former girlfriend of mine siblings used to imitate jokingly the baritone of my voice... a darth vader sort of gimmick... now add the cigarette thick phlegm lining my larynx... you get the picture.*

i can attest with bukowski the problem of writing
into excess, there's a certain melancholy
surrounding writing prolifically,
all your best poems are lost,
well, "lost", in that there's so much
clutter, and esp. if you don't
keep personal copies, but shove
them all into a public domain
without a care, you don't have a chance
to rekindle reading some of
the poems you really enjoyed, or would
like to re-enjoy, i.e. re-read after you
re-read most of them to do the editorial
bits of revising a spelling mistake
or a faulty grammatical sequencing,
and then akin to nietzsche, who was taught
the laws of grammar like the laws of
physics (throw something up, it falls),
i was never taught grammar, my education
in language was based upon the method
that: if you can speak and write coherently,
you don't need the grammatical arithmetic
drilled into you - the principle of a good
education i guess: get a feel for it, mess around
with it, become a pioneering chemist or something;
and never, ever, write poetry conscious of
technique and identifiers like metaphors,
that's for the critics to spot, with their scalpels
of rhyme:

bay (a)
say (a)
bottom (b)
***** (b)
                         flay (a)
sanctity (c)
evidently (c)
                        common (b)               etc.

but still the melancholy, i sometimes wish i
could reread some of the poems i wrote,
but since i didn't keep any to myself, i don't
have any copies for myself, none stored in a darkened
place like a drawer, stacked pieces of paper or something,
and in an age of constant cyber warfare with
everyone hacking everyone, not keeping copies for
yourself seems rather mad, i'd hardly say it's daring,
i once lost a whole stash of poetry because
i simply asked a girl where she was from to get
a feel for her poetry, she reported me to the site's
administrators, and without a chance to explain
got erased, a little holocaust of never actually existing,
not as big a holocaust of what darwinism is doing
to us reaching far back into prehistory and the platonic
theory of forms of that mirror: man | monkey -
well, honestly, no, not from a theological point of
argumentation, the aesthetics aren't working on this one,
maybe that's why once the naked form of man
adorned by painters has become a pornographic jest
of mandible parts - and why does western society
sincerely make a fetish out of ****? horrid scenario...
anyway... it's mad that i don't keep any of the poems
for myself, i just throw them all into the public domain
because i feel they can be safe there,
and perhaps it's because i love the actual work of writing
poetry, more the love of the work than the end product,
even though i'd like to relive some of these poems
in my head, re-read them and see their optical correlations
leaving the blank plateau without hill or groove or
canyon... but then there's that sadness of some of
these poems becoming orphans... it's almost like they
don't know who bore them.
roxanne Jun 2018
A man born without wings into the ashes of a forest
dead leaves and a valley of butterflies
Bleached to be ethicless
effortless as it is
To go without pursuit of question

A mind of matter
Wherein death lies one doesn't know
You're feeling all these expectancies
all these dependencies
Energy of yours, unhinged

The screens written
with the bastardisation of simple truths
Rhythmic as a creature
as spoken wavelength navigating
A wondering memory standing in front of the collectives

Transcendence above the impermanence
A palace on the grounds among us, but separated
dangerous minds of a phenomenon, in sequencing
Unceasing in divinity and untempered
by the indignation of his companions

Free to be, among the meadows of ourselves.
A tribute to X. My prince, a brother, a spirit gone to the wind but never departed from the atmosphere he breathed for us.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
you see it...
the Cartesian pH scale...

i think
             the acidic               concerning
       evil thoughts

and

i am
         the alkaline                 concerning
evil action...
                          sketching mezzo in Spain...

but still so much resides in people
expressing da- -denken,
no fallacy with that,
to express thinking you're there
is no fallacy, there's no wrong with that,
being there is a fake,
Heidegger spoke of plagiarism,
rightly he's a magician, a quick hand,
a droplet of Mercury -

sometimes music overpowers,
there's no music, only meaning, after all,
aren't we to decipher our encoding?

