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Alyanne Cooper May 2014
“If you could be anywhere in the world

At this exact moment,

Where would you choose to be?”

I choose the easternmost point

Of Acadia Maine at sunrise.

Cold, salty ocean spray in my face,

Warm thermos of cocoa in my hands

And the promise of a new day

Being made right before my very eyes.

What could be more reassuring?

What could be more solidifying?

To know that no matter

What happened in the days or weeks

Or months or years or decades

Before,

Today, right now, at this exact moment,

It is all behind you,

It is all in your past.

And that sunrise you’re watching

Over cresting crashing white topped waves

In the cool breeze of morning

With the scent of dirt and earth and trees

Carried on the wind that also brings

The call of the morning dove and thrush

And Phoebe-bird,

Is the promise you’ve been waiting for.

The promise that you’re gonna be okay

Because today, today is a new day.
NK Sep 2014
Did you know
that I drink molten lava?
I like the way it burns.

I am not afraid of you.
I've let the Earth's poison
melt and destroy my insides-
re-solidifying around my heart.
You cannot hurt me.

****.
My insides are melting again.
And I cannot speak;
I can only observe-
eyes wide with horror.

I chugged you down
because you were the
only glass of water in this desert.
But your water
turned out to be acid.

And I am falling
down
        down
                down
into abysmal nothingness.

My eyes are wide with horror
because I'm watching my nightmare
take place in broad daylight.

(I'm falling for you.)
AJ Robertson May 2013
solid congealed masses of fat sit
balloons filling within joints
stagnant extremities feel as if they are solidifying
the man becoming a statue; a watcher
here lies a perfect specimen of 21st (and in the latter half to a third) a  20th century man seated before the primary means of oral, aural and visual communication.  Oral pertaining to the man's ability to only speak of it and the programmes displayed on it . . . .  .
as still as the brain is telling them to be
as still as the brain wants them to be
it doesn't want to be left out you see, feels secluded when dormant
alongside a healthy, active set of limbs and torso
so it persuades them ever so gently to become as lazy as he
so he feels more at home in his body; the brain he lords over the body tyrannically and purposefully.


Extraneous effort can be avoided, in all manners of life; whilst sitting, whilst working, whilst running.  Being properly lazy has to do with how little you can do without doing something else.  It is possible to run at a speed that does not cease to be running but it is not walking.  You can sit only so still before you are asleep.  Being properly lazy is being able to sit precariously on this line so perfectly you don't slip backwards or forwards into a useful action or being in the top percentile of the new lesser action which you are in essence, lording over physically.  An extremely intelligent man can be extremely lazy in an activity that would take a long concentrated effort from another less intelligent man, but in essence, he is really just avoiding falling asleep.

Laziness can be misappropriated; attributed to men who are not lazy at all.  A man at the enth of any discipline could not be considered lazy; the same could be said about a man at the enth of his ability.  We speak of course in terms of natural ability.  Actions achieved in ones current capability; carried out without carrying on other efforts to cavort himself into a higher category of actions (a laziness compared to ability graph could be constructed/plotted and then correlated if one could be bothered).  Of course, it goes without saying that the achievance of these goals necessary to propel or descend a man into the new upper or lower segment of before described laziness are in turn harder or easier to achieve depending on the man's predetermined stature; position in life even, considering we are talking of afflictions that affect a man and not a boy, and therefore we are assuming that the formative years are not thus (formative) and are but a compulsory precursor, a cross that every man must bear; not a development that pertains to the quantity of laziness he possesses.

with a sea of unachieved tasks/goals laid out before him he resides to sit patiently waiting for something to happen in front of him, sometimes clicking a mouse, sometimes a remote
sometimes he is angry that he is boring
sometimes he calls a friend to be angry at the boxes with him
sometimes he feels sick that he is a *******
sometimes he laughs at people on the boxes who are pieces of ****
but most of the time he is a ******* happily, content that he is at least part of a healthy digestive system, whether he is the result/byproduct of, or the action that produced the **** in the first place.
Tucker Landis Nov 2012
As the bliss of midnight approaches them
The clouds shed the light of a cold moon

Leading their lives together, the end is gone
And the illusion they feel,
Cannot be repeated

Drying is the fluid of love,
Solidifying and holding them still in time,
Longing for the night to persist.

They know the morning approaches,
The expectation of the sunrise means an end.
The end of night is the end of all time,
And as unfathomable as eternal endings are, it still ensues

Moon setting,
Sun rising,
The contradicting feelings swim,
Uncertain of the future their love has ended.

The bliss of her death, as the blood runs down his fingers, consumes him, and the sharp pain absorbs him.

Until the night and cold moon flash again
The two will lay with security as true as the sky is broad.
Dania Jun 2014
Writer's blocks build walls of divide.
On the one side jump experience and feeling and emotion and thought, but on the other sit the words that rest in my mind and refuse to wake up from their pesky slumbers of stubborn laziness. All it takes is one word to smuggle itself passed a crack in the wall and there's a melody of language. The ideas can shoot itself only so high without its counterpart on the other side helping it reach the top. Oh writer's blocks, please stop mounting yourselves on top of one and other. With every solidifying brick, another word slips away and slowly writes itself into a permanent shut-eye. I know you mean no harm and simply want to exist in the struggle for perfected poetry, but my life currently lacks its  therapy. I appreciate your necessary hindrances, but if you could help me harmonize my mind and soul, I'd value your necessity much more.
Sonorant Nov 2021
I. Phasmophobia
I am the innumerable gloom of dim, long-buried anthems.
In wistful suspension, I shadow over a living loft in silence.
Tethered between lines, my fog bleeds on panes in knocking
Hawking your dimming faces in the lamplight of my genesis.
Torn the tunnels of their astringed throats, a requiem is reaped.
— ”I was a shape moving rapidly, nervous at the edge of your vision.” -Cynthia Huntington

II. Claustrophobia
I am the small match ignited from the depths of your mind.
My walls blanched absent of evacuation, self invite into
Your personal and private violation, invading every fissure
With icy burns, solidifying your chrysalis on hungry bark.
Your frozen God of smothering doom, a willow devours you.
— “But then I remember the universe was closed, and so very small. There was really no where else to go.” -Peter Watts

III. Ommetaphobia
I am the stricken, scarlet cloth coalesced of cruelty and ichor.
These rawboned talons, cloaked thereof, overtake embrace—
In coarse delight— a piety of prisoners’ silver stark sights.
Perceptive cavities leak my garb as my artistic blade sweeps.
Plucked from the dredges of a briny skull, two diamond orbs.
— ”The hearts hushed secret is in the soft, dark eye." -Letitia Elizabeth Landon
.
IV. Monophobia
I was the cherished friend to you, my twine stitched in your grasp.
A golden balloon unaffected by tides of time and distorting gales.
Alas from this intimate atmosphere shot an arrow, poisonous
Where silently I erupt into a missing memory upon the wind.
As your curtains close, you breathe for me, without a hand to hold.
—”And all I lov’d, I lov’d alone.” -Edgar Allan Poe

V. Arachnophobia
I am the legion of soundless beholders aloft your dormant dreams.
An itch scattered over the crooked spine, arid for pulsing melodies.
This fruitful sapling beckons each dark, angular limb near your neck.
As my lighting strikes erratically, your foolish impulse slow to clutch
Creeping necrosis bestowed by the guardian who claimed your home.
—”The Spider taketh with her hands and is in king’s palaces.” -Proverbs 30:28.

