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Wrong wrong wrong
I'm so lonely
Echoes in the dark

White text on a white page
Lines that no one sees

On the dock in the dark
ON a lake in a park
Just yo uand me


Soma
Soma
Soma
Soma
Soma
Soma
Soma
I am the ******, and that is the truth
I am the ****** and that is the truth
Blain is a piain and that is the truth
(It doesn't matter what 's on the insside)

sSOMASOMASOOOMA
asdf
work, the pen crunches into the paper digging a hole into the desk the wood squeals the ink cries out the bblackness washes out in torrents
Crunching, crunching, crumbling, the pen just so many plastic splinters ground into the desk the black inik gushes out in torrents
I am a writer and that is the trueth
reach for the stars and that is the truth
You can never bbe free except within the cage
If you are free in the cage, then you can be free  anywhere
I am a poet and that is the truth
I am a poet and that is the truth
Have you imagined, the feeling of nearness? The darkness? The sighs?
Have you imagined? The feeling? the soooma, sweet soma rushing through your veins?
Tickle me, trip with me, trick me, break me
break me
break me
Break me so I can be free
Blain is a pain and that is the truth
Another hit, that'll tdo the trick, hit me hit me hit me, scooore
When you're strange, faces come out of the rain
ON a dock on a lake, in the heart of the jungle
When the far side of a mountain gobbled up wthe sun
How it gobbled up the sun
And we lay like lovers rocking irocking smoothly
While the mountains gobbled up the sun
Grooving
Bleeding across the sky, black and purple and blue, beat with bruises on the sky
Orange, then the LIGHT THERE WAS LIGHT AND IT WAS GOOD
I am good, and that is the truth

And we shared this moment like lovers, whispered in each others ears like the soft tickle of bats wings, or the delicate abraisinion of worn velvet
And you tickled my ear and I tickled thine
I am a knave and that is the truth
There are other worlds than these, and that is the truth
And you slipped the soma into my mouth and I slipped some into yours and we rode the dock on the lake by the mountains which gobbled up the sun
GNASHING with red teeth smiling GNSASHING and bashing up the sun

And we loved the stars under the covers on the dock

I am a dock and that is the truth

YOU AND ME in and eeeeeeeeendless blanket sea
That is the truth.
We watched the stars shoot the sky, and plucked them down and popped them in our mouths like soma
Oh, so romantic, with the soma stars in our eyes, fighting to get out
I am in a cage and that is the truth
Stillness, slownly, softly, dawn approches
The birds aren't yet awake
Even the sea sleeps
The hungry mountains are ssilent
TGod reached down and brushed aside the Washington clouds
Shook them out
and pulledHelios
In his golden cchariot
And my eyes, they saw you
Your face came out of the rain
Your eyes fluttered open in the maginifcencec
THThe golden glow upon your brow
The soft, soft warmth

ANd my rainy blanket sea revery was shattered
By the beating of the feet of the runner who was burning, screaming, waving, frenzied, flyind, fleeing, crying, screaming, truly screaming

The form sprinted from the shore, pitter patter, pitter patter, the bare feet burning, smacking on teh pine dock
Pitter patter
the flames ROARED
screaming
flailing
leaping into the air
tshe flung herself off the dock
into the water
went out with a hiss
That is the truth.
Soma.
I wrote this with white text and no spellcheck so I couldn't see what I was writing at all. I really like it because it's more raw than anything I could write if I was concerned about spelling or seeing what I was writing.

Inspired by:
- Brave New World
- Soma by Steve Roach
- American ****** (movie version)
- The Wastelands by Stephen King (Dark Tower Series Part III)
- "It Will Follow the Rain" by The Tallest Man On Earth
- "People are Strange" by The Doors
- The Gunslinger by Stephen King
- "Endless Blanket Sea" by me
- "The Day Begins" by The Moody Blues
- "My Eyes Have Seen You" by The Doors
Kevin Bennett Mar 2017
1)
Here in the dark where rules don't exist
Gravity slips my wrist to your hips
And your kiss like Soma lay burned on my lips
Sudden a slight, subtle physical gesture
So foreign to think of it - only conjecture
Alluring, your posture bent into mine first

2)
Unable to think, unable to breathe
Unable to reason rational reasons for such indulgence
So known was he to penitence
So unknown was this dream
And that, it was a dream
Cortisol surging, testosterone flowing, epinephrine...surely would split his mind at the seam, and end this cruel romantic dream