philosophy has no access to music,
it can't enter the realm of syllables, or alphabetical
units, its limit is reasoning and meaning,
it cannot perform autopsy on words,
for philosophy words are cursors, vectors,
it cannot dissect words toward syllables
and units of sound, it relies on compounds
ending with a -logy-, pristine ~arithmetic ...

the therefore sequencing
akin to 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = 4 can be discarded,
acceptable the Newtonian causality
and the mishmash loss of vector, of Einstein's paralleling
for the parabola, or vacuum dipping...

we are concerned with therefore acting as
a multi-facet mathematical function,
with two algebraic modes of expression -
as much bewilderment entombs Newton's theories
as much bewilderment entombs a serial killer's actions...
acidic or alkali are expressions of pigmentation
or activity, yet when encompassed within
pH scaling, non-differential...

in that so many concerns enter the verb thought
(verb - activity of expressing it) that thought per se
excludes nouns to revel in pristine form...
what basis is there for nouns if not automation
rubrics that are settled for a rekindled encounter?
if thinking is an activity, it turns the animate thing
into an inanimate thing, a philosopher's stone
away from peculiar assortment -
and when god seized walking freely,
he turned into a stone, apathetically accepting
monotheistic prayers - once an animate thing,
chained into inanimate enthroning.

what is the prime category of words utilised
in thinking, should no narrative schematic be utilised?
we all know the cognitive schematic narrative,
in fear of linguistic bombardment
that provides puzzles from syllables and
eyed-encoding shapes such as mm or dentistry's
A having cut out the tongue.

but the Cartesian balance - being does not
prove thinking, and thinking does not prove being -
better that unsolved than perpetually
exhausting the argument of being via beings sacrificed
to enshrine a memory - lesser concern
for the thought that spurned others to think
a similar complication, via allowance of the leisurely
timing worth consuming -
with the former a gas chamber, with the latter
a library - there is still a scaling,
not necessarily attributing acidity or alkaline superstition...
_______________­____________________­________
                                     ­  Δ
on topic of pivots and Archimedes.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
what terrible news, the marx in me said it true, article heading: mental health gets only 1% of council tax...£664 million a year on ****** health... £111 million on tackling obesity. here’s a simpler explanation... c.d. is part of hardware... mp3 is soft-ware... get a scratched c.d. and turn the hardware into software... then put the virus mp3 onto an iPod, which is hardware... then watch the technological virology take over... the host hardware will break, given that the parasitic software is implanted from a sick hardware it was copied from.*