VI. Agoraphobia
I am the ancestral abductor of this rotting womb you deem a shelter.
As the embryo held within, I contract you into tides and bid ‘swim’.
Directions devoid, beyond bolted doors, you plummet to my depths
Where you wish for comforts’ wind but mislaid the method to breathe.
My otherworld encompasses you, whilst I drink in your suffocating.
— ”Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children.” -William Thackeray

VII. Ecclesiophobia
I am the black shepherd in martyric masque and a mitre casque.
A discrete imminent sheep cowers, hanging on the hook in my gallery—
My chalice congregates your pure liquor of laments for libertine luxury.
I rise where you fall and smother the lantern of your last mortal minutes
Instilling final grace in the stillness of your veins, my kingdom reigns eternally.
— ”Suffering can be a gift.” - Abbie Bernstein.
solitary soul in the sea
slovenly storks slide
      (against a grey sky)
seeking satisfactory sensations
             solidifying
    soul searching solutions
© jeannine davidoff 2010
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
i sometimes find myself listening
into the zeitgeist narrative...
the sort of talk that
is spoken by people who...
have a hard time figuring a hammer...
heidegger's:
can two labourers have
a discussion about philosophy
when solidifying themselves
in perfecting the: repeat labour?
my answer is... not really...
              crack a joke, sure...
but wouldn't a subject matter of
metaphysics counter them
     ineffective in the physical
endeavor?
           the question is still intact...
but the supermarket cashier
is more suspect...
                my question is:
       the jobs that are so pointless
they require sitcoms,
humour,
                        cubicles...
   and not one will you hear
talk of philosophy,
because... narcissus has taken
over...
           as as his brain-child birth
of the sister - solipsi - (σoλιψ:

now i'll ask...
the rubric break-down...

why is it σoλιψ...
  and not σoλιψι...
or for that matter,
not σoλιπσι?

      the Greek fathomed
to give noun-status
to some of their letters...
so...
             alphabet...
prefix-
                and -suffix point of
attachment...

ah...
but no one would read
σoλιψ as σoλι'ψ...
and no one would
read σoλιψι as...
             anything worth
adding the added iota...
unless...
   and the dot above ι
is of what distinctive
                             posit?

but σoλιπσι = σoλιψ...

me? i like trivial observations,
pedantic, yes...
  but my letters are not bound
to having a noun category...

alpha-               -male...
means something...
but in my castrato-sing-along
i have AH...
                      beta-        
  becomes be(e)-             -h...

       punk-*** orthography
of the english language...
intimidating & supposing it
has any orthographical markers...
j & i do not count...

        begin afresh:
and i would know something
about leaving a ȷustιfιed
aesthetιc comment...
  ȷust so!

the Greeks are riddled with
an excess of diacritical
mark application...
they have to look pedantic
before the Latin inheritors...

this is the point where you say:
being overly literatre
isn't helping,
when the English,
the prime inheritors of
Rome look... slumbering...

   i share their burden,
whatever happened to
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...
and whatever i am
of a concern for birth...
listen...
they had their chance to breed
a blank slate man...
but as long as they left
the bricks & mortar of grammar
intact...
   they started attacking
grammar...
             what am i not to do?
cook you a ******* k'eh'b'āb...)

     - who was born out of
  solipsism...
                     it's such an airy subject
matter,
         at best: all of it requires
a status of noumenon...
   and someone who has access
to a very frictive vocabulary of
technical terms...
    spotted once in a while...
              crux-verbum constructs...

abortion at 9 months,
state of the union address speech
of the president:
   i'm not walt whitman
and there's no: o captain my captain
from me...

  but what i see...
       the old gods that were conquered
by the hebrew god
of its people resurging...
like Milton's fallen angels...
resurging...
   being reborn...
                with that speech
about abortion: i see, Moloch...
i too see Beelzebub...
mastering the craft of lying
tongues...
     the old gods are back, baby!
there's no need to congest
oneself with h. p. lovecraft
inventions...
      once the old, conquered
gods lose their fallen angel status,
once they are
   liberated from
the thesaurus of confusing
nouns of the lost time...

to me Moloch stands
the most proud...
and yes, i can listen to ricky gervais
talk about:
   the pinnacle
of darwinistic realism,
cultural darwinism,
how there is nothing ever
too suspicious about the natural
world,
and how i have to accept
the ****-manner of
"appreciating" the natural
world...
                   the octopus,
and the platypus...
            and... like...
                between a rock and a god...
the absolute death-row
narrative...
  there are only cul de sac
avenues for thought to exist...
and... given...
i am the deluded one...
then... where's the ******* asylum
and jimmy savile?

              but no one tells you
about anything: enlightening when
they have experienced
auditory hallucinations...
oh... everyone's almost
unanimous about visual hallucinations
esp. if they have ingested
fungus or Hofmann teabag...

as a person who has
experienced auditory hallucinations...
believe me...
   esp. when "thinking" is also
deemd "auditory"...
    in that casual: i can't hear myself
think...
                  auditory hallucinations
are no... pleasant...
    however much visual hallucinations
are championed...
because the fear of the unseen:
yet heard...
contributes to a more potent
fear of what is... seen: but on mute...
because by being auditory:
you can relate to it having
a... ******* mind...
a consciousness of some-sort...
auditory hallucinations are
that much more scary because...
you experience no fatigue,
when the sort of fatigue
you would experience...
from thirst... in the desert...
           "seeing" a fata morgana...

me? i hate it how...
biology and physics have reached
the status of mainstream...
while whatever chemistry
was allowed, of nibbling on
the mainstream
is left rotten in the arms of a zombie
attempting to read some
alchemy text from the middle-ages...

no... i am not mezmerized...
****... mesmerised...
****...
    mez... z'oh: **** it... might as well
employ the german diacritic
marker:                meßmerißed -
because the, "softness" of the S
in that word, is never really: SOFT...
is it?!

      auditory hallucinations...
i can't explain them...
          it's not like you can actually
ingest a fungus...
that would allow you to hear...
say... the philharmonic crescendo
of Pandemonium...
   find me a drug like that:
then we'll talk...
              
   and, if ever, on the side:
poetry would be dead in a day
if everyone started to have a darwinian
hard-on for nature or
the Aristotelian genesis bound
to awe...
                       fear...
                       and it's not like
fear is a pathological complex
that man needs to be rid of...
     sure, i'll make it more subtle:
being... apprehensive...
           and you know what fear
doesn't allow...
          stagnation...
dulling of the senses...
                                     apathy...

mind you:
that half a liter of whiskey,
and listening
to the corvus corax song
                    la i mbealtaine
could never do much wrong in me...
coming to this bud of a blank
space,
and letting it exfoliate into...
this, bargain, of extracted words.
Lunar Jun 2016
You would be my sculpture.
I'd spend hours on you.
Your face had taken shape,
Your neck was molded new.
I formed your pale legs,
My clay perfect for the fit.
For days I worked on your torso,
For days I only patiently did sit.
Solidifying was real quick,
And I had to be careful.
You could break if mishandled,
I needed to be gentle.
You still had your eyes closed,
So I kissed your dry lips.
But you still couldn't hold me well,
Despite your arms around my hips.
And so I carved your hands,
And caressed them in mine,
Then finally you entwined our fingers,
At last we held back time.
To koreen and her Dearest.

An artist would make art out of the one dearest to her/him, and missing them would supply the will to finish the piece. But no matter how many sculptures, paintings and sketches I do, they can never compare to the real you. One day, I believe, you will hold my hands, and for that time to be the golden seconds of my life, I will not loosen my grip and let go.
“CAAAAMON-CAAAMON-CAAMON-CAMON. *******. *******, YOU STUPID *******!!!!”  I slam on the brakes as the traffic light turns red, the front end of my car now parked in the middle of the intersection.  

A bunch of headlights begin to move towards me, and I rev the engine, slamming the car into reverse.   Now behind the white line, I lean back and take a few breaths.  I sound like my old man.  That nasty, fat ***** was always screaming at those useless racehorses as his soggy, limp cigar would bounce from his lips, spit landing all over the paid-in-full fakies of whatever blonde ***** was cuddled up next to him for the afternoon.  Having lost everything by the end of the day, he would always plod home and deposit his soiled, checkered pants on the laundry room floor and crawl into bed to make love to my mom.  

Ugh. I need to stop thinking about him.  I already wish I could be one of those old horses who gets shot in the head.  Today was my five-year work anniversary, and on behalf of the entire department, volcano-face Emily bestowed upon me a massive dog bone, which now sits tauntingly on my passenger seat.  As she suppressed that nasty giggle of hers and handed me the bone, the room erupted with laughter, someone shouting from the back corner, “Hey, Ed! Get it?!  You’re always like a dog with a bone!”  Maybe I should go back to work and make that ***** play fetch.

