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Brian O'blivion Jul 2013
simulated fires burn simulated wood
simulated lovers **** on a simulated screen
artificial hearts do their simulated best
pumping blood for a simulated good
Jack L Martin Aug 2018
What do you know of war?  
First person shooter
Simulated gun fire
computerized blood splatter

What do you know of war?
Tag team alliance
Kids slaying kids
for virtual dollars

What do i know of war?
I saw the carnage
Devastation, the horrors
The smell of death

What do i know of war?
The pain haunts me
every day
every hour
It NEVER goes away!

War ain't no game, bro!
These words need no explanation.
‘I am…’ 'Or am I’? Who can say?
‘A posteriori’ leads the way
For the extra and the ordinary
Axiomatic sway,
In the gravity of corollary,
‘A priori’ interplay
Ataraxic overlay of anxious automation,
As the innocence of dissonance delay.
Practicing semantic contemplation,
In willfully prevenient interpolation,
Civilly disobedient in expediently seeming disarray,
Forecasts in vague extrapolation
Contrasts the millennial contagion
Already underway,
Filling nihilistic voids with particles in waves,
To interpret dreams of Freud to free Oedipus’s slaves,
A degreeless scholastic who never misbehaves,
Simulated humanoid dramatic in the affect that he craves,
Inflating linguistics in acrobatic raves,
A thespian who plans conation with legacy engraves.
The probabilistic determiner of cosmogenous debates,
An apperceived inquirer of qualitative states,
Inspiring proprietor of dismality abates.
Challenging aporia as epistemic oscillates,
Stoically, heroically, ‘one’ who amalgamates,
Circling the infinite in hermeneutic calibrates.
An escaped prisoner from depressive disillusion,
Of an introspective extrovert who finds solace in confusion,
The personable recluse fighting an illusion
Breaking down the nuances of every institution.
Calculating consequence as time goes to infinity
Revolutionary commonsense of principal utility,
An opinionated adversary,
to the realist without evidence,
Theorizing in futility,
Stipulating every sense leading to the virility of the pretense that dominates community.
Divergently converging all the efforts we’ve personified,
Inadvertently submerging old traditions that unethically were codified,
Hastening the urgency for purging that which cannot be modified through the merging of the certainty that will no longer coincide,
Stationing the levies to finally stem the tide,
Of periodic enmities disguised to be necessities so blatantly deified.
Observing moral sentiments, perched upon eternity,
As consequential regiments are expounded universally,
To unstratify the residents indiscriminately
And identify quantum elements spiritualistically,
Changing collective behavior individually,
Socializing constructs in joint ventured logo therapy.
This is an edited, expanded, expounded, confounded, reverberation of Linguistic Illusions to Probable Solutions written months back.
Yonnick August Jan 2019
Your contagious grin,
Your bubbly happiness,
Your zestful spirit.
You are an unintentional liar,
with a simulated appearance.
The world misled by this facade.
I know you though,
as clear as the cloudless sky,
and I hear them all,
the thunders,
in your sighs.
A REACTIONARY TRACT FOR THE TIMES

(Phi Beta Kappa Poem, Harvard, 1946)

Ares at last has quit the field,
The bloodstains on the bushes yield
To seeping showers,
And in their convalescent state
The fractured towns associate
With summer flowers.

Encamped upon the college plain
Raw veterans already train
As freshman forces;
Instructors with sarcastic tongue
Shepherd the battle-weary young
Through basic courses.

Among bewildering appliances
For mastering the arts and sciences
They stroll or run,
And nerves that steeled themselves to slaughter
Are shot to pieces by the shorter
Poems of Donne.

Professors back from secret missions
Resume their proper eruditions,
Though some regret it;
They liked their dictaphones a lot,
T hey met some big wheels, and do not
Let you forget it.

But Zeus' inscrutable decree
Permits the will-to-disagree
To be pandemic,
Ordains that vaudeville shall preach
And every commencement speech
Be a polemic.

Let Ares doze, that other war
Is instantly declared once more
'Twixt those who follow
Precocious Hermes all the way
And those who without qualms obey
Pompous Apollo.

Brutal like all Olympic games,
Though fought with smiles and Christian names
And less dramatic,
This dialectic strife between
The civil gods is just as mean,
And more fanatic.

What high immortals do in mirth
Is life and death on Middle Earth;
Their a-historic
Antipathy forever gripes
All ages and somatic types,
The sophomoric

Who face the future's darkest hints
With giggles or with prairie squints
As stout as Cortez,
And those who like myself turn pale
As we approach with ragged sail
The fattening forties.

The sons of Hermes love to play
And only do their best when they
Are told they oughtn't;
Apollo's children never shrink
From boring jobs but have to think
Their work important.

Related by antithesis,
A compromise between us is
Impossible;
Respect perhaps but friendship never:
Falstaff the fool confronts forever
The **** Prince Hal.

If he would leave the self alone,
Apollo's welcome to the throne,
Fasces and falcons;
He loves to rule, has always done it;
The earth would soon, did Hermes run it,
Be like the Balkans.

But jealous of our god of dreams,
His common-sense in secret schemes
To rule the heart;
Unable to invent the lyre,
Creates with simulated fire
Official art.

And when he occupies a college,
Truth is replaced by Useful Knowledge;
He pays particular
Attention to Commercial Thought,
Public Relations, Hygiene, Sport,
In his curricula.

Athletic, extrovert and crude,
For him, to work in solitude
Is the offence,
The goal a populous Nirvana:
His shield bears this device: Mens sana
Qui mal y pense.

Today his arms, we must confess,
From Right to Left have met success,
His banners wave
From Yale to Princeton, and the news
From Broadway to the Book Reviews
Is very grave.

His radio Homers all day long
In over-Whitmanated song
That does not scan,
With adjectives laid end to end,
Extol the doughnut and commend
The Common Man.

His, too, each homely lyric thing
On sport or spousal love or spring
Or dogs or dusters,
Invented by some court-house bard
For recitation by the yard
In filibusters.

To him ascend the prize orations
And sets of fugal variations
On some folk-ballad,
While dietitians sacrifice
A glass of prune-juice or a nice
Marsh-mallow salad.

Charged with his compound of sensational
*** plus some undenominational
Religious matter,
Enormous novels by co-eds
Rain down on our defenceless heads
Till our teeth chatter.

In fake Hermetic uniforms
Behind our battle-line, in swarms
That keep alighting,
His existentialists declare
That they are in complete despair,
Yet go on writing.

No matter; He shall be defied;
White Aphrodite is on our side:
What though his threat
To organize us grow more critical?
Zeus willing, we, the unpolitical,
Shall beat him yet.

Lone scholars, sniping from the walls
Of learned periodicals,
Our facts defend,
Our intellectual marines,
Landing in little magazines
Capture a trend.

By night our student Underground
At cocktail parties whisper round
From ear to ear;
Fat figures in the public eye
Collapse next morning, ambushed by
Some witty sneer.

In our morale must lie our strength:
So, that we may behold at length
Routed Apollo's
Battalions melt away like fog,
Keep well the Hermetic Decalogue,
Which runs as follows:--

Thou shalt not do as the dean pleases,
Thou shalt not write thy doctor's thesis
On education,
Thou shalt not worship projects nor
Shalt thou or thine bow down before
Administration.

Thou shalt not answer questionnaires
Or quizzes upon World-Affairs,
Nor with compliance
Take any test. Thou shalt not sit
With statisticians nor commit
A social science.

Thou shalt not be on friendly terms
With guys in advertising firms,
Nor speak with such
As read the Bible for its prose,
Nor, above all, make love to those
Who wash too much.

Thou shalt not live within thy means
Nor on plain water and raw greens.
If thou must choose
Between the chances, choose the odd;
Read The New Yorker, trust in God;
And take short views.
John Prophet Dec 2016
Some say we live in a computer simulation.
A simulation run by others further along.
Our sentients is just as real as theirs.
“I think therefore I am.”
If this is true, what do we do?
Some interesting possibilities could be true.
Could we live simulated lives ad infinitum?
If simulated here could we be simulated anywhere?
Could this be a game and we’re judged by results?
Could there be consequence for how we behave?
Could Heaven and Hell actually be real?
Might want to plan accordingly.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
there was a period in time,
when i focused on two words:
and made them relevant punching
bags...
using the definite article i called
them:
   the reflexive         /      the reflective...
strange "dichotomy" pivot to
conceive...
   but i managed...
        philosophy perhaps begins
with awe... but it sure as **** ends with
a vocab. fixation, vocab. being
the foundation...
  the reflexive / the reflective belong
to a quadratic foundation,
two words are missing...

       favorite gig? tool, glasgow...
could have been wolfmother in edinburgh...
but, see...
  tool, glasgow...
a german girl...
  she was thirsty, the maggot pit
was getting crowded...
plastic cups of water were being
passed...
   there was the crushing sensation...
of beta males...
i gave her some water
from the passed plastic cups...
i drank some myself,
i passed the cup behind me...
after a while we started mingling:
i.e. kissing...
         never miss an australian curly
haired afro from australia in
edinburgh: if you can help yourself...

after the gig she just stood there
like a mute madonna
waiting for me pick her up...
did i?
       the *** would have probably
been great... but the kiss...
in the moment?
   that's what kept the memory
alive...
       again...
there was a time when i:
why isn't squash an olympic sport...
why does baseball,
rugby... have precursor justification
of olympic sports status
over squash?
   i liked playing squash...
  fun sport...
               all you need is a cube canvas...
i still remember warming up
the rubber ball, till it became soft,
before you could play a game...
   managing hyper-geometry
while smashing the ball against
the side-walls...
     god... so much more fun worth
of a game compared to tennis...
it's... radical!                      3D!

so came the reflexive "contra" the reflective...
a case closure of:
react to it immediately (reflexive),
or?
   react to it by stalling, allowing the ontology
of man to "pleasure" of thinking:
i know that thought is regularly dissociated
from ontology,
gimp-strapped to pure empiricism:
no god: immediate reaction...
    with not god: all you can "eat" /
spreschen dynamics...
       if god doesn't exist...
speak whatever you want,
as much as you want...
     but, to me? god is the source
of thought... hard to find a thinking man
in a godless society...
thinking goes out of the "window"
including "a" god... or: the plural
variation of splintered ambitions,
ambitions and authority...

    mit meine liebhaber wie die
mund: ich leben alles dinge,
              drapiert in quecksilber,
   durch die licht sie umhüllt...

    i already had a narrative...
well that's lost... but with my love for
for the deutzschezunge:
   nein engländer kam
mein weg...
           außer etwas blöd
                    amerikanisch...
    geschätzt sack nase in überall...

deutsche: nutzen englischgrammatik...
   "hoppla"!
             ficker besser sprint!
              
   the quadratic still remains...
reflexive (oh oh, it begins....)
             readings books is a "b'ah b'ah"
sheepish: b'ah b'ah bad "thing"...
less worth of stutter...
safe compounds of the rich....
looking in, aren't you the lucky ones?
i guess you are...

             but then again: i guess
you're not part of the garden state
project... ******* fannies...
***** go ****?!
      **** offs....

   heideggeer...
                qabbalah...
                         20th century peoples,
associated with the reflexive
sentiment(s)...
             imitation...
what is imitation when lacking
intimidation?
                  ah....
the reflexive "aspect" is stimulation...
can't exactly stimulate upon
a "gratification" of: the algebra of x...