i was redecorating my mother’s living room,
for a handshake and the prize:
don’t interrupt my drinking pattern, woman please!
so i found to ancient scribbles of paint,
but then hid them like a treasure chest...
i also found the vol. no. 2 of kant’s critique of pure reason
under one of the pieces of furniture...
over a year i lost it... blamed everyone i knew...
but in reality the realisation came when i rekindled
the bookmark coordinate:
it took me two conscious years to read heidegger’s opus,
consciously defined by reading poetry on the sly...
with kant i ended my reading with the introduction of hegel:
antonyms of a pure mind - the third conflict between transcendental ideas -
i got the antithesis straight away... mainly because it spoke of freedom...
while the thesis spoke of the laws of nature and 1, 2, 3, 4, 5...
0 central...
it spoke of sequencing of events... it spoke of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5
as paradoxical of 2, 3, 4, 5... and 3, 4, 5 and 4, 5, and 5.
i think i better translate this passage to exemplify the point...
i lost kant for over a year and the **** sizzled...
i kept heidgegger for a year and i came out wondering
why it should take someone 15 years to study aristotle by the man’s suggestion,
so i had myself the alternative:
philosophy begins with awe... well... so does tourism.
let's just say there are corridors at the junction...
we say i almost pickled a cat's paw with wet cinnamon
or ketchup to imprint a paw-print with the gaff quote:
i was here, i found the sound meow inexplicable,
incomprehensible... given the human complications,
i decided to utilise meow with randomisation away
from my superior intuition... whereby the phoneticism
of meow was less than my eyesight and hearing...
so i announced the whiskers and fur and snake-eye in mammal
with a meow... i used meow to communicate with the complex
vowel-consonant reason, but i found my intuition
in rachmaninoff's vocalise wordless song... with my ear against
the radio dreaming away... so said man un-attentive of me...
that i managed to mingle my instinct without the meow
asking for butter... and instead for the daydream...
diva lute diva tangled... diva es lute es flos...
there i was... the cat of abashed baptisms at the fountains of
the baptist with my head wetted...
careless for the dung bag walking partner, or the plaything
i was forced to take interest in... my casual...
fat for keratin, as if fat translated from man unto animal
to ask the boar for the daydream of the conveyor belt
with lost fur and gained fat...
off with my shirt i too graded the follow-up...
as a loss in the tightened woods of winter with the losing shadow
of the shadows of beckoned crowns not adorned in vogue.
but this was only 1912... five years before the revulsion...
before the revolution... five years! spent in the abode of harmonics
by the piano i tried to mistune to write a deathly haunt of presence...
operatic alphabets twisted me into recovering from
the foremost attraction of failure... the neglige of virginity lost
to the public's applause missing...
i too could have vouched a coming back: of spirals away from
the champagne starlight in bouquet crescendos,
for the simple minded aura of perfection - but i vouched
hypnosis as the adequate precursor of staging fright
as the lost composition rekindled into revisionary composition
regained - there too i found the picturesque familiarity
of unsung hilltops regaining strength in the longshanks' heels
as if by deed of achilles in strength regained...
to frighten the lowlands with that glorious fame of
being poisoned by the gratifications of excess in the untrodden path
thus trodden by ear and echo rather than foot,
into the zephyrs of the larynx-ballerinas upon mountain-tops...
thus there, among the content misanthropes -
i too searched orpheus' mirror and prometheus' stone
to be bound to an eternal moment that denied all
other eternal moments and furthered the denial
by not allowing a bullish billion of china
its existential prowess among nations so frequented
by scandinavian description.
You cannot catch
the wind
in a
blue butterfly net.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
i'm not working from standard definition,
nor am i too fond of the phonetic alphabet
that denotes the sounds of latin with /ˈlætɪn/,
working backwards, noticing the modern
excesses of those little bothersome flies
that insinuate the necessary stressors,
noticing the blatant similarity of how latin
was written and how english is written...
latin œ or æ is like the german ß...
interchangeable symbolism that's hardly more
o than e or a than e... but an interchange of s and z...
most noticeable in english,
for example the even word and the odd word:

size... zebra... symbol...
           desire... sophistry
           spasm... sequence
           sugar (no one says soo gar... sh')
           suspension... sorrow
silk... zero... satire...       
                                      
like i mentioned once... disease is not easy
with the prefix dis- relegating ease into
the realm of broken arms / fingers...
how it sounds and how it's written:
dißeaße / disease    
(primarily due to y in the prefix original,
  but when compounded changed into i and
  thus invoking the scharfes s -
  w polskim szarfes es)                                               
see.. it works a tomahawk into slicing tomatoes
right off the 100ºC scalp achieved when boiled...
you can even squeeze in a ripe potato if you wanted...
many e e e, many... i thought about reading philosophy
in english, but it was no use... i never solved
the enigma of the ditto ensuring first person, 'second person'
and "third person" how and why it was used...
joyce irish was used akin to the polish method...
hyphen-sequencing dialogue in one, two, three:

- i think.
- i take oaths!
- we're both commanding.
- reminder of the remember:
                                                       ­                                  etc.
usually it was just i said
and then                    "
that                             "
nothing.