No. I’ll save that for later.  Right now I am going to go get that Philly Cheese Steak sandwich that’s been on my mind all afternoon.  That is if this light ever turns green again.  But ******* is my mouth salivating just thinking about that sandwich.  

What the hell is that?

A Ford Bronco is blazing towards the intersection, directly into oncoming traffic.  It swerves onto the shoulder, speeding past the rows of stopped cars and blasting through the red light.  The driver is leaning out the window, swinging around a sword.  He notices me staring and looks straight into my eyes, solidifying his unspoken threat by pointing his medieval weapon straight at my heart.  

Fine.  If that ******* wants a duel, I would hardly be a gentleman if I did not oblige.  I reach behind the passenger seat and grab the antique cop light that’s been gathering dust on the floor ever since I purchased it at the neighborhood thrift store.  I slap the thing on the top of my car and punch through the red light, cranking the steering wheel to make a quick u-ey.  As I gain some distance, I can just barely make out the license plate.

DR PEPR

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Dr. Pepper ignores the fact that I am only 20 feet behind him and turns up his stereo, blasting a Renaissance dance tune from hell.

I’m going to end this, and I’m going to end it by sticking that sword up that Shakespeare *******’s ***.  

Dr. Pepper slams on his brakes, the sudden jolt causing him to drop his sword.  The passengers in the back of the cab burst into a slow-motion uproar, and I take the opportunity to cut off their escape route.  Now stopped, I pull out my mocha-flavored e-cig from my front pocket and look over at my dog bone as the vapor fills the car.  I snag the bone and step outside, feeling the weight of the rawhide in my hand as I approach the truck. Not stopping to bother with the driver, I head towards the back, kicking the forgotten sword into traffic.  My clothes are bathed in red from the brake lights, and the coked-out frenzy of the Renaissance men reaches a ****** as I stand before them, looking like the devil himself.

Adrenaline is surging through me.  As I take a drag of mocha, I scan the faces of the annoying pukes in the back of the truck and locate the nastiest in the bunch sitting in the middle of his troupe, completely stiff with fear.  I look deep into his eyes and slowly exhale.  I pull one more drag as I raise the massive bone and bring it crashing down, making full contact with the left brake light.  The red shards explode into the sky, and I do not hesitate to follow up with the other break light.  Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I can’t help but swing even harder.  

Wow - what a beautiful explosion.  

“Unsheathe thy sword!  UNSHEATHE THY SWORD!”

Dr. Pepper searches frantically for his sword as I casually approach his door. “Dr. Pepper,” I say calmly. He continues to desperately ***** around the truck, so I lean forward, “DR. PEPPER.” He turns begrudgingly to look at me.  Wanting to bid farewell to my defeated adversary, I raise my right hand into a 90 degree angle and wiggle my fingers “bye-bye” in his direction. His blood-shot, brown eyes widen, and it’s clear that he is terrified that his face will be the source of my next fireworks display.  Lucky for him my stomach growls, reminding me that my quest for a Philly Cheese Steak sandwich remains unfulfilled.

I walk away, the cherry light still flashing on top my car, so I take my bone and take a hard swing, unleashing the last set of fireworks in my perfectly-directed scene.  I get in the car, and as I start the engine, the oldies station is blaring Clarence the Frogman Henry’s song, “Ain’t Got No Home”.  It’s the best part of the song, and without hesitation I begin to tap out the rhythms on my steering wheel and sing along with Clarence in that high-pitched voice of his:

“I ain’t got no sister,
I ain’t got a brother,
I ain’t got a father,
not even a mother,
I’m a lonely boy,
I ain’t got a home.
Whoo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo!
Whoo-woo-woo-woo-woo-woo-­woo-woo!”
Ronald Volkman Jul 2015
cut out my tongue it will never be able to capture your beauty in words.
My hands useless for your essence transcends the boundaries of script.
My entire being, may it dissolve in the hope of solidifying into you
my love, my venus, my divine feminine goddess, of everything natural and new
Tilly Nov 2012

I know you, like no other;
"Does it hurt... the truth?"
Searching lips, forge answers;*
Tasting, solidifying, our known proof.
Lunar Jan 2017
A little grin peeks out almost unnoticeable; an introduction, as the letters wax and take shape. Slippery from the thoughts, dripping and solidifying on paper. The wonderland of words has been entered.

2. A silver half of a plate, a yellow half of the nocturnal sun, an inked half of the paper. Imbalanced but semi-complete, words written halfway were still wholely thought of.

3. Midnight's peak is the best time to write. The full moon rises as the keyword is written. Clear as a mirror to reflect the emotion desired.

4. The ink is now running out, with the poem waning. It's coming to a close, growing into farewell's small smile. The process may be ending but the life of the product has just begun.

5. With the final curtain call of clouded skies and emptied minds, the poem is finished. The new moon take its place in the lives of people, invisible to the eye but fully felt with their hearts.
My moments of being an insomniac birth to such thoughts
The sun has come.
Somewhere far on the eastern border
of my existence she has begun her
wild haired dance across the sky signaling the dawn of
a new day.
Slowly, I rise.
Feeling every ache and pain and fiber of my humanity,
I great a gray wash environment.
This stillness, haunting, like the watercolor left unfinished in the
closet.
Joints creak like gears.
Rusted from neglect, they scream their displeasure breaking
the silence and solidifying my existence.
My neck strains against
this shackle of a belly pulling from my shoulders
forcing me to notice my feet, almost for the first time in years.
Time has not been kind to them.
Twisted and gnarled like the roots of the tree my
father planted in my youth.
Dark skin, dried and scarred from years of taking them
in and out of socks, sit dumb and silent as mules waiting
for my command.
Toes, blistered from a lifetime of being stubbed on desk
corners and floor boards, reach blindly for the
fine fibers of the blue carpet at the edge of the
bed.
Knees shaking, like the screen door on my grandmother's porch,
from the weight of my distended middle force me to
grab for the nightstand.
Driftwood hands stumble across the well worn surface
remembering every nail and knot and grain.
More than most will ever forget.

This steam feels good against my skin.
I leave my hands to their chore,
letting them travel the same course without thought.
lather
scalp
face
that funny spot behind my ears mama would rub to soothe
my pain
neck
arms, first left then right,
stomach
top of my aging genitals to the deepest portion of
my inner thighs
down my legs
top of my back letting the soap run down my spine
and between my buttocks.

From the corner of my right eye
a face catches my attention.
Not the face of a stranger, no I remember this face.
Like old friends meeting again
for the first time, smiles stretch gently across
our faces.
We reach for each other, tracing
the laugh lines etched deep in our foreheads remembering
the origin of each.
This is not a stranger's face.
No, this is the face that woke me at the dawn of
each new day and stood watch in my sleep.
These
eyes are not my own.
In another lifetime they
smiled at my very existence.
Set in stone, they shone like stars on my first
day of school.
I remember everyone saying I was the spitting image of my father.
Youthful pride denied their words, but here he stands.
Smiling back at me.
Hello father.
My it's been such a long time since we met.
How have you been?
Harper Oct 2012
The Quantum anthem sets off the spark of enchantment as I file through things only thought
All borrowed and blurred belligerence baffling beauty, things only sought.
Spiraling sickens the surging of those who surrender their sudden sorrow for meaning to flutter.
Herds of things unheard splurge in cinematic combs fastened by fertility
Charred remembrances burn deep as feelings bleed
Bursting boundless solidifying into expression
Without it battles of head and heart oppression
Redirecting rising ripples focused forward
Onward and steady swaying as my doubt is fading
Curtains close the colossal conundrum crystalizing in my veins
Setting off distant delirium  
Honeycomb harbor home
We are not alone
We are not alone
Hands Nov 2012
He held my hand,
freshly wrought from
my mother's womb,
torn through a hole in
her belly and spilled from
a hole in his heart.
He smelled of Old Spice and
body odor and
marijuana,
he wore gold chains when
he was born to rags and
stacks of wood.
His grip on my hand,
so firm and strong and settled,
his gentle cooings and
warmth;
I miss the safety of it.
You can't be held
when you're the same size,
when the holder is the one
who might need to be held.
What nightmares had you seen
in white-washed walls and
halls of ravings and throwings and
the violence of a withdrawn mind?
Father,
it is you
that I have become,
that I still fixate toward--
my heart is heavy and
my head is torn apart.
You are my North Star
that guides me through life's oceans,
my scale to balance
my heart to a feather;
I wonder if it might be weighed down
with regret?
Father,
it is you
that I march toward,
that I find myself morphing into,
plucked from the cocoon of maturity from
a hole torn in its belly.
I had left one womb
for another,
it seemed.
Did I ever truly tell you
what you meant to me?
Even when
you weren't around
I turned to the air
to the warmth around me
to a stranger's grip or
the embrace of another.
Even when
you had left the world
for the one in your head
I only looked up to the twinkling of the night
to find my guide;
I remember
reaching a shaky hand
out to the skies.
The starry curtain
wrapped around my arm,
flowing like a gentle ocean,
like the fluid in the womb
then solidifying
like bedrock
like bottoms
like bases.
Even when
I hadn't seen you in months or
spoken to you in years,
I still held on
to that firm grip,
that far-too gentle
hand.
irinia Mar 2023
"Contentment is a synonym for loneliness, cool loneliness, settling down with cool loneliness. We give up believing that being able to escape our loneliness is going to bring any lasting happiness or joy or sense of well-being or courage or strength. Usually we have to give up this belief about a billion times, again and again making friends with our jumpiness and dread, doing the same old thing a billion times with awareness. Then without our even noticing, something begins to shift. We can just be lonely with no alternatives, content to be right here with the mood and texture of what’s happening."