3)
Soma to touch her
Soma to feel her
Nothing to know, and none left to sow
Soma to see her
Soma to hear her
When won't it last? When will it go?
Soma to think
Soma to dream
Forever unknowing
Forever I'll be
S Smoothie Mar 2014
the charm bends me in ways I never thought I could go.
I do things
lots of things
hidden things
to invite you to seep into my essences and fall away
the two of us
evaporating into oblivion
as gas and reforming as a new entity
a state of absolute being
the soma of us.
Ceida Uilyc Jul 2015
I could tell you,
But you’d laugh at me.
Because it is bare, raw and pure.
You gloat on the preservatives.
You discard the genuine.
Listen to me, my friend, there is a part of the world, where even a bulb is never, ever, witnessed in real, but reel of the sanskrit Cartoon slots. The peppy  and ‘lone B-grade Cartoons .
Filled with Flesh.
The stories of tantric mantras, with a sliver of diminishing hearth,
on the
Dimensions and depth of the Yoni in the resin of shellac
on the Immaculate ceremony,
In a woodpecker hole just underneath the sealed power of the Yakshini who truly screws it up if you have taste of her once.
the one who harbingers drunk loners of Kavadiyattom alley after 3:20 am.
She takes them to the crown chakra of palm trees.
Shows them the world.
she pushes them off the crown and the falcon falls in endless spirals of a inhuman push that pushes the concrete innards to a danlgling mass of amoebic copulation.
Breath comes back.
It is a big nauseating gag of Kumbhakarnan's long sadya that lasted for half a decade.
Of the soma saras that made the entire India go, ga-ga and believe they've seen the god.
But not one nor any saw the same face, colour, shape or even vibe of the god they had seen alone.
They agreed in unison that all their hallucinations of beautiful humans in Flower UFO s and high-tech cloning, were a vital hair in the nostril of the cosmos.
They made, each a god out of their genuine mix of memories.
Or in the, priest's ways,
Hence, the 2.3 Billion populous of the country had the same, well, odd Spiritual benefactors.

Keeping it all aside, lemme be honest, I'd follow many a fairy god-mother but give my milkey teeny tooth to the special one.
Hinduism tells you God is omnipresent.
Hinduism tells you God is within you.
It also says, there is no God.
The clipper to snap off the confusion of this, lies in the same cheap stained-yellow cliche of love. It entails everything. You, me, animals, plants, cosmos, vibes, thoughts, dreams and the universe.
It tells you to live with your body mind and soul.
From Kamasutras that teaches sense.
The excitement, control and breakthrough of it.
Like tao did under his exposed roof without the sacred dung of from Hindu Land.
This is the secret of a rumoured Mohini,
Of her 1000 per hour ******* during the her/ his/ its 352 incarnations.
which was the reason for Big bang.  
Amidst the sultry scant of the voluptuous *******,
Their skin,
a vernacular reflection of a dusk on the Japanese gold beaches, And the mounts,
firm and glowing with the rusty shade of pharaoh’s Gold anklet.
The gooey glaze of yesterday’s glamour in the wink of a gay galore.
Paulo Ceolho’s Holy Communion with God,
Or like the Japanese Tengaman says,
Or rather screams,
That all it it takes is a little *******.
So, yes.
That precise art of attaining a consciousness, from where your mind was
Afloat
Wild
Free
Satiated
By yourself
You’ve just consumed the essence of you
Your Ojhas
And the tiny matter that teaches the universe
Of a Shunya.
That, momentary sense of lapse of your body mass,
Or the breakthrough into your eye of the crown.
Only to join the mundane bustle of the 10,00 speakers on all four
JBLs, Boses and Pioneers live looping the zillions of sanskrit mantras under one roof.
In your Ear drum.
A synechdoche of the Gods and their jacuzzi of amphetamine bubbles.
Splashed from a white Elephant's bejewelled Snout, which has the
crowned ring in your pineals.
Secret lies under
the rotten bone chip of Hussain Sagar
deep under the ***** green lake,  
drowning the rainbow Buddha in the city of slimy immortal maggots on ham.
Open your eyes.
For the Gods will
Else
Cut your eyelids off
to show you that
the city's shardminds await you.
roaring
Playing close to the fire demons of Redland
A nail close to your wide open lid-less
White flowing eye.
Hear the city scream.
The deafening chaos,
In unison,
Intoxicating their venomous fruits
of the delirious worlds
Or simply put, divine prayer and offering
for
the Omnipotent,
Omniscient
And the
Om.
Shunya.
Or the cyclic abyss of meaninglessness.
But,
Like, the wilted azures
that seduced those flies,
From a far far away,
To come the praise the combs of their bellies,
Filled with the red from the omnipotent, dead, weak and evil
In one little fly belly.
They came from the
land called Lullaby.
To go there
from here,
But, first,
bear the Weasleys' infamous extendable ears and heed me now, for I say twice and See him Come.
The snake, the tangy smell of goated black rub and blueness.
Siva shouldn't come?
Not yet. A little DMT more in the brain and perhaps the spark will happen.
Better than the potions of those gigantic forest priests.
No, Heed me, now.

3 Dodos Walk-afar,
And, take the lone left-laden log
the one that is,
limitless Long
loyal and  let alone
By those
languors which
Killed
Lord Leopard Loot'.
While,
Lord's Lass
Lays lolled lambs,
Lolled ‘long le ******,
Leech on the laiden log,
leading to Lord Lava,
Yes.
The bridge of Casilii Po.

Of the Lord.
Guarded
By these bubbling bellies with a drop of the world's make.
Assassins.
the Fly, flies.

retain the scarification of theolden curse,
Older than the rocks underneath this gurgling lava,
On which reincarnation steams.