it's ****** confusing, but english is the ideal
playground to write philosophy,
written philosophy is so weak in english that
only three maxims guard it (interchangeable to hide the weakness):
beauty is on the inside not the outside,
good things come to those who wait...
altruism per se / utilitarianism per se;
you can write with as much weaved fabric of words as you
like given the english scenario...
but i mind the forest for the acorn
and the crispy autumnal loss of chlorophyl kindred of snow crunch,
so i can twist further in the latinised kabbalah,
moving away from hidden nouns
and into the territory of unsophisticated
pause symbols... revelatory pardon with a and o hidden,
electrified hyphen or comma misplaced,
hence excess poetry extraction from the populace
not loving the musicology of modern grime,
hence the bewilderment of ancient lore of english
sentenced with: that thou shalt not lore;
why did rome survive in the most detested
part of the empire, so naked so ancient?
it's bewildering beyond the extent of natural bewilderment!

so if i were to ever teach english as a foreign language,
i'd more pretty much all the diacritic marks
of other european languages into english,
which is the diacritic blank canvas, and each of
the odd words would be written, for practice and
memorisation of an atypical english accent,
e.g. deßire, spaßm and all the -isms like
empiricißm, psychologißm, egoißm etc.;
and i certainly wouldn't mutilate the language
like native speakers have done with
pseudo-stenography -
'ere, 'av 'sum pears up... th' ladder,
                                         so we know u woz 'ere, lolz.

some might call k the "misnomer" / mis-sonus of c...
but q it also bargaining to take that same oath
of being entitled, as is s.
the silent impact passes as movements become masses and the despised things become what we're after.  we're our own last chapter, ununique to the minute but maybe rare the moment after.  we're glued to television screens the preach our own defeat and don't even acknowledge our new masters or their dying dreams.  your life is a worried line and devoid of devoted patchwork.

dire sirens blaze as i ire lights to do the same
fire consumes desire and wired nights are left to blame
while the mired tired chime in that they also want a taste
the inspired have conspired and perspired away the shame

the flights are nights we've compiled into piles
and sights and lights are set on the ceiling and tiles
the fights deny what's right and blood goes for miles
and the right to die is what's sequencing our style

your moment was a second and it was shot to death in front of you.  but first it asked what you are going to do.  sit around and wait for a second chance to lose any moment that'll never come again and always shows up too soon? or sleep all day and forget you had a better life to prove?
Nat Lipstadt Apr 2020
a woman comes to me at 2:20am,
from across the world, asking if I am that cool jew,
occupant/son of the unholy hours when death and crucifixion,
them two old friends, are waving temptation with both hands,
never mentioning heaven, offering .99 cents of sanitized compliments,
which for a fifth rate amateur writer is revolutionary,
as close as you will ever come to global recognition

that woman says, yes! you’re that insufferable fool whose
suffering keeps us awake when he should be sleeping in the
half-death state, in the unholy hours, only reporting back
what he has seen across the borderline, in these times
when a thousand-die-a-day daily from suffering
that is uniquely human, a wracking medieval torture,
granting those viral messengers, slow extra pleasure

be nice to yourself for a change, write ‘bout what they want,
broken love and suicide, mundane pain, keep it plain, short!
easy stuff that sells records, making you not whisper words
never meant to be shared, the language of the unholy hours,
a dialect unique, that Google can’t quite rightly translate,
for not every vision is substitutable, suitable, rated G for babies, so,
keep it short like a miserable life that needs a prophecy to complete

48 hours ago thought I was infected, a glide path to rocky moon-smooth,
a landing where words unique, taken away, sealing your mouth with
tubed oxygen that inhibits thinking, air that might **** all of you, not just pain, but what makes you unique, your own 10 commandments
of speech, the old testament, the source book of insight into whatever
makes your lungs breath in rhythmic to heart beating, and dying
discordant disrupts the gene sequencing of inhaling and exhaling


the editors and the critics overlooking, that sit on both shoulders,
are already complaining, no más, no más, no más!
suture that incision, close your mouth, the unholy hours
need a special silence, Ruth’s lips that move but go unheard,
make no mistake, we want to listen in, voyeurs of visions
but we need you broken, we need a break, from confronting
the repeatedly delayed, but undeniable, the clockwork orange
second coming of the ungodly hours