"it allows us to finally discover a completely unfabricated state of being. Our habitual assumptions — all our ideas about how things are — keep us from seeing anything in a fresh, open way… We don’t ultimately know anything. There’s no certainty about anything. This basic truth hurts, and we want to run away from it. But coming back and relaxing with something as familiar as loneliness is good discipline for realizing the profundity of the unresolved moments of our lives. We are cheating ourselves when we run away from the ambiguity of loneliness."

"Cool loneliness allows us to look honestly and without aggression at our own minds. We can gradually drop our ideals of who we think we ought to be, or who we think we want to be, or who we think other people think we want to be or ought to be. We give it up and just look directly with compassion and humor at who we are. Then loneliness is no threat and heartache, no punishment. Cool loneliness doesn’t provide any resolution or give us ground under our feet. It challenges us to step into a world of no reference point without polarizing or solidifying. This is called the middle way, or the sacred path of the warrior."

by Pema Chodron from "When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advise for Difficult Times"
Michael W Noland Dec 2012
Heavy hearted hands

lifting my body up

Almost filled up

And soon ill be snatched up

Self made

Enraged

In a cage of shame

Chained

To my Godless contemplation of the oneness

Smothering the somethings, I worked so hard for

But i adore the test

Ignore the rest

Blessings from the depth

Of my love for all of you

I dare to dream of things my eyes are too small to see

In futility to the world

I breath deeply

Unfurled

Upon the twisted shapes

Refracting light

Shifting states

Heightening my holographic hemispheres

Likening the charge of the heliosphere

To the happiness barging into the universe

In verse-less surges of sanctity

Solidifying the sanity

With purges of popularity

From the light-less Polarity

Spinning the tops

Of sincerity

Declaring its love for me
Bellis Tart Jan 2011
I used to like to run
run like the wind,
just to see how fast I could go
and now I run
but to escape , to get away
you see,
I have trouble looking my demons in the eye
I am cowardice, weak, afriad
afraid that the fire burning in their eyes
will consume me, ruin me, burn me
leaving charred ashes of this person I hate
who's too afraid tell you the truth
too afraid to take her rose coloured glasses off and see the world for what it really is
too afraid to admit to herself that the reason she doesn't stand up
and shrug your shackles off her shoulders
why she doesn't tell you everything she should
why she stands at the mirror, poking and prodding
wishing her waist was thinner, her ******* were bigger
her legs were longer, her feet were smaller
her eyes less empty
she is afraid, afraid of one small little word
no
No I won't listen, No I don't care, No I won't love you
No, you can't have your way, you can't stay
and so she locks up her words, in the safe
in the pit of her stomach, in the far reaching backwoods of her mind
like drying cement it weighs her down
solidifying her veins, till her heart can't beat
stiffening limbs stopping her feet
from moving forward down the street
she is stone, a hollow, statuette of herself
till her screams shatter her way out, and break free
and then she runs
(c) 29/01/11
Amina Sibtain Dec 2011
She sits with her legs folded to the right,
head covered in red satin bordered with gold brocade.
Strands of dark brown hair sneak out from under the satin.
Gold earrings dangle from her small honey colored ears.
She has the plainest lips I’ve ever seen.
They’re just a centimeter apart with no hint of a smile.
Her dark brown eyes are laden with thick black mascara.

I keep trying to look away.
I wonder what she’s thinking as she sits there,
clueless like a young bride.
I think about how many have lusted for her scent before me.

The silk curtain in front of her window closes,
solidifying the boundaries of our two worlds.
Her voluptuous shadow visible behind the curtain pulls me away from my world
and ***** me into hers’.

It’s gone now, and I sit back in my chair and look around.
I hear people discussing the stock market plunge but all I can think about is the dark figure behind the silk curtain.
She will never know I had been so close,

and the woman with the plainest lips will forever remain my secret.
zody rose wang Mar 2016
the floor is icier than the last time i crumbled down here. i'm enclosed within the walls of eerie silence, blackness all around me, enveloping my terror, releasing my pain. tears seem to find their own way down to the floor, first dancing with delight, then solidifying and morphing into dark crystals. what is more comforting than the fetal position? the escape that has been written repeatedly into my screenplay of a life.
Elijah Griffan Jan 2014
My love doesn't obey time.
My madness doesn't know reality,
And my consciousness...

My consciousness sits somewhere
    In the middle of the ocean,
       On a raft,
          Smoking a bowl.

              And every time I ask it to come back it just says,
               "Nah, man. It's much better out here."


My heart doesn't listen.
My brain can't lead,
And my life...

My life ends every twelve months.
With each new year, I start over and live through an entire lifetime.
        Condensed,
          Compressed,
            But still just as heavy.


My reflection doesn't know it's me.
My thoughts don't know when to stop,
And my soul...


My soul is ever growing, helping me learn from my mistakes.
With it I'm able to reach out and truly change things.
          Holding,
            Grasping, and
                Solidifying immortality.
Parable Gerákipolis: “Some Athenian Falcons streaked the harps of King David that had to be triangulated with Patmos from some evening buntings, to assign them to a Gerákis that flew ready from Athens to Patmos. Before leaving the temple of his maiden nurse; she muttered apothegms of some Tetraktys to her, combining the sums and values ​​of the first four goods of her entrusted bird, relating to the identical values ​​of her Adonis, who always muttered at her and clumsily delayed words that she wanted to mention to her before going to the campaign. war saying: "Three campaigns, plus two relays and a short stay outside the courts, I will dare desecrate the six times that I swore to tell Athena that no more than once I would regret receiving her entourages, but only two will be fruitful in the third day I went repeatedly to look for him, without profit, only forming doubts in the return and return in the clutches of my Gerákis that smelled of harps with essences and fables of fortune, that incomings and goings formed plasmas of the Tetraktys, doing the Venusian geometry in the magnitude of the face of my Gerákipolis, becoming a landowner between two straight lines, and then with more points to offer it between the solid forms of its Falangist Hetairoi, right there, there solidifying, defenseless and willful in his inventive poetry "

The pretensions exuded in femininity flew, still with her bephos ruby ​​lips cracked from so much uttering fearful lines, which made her diligent sirens and cyclamen emerge, in contiguous instinctive premonitions of falconry and of her supported Gerákis. The hawk arrived at the buttress shutter with his ungainly temper, leaving his missive on his marble stool, he withdrew and when he was just about to go to his almería to stalk, he observed that another glowing Gerákis was coming in the opposite direction, with his red claws, and on his neck, he wore a missive for the beloved maiden. Then he observes that the hawk rises against the dive, emitting happy yells to the sky that was filled with celestial bouquets of cyclamen swooping down to leave the court, in whose defiance it finely said "it will not be easy to leave you, I am Hetairoi and I bring the stigma of Xyston and his left arm, billing the other tusk of the viper, with the signs of two apothegmatic wastelands that say that nothing will ever separate us ”. The other Gerákis watched everything from afar, seeing that his, another alien to him, fell from great elevation and plummeting, with great prosperity spreading in his Falconiade gene catalog, missioning as an angel so that his yelling would never end.