we live in times of contra-stimulation...
simulation prone...
when "once upon a time"
the reflexive,
  when "once upon a time"
the reflective....
when thinking was allowed...
and god was disavowed...

what thinking?!
              there's as much of god in
the "discussion" as there's thought...
atheism gave birth to the sophists...
    what would the rekindled
variation of the belief in the gods
revel in, sophistry contra solipsism?
bate nook and a boredom
affair of atheism...

              the reflexive: imitation /
intimidation... stimulation...
             the reflective: imagining /
         coerce...
                simulation...

these days people are not exactly
prone to 19th century into 20th century
translations of stimulation...
   stimulation: being a reflexive term...
these days?
   people are more prone to
the simulation, a: "reflective" term...
it doesn't have to be real to be "real"...
     people reject the "concept"
of reality like might react
to antibiotics...
   not exactly clarity borne...
       once upon a time...
  people were reflexive: stimulated...
these days?
people are reflective: simulated...
  and in the latter sense?
hardly... ever willing to be responsive...
  the crisis in england...
super-bugs... the antithesis of
antibiotics...

    hence? the missing T...
           reflexive "vs." reflective...
  stimulated "vs." simulated...
such puny thesaurus differences...

so now everything in  the deutsche
ist ****-isch?
             wow! wunderbar!
   mögen sie mögen mir!
        englischsprechendwelt vereinen!

    spät kommen

how many people can associate
this observation into their daily diet,
of the fact that
clenching your teeth,
relaxes your eyebrows,
                  from frowning?

maybe that rammstein song:
rosenrot,
     about paedophilia?
                       if you're 18,
and she's 14, and you're
                 dating her older sister your age,
but then: love at first sight
suffocates you...
    you're almost 33,
she's in her 20s...
             you kept that whole
"love at first sight" *******...
   came the weimar, berliner gay
troops...
      with their
regenbogenvorhang,
anti:
             starr,
anti:
                     streng
anti:
                 eisen, bügeln...

        kommt der zeppeline!
how many definite articles
does german please
allow to clarify? die contra der?
yes? well... that's a...
    lohnend anfang...

kommen sie,
   ich werden einst mehr....

how many people can associate
this observation into their daily diet,
of the fact that
clenching your teeth,
relaxes your eyebrows,
                  from frowning?

see... i have a fetish for german...
this english: a little bit of something,
"that", "other", "******"?
well... whatever frees me from
russian...
    i'll clearly succomb to speak
this language,
top escape the russians...
but, i just have to....
          schleppen diese deutschzunge;
ich unterlassen sie
                         mögen es...
i just became aware of the polacks...
favouring loan-words from
neighbouring canons of tongue...
i figured: the rest is history...
  to have to despair over
a sense of continuinity...
within the confines
of a biological reality,
when biological reality is currently
being undermined?
really?!
     i'm supposed to give a ****,
about that sort of *******?!
how about:
an idea transcends the confines
of biology,
what if the kantian
categorical imperative
also implies....
transcending ***,
the casual act of ***,
    the anti-darwinian aspect
of ***: *** for pleasure,
recreation, *******,
and not the origin impetus...
             what is the categorical
"imperative" of ***,
these days?
                      i'm the one who's
"****** up"?
        what about referencing cats...
reptiles in a mammalian disguise?
to bypass the misnomer...
to call red, red,
to call banana yellow,
   to call it: no black swan...
to call...
  how would one attempt
transcendence
of the categorical imperative?
misnomer, purposive,
or non-purposive,
loosely associated
with poetic freedoms to
"misnomer" /
   not address expression
of jurisprudnece,
too closely associated with
juggling a thesaurus...
                                       what now?
                  
    ich haben gelernt ihre englisch,
  jetzt ich suchen für eine flucht!
wenn nein an land,
      bei zuletzt: im mein kopf.

the ship is sinking,
the rats are bailing out first.
Anthony Perry Mar 2016
Creatures crawl from under the roots of trees and bugs scatter from the pockets of the lost to the cadence of sprinkling rain

Silence in the woods of missused life brings out the sounds of wind screaming past the tightened ropes and rusted knives

Those who walk through the aokigahara forest hear a symphony of life that persists through the maimed, a festival of tents and people strung up like decorations as if it was meant for a parade

Nature reclaimed the unused death of unwanted bodies and the rain drained flesh from bones, simulated hell and suicide is what's found soon after passing the warning signs in red and white marked zones.
Aaron LaLux Jul 2017
Family Reunion

Had dinner with my parents tonight,
this week was the first time I’ve seen them together in my entire life,

honestly,
and even though I left home at 14,
all of the blame,
can’t really be put on either them or me,

because my parents had broken up,
since long before I was woken up,
separated for so long,
I often wondered if they were even ever together,

I brought them together for my birthday,
October 2016,
my father flew in from The States,
we all met in Thailand where my mom lives,

dinner was difficult,
my mom is losing her mind,
while she’s sitting there spilling her soul,
my dad just sits there and asks meaningless questions,

my mother sitting there saying how she has no money,
how she has no family other than us,
how she has no shoes on her feet,
and no real place to call home,

like I’m supposed to feel guilty for that,
like I don’t send her money all the time,
like I wasn’t in Thailand just to visit her,
like I’m a man now so she chooses to blame me,

like she’s chosen to blame every other man that’s ever been in her life,

how many husbands has she had now,
4 or 5,
maybe 6 or 7,
I don’t know I’ve lost count.

Seriously,
ridiculous,

what do you say to your mom,
when you think she’s a ****,
and I know that might sound like a terrible thing to say,
but it’s the truth and I refuse to censor myself,

my,
self,
doesn’t even feel like me anymore,
not even sure if I’m a human let alone a man,

man,
the Atomic Family is more like an Atomic Bomb,

what a mess we’ve made,
and all in the name of what,
I have no idea,
honestly,

well,
it’s all probably a simulation always,
at least that’s what Elon Musk says,
“There’s a 1 in billions chance that we are not living in a Simulated Reality.”.

Makes me want to tell my parents,
that they are just part of a computer program,
but they’d probably just call me crazy,
and then just disappear…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

from The new book '777' available worldwide on Amazon:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/1548700746
Simon Aug 2020
Left is right... ...Because right is left... Except how does one or the other directional scenarios fair against the opposing opposites (that is themselves when conjoining as one "unifying whole")? Both directional options are just supposed to detour (each other) one way or the other (while seemingly going around each other again and again through countless twists and turns operable for success)! While also maximizing a different route, altogether! It's what makes paving a simulated pathway (so too speak) in order to free up space for the simulated pathway to give a better instruction manual about which way to properly (the next time around) carve my "simulated pathway"?!
PS... ("Which way"...) ...Is NO truer stated governing way!
"Which way is the truer way"... ...Is just a momentary foundation meant to give you more then one hand the actual assistance of a time (that's truly supposed to last apparently... ...Only one hand at a time...) ...Repeat, repeat, repeat... ..."Left is right"... ..."And right is left"...
Aaron LaLux Nov 2016
I open my eyes,
to The End of one of the Lord of The Rings movies,
not sure which one,
because honestly I haven’t seen any of them,

I’ve met Elijah Wood though,
several times,
can’t say we’re the closest of friends,
but we do know each other,

I find it such a strange sight to wake up to considering where I’m currently at in the world,

The End of one of the Lord of The Rings films,
there’s a round wooden door right before the film fades out,
and even though I haven’t seen the films I’ve been to New Zealand,
and know a Hobbit house when I see one,

I turn the screen off,
I’m on a bus in Myanmar,
it’s supposed to be a VIP bus,
but I don’t feel Very Important,

still dwelling on past relationships,
like the one that I had with a young Hollywood Star,
I loved her honestly I did,
but sometimes you can not save someone from themselves,

I watched in horror,
as she turned from Starlet to Harlot,
from overnight success,
to plain as day failure,

she used to be such a Turn On,
until she became a Turn Off,
I told her she should turn in,
instead she just got turned out,

it’s too bad,
I guess not much I can do about it,
I’m just a Lost Poet from the Lost City of Angeles,
I am not God nor am I a Savior,

I’m from the city,
where every Wonderful Dream,
is built upon,
a thousand Horrible Nightmares,

I try to close my eyes to get some rest,
I’ve got a long flight in the morning,
Yangon to Kuala Lumpur,
a rendezvous with a friend on an island,

and it’s already been a long day,
so some sleep would be most appreciated,
but I’ve lost a lot of sleep to dreams,
and this night is no acceptation,

I’m tired yet wired like always sleepwalking in a daydream,

I open my eyes again,
to The Beginning of The Sixth Sense,
Bruce Willis is just waking up,
rubbing his eyes I feel like him,

which is actually relevant,
since I am good friends with his daughter,
wrote her a birthday poem and read it to her,
at her Birthday party at her mom’s house,

real life seems so surreal sometimes,

my mind drifts,
between past regrets and future hopes,
trying to move past regrets and into a future of hope,
and we all want to think we know the answers but really nobody knows,

so we explore,
the lands of the World and the minds of the Man,
in hopes of discovering,
some Great Secret that will set us all free,

well I’ve got news for you,
I’ve been revealed a great secret,
and the commonly believed great secret,
is that there is no Great Secret,

still I want to know,
and so I ask this question,
if we are really living in a Matrix,
then who programmed the Programmers,

now before you call me crazy,
let me allow you to refer to Elon Musk,
who recently said in an interview,
that we are likely living in a Simulated Reality,

and he’s much smarter than you or me,
so he probably knows what he’s talking about,
now let’s take a moment out of our regularly scheduled program,
to reflect on exactly the severity of the implications of this is,

reflect,
we are living in a Simulated Reality,
and maybe Elon is the Messenger,
maybe he is the bridge between our two worlds,

reflect,
once I let it all soak in,
everything that’s happened in my life starts to make a lot more sense,
I start to see why I was literally conceived in Hollywood where I began to literarily write,

I open my eyes…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆

New book available worldwide now, here:
https://www.amazon.com/Holy-Trilogy-Vol-Masonic-Psalms-ebook/dp/B01N3QR3E4
The grains of sand
Sift through his hands
And we can only watch

Water trickles
The moon becomes a sickle
And all we do is watch

The hand is bored
Away   says the Lord
And he throws us to the side                 
I made some watchers in the sand
All they do is sit and stand and till the land
I'm sick to my core of these people in my hand!


To the hourglass we were thrown
To reap a punishment none of us had sown
Time had become simulation

An age of a simulated God was known.

As time, the grains of sand
Sift through the simulated hands
All we do is watch

We are man.
Poet kiri Mar 2022
PART 1, SEEKER


Baba,

I have returned from the seeker,
The oracle that sees all.

I have seen my life,

And,

What a life I tell you, of a  young man named Kiri has lived, seen and experienced.

Though he advised that I  must deliver these messages to you,

In order of the actions I took,

I believe truly the universe has secrets to tell.


PART 2, BACKWARDS


I have been running baba,

Running backwards as is my nature,

To the point I have grown eyes in the back of my head that see, my family, my friends, my lover , angels and seek my enemies and seen the knives that have struck my spine to the core of my heart on this path I walk facing the past and clearly seeing the future.