4:02am
Sabato
4/11/20twenty
new york city of lips
inspired and spired  completely and totally by a mid-of-night conversation with a Lady From Manila 😉
bobby burns Mar 2015
my grace is cherubic,
seraphic, angelic,
she is a temple built
upon skepticism.

my boy wears a sloth-suit
and is swept away by even
the weakest rapids after
dipping only his pinky toe.

my grace is a hefty FAFSA award,
and she is report card dinners,
a new-blue honda, a heartbreak,
she is coming home to  do laundry.

my boy is a defect, anomalous,
he cannot bide his time and so
rushes. i chase him to the city
limits and hope he'll get it right.

my grace is building strength,
compartmentalizing, sequencing,
she is careening into career
and coping/moping with loss.

my boy is behind, he's lazy.
he shirks, avoids, evades,
any escape, any port, no storm,
he has to bring something else,

he only sits with us when he
wants something. he spends
time with us when it serves
his agenda, his procrastination,

he likes men; he's abnormal,
he has to bring something
extra to the table or else
it will reflect badly on me.

i never went to college.
i rarely did my homework,
so my daughter, son, my wife,
they bear the brunt of my avoidance.

my grace breaks down while
student-teaching. i love her.
my boy aces econ test after
physics quiz. i tolerate him.
siblings from father's view
(get me out of this house)
Julian Alexander Mar 2014
I look out the peek hole, how obscure; everything is so small on the other side of the ancient blue door. And with a world so dark you would think the light’s shining rays would be so eagerly compassionate to leak its way in. I would rather fight than hide, for all that has ever disclosed light unto my destiny, even still I remained blind. The past is sequencing me like a storybook that has already been written. Bitten into the forbidden fruit too many times, in excess—his stomach cannot muscle such atrocities, diagnosis him with food poisoning.

Recklessly disputing against my own words, desperately reaching for whatsoever crawls under my nose. Well, I suppose I have managed as you can see. In a panic somehow I was able to scavenge up a couple of good things. It is about time I pull my own weight, time is ticking, and nobody is waiting on you. Master fate your late, eternity does not hesitate ither, and I have steered off the path for quite awhile—opportunity, hope, trust in you—I am late, but do not make insinuations, do not count yourself out just yet. Have you forgotten who you are? Possibly so, I find the present as good as any to give myself another venture to demonstrate, moreover discover, just why I have been granted to come along solely for you, master of fate—ready, set, explosions.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
listen, i did my christianity bit,
i went to a catholic school,
that's about it, i'm not going to be paying
any more dues, and yes it is scary leaving
the theological ***** where you're expected
to **** yourself should something awful were to happen,
my Cartesian model is a bit different though,
instead of cogito ergo sum (ego inclusive),
it's a- deus ergo ego cogito...
i don't know where to put the affix hyphen to balance
the equation, whether -ego or -cogito to create
the + of ergo, the 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 + 6 + 7 + 8 + 9
sequencing as the offshoot of thinking and being,
which, however, is not as easily represented
by mathematics - cogito ergo sum
is not a straight forward + + +, it's the tetrasignum
of +, -, x and ÷, the interaction between thinking
and being is no straightforward sequence of events,
not a simple adding up... it varies, the four variables
have to coexist in the ergo that bridges thinking
and being... i mean one event in your life can
either add to the experience, subtract, multiply
or divide you an your thinking in terms of how
you'll later be... imagine a burglary,
indeed the tetrasignum is at work (basic! basic!
forget the anti-matter and subatomic particulars
that mathematics possesses with its logic,
e.g. √ and other meddles, basic is +, -, x and ÷
like a, b, c, the other mathematical functions
are like adding diacritical marks to letters,
so in algebra an x squared is like the e in olé!)
it will divide you, subtract from you, add up naiveness,
and you'll perceive the multiplicity of other people
also having experienced the distress. i could
complicate the explanation further, but i'll just
abandon the whole thing, because i have this
on my mind:

you write about religious matters you end up
desecrating things, religion and that damnable
materialistic symbolism, how those people
cling to crosses so much that they tattoo the symbols
into their skin - such mental straitjacket imprints -
there is a different version of Milton's paradise lost
(i don't like Blake because he attacked from
Milton and Newton) -
it's called *yesterday, today and for ever
,
and was written by edward henry bickersteth, d.d.
(late bishop of Exeter), published
by Longmans, Green & Co. 39 Paternoster Row,
London (also fourth avenue & 30th street new york
& Bombay, Calcutta & Madras) 1915 (height of
British imperialism before the ski-***** descent),
in twelve books, preface dating september 1866
(so i'm guessing the bishop was dead by 1915),
contents of the twelve books:
i. the seer's death, and descent to hades
ii. the paradise of the blessed dead
iii. the prison of the lost
iv. the creation of angels and men
v. the fall of angels and men
vi. the empire of darkness
vii. redemption
viii. the church militant
ix. the bridal of the lamb
x. the millennial sabbath (shābat)
xi. the last judgement
xii. the many mansions
                                                    (i know, i know, the
twelve disciples what not);
citation chapter ix page 247
   disguise was not: the dust instead of water drank in blood;
and fiery persecution in all lands
          lit up the lurid flames of hell.
  the whole creation in birth-pangs travail'd and groan'd;
while Satan inly tortured, with a fiend's dark
jealousy contemplating the power of Baalim
and envious Ashtaroth, though himself advanced,
as yet sub-served their banded *******.
Antichrist, as hollow subterfuges cast aside,
usurp'd the throne of Christ.


so that's an extract, but an e.g. of the notes of the
explanatory index:

st. paul's adoption of the word prophet to describe
the Cretan bard Epimenides (Titus i. xii)
appears to justify the use of seer in an equivalent sense;
compare i samuel. ix. ix.

line 78 "its true gauge"
'the measure by which we shall be measured, is the
faculty of love in the soul.'     Tauler, born 1290 a.d.