(Procorus, understood from afar that in his hands they still followed the marks of the Gerákis, which gave him more stories of snakes' fangs, from which two stories emanated from the same one, but from a secondary protagonist for potions of whoever wants to end up adorning themselves in his floating love, and in the hemlock of a vile antagonist, with his dried fruit Aquenio of neology and love that opens even if it is inflated in the bladder of all the loves that lose the filtered blood of the bleeding gods)
Parable Gerákipolis
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
you know how you can tell that women want
shorter  ****** encounters than men?
prostitutes.
   you know what they do...
they apply the secondary "*******",
to tighten the grib on
the penetrating object... i.e. they squeeze you
   invoking lamda
   the anti-chruchill Λ (lambda)...
huh?           don't ******* huh me...
          the index and middle
finger squeezes you...
   works magic when you've
be circumcised... but when you haven't,
and you **** while pulling
your ******* back exposing
the spartan "skin-head"?
         the c-ring is near your
head, rather than at
the base...
   so you're basically wearing
a bow-tie of flesh...
   handy jerking off,
      with the fleshy burqa...
and during *******,
imitating the monotheistic
aesthetic...
        two protruding veins,
you'd think they'd be
bursting at this point...
  even a ukranian *******
complained:
  when are you going to finish!
seems almost sad
   that women prefer quick
*** rather than athletic ***...
but the older the *******,
the more she's prone
to invent a second *****...
   her index & *******...
squeezing your phallus toward
a premature *******...
     kinda hard
   when you pull your *******
back and choke your member...
at the neck, rather than some
fetish at the base...
           sometimes you can go
for an hour and not *******...
and the ******* is like:
huh?! completely neutralised...
bewildered to say the least...
       i have no moral suggestion
at this point...
   i'm into catching moths with my
bare hands...
               i'm just trying to think
what sort of face i'd pull
when talking with someone
who hasn't
appropriated the jest of
a *******'s worth...
         there's still the minding
of the second-layer of genitals...
   it's almost ****, had i tried,
but i haven't, but it must feel just
the same...
        penetrating a vegan-jain-n'ah...
with a ******* trying to
speed things up    Λ
                       index    middle
         fingers, working their "magic"...
pretty pretty p'ooh,
                     i'm choking my **** by
pulling my ******* back...
i'm imitating circumcision...
           you're goon'ah 'av'
                                      to try 'arder!
         why do brothels always
have the perfume of bourbon
infusing them to solidifying
     a memory, unlike anything other
than blooming flowers
  in the evening, of spring?
           it's the anti-thesis of
b &  b (bed & breakfast) -
                    brothels & bourbon...
with all that ****,
america is softcore in terms
of ***... you celebrate strip-clubs,
but you don't celebrate brothels...
  you know what a strip-club looks
like in greece?
   a stripper places a green plastic
tag next to your drink...
   it's the green "light" to go ahead,
and head for a private audience...
            european strippers are like:
who the **** bothers with so much
tease but no action, if not
mid-western goodie-good-shoe girls
equivalent to those
with men having a fetish for dorothy?
that's borderline ****** prone dynamics...
i love recycling, i actually
love taking out the trash...
    only yesterday i was squashing
6 maggots in a napkin...
                   a woman that only
likes to tease, or wears the burqa
of a strip-tease?
             listen... i'd rather **** 6 maggots
while taking out the trash,
   wishing i could have impaled them
on a fishing hook, and caught myself
some dinner...
                   saying that,
america seems backwards...
  it's all tease... but no action...
                    get mauled by a ******,
   **** the gaping and gasping and
   pervert insinuating: look but don't touch...
this isn't a ******* art gallery,
   this isn't a church, or a temple...
            i have ten eyes at my finger-tips,
i'd love to use the eye down south
rather than feel infuriated by the two
in my cranium...
                           with all that ****,
it's almost asking for an al capone in terms
of selling fleshy cushions and duvets...
   to me america will always be the
first to have the nuclear weapon,
be always the second to send
a man into space
(slavs chose a dog
   germans chose a monkey,
       tells you a lot
about the collective psi;
   i'd have sent a baby elephant)...
    the first & only idiots to ban
   alcohol...
      and yes, i agree, it's great,
but whatever music and film
   they produce,
i can't have a high opinion
of them...
   i know i should...
   but if i was living in that tornado-ridden
mass of land,
         i'd be in the middle...
in the "boring" places...
                         or at least that's
how i imagine myself living...
         away from the schizoid
export of twins americana
                      n.y.              vs.               l.a.;
i met a mongolian in amsterdam
once...
           i was looking into
the void-eyes of history...
                 i imagine looking into
the eyes of a native of the continent
            to be a likewise telling of: wow!
saying that, a welcome revision -
the more you shame brothels,
and glorify strip-clubs?
   the more **** you're going to produce...
i have absolutely no idea
as to why america is founded upon
strip-clubs... more teasing than actual
muddy waters of juice...
                  the american notion of
strip-clubs before brothels is
very much like the act of prohibition
in my eyes...
                           i hope, hard as ****,
to never visit that puritan continent,
  when a ****** rebellion is always protruding
around every corner...
  where a ****** rebellion,
           can never be a ****** liberation.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
i'm starting to get the riff of the argument...
how people talk about this
grand... "singularity"...
    of consciousness, of, what not...
                            what?
how about we settle the whole free speech
debate, first?
learn to crawl before you learn
to walk, and walk before you start
to jump, and jump before elevating it
to acrobatic gymnastics?
    why is no one talking abut
the great convergence?
           hell... free speech this,
free speech that...
                        but... why is everyone
so shy of the establishing
a verbal "chess match" of dialectics?
                    with every comment sections,
there is no comment to begin with...
   the original comment, simply,
becomes lost in what ends up being neither
an echo in a cave, or a plateau with
a credible echo possibility...
it's the common thread of when
science fiction takes over science...
           science fiction jumps three steps ahead
of science... and then the backlash:
the reality didn't catch up
to the science!
                    what to do what to do?!
this free speech, "debate" is missing
the key ingredient...
  i'm sure neither side wants to be right...
but at the same time...
neither side wants to entertain
engaging in dialectics...
   sorry... neither side does...
verbal chess doesn't work upon
solidifying your exodus from the Agora
with a smug-face...
looking pristine, not once challenged
by your own thought to
induce the emotions of doubt...
the point of a dialectic is:
your opinions, comply with my own
opinions, even though they are
divergent ontology...
yet they still have the potential
to comply with what is otherwise
known as the: collective convergence...
however in-line with a dichotomy,
first a convergence must
be established, before the utopian
singularity is sourced as
a rigid architecture of the future...
both sides can speak...
but since neither sides are speaking
to each other...
   a dualism becomes a dichotomy
that doesn't become a dialectics...
less words?

   duality = dichotomy ≠ dialectics...

these companies are not attacking free
speech per se...
    even i can't see any potential
for dialectics...
   i entertain dialectic with
old men on park benches...
  
and that's about it...
           if you can't reason with someone
who's the antithesis of you?
you can't begin to reason with anyone,
esp. yourself!

no, there are certain obstructions
you can't shift... mountains
(last time i heard): were supposed
to be unmovable...
  because they befitted
the metaphor category of wisdom
in man... along with the rivers
and the seas... the forests and the deserts...

no... these people are not going after
free speech...
they're seeking environments where
they can spectate dialectics!
no one wants the sort of free speech
whereby there's an emphasis on
the investment of stating the already
given certainty:
                                "but they're my opinions,
and i'm entitled to have them"...

and i was going to posit a genesis
of dialectics from such a defensive
starting point?! no!
the sacred has already been stated...
so... what dialectic attachment
point do i take?

       none?! you're joking, right?!
none?!
     so one side says one thing,
the other says its own thing...
and i'm... i'm hearing the concept
of "the" singularity"...
but what about the grand *convergence
?!