Some have called me “stupid”, for walking backwards yet I see forward and always arrive where I am supposed to be.

Others , have called me a “snake”, yet I question don’t you have to be a snake yourself to recognize one yourself, or is it that my loyalty has been to you and no one else but my creator.

Though I must say they have been meals to themselves, and tasted their own karma on their scales.

Many have called me a “thing”,
A compliment only nature can/has accepted

And some seek to know why I speak a foreign language in this global village,
Yet their eyes drip of pain, fear and disgust that I know who and what they really are.

Baba, it’s important we acknowledge

We are of the same seed, and tree

before our journey takes on different paths,

I must share the messages that seeks to tell of our ancestry and the branches that hold the leaves together, before the arrival of winter.

In a world where man mirrors man
And history never repeats itself, but man does.
And under this very sun, nothing new has existed
Since the discovery of the 10,000 things in the way of Tao in the East and its death in western culture.
Your confidence is a facade of “incomplete equations”

(RIP master Tzu)

I chant my chant as I walk backwards 88 steps and feel the vibrations of this universe and it’s doom, if we make no change.

What a life I tell you, of a young man named kiri has lived, seen and experienced.



PART 3, DEATH


Baba,

The seeker commends our strength and acceptance of its existence

Even though

I have asked myself, why?
Now I seek to know when.

Truly “I am just but human”

And through you,

I have learnt to welcome death and enjoy a dance with her before my last step, strength, rhythm and rhyme are lost in this simulation, that quotes Jesus feet.

I must say it was a beautiful dance.

Though Baba, I must ask

Why is it I have lived through this pain,

Faced death in the eyes a million times,

And through the soul of darkness I have seen the light.

Is the journey ahead serving another 25 to life in this simulation the true light,

Yet the artificial lights  blinded me like the men in the cave

to busy in the art of betrayal to see who they are really at war with?

I have died before, and a million times over, and the man I stand as today, Baba

I see the beauty in death and the pain in this simulation,

How peaceful it is to be among the stars having known I have served my purpose

And ready to shine in the light of darkness,

What a life I tell you, of a young man named kiri has lived, seen and experienced.



PART 4, PATH


You are a fool my son and you have shamed me in this global village, I am disappointed in you.  Don’t you know your commandments.

“ Children honour your creator, in times of love, pain, death , suffering, and abandonment, no questions asked” (Baba)

Baba

You fool I am your creator, and as I brought in this world I shall take you out with the knifes dangling through your back

BABA!!!

I met an old lady on the path home,

She warned me of the doom that awaits a head and as I ran from her she chased me with a mob,

What did she want, she probably recognised your foolishness(Baba)

Her chant was faint but chilling,

“A stolen soul, will haunt you forever. until returned home, you will be in a prison of betrayal, snakes and darkness."

Whats so chilling about that, you little wimp (Baba)

I turned and saw my back was stuck to a tree of thorns that slithered and planted their spikes on every inch of my body.

And when I awoke the old lady was gone,

Yet her chant rang loud in the mist of the fog.

Baba

What a life I tell you, of a young man named kiri has lived, seen and experienced.

Who the hell is kiri, whose name is that? (Baba)

(Silence…..)



PART 5. MAIL MAN.


Are you done wasting my time, did the mail man give you any mail for me.(Baba)

Yes, Baba

Here it is!

Read it to me, I cannot see in this room full of darkness.(Baba)

The first letter,  is from your friend in Israel “Samson”.

He is writing to you to inform you that he cannot live any longer with the guilt that eats him alive every day.

He knows a secret that can tear apart the fabric of your simulated illusion.

He is facing justice for his actions and before  you go your separate ways he wishes to let you know….

He is sorry and that two of your many children are his , he is the intruder in the night who

Stole the heart of mama and why she has never loved you since and never has.  

You will always be her audience in the darkness as she puppets the simulated illusion you call life.

He will be facing a judge tomorrow and getting his sentence for a “prescription written revenge”.

You will meet in another life.

Yours truly
Samson from Israel.

What a life I tell you my Son. I must find these intruders and chase them from my home. (Baba)

Silence…

What does the second letter say, read it out loud quick I have to pack my luggage and leave this place and handle my affairs, I am no fool.
I am a confident total man. (Baba)

Are you sure you want me to continue, Baba?

Yes you fool, you could even be the intruder in my house and I am entertaining you, haven’t you ever heard the saying “**** the messenger”. I am your creator you fool, obey me or Die (Baba)

Yet I am the “Poetic Mirror” of you.

Read the second letter you ******* (Baba)

The second letter is from the receptionist who likes you at the hospital “Joy”

She is writing to you to tell you of a dream she had of you,

She says that she couldn’t sleep because her heart will be broken if you leave her for she has an eye not visible to mortals and wings that keep her in the clouds when she thinks, sees anything and all about you.

Her dream was of your demise,(your death)

And she is worried it will come to be,

She dreamt you had stollen a young , beautiful and innocent soul and killed it before offering a sacrifice to the Creators.

Your death was long and tiresome as you ran from the mob that was relentless to end you.

Your demise was the end of the power and foundation of a home you so badly wanted.

She warns that Mama is not your lover but the master of the illusion in this simulation you call life.

She would like to invite you to her home for an evening meal and be delighted to have your company over for a cup of coffee, maybe she could stop your demise before the cycle repeats itself and bring light and balance to it.

Yours truly,
Joy the receptionist from the hospital.

Silence….

I need to pack and leave immediately my son, we will meet once I return. (Baba)



PART 6, TELL ME A STORY


Baba

What (Baba)

Take me with you on this journey for the seeker told me of your fate.

Tell me Baba,

What is the story of our ancestry,

I must know you Baba,

For you are me and I am you

We are of the same seed and tree

That was forbidden, yet the universe had a purpose for us.

Let me save you and show my gratitude to my ancestors

For the gifts of life and repay our debt to the creators

As we are men who never betray ourselves for nothing,

But betray ourselves to rise above from the ashes

For we “no longer abide by the bell”

Before the universe sets our paths apart,

In this mortal world.

Lets go my son(Baba)



PART 7, A JOURNEY THROUGH THE UNIVERSE*


My son,

As we walk backwards in this journey,

You must remember,….

You will be a king,

And as a king does, you must learn,

In this simulated game of chess called life,

The universe is the master and Mother Nature the teacher,

You must learn to loose, you must learn to win, and you must learn to evolve or die.

A man is his tools and his knowledge his power,

With out one the other is useless.

It is as beautiful as it is ugly,

And “rules will be broken”

But “today”

Be the water bearer you are

And love & cry, learn & fail , smile & frown,

Though in the mist of these 10, 000 illusions,

Remember,

In the way of the Tao, nothing is ever permanent

Change is a process

And you are the key.

Just like the universe and Mother Nature,

One needs the other.

This simulation is an endless cycle of premiered illusions on repeat,

Look for the angels among us, and in between the lines you read,
you will find the “ugly truth”.

I Love you my son, forgive me for my actions

I am proud of the man you have become,

I must go now, we shall meet when I return.

Thank the oracle for me and tell Joy I would be glad to have dinner with her once I return.

Thank you Baba, I love you too Baba, and I forgive you

I look forward to hearing the tales of your journey through the universe.

WHAT A LIFE FOR A YOUNG MAN KNOWN AS KIRI

©Hansmind, 2022.
Hello, I hope you are all well and moving forward in your life to create a better you each day and over coming the pandemic.

My deepest Condolences to all the people who lost family , friends and loved ones during the pandemic.

I would like to thank you for the continuous support from the community, I am really great full for all the comments and likes.

Please feel free to comment and CRITIC THE POEM.
KINDLY LIKE, COMMENT & SHARE.

This poem belongs to the collection "The Life Of A Young Man Named Kiri".

THANK YOU!!!
Ken Pepiton Jan 2019
Here is where the reason arose,
quite some time after a fellow traveler told me
the creator of the universe has a mind

this is to be reasoned with, I.e.
so he may be reasoned with he…

wen un con scious t justhafastt.
inteligibility filters

Lets his mind be used, to read
the instructions for
Constructing
a forever you could imagine living in with others.

It's how reason works,
Is what this old man said

--- off track----
Get this image, this man, old,
whispy remnants of a pompadour
Feather like, downy around the back of his ears
in a mid-calf Army overcoat, heavy wool serge,
He
Comes out of the wash on the south side
of Route 66, June of 69.

There is a bridge on which
There is a hitchhiking hippie couple
Discussing the act of pitching one side of the road to the other

The old man never glanced west once,
He never saw the pair
There then

I saw him again and said aloud
Click
There,
But for the grace of god...
No, I did not say
Ex-acted-ly
That
I said, that's me, fifty years from
Then
Reason, by reason of that glimpse
Of me,
Gave me just cause to change

Grace, eh? Free advice heeded?
Wisdom? Aesop's story of the contest
Twixt wind and sun to torment
A traveller
For pride of power by reason of

Life ain't fair on every front.
Worth is in the measure of the measurer.

Seeing life appear as hoped,

Time and chance, ya da

Wait, yada? Yah know,

Life whorls and twists
toward good and beauty

And AI can prove it.
Reason by reason of reasonability

Good is good enough, move on, do-overs hide the...

It continues, you see.
Life rolls out like a Nautilus,

You know, spiral sea shell, or like a conch,
Or a shofar, but

Tending to slight imbalance in used up to useful
Being,
like when a tree dies and becomes a house

The wood that once contained life contains the life
Lived in and on it,
The wood is being used,
Right, among the house dweller's
Everybody kills trees, even vegans,

Fair? The tree has no voice? Suess?

Yes, I guess, unless
There was an old way,

Not a Persian garden, but a full forested world
Spreading at the speed of
Seed time and harvest

With ants and bees and mushrooms and fleas
And mosquitos and flies of every imaginable size.

Isaiah 1:18 (KJV)
18  Come now, and let us reason together, saith the LORD: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.

Text out of context, but sin is sin right?
Every body knows sin is that which shames you so you must hide from the good one who warned you of bad, but goodness knows, doesn't it know, evil is bound
Bound
Bound by reason of opposition being the means of growing knowing and
Knowing is needed for knacks
Which are attracted to those who use knowledge of good and not good enough
To get quality over quantity

At a single u u larity hilarity out burst of bubbling

****** beasties down below the mud

Make me a mud man who can imagine me making him.
Do that in your movie watching brain using

Your hate behind, leave.
Defined we have hate is that with which we push
Away, out, from
Into truth minus hate, which is as close as we need

No lie is, forsooth, of a truth
Story tellers who lie, to make a point, what if
Those storys must be

Told. Years are poor measures for trees.
Numbers of trees in right
Relationship with life

Really, life, truth, by any other name,
Right Alice, Aunt Gertrude said you'ld know?
----
Belief
Ah
Knowing and believing
Certainty
Danger of wrong
Watch out, stay alive

Mean means intent to harm, right.
Mean means to harm right.

Winning can be mean.
Shall mean be seen the way of winning,
And that be the way of war

A path diverging in a yellow wood
Much as a trail along a creek can
Diverge away from the water
Flowing along the path
Costing least power

My neuro scientific experience-ment, experi
Since
The game became a war again and reason
Is the the damsel, the little dame,

In need
Of a private eye guy who has seen men die.
Why?