so there you have a sample of the lesser known Paradise
Lost... you probably won't find it in any shops,
it's a dated book, hard-cover... if you want it
i could send it to you, but you'd have to pay for
the postage duties.
ah crap, but that's not the point,
you've heard of the unholy trinity, well in it there's
this missing plurality, christian revisionists
(notably Slavoj Žižek) claim that the holy ghost
is not an individual but a community, a herd
(after all, it was a white dove descending at his
baptism, can't tell doves apart, so great, a community),
but working from there you have to accept
the other, counter: the false prophet of the opposite
hierarchy... it has to be plural... i.e. false prophets;
now i betcha ten quid that you wouldn't learn that
at sunday school.
title wise? i might change it...
                            i hate writing about religious things
because: a. it upsets people
                b. i don't like people getting upset
                c. some things just have to be said
                d. **** it, people are as adamant about
                     mobile phones as they are about
                     crucifix necklaces
                 e. i was schooled in catholicism although
                     not confirmed
                 f. i live in a protestant country, so, technically
                 g. i have to rebel and become an apostate,
                     meaning
                 h. the twelve apostates rather than the other 12.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
in english homes the buddha head is replaced by the christmas tree,
but i still prefer the existence of actual angels less popular than gabriel
with his koran, michael with his sword satan with his lie...
than compare men to angels or men to devils
rather than ensuring man remains a man
without comparison a godly comparison
which man discarded as easily weighed on the libra:
knowlesdge of atoms equal weight to the weight of limbs without torso de facto:
you just know there’s a celestial celebrity culture...
that might have survived if it survived on earth
with the span of a century executed as complete...
but since it didn’t... it seemed the lesser of the two reliefs:
one sided the one aim of attainment advertised
the un-attainable was preached by the priests of the ku ku klux clan...
and the latter half was preached by the brigade of social security
forces and other familiars / leeches and the fate of stipends...
capitalism outgrows itself in the realm it’s concerned with,
communism outgrows itself in the realm it’s not concerned with...
capitalism needs export... communism need import...
when a poet mentions money does he become an amateur poet
or a non-existent non-poet? i guess the latter...
given people could defend things that could have remained stones,
or given people could defend things that would have remained
grains of sand...
or that given people could have defended the shadows of
nodding branches of ******' breath dangling off them,
but given the people... not one iota made it into the alphabet
correcting... people spoke and that was the end of the meow...
the end that impregnated the woof...
once money was mentioned in a concerning way
the barbarian tribes merged into a society and societies
merged into capitals with ego per capita...
there was defence... of course... people defended their right...
but the sought nations among the barbaric multi-cultured
hegemonies that became quickly exhausted
learning to tailor many pockets into a one set of jeans:
the kenyan pocket, the slavic pocket, the caribbean pocket,
the irish pocket... but still one pair of english jeans;
the one pair of english jeans worn by a welshman...
the dragon versed lodging in a flag better with st. george moving...
all eyes to the united states, the prime-ministers of england said...
all eyes on the two-thirds of the fifty stars... three eyes on the stripes...
all sanity of language only claimed by the bestseller fiction rubric
none for philosophy, none for poetry... as long as there’s
a clear pronoun vector that narrates... we will have no other
methodology of acumen, other than the acumen of & in
a sequencing logic of one mistake made required
for the perfection of the much desired salivation for the pavlov
into a tango of a lost leg and subsequent limp encored by the crowd
of the proud primates leaving the hydrologic cycle
for the haemologic cycle of war among ourselves:
votes on the badger cull to save the hedgehogs!
260 aye, 201 naye. well, nevermind the redcoats
hunting the ginger furrballs.
PJ Poesy Dec 2015
Poetry and binary codes confuse me. One speaking in affects of numbers, the other in numbers of affectivity. If one could break the code to love, unrequited, divinely impassioned, or other obscure mixtures of, I could only see a cryptic deepening to such woeful confusion. Could one assign sequencing to the untangling of emotion, so that naive lovers might surpass calculated risk? If so, should it be done? I insist, it should be done at once. Assigning bit strings of zeros and ones to compute perfect poetry in which a reader might be forced to fall in love by measured affectations, algorithms deciphered to personal tastes, then subjected by power of suggestion encoded in grandiose pairings of words, suited to the individual reader, ah thus, I begin my army of love slaves. Are you reading my subliminal messaging? You see now, that didn't hurt one megabit. Did it?
If only it were that easy.
David Gonzalez Jun 2014
It's viewing the symphonies of Beethoven as vibrations, mathematical sequencing, and euphoria. Michelangelos' masterpieces as  indentations on a rock.
Pen Lux Sep 2014
forever better
alone with production
forever better
attending to poetic tendencies

the skies cry as I write
smoke so thick that it puts fog in the corner
heavy winds and planes rushing overhead
lightning with no trace of thunder
the wind rumbles louder
sequencing with my stomach
as I ache for inspiration in every toxic breath
that follows after the fire spreads

I smoke with the earth
as my lungs bleed
together with my heart
Abraham Norton Sep 2015
A discount soundboard,
rust chipping away the corners,
with a fresh coat of Pabst-stained rings
orbiting it's various dials,
is the solicitous reward of my uncle's will
for my third year production.

My daughter camp around me,
lining themselves on the far side
of this short room;
a phase of white walls
and even whiter light,
sagging their AM eyes
to cocoon into their sleeping bags,
shield themselves
from the permanent fixtures,
cuddle with themselves
while I slide volume controls.