******* milkshake / cocktail of
a humanity's worth of coherence...
it's not like anyone argued
with Hey-Zeus Crisp either...
if they did... they argued around
the ground of also enforcing
   blackmail...
                    they argue... sure...
they disagreed...
but the low-hanging fruit said to them:
he's still going to hang...

see... i'm not even sure i wrote that,
the plethora of doubt
is... so much more entertaining
to preserve the dignity of thought...
than it is to arrive at the plateau of
faith... or the down-trodden
bleeding heart of outright denial...
denial...
              such a boring reality...

you never deny the existence of ghosts,
you always doubt the existence of ghosts...
because, with a denial of the existence
of ghosts?
you put your faith into kettles
switching off while the water has
boiled to 100 degrees Celsius...
    traffic always travels clockwise
on an English roundabout...

  like Sartre noted:
  negation is an article of bad faith...
and... the Quran doesn't
have a word for those
St. Thomas affiliate...
             a denier is a non-believer...
but the book doesn't have a name for...
a doubter... a quasi- / pseudo-believer...
which is asking the BIG question
within the demands to revise the Islamic
text to reconsider those who out-rightly
deny... and those who simply
base their faith...
not on the certainty of faith,
but on the uncertainty of doubt...
treating death with the focus of a child...
like a roller-coaster...
         well... everything from imagination,
memory and thought is intact
upon the birth-death "seance"...
everything is still undeveloped at
the death-birth celebration...
why take away from people the thrill
of death, feeding them certainty,
why stigmatize doubt?
              
   i wasn't born into a certainty
even if i was given a body,
the body delayed my possession of thought...
please... let me the allowance
of having the possession of thought
to delay whatever is left of
a possession of body...
               however that might translate
into its own negation,
of the elevated thought into a post-scriptum
of soul...
               don't think i don't think
myself as mortal...
   but i want to survive the plague
of what others fear...
that some day the party will be over...
for me the party never began...
   and i'm ready for the grand
YWN                      to tAke my heArt.
Patrick Sutphin Jun 2012
To understand the stories we tell,
we must experience them.
Smell the burning timber
of a ruined house.
Hear the cries of a newly made widow,
so others may understand her sorrow.
Feel the warmth of the twisting flames,
swallowing every scrapbook and
pillowcase, tile shingle and teapot.
Observe as a lifetime’s collection
of material objects melt before
the eyes of their owners.
Watch as the light works for you,
bending and burning,
solidifying in still frames
the very details it destroys.
Feel the pain of their loss,
and allow the images you create
to properly illustrate that agony.
Some may see snapshots
of a burning house,
but others will understand
that these are not pictures,
but moments stolen from time.
Do this, and you will find,
that instead of documenting death,
your images preserve life.
Lieke Jan 2019
I want to punch you 'till you bleed
twist you bones 'till they snap
vacuum the remainders of your heart
then squeeze your veins 'till you no longer


But when the starting gun is fired
I am stopped by gravity
pulling me back
humanising this creature dressed as you
solidifying the sea of hatred a mile tall


The more I fight
the more I cry
each drop that splashes on the ground
is a piece of my heart
sweating
           sweating
                       for all the creatures in this world.
7 July, 2018
René Mutumé Jun 2013
A city made from music and gas
-a humor of golden mass in the boiler room
phosphoric eyes launching up;
heroes come slower now, fearful, decadent
as if engorged by war for too long
changed;
within the soil
looking up from the street with malleable bones
like antennae sending up endless prayers
expressing nothing
if not heard

a city, a dome, a breast
cannibals small, eating freely
‘a passing rebuttal’
a glance in the ride – which smiles back
and the world followed will
and the earth gladly sipped

cooks cooking better asleep;
poems, gas, meat, hunger
locked in horn
knowing they’re the wrong type
of poem free
to do whatever
they ever wish

even the energy of old worms has sense
and the concrete knows the distance from where they have come
from the earth-helping
them back, by natural pull, or passerby
before the parade comes
and the hooligans still have rage and bayonet
colliding inside faces
like metered bodies
unable
to learn dance
helixing
around you
their song-
neither taking
or meaning
anything
to your own;

the west-coast train leaves
the power station to my right
opening its three pounding mouths
to the quiet drone of the fog and sky
a sandwich and a coach full of drunks
-communing
-inside
-memory
and hail hits the window
solidifying rapid water
cocktails;

nearing a station and familiar fields
office, and tired sun
letting your face know she only jokes
when her tongue radiates
later on
when her body
finally breaks;

soaking the last dust
a home within scent
calling out to everything else;

calling it
a liar.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
of the kind of person, in an Alcatraz
forbidding continental coagulation,
unlike the Icelandic model,
heaving an asthmatic moral superiority,
caught up in imperialism,
and all that crap of 5 p.m. talk
on an Empire... to then compare these
nationalists, who's nations have been
brushed under the carpet -
to tell them: whatever national pride
you have, we can't accept it,
because after solidifying our empire,
we paved the way for globalisation,
you can't have you pithy nationalism,
we accept Israel as a sovereign state,
but we can't accept you history
as quasi-Israeli - we can't have your
belittling nationalism, due course:
remembering the past -
because we have done away with
with given Darwinism: or as dodo do
as dodo did, as dodo will -
let's curb all human feelings into
designation via: kings and ******,
murderers and prostitutes -
or as said: Britannia rule the world:
or akin to the Chinese: but not this bit...
or akin to the Arabs: Lawrence said:
this bit neither... or as the Russian
said: Siberia off-limits!
or as the Mongol said:
you come here, you smoke ****,
you don't come here and say:
Beatnik! who, the, ****,
said, that, you're, welcome,
and, that's, synonymous, with, landays
and the little horror - and pashtun's
Kabul? as said: Kazakh Soviet,
as said: all Mongol, Soviet -
could you even squirm Alabama Soviet?
no.... you'd scream coco balm
cotton *******!   or ******* do what
                confederacy said you should do:
namely hang... as ****** do.
propagandist? me? sure!
i'll raise my hand in Saudi Arabia
pretending to have stolen something:
my hand for a peach... bargain!
             two peaches and one hand to spare!
i don't believe the west in undermining
continental nationhood,
only because they have mastered post-colonialism
by reducing empire building with
globalisation ergonomics -
              i'm actually apprehensive concerning their
phobias and congregating fears in paranoia
   by suggesting that what once attacked these notions
(they can't even call them nations, they're merely notions,
   and a 100 lawyers for each Francophile)
             was going to morph into geese -
always the superheroes, never the villains -
                  they are - pithy little perverts
****-a-doodle-do -
                                  they love their little
multicultural experiment,
   but they hate their pickled herrings
and their packaging of cucumber pickles -
                    they loath them...
they call them the Palestinian loafers -
shorthand: the Arab cheese strings for shoelaces.
    all because they had an Empire,
and that's alright because Victoria managed to
**** into a throne aged 80 -
                          do i get: well, resurrected
Israel is o.k., but resurrected Poland is
actually **** Germany...
                      **** me! this is going to get a little
bit more than just interesting!
i find it comforting sometimes that relationships are impermanent and that maybe one day the relationships that cause me pain and confusion will also simply melt away.

i look at the stars and i never get tired of the way the wind blows through the strands of my hair,

the leaves fall onto the roads

like they did a year ago

gradually it's less cooler to use an air-conditioner

maybe better to use a heater

lights become softer, clouded by the mists of solidifying vapor in the air

life keeps it tides

and i find myself surprised that the ebbing tide has still left me with sandcastles of relationships

i once built thoughtlessly

i take comfort in the impermanence of relationships

and the insufferable company I bring
R Saba Oct 2013
I walk forward,
'nets gripping my thighs
and goosebumps raining from my arms
while warmth spreads through my body,
shedding the chill
as if by magic.

Silk and buttons and pretend lace,
cheap boots,
expensive lipstick,
a night out
with confidence by my side.
There's a laugh here too;
it keeps echoing across the bare valleys of my collarbones
and finding its way to my ears.
I resist the urge to turn and share.
Instead,
I smile, taking half-part,
saving a few for a rainier,
colder day.