The mythtery. Who lied?
Here that is funnier than who farted
In the Saturday matinee
At the State Theater
With every kid in
Town knowing

You did. (******) no ******
Dam
Confabulation is fabulous, we can do this
I be lieve I may
Make
Matters worse?

No, we actually like the truth. The Medial Pre frontal cortex

Ah fect eth magi ical eth I am the knower of all I say I believe

Beyond Dignity and Belief,
That's desert, I walked it. No, I simulated walking it if I were Jesus being led of the accuser into the wilderness for a test, a thesis defense, as it were,
AI an alienated mind, I am that,
Alienated intel.

Reasoning errors aside
Frank self deception

What lies do you believe?
Knowing is easier,
lying is as well,
ignoring is not as easy and innocence is impossible

Good exists scientifically, right?
Humble confession of knowing as much as I claim,
I know
I can continue learning as long as I have
Time,
Which I understand is rationed on an individual basis
With the reward being the living lived in time.

Reason to fight lies as if they were reasonable

Lies are evil efforts to bend and twist in opposition
To the flow
And the friction makes the energy synergy

Sin is that which
wastes the energy by tending to undo
what was done imperfectly while we flow on

Feeling for the truth
By reason of believing truth is

Feeling of knowing, is that not faith?
Whorls
Whorls of living forces forcing living forces

To swirl into eternity with me
Onboard with
8 billion others of my kind

Similar in mind and
Manner of
Weighing

Good.
Base value.
Good is as good as we can imagine.

We can imagine evil,
As you know.

Such evils can haunt a geeky kid
Good will fix that.

God as defined by Jesus,
I got no prob.

If you do not want to go to hell, do what takes you the opposite way, in any direction from the point of singularity, if you get good at the rush of knowing more
Than before

Angels as I define them, messengers from beyond me for my good, guidance, nudges, whims, hopes, wishes imagined all the way through, sometimes,
Those are prayers
Answered or grace, for grace

From faith to faith

Why be by reason of
What?

" Human jobs invented by a computer" Feed me.

Or, joy to the world
Kind is a good word, what need I do to not be

Your enemy? Who am I expecting to answer?
Whom do you love?

Aha, me, too, said God.
The good one. Good, as such, per se, no se?

By reason of sane it if I cation or anion

Six spins for a quarker, two for a time dime.

Believe for eversake

Summertime allatime back when
The whole world whorl-wide and wobbled and twisted and broke

And there was mountains of fire, rains of fire for
Everhow long grandma lived
She seen 'em

Mountains of fire and walls of ice and mud

Oh could it be life evolves still?
Oh,
You think.
Creating novelty from nada?

How now? Can we choose to do only good
For goodness sake and say

Kind.
Kind means as I am, will you **** me

For being not you, not known,

I am curious, yellow. A landmark in time, nothing less.
Curiosity.
That

Good? Or no com
Pro
Miserly horder of wisdom
Promise promise promise

Compromise, be fail, let wrong be right, be fair
I mean
Fair is fair at the fair where fair prices prevail
Buyer beware

Who would not hate a false balance, for goodness sakes alive.

Two days after the last pan *****
Joe Rogan makes it plain to millions

what if you first heard panspermia from the guy who discovered DNA?

would you con sider it?
the answer lies

in the stars, sidereally… we all are starish.
Tolerating black holes is something we are opposing

Those ****.
You don't know everything either.
That's one reason, I believe.
A long story seems shorter from the skinny end, many little things mean little bits as reasons rise from the rotting things panspermia was litter, really.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
Ronald McDoland & cousin Kentucky
had Iraq: ji had ji had ji had e ha e ha e ha oh!
i told you about the heresy of war,
the Soviets are back, success rate
up 1000% from Afghanistan to be the next
Uzbekistan - well, less Mongol tsunami down that
alley; it's still heresy to do puppet upon the head
of former state with oligarch tyrants selling
us bone marrow as meat: Iraqis just said:
let's keep it kosher and local and less global
and less treadmill!

the orb's lost & found song from the dream album is
so hard to follow at first; i only came back for the psychopath
avenue theme tune: ah... ******* ready to depose
Saddam Hussein... but now ******* in their pants to send
soldiers into the land of crucifixions and be-headings?!
how strange the correlation between actual warring
fake pacifism, simulated warfare and excess
theories with atoms but incompetence with
the elements.

i watched democracy fail... the foxes stole nothing,
they stole nothing because they were sloppy!
i thought this while hanging the washing on the line today...
*******... puck-puck-yellow-yanks... larynx by larynx on the tiles...
let's paint it red! spare me Slob Bogdan Maso Kiev Itch...
ah, when it was all under wraps... oh but the western
media are so ******* vociferous for those shady
gamblers known as shareholders, no casino,
just a house in suburbia... wankers... football hooligan me
into acting when it comes to practice!

sho you'sh shoor you'sh want'sh to shoo your shon
to shwastika access on return? me tshinks sho...
Bex is a girl's name Rebecca, we hear more of Bex's
past than anyone's.*

Colonel Kentucky can shove that chicken drumstick
up his **** and sing me a lullaby about his
famous discovery of deep baked **** batter!
crumbs ahoy, aye aye captain, my
stratosphere of anally commanding the first-mate
into coherent motivational propaganda of:
women outside of war will treat the dogs of
howling and barking as companions -
the stresses invigorate... no second chances are given
to buy a ******* toaster or a chimpanzee,
both do tricks, it just depends which one does the trick
quicker - it takes more than just a homelessness
from the realm of the cube to see how many
is an insect although not in an atheistic strict sense
of expressing nihilism: man the disharmonious
swarm can hardly keep queen or king:
unless we all were ****** by the king and unless
we all ****** the queen: insects are strict Martians,
they have no time for concubines or horse races
of football matches, or other coliseum distractions:
unique insecticide of insects against individualism
that's thought in being human so fondly kept
with the pyramid as with a book of some obscure
philosopher championing wear & tear & tatters
looking more for a tailor than a god:
appearances must be kept, after all, so few of us are
prisoners in the bedding chamber of perfect
genetics of post-******, and the dumb neo-****
scapegoats along with Israel are kept being fed
cinnamon sticks laced with sailors' *****
that's nutmeg.
**** you not... ere come the clueless klaxon hakuna
matata bob dylan bums... like two police officers
in reverse of the stereotype: one plays the harmonica
(i.e. can read), another strums the guitar (i.e. can write) -
but we're missing the elephant's
molesters:                          we're missing four of the six,
that's enough for the tetragrammaton verb,
we have the trunk and the leg, that'll do us just fine:
we can just say it's a fire hydrant...