Forest calls spliced to the ambiance
of last winter's ****, synchronized
to the wet thuds of my friend's face
pulping repeatedly into a tree.
We shot heavy boots in this scene;
snow crunching viciously
as his mangled body was dragged off frame.

I twist rotary knobs,
clumsily from finger grease,
as the captured rumblings of far off traffic
corrupts a month's work of sequencing.

Nature had retreated
from this Northwestern city,
had left only the rustling of pine needles
and useless silence
for the making of this movie.
Teal Winters Jun 2014
I walk by the same modest tree, a few times a day – a species I haven’t seen in my native desert land but enjoy as a bittersweet reminder of all the rain – and watch gradually, its metamorphosis that reveals to me much more than just the literal sequencing of time. It starts as a plain tree, tear shaped bottle-green leaves dropping uniformly from a body the color of milk with not quite enough syrup mixed in.

Each day the same – tree, leaves, tree, leaves, until all at once as if overnight evolution were a possibility, flowers. White, too, but much lighter than the body; like cream whipped just a few seconds too long. A tree built by symmetry, the tear shaped leaves mirrored then multiplied in the petals that cling to their seeded centers.

About days and time: as they pass, we tend not to notice until they’re already gone. The white of the flowers now blushed sunset pink on the tips – a welcome change in vibrancy, highlighting the stark contrast of hues and Bodhisattva – I could almost feel the radiation heat. The root of the tree was exploding to the very seams of the pedals, flush with the understanding that it will always meet mirrors edge; like the very core of the tree was bleeding to be seen, a red giant suspended in the eye of a storm. A heart kept on such fair sleeve.

More days, more time – I almost don’t recognize the flowers. The ends are curled with age and now there’s just dried blood on bone; like dirt on the face of a once pure child, the white pedals wilt with amber remorse for burning too bright. Such a cycle, I think and marvel at the beauty in the consequence of an accomplished life. The stale skeletons rattle on the tree to remind me that nothing worth loving could ever last.

As with Seasons, so too – the white dwarf fades to black in the inevitability of an ended life. But promise not to mourn, it begs, and implodes its seeded center to begin anew.
Bogle Feb 2014
This is one of the worst sequences,
there is some which have happened beyond this,
but that's only because my death is potential,
it hasn't happened... yet.

There is an open road,
we cross it,
I pass a bizarre building,
"what are you doing?"
"where are you going?"
you say.

I can feel your gaze on my back,
I don't turn round,
because your inquisitive look,
would tear my heart even more,
I tell you to go on and give me a min',
In my normal way.

And then you go on with the other one,
I slump down at the wall,
gazing on past Bethesda,
into the green pastures of the after life,
sequencing about the terror that is happening with you.

And like always I'm beaten by my body,
my heart,
my breath,
thats when I end,
you come out when you're done to check I'm ok,
but then I gaze into your lush eyes,
I'm to scared to gaze anywhere else,
just incase I see something that further scares me,
you then just watch me slip away.
It's amazing I suppose, how what something that society can consider as normal. Can **** a man like me.
Sean Achilleos Sep 2019
Matter in conjunction with sound
A pattern it shall form
A world under sound surveillance
What vibrations are being conveyed
What melody are we dancing to
Like a Chladni plate
A pulse of sound
The plate the world
The sand the people
Programmed to dance to a distant drum
Hypnotised but unaware
By a cosmic sound thumping through the air
Controlled by the powers that be
Until one day a cosmic intervention
Shall put an end to the sequencing beat
And we shall awaken from our sleep
Written by Sean Achilleos 19 September 2019©
www.facebook.com/SeanAchilleosOfficial/
Sean Achilleos' Music is available on the following platforms: Amazon Music, Apple Music, iTunes, Deezer, Google Music, Spotify, TIDAL, YouTube, Shazam, Napster, Jango Radio, Nicovideo (Japan), IQIYI (China), YOUKU (China)
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