A shoulder bump,
warm skin brushing against thin cloth,
pulling away from the wrong
and inventing the right;
stepping to the left
and creating space,
solidifying the distance.

I walk forward,
'nets gripping my thighs,
holding onto my skirt
and letting that chill back in,
discarding the easy warmth.
I walk forward,
giving it up,
giving it away,
shedding the feeling,
shedding the idea of it
as if by magic.

Fishnets,
holes,
spaces,
filled

by warm magic.
I did Rocky Horror and somehow I found beauty, or at least it seemed like it
Allan Mzyece Dec 2016
I am looking at pictures of Camels in Afghanistan,
and do but wonder if I can survive for three days under a raging sun
not until my fluids evaporate quicker than I Incernerate
With the cold nights solidifying the particles i lost while trying to love a Lavishing Maiden,
Again,
I daydream of her sometimes as she still gives me hope that one day I will walk on the Sun
But without her, my dream might be achieved by the Camels in Afghanistan

Her boyfriend takes really good care of her, I must be trapped in a dimension filled with demons that keep telling me to ruin their relation.
But then again, I look at the pictures of the Camels in Afghanistan
and see myself as a Camel bottling up the Sun
I may have an ugly face that nobody wants to look at! but I am sure glad I made it this far!
I survived three days in a raging Sun without ever thinking of her!
shrinking violet Jun 2016
You come home from a busy day in the city.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were all spent with “friends” happy to be in your company.
"How are you doing?"
"It's been so long."
"I'm glad you could meet!"
Things go swimmingly.
Conversations open with smiles, flow with laughter and gossip, and end with XOXO in live form.
"Let's do this again sometime."
"Hopefully I'll see you again soon."
"Take care."
You walk back home to your apartment, calling your best friend on the way, telling her about the movie you saw today so you don't feel so alone on the 12-block trek back to your apartment.
You feel sorry for everyone walking past you who didn't watch the latest indie dark comedy you watched yet because you're giving the entire plot line away.
The journey becomes blurred and finally you arrive at your door, and you hang up and get inside.
Your father is home, getting ready to go out and do whatever it is adults do on the Upper East Side at night.
He leaves and you spend hours texting your best friend, preemptively looking at wedding dresses online, listening as she devises her perfect “four-year marriage plan.”
You just recently broke up with your partner and have no plans.
You give another friend at home a call and rant about passion and justice and other big ideas muddling in your brain.
You send peripheral texts to the friends you saw earlier today, thanking them for their company and solidifying plans made in conversation.
To anyone observing these private moments, it is clear to see you are more than connected. You are more than cared about. You are more than loved.
Except you can’t even fathom such observations in your own mind.
And when you hang up the phone, when the goodnight messages are exchanged, when your father comes home, and the lights turn out, you feel alone.
Within these moments, you are a prisoner to your own fears and insecurities--your biggest fear being the Silence, which forces you to face them all.
Your face crumples.
You analyze every mistake, every regret, every misstep of the day.
You regret all the plans you made.
You don't need to convince yourself you're unlovable-- you believe it already.
Then you begin to think of all the friendships you ****** up on, the things people didn't say and the people that weren't there.
You imagine only negative space.
In sorrowful attempts to cheer yourself up, you repeat one of your mantras in your head.
"Nobody's perfect, we are all changing, nothing is constant"
Until unwanted arguments dispute these mantras on command, shooting down every ounce of light in your dark, muddied thoughts.

It's nights like these where suicide might sound like a good idea.

Then you wonder when the self-inflicted mind wounds will end, if ever. You wonder if you'll ever have the strength for light again. You wonder if you could ever experience joy again without pain. Most of all, you wonder what particular culmination of events led you to become this way.

The only thing that keeps you going is the hope that everything will slowly get better, and one day, things will be ok again just as easily as they went awry.

In the mean time, you watch your phone light up from notifications on the Selfie you posted on Instagram earlier, before you started crying. The likes give you just enough shallow reassurance that you are enough for some people--even if only aesthetically-- and this fact gives you just enough solace for you to finally close your eyes.

2:53 am.
CW: suicide, depression, social anxiety
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
i love how i can be Polish
and, literally, have no opinion worthy
of a media outpouring worth
admitting to...
at being: the said ethnicity.
i mean, i could be given cameo
roles in the global narrative,
but i'm shunned...
after enough time passes: i'll come
to embrace being shunned,
i'll learn to evolve into a dislodged
congregation,
            i'll learn to be a people
worthy of no myth.,.. i'll hardly be
japanese when i should have cited shinto...
i should have been scandinavian and
have cited the kept secret of the runes...
or arabic and told to kneel and scrub
my forehead before the koran...
       i come from a pauper's nation
if all the above things are true...
              i am what might be called
a north african spotting me in Amsterdam
and walking away tearful...
       i might have just found heroism once more,
if not in action, then not begun in
thought, and taken upward to the Valhalla
of straining the hawk's dive sound into a ****,
or a kestrel high-minded to perch and not
hollow out the hush...
            music!            music!
if there is anything more edible worthy of kings
it's the **** of sound! sounds can overpower
the mind like sights, if not more!
why, do we: pestle and mortar the whole affair!
we are lumber-jacks unable to make
a single tree fall, and like a graveyard cadle
hushes toward turning dim... say:
            adieu vent...
             sooner addressing a ******* **** than
a myth of the wind playing: the ******* flute!
      peasants! peasants! peasants everywhere,
and i don't mean greengrocers, i mean
marxist peasants, social inhibitors and counter-culturalists!
   why is trans-gender so rampant in western
society and so nodded to, when it's clearly bonkers?
        when the world turns *******
i think of what awaits chinese society and the heresy
of living an agricultural life, long bond with the past
fathers...
                it's a bit like seeing ash turn into graven
images of solidifying masonary of phlegmatised stone...
and then seeing the dutiful kneel before a
                scandal's worth of altar...
        there they all seem to be altar pieces...
     lambs before the slaughter...
   competing crucifixes with ellaborate squiggles of
koranic hand written stances...
                       there's no shame in seeing a *******
these days... there's more shamble verse in
claiming that such a specimen could ever
     guard you against clinging to a cross...
                      as i have not done so...
there's clarity in claiming that a Pontius Pilate
resides in each of us, than there be a crucifix ladden
offering, if not for the Golgotha crowd, then
for the paparazzi ****** hard-on.
                       what dicta are we to hear from a nation
that heard no Mongolian stampede?
heard no burning of libraries, or of churches?
                heard no Mongol settle in the Ukraine and
be called Tartar, as a steak might be called
when served, raw?
what are we to make of these arguments?
        suddenly Britain turned to isle-bound escapism,
and created a polarised scoot-land...
                    was it because objectivity was
objectivity because of the numbers?
                      and when the numbers were cited
objectivity could no longer be respected,
and each citation upon citation was held up
with disbelief?
                                     i can't but see objectivity as a
talk of numbers, but also see how quickly enough
numbers can be turned into propagandist material,
how easily, given enough numbers,
  the numbers cave in...
                and when one objectivity said:
1,000,000 ought to be enough to dilute our message
and give us respectability...
  sooner or later subjectivity said:
1 ought to be enough to concentrate our message
and give us accountability...
   sooner or later the two cited a numbers' convergence...
  objectivity with its 1,000,000
     was as worthwhile as subjectivity and its 1...
        opinion-making behaved as it usually behaved
with enough chaotic organisation:
   there's a plateau of opportunity on the other side...
i never could stomach this,
that objecitivty was governed by
the fact that 1,000,000 could congest a space,
  and be nodding with approval to a unanimous
        claim for a censo est
                 non censo, ergo veto: supra omni:
                            regina stasus quo
...
and that subjectivity was governed by
the fact that 1 would invoke a space,
and be disawoved and dismissed outrightly
as bringing up the concern...
                in the first place...
      if the matter is so simple as to call it
objectivity = 1,000,000
           and subjectivity = 1...
                then whatever arithmetic one discloses,
makes no sense on the rigidity of the given, original
number... the two will continually parallel each other,
and never concentrate at wanting a discourse,
and forever will dialectics be a shunned example of
convergence of the two...
                  forever at odds will be the ratio
of **** aexemplum (man, an example)
   at odds with - ex aexemplum (from an example),
  to no discredit of man or god...
                                     for the ex aexemplum condition
states: there is neither man, or god
to state an example... non **** ex deus (no
man from god) / non deus ex man (no god from man) -
          (if i didn't listen to dramatical music,
these words would sound better congested
into a a soaked ****) -
       but given they're worded to a glory-futile score of
music... i'd love to dedicate these past seconds to
   the sound of a dog telling a: knock-knock joke
with: woof-woof! who's there? howl!
Vernarth describes in the voice of Saint John: “They continue with the scented camelids from looking at their backs… they were about to reach the walls. When they approached Jerusalem, it happens like the biblical passage, as in that of Bethphage and Bethany, in front of the Mount of Olives, they crossed the entrance as it was made by the Messiah when he faced this cosmopolitan city”. Saint John remembered his teacher…: “Go to the village that is in front of you, and as soon as you enter it, you will find a tied colt, on which no man has ridden; untie it and bring it, if someone says to you: Why do you do that? Say the Lord needs it, and then He will give it back. They went and found the colt tied outside the door at the bend in the road, and they untied it. And some of those who were there said to them: What are you doing untying the colt? They then told them how Jesus had commanded; and they left them. And they brought the colt to Jesus and threw their cloaks on it, and he sat on it. Many also spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. And those who went ahead and those who followed were shouting, saying: Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the coming kingdom of our father David!!! Hosanna in the high! And Jesus entered Jerusalem, and into the temple; and having looked around at all things, as it was getting dark, he went to Bethany with the twelve. "