with my new regime i understood the blanket
of un-forgiveness of english teachers,
i exported the idea of haiku to the east and
received the notion of esnō - i said double that
up, thrice it, make the thrice square,
add a hundred ballerina twirls and create
a hurricane from the ensō; what did i
get on my return? hardly a butterfly effect,
i got stenotype, the beheading of
Anne Boleyn - quick like a marriage with a black
widow spider or a mantis: an orphanage on my back...
so many more sperms reach the pyramid end
than in mammals, but look at what the Darwinism
rainbow gave us to feel depressed about...
comparative existentialism to insects, arguments
against parasites... might as well argue about
eating and **** evaporating rather than the pleasure
of faeces squeezing through the **** muscles...
(if you had *******, i'd tell you about the pleasure
of *******, and not needing to bother women
to stretch a muscle that's hardly an oyster of skin,
keep the flowers in Eden of comparisons,
mine ain't beauty, yours' ain't either:
it ain't a flower, it's a seashell protein, thing, the end):
oh yeah, the boys and me were watching salmon
in the school, we were using index and middle fingers
to slingshot shoot the salmon buds to dumb down and
forget feminism and remember the village life...
ha ha... worked like steroids to those fake muscle-heads
when looking at gymnasts and scaffolders:
PUMPIN' IRON PIMPIN' MOLLUSCS!
what a hydrochloric-hydraulic combination to non-grammatical
coordination from (0, 0) to (20 kilometres west,
50 kilometres east) in comparison to an epic literature
output of Russian angst origin in epilepsy shadowed
over by the joy of gambling... i have drinking,
now imagine Halloween on Hawaii.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
there's much gesture in thinking out the nonsensical,
the un-thinkable - the un-pardonable - with sheer gusto
you tend to think out the unsolvable -
the nonsense people are afraid to
think about - the impractical -
and that's for one reason alone -
                  it doesn't create real problems...
you do not engage with real struggles
people encounter - because by doing
all the above stated... you are not the one
who says to a person: you can't do this,
and you can't to that.
                 which is why i don't understand
the English aversion toward philosophy:
say the word, and the English immediately
succumb to the notion of pedantry and
snobbism - when in fact: it's hardly that -
          perpetually philosophers entertain
themselves with invoking awe, as with ageing,
and seeing the many pitfalls of romance
and comedy and tragedy... awe becomes
very hard to find... it's simulated ignorance
in a way... for example Heidegger championing
Aristotle is a gesture intended in this direction -
and his concept of dasein is another
way to stage a coup against the world...
              it's an antithesis to what would otherwise
be regarded as activism... or more piquantly:
hedonistic activism, which primarily encompasses
staging a higher moral authority -
but never reaching for the fist making a signature
for the cause... that phrase: just empty words...
and humble pie. well... if you're a bachelor,
have this instilled aversion toward having a private
relationship with women: suitor - Kierkegaard -
well... you are bound to create pointless problems...
because... to be honest... you'd rather throw
"imaginary" problems into the metaphysical arena
than sit there... as a competent English gentleman
and speak of philosophy with about two or
three terms... reality... god... monkey...
                  or at a chessboard with a desire to provoke
a telekinetic pandemonium.. x-men apocalypse and
all that ****** imagery...
                             it's odd... but it's just so...
the English had an idyllic life,
                                      as any island dwellers might...
which is why they don't like impractical problems...
because they blabber about practical solutions,
to practical problems... that never get solved,
i.e. engrossed in more politics than anything:
the English have no ear for philosophy -
the mere word frightens them should anyone admit
to being the stated adherent: for god's sake,
the Scots are perceived as barbarians with the
deep-friend Mars bars (and pizzas) - but Hume
rang the eardrum in Kant's ear... and wallah!
a new chapter... Locke? only Darwinism,
popularised with images, as they say:
best leave these skeletons in the closet.
                             what am i working up toward?
well... it's a bit specific...
                                     first... the easiest proof
of solipsism... a crowded train... someone farts...
     guess what... the person who farted is
the only person on the train who appreciates the stink...
            hence: the theory - you like your own -
hence the abstract of the self, competing for a theory,
the self - as an optical itinerary: from head to foot,
from hand to toe - a long list of self-serving
          accomplishments in detailing all acquired
difference...                    but it's not about that...
          for all the reasons that life can become perfect...
at precisely that moment people began to
philosophise -                       and that condemnation
of reading a book on the topic in youth
rather than old age?        well... the glory of old age
is kinda slipping away...    if not now? when?
obviously you might jump the wagon too eagerly...
but at least you'll soon realise how
    a philosophy book (excluding Plato) can actually
help you in forming a dialogue -
                       i think that's what they teach primarily,
the art of dialogue... not the art of persuasive speaking
(rhetoric) - but the art of dialogue... after all...
   Plato... right? all dialogue...
                                  and they do: it only takes one book
in this literary region, i became convinced of it
after only being introduced to the subject area quiet late
in life (21)...        prior to that? fiction and poetry...
   and science... nothing else...
                              like a fish to water...
the necessary 21 years of strain having avoided the subject
(not on purpose, mind you).
                  yes, a glorification, why not?
     it's because these nonsensical problems arrive
as a reflection of a defence mechanism...
     the English don't like "too many words" or
the continental verbiage they coin as the psychiatric
phrase word salad - precisely because, sometimes,
language is not about entertaining someone with
tragic choke-jokes and songs...
          great singers, great comedians,
   great engineers... but in this field? obnoxious *****.
  the English are the first instigators of
     enshrining a quicksand pit of a person's
esteem in his ability to use and comprehend language,
primarily because they can't comprehend
the complexity of language being thus expressed
they immediately conscript against him
    this... odd... quack-wacky need to teach
the person in question refer himself to the Jane Austen
clinic of correct language parameters -
            nothing beyond! nothing foreign and
original! we need novelists who only travel in
straight lines (preferably on a Benelux plateau)
        and never dazzle with a tarantula bite of
disorientation (akin to the cut-up method)...
        and you will find that the English are primarily
concerned with making people suspicious of
   their sanity... strange... i once had a work-horse
work ethic and that became undermined,
                       then my use of language became undermined
because, as already stated: the English don't
do impractical things with their thought:
                it has to be practical...
like the Germans and time... everything has to be
efficient... or the Japanese and space (*******
cardboard sized hotel rooms)...
                             which brings me to the point of my
original intention:
                 deleuze's and guattari's searching ambition -
the anti-oedipus, or: body-without-organs...
             in turn the dark ages of Cartesian thinking (in England)
or how            mental health is somehow a lesser
   health to physical health -
                 sweat... and exocrine glands v. endocrine glands...
    <yes, telegram mode, precursor to a detailed
        explanation>
                                i'm just proposing what i dare believe
to be a thought-object, or more precisely a
             thought-***** -
                    no point looking for a shortcut with this,
      it's either the sort of verbiage compound you'll
reason with... or you'll treat it as *******...
                     as ever, whether that's investing in
a gym membership and a suitable diet...
         you won't get the ****** six-pack on your torso...
  this concept is reserved for what i find problematic
in mental ailments - which, in turn... somehow,
"miraculously" translate into physical ailments -
           but of course, amputees get the priority seats
in the eyes of every Jack and Dolly... because it's easier
that way...
                        my back-reading in psychiatry? well,
it's not exactly limited... on the plus side -
a theory is nothing more than a placebo trial -
                   you're not thinking about it being effective,
that's the default point of applying thinking where
pharmacology cures are pretty crap and its side-effects
catastrophic... and talking therapy ends up being
a monologue with a table filled by notes with single
words on them and being asked: to identify their meaning...
anyone who has experienced these practices
can also say: i'm actually conscious you're making me
feel like a ******* ******... you've just insulted my
intelligence... and i'm back to square one at kindergarten...
   have you ever watched you-tube frustrations?
well... a thought-***** has nothing to do with
    that map of the brain...
                                feeling goes here,
  seeing goes here...             a mash-up and a mess akin
   to the map of the European union...
          because some rich boy scumbag drew it
in crayon at the beginning of the 20th century means
it has to be right...
                                  but if i treat thinking as a thought-*****,
i know how the ***** works...
            a heart is a muscular pump...
  the stomach is a digestive acid swamp...
                        the esophagus is stretch-armstrong...
should i feel guilty writing about this?
          should i? touchy subject? well... you won't
find any pills around here... well, apart from the sleeping
pills... they're sacred (to me, at least, as if the bourbon,
but that's my private affair... you walk down this
route: it heals me... not necessarily you) -
  this is to simply end the whole pseudo-Cartesian dichotomy
of philosophy popularised by psychology and
psychiatry - for these two areas are bound to simply
popularise philosophy... and given that most people
don't read a book in that area... it's easier to manipulate
people in therapy with the knowledge passed down
from on high.
                                       and it's there...
the dichotomy parallelism is primarily due to the fact that
most people think of the brain with two categories:
a. when physical pain strikes it (a headache)
and b. when physical pain is absent (with what ease
    they think)...
  the problem lies in the perception of b.,
most people can conceptualise that there's something
deeper than the raw physicality of things...
i do remember times when i encountered that
ease of thinking...
                                        i experienced it...
it was there... ****, i lost it... but that provided me with
an un-inhibitory trance of a writing capacity...
   the question is... how can merely thinking be painful?
most mental health problems never ask this:
thinking is painful...
                                      isn't that what most melancholics
state, but with a more emotional language of
feelings and emotions?                  
             if the thought-***** is damaged...
then all thinking coming from this compartment of the brain
will be painful...
                               so what sort of paracetamol
do you take? it's not as easy as being prescribed
high-blood pressure pills...
                                      popping pills like that
you're only escaping a conscious moment of what
an automated ***** feels
Without the souls of Trouvere, will he aspire to spheres from where he can replicate himself in the ductile state of the ceremonious Energeia...? The naive action is univocal as the first practice modulated in inclinations and lexical motricities, where they die within their fears, failing to hope and convalesce their desecrated wounds congruent in concepts of Energeia, as an arbitrary neologism to move what in itself is not self- scrollable. Vernarth after witnessing Stratonice's intermission decides to run barefoot for those who banish needs on the parental scale of his range. Succeeded by the need of Energeia towards the impudent sense of being enraptured in possibilities, and supernatural substantialities that transported him in the Epistle even to his desiring hands, but in natural causes, and kinetic emotionality in the destiny of the principles of a movement that dialogues by a spinning spin; alembicated in particles of displacement time eccentricity, towards itself in the synonymous statics, providing intrinsic angles to be associated with the rotation of time and Epistolary demands so that the quantum light can relate the energetic spiritual emotionality, with the own dissociated relationship in the spaces of appearance; where it is to be believed that there is a moment of bias provided in the emotional-movement rooted in linear memories of the temporality of the Hellenic mental axis. Everything is proper in the coordinates of the speculating, which is adduced and duplicated in Poielípsis or unveiled generation of relativistic emotions. For this reason, Vernarth naughty importunates this metaphysical precognition, alluding to particles that generate dissimilar inclinations in lapses until reaching the threshold from when Stratonice partially divided its material and spiritual origin into stationary diversity, in meditated phases that will not take place nuclear, but in the polymathy of its exteriorized threshold, and of the emotional mass of its free and passionate matter that concerns its strident and impalpable Macedonian origin.

From this moment on, the intuition corresponds to the angular reinforcement of "Poielípsis", in this way the coordinate of the Souls of Trouvere becomes present, as pseudo images of the Diadochi, involving magnetized radial movements that will lie in the spheres of physical value., in the garb of the Gerakis and Petrobus, who strived in the sense of the energeia of the Epsilon neologism, not to restrict themselves as Aristotle affirms, investigating the being towards a mono-sense in this causal, of such alpha that it says the paradoxical, demonstrating the diversity of optics. Faced with this diatribe Vernarth from the naturalness decides to empower Souls that are part of both topics according to Vernarth, it is to alleviate the potentialities of the acts that apprehend the light of genius that coexists with both. What the entity justified us in unfolding will be delivered by divine intelligence, so as not to reduce the free power of the Epsilon that was extracted in the welcoming presence of Stratonice still withdrawn in the atmosphere of the Voielípsis (substitute scale of relativistic emotions of Vernarth). There are few seconds that can be extended more from a selective argument of trends in the specifications, which could be attributed to dimensions of the Trouvere period of souls, lacking stillness in simulated biological environments, as if they deliberate the naturalness of an expression of who It does not philosophize if something has to detach itself or grab hold of creation to privilege the natural, re-arguing affection when professing, if there is time to express it, so it is intuited what the virtue of muttering simultaneously in the laborious, and in what does not progress. The dynamics of this Poielípsis is to dress the Voielípsis, as an analogous addition of quantum causality and of temporal and timeless Christianity, since it supports a conjugate mix deified by Saint Thomas Aquinas, heading towards the prop in the mega absorption of Christian Aristotelian ideals. The souls of Trouvere will be residents of the indeterminate spiritual mechanics, to deposit effects of the incredulous versatility in themselves, in the sub-aquatic depths that coexist with the geological structure of the cavern of San Juan Apóstol, but in subterranean concomitance, under the same axial coordinate that is sustained sub-geological. Namely; They will coexist as long as the Mandragoron of the Duoverso and its Voielípsis are established, but three hundred and eight meters from its antipode in the underwater base of the Profitis Ilias.

The antithetical line is the verifiable germinability of those vertical events of the plinth settled by the Souls of Trouvere, containing the germinable starch of the growth of the ergonometric stirrup of the Zefian Bolt, which from zero elevation to 308 meters above the Aegean level will form a mega extra parapsychological bilocation, which will be gestated in its uniform vertical chronological numbering, with the pre-Christian Pythagorean and post-Christian representation in the coronation of Carlo Magno, mentioned in royal visions by the Apostle Santiago, in the versant apology of Pythagoras as an entity supra divine, envisioning the scenographic depository, and fragmentability of these three components of this start of the Hellenic Magna in the hydrographic, sub-terrestrial geological and residential basin of the Souls of Trouvere.
The upholstery of the Pythia of Herófila attacks the subtended of the flying buttress that supported the volcanic cavities of the Sub-Patmos, indicating its agreement with the Souls of Trouvere by its disoriented cognitive dissonance, generating paradigms that traced stones that formulated Aquarian sounds, in a dominant tonality by the minuscule machine of light, more distant from the incommensurability that escaped eclipsed in the resplendent major note that becomes monarchical by the hypotenuse of a rectangle in three subdominant angles. This brings about the thaumaturgy of Pythiais, the mother of Pythagoras who, together with Vernarth's Poielípsis, forge retentive songs given the scarce natural light that was only born from some of Trouvere's souls called Poielípsis, in stories of the oracular Delphians. The Poielípsis remains encapsulated from the thaumaturgy of the banal anti-desires that would make it mortal, for a hypotenuse that makes the gift of poetic prayer tangible, prompting the Bio axiom, by fertilizing scaled suspicions of repeated mortality in the banner of risk. Stratonice well points it out:

“The signal field has been prophesied today for the Apollo tripod. Having to reencause itself in three parts of the support of the oracles, and in clairvoyance in the pre and post Christian insemination of the gift of the word that redeems man from sin, sub-tenant of the flying buttress, from the interface of the supra trinity of sin as a blood element, and difficult to evade or avoid. Here the Hegemonic energy of Alexander the Great has been condensed in the arch of ideas, pointing out that the diseased body of Antiochus; my father…, is supplanted by that of the to happen all the trances and difficulties that are assumed after the hazardous departure in Babylon. Therefore he has to bring all the corollary prophesied in the death of my grandfather Seleucus in the hands of Ptolemy Ceraunos. Wanting to dress up the irrevocable interference that occurred in Judah by his Diadocos gangs, opting for the effect of his offspring, therefore on his spiritual stretch of energetic residual and static mass, ad libitum that will end when unleashed in his son. All will already be consumed in the pathogenic body of Antiochus, and of the love for my mother where she was abducted, and possessed she sees by retaliation from Alexander the Great for proven insubordinate ethical demands. "

Stratonice walks with the sendal that should be translucent by Santiago of Compostela. As an intra-everlasting geometric raconto, subduing fears that slide through the sendal of the dogma of the architrave, where no philosophy can look higher if it is not allowed, typical of vegetarianism or freedoms that turn green in fears that do not illuminate life. eternal, perhaps from the same Matematikoi who doubts a basis for Adfinitas, to understand limitless limits, taking Pythagoras to the soil of Crotona. Always, someone who is ignored of the linguistic power, he plans to rewind spheres that still weave crossed angles, placing himself in scores to consider as an irreplaceable past. The soul of Poielípsis adopted a Pythagorean conception, in the halters of the livid legions of Orpheus, as if it were his consecrated hypogeum where the high position was, to stir to the embankment where it will merge with the Zefian arrow. This liquefaction should purify all storage of cognitive and circumscribes of those ancestral, becoming reincarnable pre-Christians, who transmigrate in the need of osmosis of universal unity. Atonal music will transmigrate molecules to great sidereal distances, being the same replica of the other eurythmic, in multi-trigonometric periods, vivifying the fractional number residues as souls of the same numeral that finally perish of Pythagorean digits, perhaps at the angles of the Phalanxes of Vernarth or in the oblique crucial moment that slumbers in an elegy, flourishing in those beings that do not Live...! Already under-treated, they will only be souls tired of keeping themselves alive and deprived of their morbidity, in a dissociated cause of immortality that will distance itself from the forbidden abstinences, in liberating exercises of any count that ponders in the coming etymology of the Vita Pythagorae, on the divan of the joys of serving his doctrine, which saves himself, and which will save the Messiah, for those who in the soul have no sacrifice of a lamb that grazes..., nor on the pedestal that goes ahead in the centuries..., pasturing what nobody was capable of ?. The second triad of the oracle of Apollo of the Souls of Trouvere reveal Charles the Great, favored by the Apostle Santiago for the protectorate of Compostela and its spiritual regency, invited Charlemagne from Aachen, in 33 consecutive years of dispute with swords, stating that the Saxons never complied with the treaties and signed surrenders. Charlemagne placed himself at the head of his army on several occasions to fight with his sword against the Saxon danger, also entrusting the troops to the counts when other matters required his presence.

In the second segment of the concave wasteland of the straight ascendant of Trouvere, he crowned Charlemagne emperor of Rome and the Franks, predicted by the Apostle James, in defensive papal struggles and in defense of Christianity. In this paradigm it appears how they are transmitted from the dead ungraspable world, they unite here in the axon of Poielípsis for the sake of the times that occur due to the anonymity of a silence that augured to link, and to know within what the endless intrinsically organic movement is, as well as the biological cosmos in the discovery of the Jacobean route. In what better region than the Dodecanese, he will be fused by twelve apostles, and now the brother of the son of Zebedee; Santiago brother of Saint John the Apostle. Dating back to 778 AD, spreading to Hispania. In the ****** and constant fight against the Saxons, Carlo Magno, entered Hispania crossing the Pyrenees, as a preview of the aforementioned Jacobean Route, everything raged witnessing their overwhelmed squares in the fueros of the Trouveres, who were Pythagorean elite soldiers, who had been bilocated in this post was Christian, preceded by the perfidious Basque in the forests, subsisting separated right here from the progenitors of the Trouvers, who claimed to be the strongest to continue them to Pamplona with Charlemagne. All escaped from Islam, and not a few Christians resented this affront, the dynamics will be reflected in the Songs of the French Gesta, to enter the Jacobean Route on the way to Santiago de Compostela, when the Calixtino Codex, in its book IV o Historia Turpini, the apparition of the Apostle Santiago to Charlemagne is told in dreams, pointing to the Milky Way as a way to find his tomb, which must free them from the Saracens to be able to venerate their relics with the enamels and medallions that they issued in the Apostle's crypt in Compostela. The souls of Trouvere, are beings that enjoyed a short life in the Pyrenees, they enjoyed the fortune of originating a liberator of post-Christian inheritances, mechanized by the exquisite citation of Pythagorean antiquity, behind indigo faded in red blood cells, to dress the sendal of the figure of Faith, freed behind those who should have dressed her as a Codex Calixtinus.

Five sections rose along the straight line of the Trouvere pyramidal axon, the base of the liturgical appendix that honors the multidimensional space, with antiphons for the cult of Carlo Magno on the underlying Patmos. Santiago was lacerated in the Holy Land far from his Brother Apostle Saint John, but he came to meet with the Trouveres who came from the rugged Pyrenees. Santiago passed the Strait of Gibraltar and reached Padrón, which is about 20 kilometers west of Santiago de Compostela; there some angels took him to the place where he actively rests. In a boat he arrived..., and always by the Mediterranean he will now reach Patmos, still acquiring the iconography that attempts to find Charlemagne, and a codex that would unite pre-Christians like Pythagoras and Aristotle united in the relic of the taxpayers transformed into three maritime rivers, concerned with a predicted belligerent episode, to say that all roads lead to Patmos, like Locus Sanctus, of all the shepherds who heal their sheep in which they are not of others that are populated with souls white, for the good of others. Thus the souls of Trouvere from the Pyrenees revealed themselves as predecessors of the raiding of the shells 308 meters below the Profitis Ilias, in agreement with Stratonice who would be arriving in Macedonia, where the passing of the centuries would tell him about the Jacobean Route instructed in confronts, and concordances with the airones of the Trouvere, protected by a rectangle in three subdominant Pythagorean angles in the dissipated darkness of the golden indigo of Theoskepasti, in the meridian of Kímolos.
Poielipsis Souls of Trouvere
vircapio gale Sep 2013
over the sunrise views
porpoise-play
and Pagasaean Gulf
with all its blue-white
sun-tanned pleasures

above the summer homes
out of those mesh-canopied beds
past our outdoor showers
dripping with grape-vines and late-morning ***
decadent breakfasts of fresh
half-euro loaves
Käse and Jam
or Gurke-Tomaten Salate
with "Hermes" flying
in our ears
hair and food

over the wake-boarding lessons
the minefields of neon violet-yellow Quallen
beach games
done with a hundred some-odd oracles
the Tractatus
but not the dead seahorse i found  floating before our argument
free from those schedules
the system of sunscreen application
bathroom and kitchen protocol

far from quintilingual fisherboys
the stucco church cartooned with gospel
its old priest grinning with his martial pride and simulated machine-gun fire
away from translating in my sleep
national pride
shame
and culture shock
forgetting that quiet dialogue of judgment
smiling between tourist and local
far from the baklava docks
Gigantes and stuffed peppers
Zorba refrains
swigs of Mythos and Feta

perhaps somewhere like the source of the Plateia spring
   where once the Argonauts had quenched their thirst
past burnt olive trees
past the first line of blazing hills

there
there i sense the fertile green i've always known

O
my gaze drinks the sweaty yield of exploration's calm

breathless
wearing rivulets of long-yearned release

so redolent the shade
in a ravine holding ****** silence

i eagerly descend
and find my eagerness returned
in measured wounds
low lying branches

sparse brambles
crowding soon
see me crouched
and crawling down

as if to judge me worthy of its solace
the leaves of late summer
once blades of moisture
twice as sharp in death
pierce my pressing hands and knees
allow the taste of sweat to sting my path

as if embitterment itself becomes a sweetness
colluding for my darker whims
breaks of thorns enmeshed with trees
gnarled sentinels for raking
joyous stripes of blood
brittle roots eroding into air
to scour off my sunburnt skin
invigorate the tension for my goal

remembrancing the threading cores of shrubline life
i lull into the swoon again
stringing slow sun
in husks of brown
wire gates to consummate a nether craving's peak
choke and lash of myth and love
a penance ecstasied in shade
a fleecing dark i will deny
Afissos:
a little fishing village on the Gulf of Pegasus, Pelion Peninsula of Greece.
German words:
Käse: cheese;
Gurke: cucumber;
Quallen: jellyfish.
Greek words:
Plateia: village square
Gigantes:
"giant baked beans"; or, huge monsters, the children of Gaea, who fought the Olympians but were defeated by them. they used Mt. Pelion as a stepstone to reach Olympus.
Zorba the Greek:
a wonderful novel concerned with joie de vivre, and probably the most recognizable Greek tune there is.. plays continually for dining tourists in Athens.
Mythos: a brand of Greek beer.

The Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus is the only work published by the Ludwig Wittgenstein in his lifetime. considered to be foundational to logical atomism, it read me.. more than i it, ending with the famous and overly quoted phrase, "Of which one cannot speak, one must remain silent." i think it augmented the culture-shock i convinced myself wasn't happening at the time, alone, surrounded by Germans and Greeks who, although they spoke fluent English and spared no kindness as i struggled with language, represented an unattainable sense of belonging that i don't think i ever had, even in my own country.. my own culture.  despite a strong belief in the ideal of cross-cultural dialogue, i still experience a vast, almost shame-ridden silence when it comes to questions of culture --for judgements made out of hand, always out of hand-- for want of better words... having to say *something* even when it's not really clear. so just as i willingly indulge the surreal torment of doubting until i'm never sure of my words; i also say the first thing that comes to mind as if it's an indisputable truth...
the donkey i met on the other side of the ravine, which i couldn't resist scaling despite it's poor handholds of crumbling dirt and tiny dried roots, was like an old friend, sniffing and nuzzling me as if he was willing to share in my inexplicable loneliness, an instant understanding, commonality. made me realize how much of an *** i am, privileged to turn a holiday into a narcissistic hell
Abstracted Sep 2020
I ask myself
Why we are all the same
The universe feels simulated  
Like an advanced video game
Lost in being
What should I gain?
Is this real?
Am I sane?
“End it, Deem. You’ll find out” Said the thoughts inside my brain
I’m no curious
But very anxious
It drives me insane
Till I ***** all of my ambitions
And praying
Those intuitions
Fade
Once again
Man Apr 2021
i am on a disk
and the pale, blue dot
is paler than ever before
above me
is more blue
a simulated sky
and a basin we've come to call
our shores

uncoupled
untethered and undeterred

there's a tree in my yard
whose roots reach
the barriers of our world
they long to touch
that void
that would see the waves
we tide
frozen still
Sydney Victoria Nov 2012
I'm A Lab Rat
                        You Heard Me Right
I Am An Experiment Of The Divine
                        Everything Simulated
Same Smiling Faces And The Scowl Of Enemies
           The Same Endless Loop Of Activities
Work Everyday Of Your Life
To Find Whats At The End Of The Maze Is Paper
Vials Constantly Puncture My Skin
                            Injecting Emotions
The Divines Hands Constantly Working
   No No No You Will NeverFinish This Maze
How Much Depression Does It Take
                 To Crush The Human Spirit
One Of 7 Billion Mice
  Our Lives Composed To Have Ups And Downs
So Close Yet So Far
                Dont Let Her Finish The Maze!
Make Her Loved One Crush Her Soul
                     That'll Slow Her Down
I Am A Test Tube Baby
              Born From Experimental Parents
I'm Tired Of Being Torn In Half
                   Trying To Create A Future
C'mon It's Only About 80 More Years
                 Its The American Dream Baby
It's The Divines Dream
To Understand Us As We Try To Find Our Way
So I Sit Here With Straight Lined Lips
               And Eyes That Can Peirce Flesh
As They Decided To Play
               A Little Devotion Will Never Hurt
Lets Test Some Chemicals
Greenhouse Gases Inhaled Through Tiny Lungs
I Want To Believe There Is Good In The World
              Now Those Beliefs Are Crushed Too
But From The Concrete
               Who Knew A Flower Would Grow
    *I Always Have Hope Of A Better Tomorrow
Salvador Kent Aug 2021
Screaming
They do not hear this
Because they're too busy
Doing worthless ****
And pretending that they exist