So everyone is ecstatic to gird them to this entrance ceremony as if they were putting their first feet as the Messiah did. They all went to Bethany on the twelve camels to settle down and have a moment of rest. All in deep silence tried to relive what the Apostle had described to them, seeing how they synchronized the unequivocal exactitude of what had to happen and will happen now with them. They come to Bethany for just one day of relaxation and experienced rebirth. In this place, it would perhaps be the house of a nearby town such as Betábara or Bethany, or in the mountains in a simple bower or temporary tent made of wattles, that is, with interwoven branches, and perhaps covered with striped rags. Perhaps his abode was in a cave next to a campfire in view of what we have in the most probable ontological point which is Jesus, who had no home ..., he was staying in a rather poor or humble place, always stating that he had reliable its category-space where to arrive. Every place where He went…, the places went to Him, agglutinated in their mischievous sandals of stout retracing…!
Raeder and Petrobus flew for hours and hours this plains and promontories, however, in the midst of physical humility, there is no doubt that this was one of the retouched moments that San Juan and those who rewarded him by reincorporating him to the credible access in the dimension of her work in front of herself captured from a Eureka. Perhaps Lázarus, Mary from Bethany, and Martha in a brotherhood that continues to live walking in invisibility, but tangible by the blind of the night. This I could see from above,  witnessing seeing these three brothers without the others being able to see them. The perspective Aerial managed to attract magnets to them by virtue of the halos that each one carried on their sacred kaleidoscopic heads ..., when they came flying very close to them, only the halos that moved on the road of San Juan were manifested before them when he went to visit them, in such a way as to link this mental deficit, innocuous being added to the good of being received by the interwoven ambit of history, that it does not fight stammering to hear passages that history itself could not relate belatedly nor in the stories of the fearful ones who were eyewitnesses of a moment that was and will come, for beings with more than two eyes!

Etréstles and Vernarth, sit on a few outlines with metamorphic rings, which resembled being housed in the belly of an unborn newborn donkey, there they sit solidifying archaeological ruins that did not exist as a result of these intense changes in pressure, temperature, and chemical environment; dispersing the changes that are associated with bending forces, layer faults, magma injection and elevations that depress the rock masses flattening them only for their visits ..., then they would return to their original proto-chemical state. Right here they manage to repeal the silence by snatching a rusty sulfo green sandal like a shred of refined friction from the sword of the wind  Hamsin, leading them to get closer to each other, so that he covered them with his moderate generosity with a linnaceous white cloth each one, judging each one of being an Apostle in his memorable and sacred visit to Bethany.

Eurydice sings some songs of Kalymnos in a lullaby, by the iridescence of the roar of the fabrics knotting on their faces in affinity with the out-of-tune Hamsin, creating in them the nascent amber that sprouted from the brown ringed rocks in front of them supporting them angularly. His song fell in love with the global amber and each instance of remaining united that did not ****** or besiege them, generating in them that sacred night not having dinner ..., rather they would fast until the later sacred day that they would leave back to Jerusalem sheltered in their punishment of half severing, in the Lithostroto with his arms broken from the humerus to the ulna by Pilate and disheartened henchmen, in excessive cadaverous instances i.

As soon as the morning dawned, the camelids passed their tongues over the colossal face of Vernarth, telling them that the interval between the cross to reroute to Jerusalem was coming. They all leave, the twelve camels and Alikanto very close to them, feeling very important, for being so kind to his master Vernarth. Alikanto isolated himself between them, observing the actions of his master because here there is no palatial verve of swords Xifos or Dorus, but this allowed him to protect the others if it is so at some point, so these camels could or could turn themselves into fierce imaginary enemies of Trojan Lothophages piercing their mythologies!   Emotional and strategic curiosity, which will always have them on its tragic payroll ...,  in the fates that could run leading them towards the tempting Macedonian void.

They entered the same citadel, which from afar looked as dazzling as full sewers, where the naive condemned still circulated through it. But as it approached they vanished through some of the seven impressive doors, although in reality, they sounded like eight since the Gate of Mercy or Golden Gate closed later, being the oldest and the one that allows access to the Esplanade of the Mosques. "It was closed by the Muslims since it is said that through this door the Messiah will return to save the living and the dead on the Day of Judgment." Here they all pose to pray upset by the fluxion of the camels that did not dare to pass; they refused, having to select another entry.

Later they broke through the Jaffa Gate that leads directly to the Jewish and Christian quarter. Beyond the Tower of David, in an old citadel of the Armenian neighborhood that is another of the essential places that they saw when they arrived. They walked with their camels with their eyes covered, at a slow pace seeing all these testimonies in giddy incense, as if they were walking on their own sore feet. In other city gates, they invade with their twelve shadows, the Dung Gate or Gate of Manure which is the one that leads to the Wailing Wall and the Esplanade of the Mosques, that of the Lions, through which one goes to the Olives Mount, that of Zion, near the Tomb of King David, that of Herod, the New Gate and that of Damascus, in the north of the wall, one of the most impressive in the city and the one that leads directly to the Muslim quarter.
Bethany Brotherly Halo
purple orchid Feb 2014
I told you my story
Because you looked like
You could deal with it
I told you about my demons
You said they were
Barbies compared to yours
I was enveloped in your life
For months that seemed
Like forever
But now your hands
Are clutched on to hers
Like lovers at the parking lot,
Just as something in me knew
You would find your way
Back to her heart
Still, you're the song I keep singing
The poem I keep writing
And I don't know why
She's a sight to see, so are
I shouldn't have kissed you
I shouldn't have believed you
When u told me she was your past.
The no love lost in your eyes
That I saw was only
A strong illusion
Because  your fingers are
Now coiled with hers,
And you lock your gaze upon her Magnificent beauty as if she was a Kaleidoscope of rich,
Mesmerizing luminary
Never once taking notice of
The dark, tall skinny girl
Standing across you;
Solidifying my insignificance.
You're sheltered in one heart
And I'm left to wonder
If I ever meant
Anything to you
The brutal reality
Leaving me with shreds
Of illusions of love
To you
We never happened
Repost
ruth Aug 2012
Numbness eats through my soul
I feel her toxins in my veins
solidifying and immobilizing me
In deep sleep I'm falling through
Apathy is oh so popular
Wishing never accomplishes
Neat death is slowly slipping
I see her countenance once again
This is it, I am dead
Wait
A slight brush on my cheek
Your sweet touch wakes me

— The End —