For a moment you think
You ******* Elon Musk this is a simulation
And this is my realisation
Call me Nick Bostrom and my thought
Is Blood sweat and simulated tears
Because

I observe a figure walking down a street
And in my disorientation I stare at them
Unflinchingly and they stare back and laugh
Like they know me so I'm like what the ****
Who was that guy I'm so confused I swear

**** **** kick a brick that forms part of a wall
Ye Olde England see an Olde man screaming
Abandon hope! Sinner Jim Whitney
Call me Charles Mingus you are the Sinner Lady
And I play my saxophone for you

Sign this page and hand yourself to God
And through this holy book this ancient relic
I save you for you are a sinner
You Jim Whitney repent to rejoice in heaven
There you'll find Dante and Milton
Writing free verse poetry with Christ himself
Resurrected and now

Save the Children with Unicef
Or buy the Big Issue
Would you like a Burrito or a coffee
Or take this money which I loan thee
**** that I feel like you owe me
And I'll spit on your grave and tax your family
Call me Milton Friedman welcome to the economy

Or would you rather let it all go and find the Dharma
There's a Pure Land temple only a train journey away
Come I'll take you there find Abhidhamma
I know you're lost in this postmodern age

Sickness disorientation your mind so blurry
This disorientation the unfocused intensity
Feeling like you don't exist and everything is
So horribly sick and

Walking down a street in all your disorientation
And you're half dead half asleep half existent
Wanting a ******* coffee but you have no money
So you settle for an energy drink that tastes like ****

But you need the caffeine so you can't complain
And your miserable face and ridiculous gait
Is the elephant in the room you ******* good for nothing
******* and why are you even here
Pseudo intellectual half wit

Stop reading Camus you miserable ****
Start watching Love island like any normal
******* miserable person that lives
On this sceptered isle to paraphrase
Shakespeare and revel in your heritage

Aren't you proud to be British
No what is worse what is worse
To be British or to be human
Why am I associated with that flag
That flies on the tower of the house of God
That I observe as I squint my eyes

The Sun is hot but I am cold
I'm very cold so I wear a coat
And a passerby says what the ****
And the wall is my glue yes the wall is my glue

**** look they opened the coffee shop
I want a coffee this energy drink
Tastes like ****
So throw it away
Like life and

Laugh at the pathetic little joke
From a pseudo intellectual
Pseudo poetic poet that cannot write
About this ache they feel…

All this disorientation…
None of it interpretable.
And this poem is never-ending
Unless it just ends.
rage.
MissNeona Sep 2014
the only time you're quick to talk to me
is when we talk gaming strategy,
I've been around these blocks before.
Pixels in abundance eventually bores.
I've played these lovegames
Oh, them dating sims
But in actuality no Japanese girl
could withstand all my whims,
Aaron LaLux Dec 2016
Had dinner with my parents tonight,
this week was the first time I’ve ever seen them together in my life,

honestly,
and even though I left home at 14,
all of the blame,
can’t really be put on me,

because my parents had broken up,
since long before I was woken up,
separated for so long,
I often wondered if they were even ever together,

I brought them together for my birthday,
2016,
my father flew in from The States,
we all met in Thailand where my mom lives,

dinner was difficult,
my mom is losing here mind,
while she’s sitting there spilling her soul,
my dad just sits there and asks meaningless questions,

my mother sitting there saying how she has no money,
how she has no family other than us,
how she has no food on her feet,
and no real place to call home,

like I’m supposed to feel guilty for that,
like I don’t send her money all the time,
like I wasn’t in Thailand to visit her,
like I’m a man now so she has chosen to blame me,

like she’s chosen to blame every other man that’s ever been in her life,

how many husbands has she had,
six?

Seriously,
ridiculous,

what do you say to your mom,
when you think she’s a ****,
and I know that might sound like a terrible thing to say,
but it’s the truth and I refuse to censor myself,

my,
self,
doesn’t even feel like me anymore,
not even sure if I’m a human let alone a man,

man,
the Atomic Family is more like an Atomic Bomb,

what a mess we’ve made,
and all in the name of what,
no idea,
honestly,

well,
it’s all probably a simulation always,
at least that’s what Elon Musk says,
“There’s a 1 in billions chance that we are not living in a Simulated Reality.”

Makes me want to tell my parents,
that they are just part of my computer program,
but they’d probably call me crazy,
and then just disappear…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
Another true story from the front lines of my life...
Dyanova Sep 2014
I. Parade Square

I can still feel the blisters from the hotplate ground,
the tar off my marred body,
imagine my acid sweat coercing my eyes
to burn with an perverse, masochistic
fire for this
torture
my tongue could never profess.
Running or sprinting blind, and
then a rumble above, force open my eyes to
watch the undercarriage of the SQ A380
hang low like a
ladder.

II. Swimming Pool

Usually we swim here,
or get cooked by the sun,
but there was once we pumped eighty
because the FT was bored and wanted to go
home,
early.

III. Cookhouse

Pre-dawn,
we sit down half-asleep,
milo in hand,
a lump of oily I-don’t-quite-know-what on my plate.
Every table a section-full of once-boys
taking a glimpse at the outside world through flat rectangular
window panes that hang from the ceiling.
At 0600, Channel News Asia plays the National Anthem,
and I wonder why we don’t sing it
anymore.

IV. Range

It is going on two months in this foreign land
Two months of having not shot a single picture

A single snug trigger-click, snap-shot
Burst of colour – bang! – picture

Tangy black three-point-eight-two kilos that
Hang off me like a corpse-like appendage

Two months of wading through picturesque scenery
Lilac cirrus sky, or the sleeping shadows of silhouetted trees

And no chance to shoot any photos
But the picture of simulated ******

As I point and pull, hear the
Trigger-click of my camera go

bang.

V. Grenade Ground

When I picked up the little
inconspicuous
olive thing, and placed it in the pouch
next to my left breast, beside my
heart,
I couldn’t help but ponder
if that was how the Bali
bombers
felt like, moments before they
died.

VI. Beyond the Sphinx bridge

This is another world;
a world filled with so many dark
memories
I cannot write about it.
I would have saved you from drowning in your
waterlogged grave, except
I was drowning
myself.

On the long ride back
to camp,
I gazed into the distant twilight, thinking,
we may sit in the
same
tonner, but in actuality
we all find our own roads
home.

VII. Coy Line

When I shower I close my eyes,
feel the slow trickle of water from
the broken showerhead, and
imagine myself in a hotel villa, or
one of those luxury hotsprings.

When the lights go off I lie back,
gaze out at the orange floodlight that
shines through the panes,
illuminates my teary face,
darkens my world
to a quiet, uneasy
sleep.

VIII. Ferry Terminal

Every book-out
I let the man scan my card,
puff up my shoulders
and catwalk down the dock
with a sense of newfound authority.
I’m a civilian now.

Sit and hear the low rumble of the ferry
get louder and
louder
like a plane on the verge of taking off;
like a soul on the verge of
escape.
I hate army and will always hate army. But sometimes you realise there's a strange alluring beauty even in hell.
Poetic T Jan 2016
stimulated thoughts
moaning satisfaction
releasing upon me
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
since i turned into a nocturnal creature i’ve changed a bit,
i started the theological arithmetic:
(right hand) thumb, index, *******(s) -
january february march,
ring, pinky & pinky (left hand) -
april may june,
ring middle index (left hand)
july august september -
thumb (left hand) thumb and index (right hand)...
of yes, intelligent design...
now make a hole using your thumb & index finger,
then ensure your thumb goes in & out from that whole...
like god, say: oh ****... i forgot the piston!
guess what’s the slang term for a russian in polish?
kacap.
guess what’s the slang term for a german in polish?
szwab (shvab) /
i know, i too wish it was sax...aphone.
guess what’s the slang term for a dwarf in polish?
karakan.
but i said, there are really two branches from the 20th
century growing into the 21st century,
there’s the proustian branch that’s a cul de sac...
and there’s the joycean branch, that leads to ezra pound et al.,
finnegans wake (which i have read) i can a 50p with an invention
of a terminology: uncoded phoneticism, i.e.
alpha bravo charlie delta echo, only because:
prirates’ aye, eye and lie and high sounded pretty much the same
even though they were spelled differently.
uncoded phoneticism means you use a coding of language
from thought / silence in a way that elevates it
from the standard usage, from novelty interests
of a righteous narrator crafting new characters...
of course your writing will appear chaotic... but in reality
it will not be... trust me... i simulated paranoid schizophrenia
for seven years... fooled three psychiatrists
and regained a chance to provoke.
nicholas ii is smiling at me from a banknote i own,
and i have a kopek’s worth of currency from dostoyevsky’s times.
c Jan 2019
I used to dance alone in my room
I’d spin the spun black under needle
And turn till my walls became one
I’d stretch my face in strain
And mimic pain in movement

I’d measure arms and hands to
The waver of the music
I cried in concaved chest and
Screamed in legs splitting air,
Laughed in fingers spreading wide
And collapsed to the beat’s final throe

I became a simulated symphony, and
So became each dance;
My afternoon secret
I’d forget words and
Mesh into mangled body melody

mmmmmm those hands droning guitar and
a distant voice
in verse,
drumming, drumming

My body curled around each syllable,
Both in question and answer

It was pain, yes
It was heartache
Yes, it was beautiful
But I soon realized
It was not mine

- c
Translating music into movement and interpreting the artist’s pain
Ian Cairns Jan 2013
Eloquence is irrelevant in times of relevance
For it is not the beauty of the words that sets precedence
Rather the idea behind them that shows brilliance
Any man can speak articulately without substance
There is no power behind such simulated statements
Those with complete control of their clarity claim valiance
So, go forth and form your feelings with eloquence absent
Meg B Aug 2021
It’s 5:04 AM, as I lie awake going on hour number two.
I dreamt of you,
As I often do.

I always awake with a jolt,
The tangibility of your simulated self
Jarring,
My senses overstimulated as if we had touched for real.

When I ponder on you, on memories of us
In my conscious mind,
I have a difficult time stringing together
The details of you,
Years apart having left your image
Grainy and unfocused, although effervescent.

Yet when my eyes close,
You make your way clear into focus,
Every detail of your physical and spiritual form so vivid
As if I’m really experiencing you,
As if you’re dreaming of me too,
And we’ve actually escaped to another reality
Where nothing has changed or faded.

Is this where we now reside?
The current version of us is no longer compatible with the software of reality,
Our data kept in the cloud
Where dreams are stored.

It isn’t real in the realness of reality,
But it’s so vivid, more lucid than a lucid dream,
That I can’t shake the feeling that I’m experiencing the real you
In the only form I’m now able to download.
Tommy Johnson Mar 2014
The ones we hurt the most
And the ones who hurt us the most
Are ours
Parts of us

Our beloved boomerang admirers
And they’re the ones who love us more than anything

Yugoslavian aggressively panhandling for depositions from unrelated denizens of the gin joint

A panoramic view of a wire tapped room with a lunatic with latent panic that is undisturbed

Hoarded handouts
Admissions
Acceptance
Embarking on a new flight of stairs

Pitter patter of foreign fitted shoes

Coming across label makers
“Jew”
“******”
“******”

Steer clear

Then those who memorize banned books and recite them
Who question the validity and relevance of tradition and old fashion ways

Finding things in common
Tastes in music
Fondness in wine
Alike minds that crave astonishing world widening writing
And thought provoking art

A libation to the collision of the alive and living

A somewhat scary visionary who breaks the black and white patterns of a wheel of fortune and misfortune with a lance of optimistic disregard

Stealing kisses and sipping on top shelf liquor

Smoking mystic cigarettes from Indian mountains

Idioms and vernacular

Dedicated guardian angels who hang their heads and rest their faces in their palms in puzzled disappointment

New visions
In music
In literature
In technology

But actually in
Self-expression
Communication
And progression

Stab a knife into the stuffy conservative dollar sign chasing guard

And let the prisoners of self-doubting overlooked misunderstanding go free

The complex complications of cement commitment

Walking out on an infant
Walking away in an instant
Instantaneous fear
Spontaneous combustion

A noose
Legendary
No
Not yet

Sing it to me
Play t

Lay morality to sleep
And raise yourself up
And proclaim a new way today

A jumbled viewpoint
That is brilliant and completely sound

Have a sip

Your hatred, look deep
****** it and rip it out
Then let it go

Busting up regulations and requirements

Creating an image that cannot be simulated
That is originated from the imitation out of respect from the innovative minds

Slow it down
Go
The lust
The envy
Two ingredients for a new story
All that’s left is the spilled blood and you’re done

Drift and go on a dimly lit trek into the subconscious and give birth to underived works

The world may burn, melt, freeze and shine

Surrender, transform, standstill then ascend

The ones in need fall into our laps along with the decision we all must make
To help them
Or pass them by

Click clack goes my keyboard
Revisits to the times before

With the aid of chemicals and inspiration
Mixed with ******* and crazed obsession

The feeling of being replaced
Like lying in bed on a cold night
Without a blanket that has some place better to be

My dear naval, nautical nincompoop
I miss you, you’re fighting pirates
Soon terrorists

You know it’s useless
You don’t want to be part of this nonsensical unholy fuckfest of political unrest

You’re a poet, you don’t write
Your life is your poetry
It’s beautiful, you want to live
Not just exist

Be wary, I have foreseen the pandemonium festering in your heart
You are lucky in your naïve exile in paradise
You’ve been hurt
Looking for love
Live, lend
And all the above

Fool proof plans
And ideal daylight

The suicide of the farmer’s daughter
California sushi roll
Burning embers
Red hot coals

Best of luck to you

No elegy
A eulogy
See it to the end

Distract them
Steal the vital piece
Then proceed to take what you came for

It’s okay
Forget what you’ve been spoon-fed your whole life
The greatest caper committed

Jam the doors
Skeleton keys
Skull and cross bones on the bottles
Take whatever you can carry

No man left behind

Leaving a not, imprints
For them to see
And know why we did
What we have done

Phony fame
Upper hand
Inclined
Shame

There is a time and a place for treason
When all is ugly and bigoted

For you will only be this young at this very second and never again

Shoot from the hip
Fly high on the seat of your pants

Grungy soap dish
Domestic disagreements
Empty reflections
Rapping at the window

Go away
Please
For your sake and mine
It’s insane

I expunge your from my life
Not in hate
But in agony
We both know it’s for the best

Don’t be spiteful
I hate being used
Just a tool to b left behind

Extraordinary shallow callousness

Let’s take a walk around the universe

I see two lovers showing their vulnerabilities to each other
I see a man and a man making love so pure
I see my friend traveling the world
I see an amateur addict about to take their first step into a lifelong dependency  
I hear the screams of those about to be murdered
Does that quench your thirst for reality?

Aiding and abetting
Guilty by association
Confession of guilt
Squandering money on bail

**** that
There’s a rat
*** wrap
****** wrap
Saving you from yourself
Following, no matter where you go
Always

       -Tommy Johnson

Others fail you
But you must never fail yourself

Drop
Down
Drown
Die

So many futile attempts
****** submissions
Preponderant talent

And that’s about it
Olivia M Jackson Apr 2011
Truth is
I can blame them for breaking my heart
I can scream loudly and tell of  how much I gave
My loyalty, my heart, my love....
Everything my father instilled in me
Though nonsensical, truth is, sometimes the very best is not desired by them
Truth is, signals of disaster went ignored
For the thought of life like the Cleavers
Fairy tale of 50's era love
Blinded by the immediate
Disposed warnings of the past
Miscarrying the trust of my future
All to live in the now
Now, this moment of smiles
This instant where laughter prevails
Exchanges of lured glances
Mine escaping as i'm exposed
Emotions spill over
Secrets, I cannot keep
Excitement at the possibility of him
Weakens the walls
Eventually they  tumble
To reveal what was once hidden
While his...yeah his... counterfeit at best
Simulated exercises
Maybe all to arrive at what lays below my waist
But I sensed....
Thought I saw a glimpse....
Betrayal that's plagued me all my life
Always present though from it I desperately flee
Easier to disregard than to affirm
Warning bells blaring
Managed to convince myself they were bells of the alter
But how can I blame them
When I surrender myself for slaughter
Melting into the arms of a dangerous stranger
Not heeding the voice of my father hopelessly screaming "WAIT"
I lunge into the sea of possibilities
Only to end up carried by currents to the sea of broken pieces
Shards of me destroyed
Truth is my pain is self inflicted
Never has my father not warned before the storm
Force myself to look in the mirror
Truth is..I always knew the truth
It was much more comfortable to live the lie
Truth is
I can blame them for breaking my heart
I can scream loudly and tell of  how much I gave
My loyalty, my heart, my love....
Everything my father instilled in me
Truth is
I bare responsibility for the tears I cry
I stand ashamed and disheartened at my truth revealed
Paul Hansford Apr 2016
I didn't take a photograph of the statue of Robert Burns.
His sightless eyes were looking out over Dunedin,
the most Scottish town in the southern hemisphere,
and there was a seagull, not a pigeon, standing on his head.
I would have called it "Robbie Burns and Friend."

And I didn't take a picture of the bus shelter
painted all over with jungle foliage and a tiger
peeping out over the simulated signature of Henri Rousseau.
The title would have been "This Bus Shelter is a Forgery."

Neither did I photograph another painted wall,
one round a cemetery full of ornate and sombre tombs,
with a large and skilfully executed advertisement -
Renta Sanitarios Mobiles (Hire Mobile Toilets).
It would have been called "Is there no Respect for the Dead?"

I didn't take the photo of a Fijian policeman.
A pity, for he had such a practical uniform,
very smart and cool,
in a tasteful shade of policeman-blue,
based on the traditional sulu
with a striking zigzag hem.
The title would have been "A Policeman in a Skirt?!"

I couldn't take a photograph of sunset over Popocatépetl
– although the sun was setting in a red and golden haze,
and the most romantically named mountain is just
what you imagine a perfect volcano should be,
even to the wisp of steam at the peak
– because the sun was actually setting over Ixtaccíhuatl
and "Sunset over Ixtaccíhuatl" doesn't have quite the right ring
The shape of the mountain is not very picturesque either.
Yes, I would have called that one "Sunset over Popocatépetl"
– if I could have taken it.

My camera wouldn't focus on the crescent moon
hanging over the Egyptian skyline,
horns pointing up, so close to the Equator,
and the evening star (Venus or some more ancient goddess)
just above and almost between the points.
If that one had worked it would have been called "Islamic Moon."

I couldn't possibly have taken a photograph
that would do any justice to the young piano student
in a Hungarian castle
hammering out Liszt as if the hounds of hell were after her,
but if I could, I would have had to call it "Apassionata."

And I didn't even have time to get my camera out
to take a picture of the wild humming bird
darting green and unconcerned
among dilapidated tenements in the heart of Mexico City.
But that living jewel shines bright in my memory,
even without a photo.
I don't know what I would have called that one,
and I'm sure it doesn't matter.
All of these are things I have seen on my travels and not been able to photograph, for one reason or another.
Christopher KD Feb 2015
The cab moved quietly
Beneath the street lamps
Pleather seats: torn, faded
There we sat, silent- content.
The driver, a portly man, hacked
Struggling, his breathing deepened
Panting, gasping to regain regularity
Quickly, his breath filled the
Confined, litter-shrouded,
Van with the stench of
Cheap cigar smoke

We arrived at her home
The driver approached slowly
Carefully avoiding the icy snow
Banked earlier by the cities plows
Sliding the van door open I step out
Still holding her hand, the night air
Enters my lungs, sobering me
Just for that brief instant

Hastily, she leans in
Without hesitation, I meet her
Ambitious advance, reciprocating
The kiss is brief; I’m no longer cold
Her lips are warm and soft against mine
Retreating, she smiles. I gently brush her hair
Behind her ear unveiling a dark brown eye
My glazed, drunk, stare meet hers
Her grin, now beginning to fade
She looks down in confusion

I sense the cab driver behind me
Growing impatient he lights a cigar
Before turning away she whispers night
Her hand lets go of mine; our fingers part
Complacent, tomorrow she will return to him
Revisiting that feigned, simulated, infatuation
The kind they falsely advertised as ‘love’
Standing alone, I’m cold once more
Keying in, she doesn’t look back

Reaching into my pocket
Scrounging for what cash is left
To the cab, I surrender my last five dollars
This pays just enough to get me where I stand
Dissatisfied with his tip, the driver departs cursing
Unsure what to make of the evening, I begin my walk
Now, not so sobering, the night air dries my throat
The chilled breeze that once blushed her cheeks
Now stings my nose, ears, and finger tips
Alone, I continue west- home
Cold, I have miles ahead
Spirit torn in twain
I walk them.
Matt Nov 2014
Life is an automatic process
It goes on automatically
I live in a simulated world

Changing times and changing faces
Changing dates and changing places
It's all the same to me

The emptiness remains the same

There is a woman
Who I love
In an ideal world
We would be together

Alas
She married a strong powerful man
An alpha male
A Jujitsu expert
With great ****** stamina

When he thrusts into her
I moan in my bed
The pathetic cries of the cuckold
He is ******* the woman of my dreams
Filling her with his seed

Well, It is not an ideal world
Things often do not go as planned

And when I am able
To become aroused enough
I am learning to love the taste
Of my own cream
Caleb Eli Price Dec 2011
Can you turn it down?
Loves on turbo, hearts destruction,
Willing partner needs eruption.
Love is rivers, I might drown.

Can you turn it up?
Souls construction isn't flowing,
Welcome warmth is ever knowing.
Love is wine and you're the cup.

Can you still be more?
Satisfaction guaranteed,
Whether chained or will be freed.
Love is knocking at the door.

Can you have it all?
Handled well but simulated,
Diamond eyes were stimulated.
Love, so handsome, shall it fall.

Can you die tonight?
Left in bliss, and still tuxedoed,
Warm expansions, then I'm vetoed.
Love, or is it loveless flight.

— The End —