As destiny should have it,
the astrologers had seen,
3 centuries back
That at a Sphinx’s Wedding,
a war of Vision,
will break.
It will
Bring the Stars
Out of those melting blue nightsky of Neruda's wails;
And the diabolic estrangement inflicting Eagle,
From Meena’s vibes,
that rubbed of a distinct scent of Malabar embedding a little of everybody in the village,
on its Kasavu lines posing
at the focus
of Sahib's Ferguson or Baker.

The gold turned white.
A liquid white, like that of the sap,
For that,
***** on a parrot green rubber plant
And work your fun with the white gluey milk,
fragrant than the sap
Like the  Ylang Ylang buds freshly kissed by the drooly dew,
sealed away
elegantly in a crystal Indigo bottle by the pen stand.

One that glitters if you look at its surface, but smells of naphthalene ***** in the sink
in
that
creepy trailer in
mid salem night of the tut.
Colourful.
This is colorblind.

White is motile.
White is wriggling.
White is life.
With a **** of Eve’s fabric-less
Skin.
White is divinity
feeding you excess of everything,
With an tenfold over dosage injected intravenous, by a silver-haired-glow-in-the-dark-dodo-cupid;

She is divine.
**** Her.
**** her on a Pyre.
**** her innards on a fire.
inflame the bubble
of her her oily effluent you found on the toilet seat
Instil in her, the seed of your sodomic occult,
Not by compassion, but through a hiss and sting
of the
flawless venom of the diabolic.  
Then. Disinfect your fruit that you flicked off the paradise.
And bellow to the blowing gurgling below.  
A reign of ****  nihilism,
moaning the mood-swings-of-a-98-year-old-menopausing-Bhairavi of the Indian Aghora Tales;
And Shelly, fueled in his undiminished hearth with the help of his impetous West Wind,
dreaming lucid,
on a flight in the sky for one week,
with Lucy’s sewing  sequined buttocks,
Stinging their luminescent, lactating, lustrous skin,
Like a tatto machine, lifting rays into the epidermis
So that it roasts, burns a soot and neonifies the only colour
A shade of
The rave, rainbow-red karmas of human existence,
Its little greedy quantas waltzing around the matter
And of its unleashed illuminations
That fuel the same vessel in the universe,
infamously known as,
the
black hole.
Uggh!!
All characters and plots are fictitious.
Your nightmares are yours, not Caesar's.
This is truly the fruit of my insomnia. I have been awake 52 hours now. Had to rant the wakefulness out.
It is unedited. All those offended, I didn't mean it, you did.
the dead bird Mar 2016
endless pacing
of these
subaquatic halls
almost catatonic
until I remember
how to think
and then
I cry

I should be
dead

I was dead
free from this
painful
existence
until something -
the WAU -
brought me back
in it's skewed mission
to preserve humanity

the WAU
stitched me
back together
with its gel of life

hardly human
hardly conscious
but conscious enough
to hate what I am
and cry
over my own existence

misery
then
anger
I am half
myself
half WAU
angry
craving to ****
hurt
end
whatever
stumbles across
my path

in my habitual
walks
through these corridoors
I see him

something else
another
who is aware
oh what I wouldn't
give
to have another
sentient creature
to curb my loneliness but-
NO!
STAY AWAY FROM ME!

the WAU
starts talking

**** him
he doesn't want you
to exist
he will
prevent you
from being with me
you need me
we need each other
he wants to end us
to end
life
he must be
extinguished
for the sake of
preserving
humanity

find him
chase him
**** HIM

in my pursuit
of the sentient
diving suit
I recognize
his fear
and my humanity
comes back to me
and I weep

he is
so afraid
of who I am
the Frankenstein
the predator
seeking prey
I cry
because this
is who I am
I cry
because I don't want
to hurt him
I cry
because I am
alive

constantly torn
between animalistic
rage
and the
self aware
misery
of realizing what I am

I want someone
to hold me
and make me feel
human
but
I don't want
any conscious creature
to get near me

for the WAU
is controlling
the strings of this puppet
it is the reason
I exist
it gives me the
sustenance
I need and crave
to keep on
hating my own existence
it will make me
****
anything that crosses my path

I think
and I weep
one of the enemies in the video game SOMA that really stuck with me. wrote it from her perspective. if you haven't played or heard of the game this won't make any sense to you, so ignore it lol
Verden ligger i et sterilt samsurium af apati.
For mig er verden udenfor, og jeg er udenfor verden.
Tankefulde unge simplificeres af normer og repetitionens pragt.
Udenfor, står de
uforpligtende bagateller født i overspringshandlinger.
Med ren marmor under vinter-violette negle,
holder de deres blå sjæle i hænderne -
Tænker Soma-Sema
To fingre i halsen, kolde hænder, ødelagte glasknogler;
Nærmest spirituelt.
Er det sådan man gør udenfor?
Kroppen er sjælens grav
Duke Thompson Aug 2014
best days better left behind bereft of joy
fighting in vain for fleeting fulfillment
instead seeping bile from punctured
***** appendix found septic too late
even still now hungry for real life like
stomach tapeworm eating purpose
lost along the way now empty, grey
when did time get away from us all
leaving bitter little paisan us's
stripped bare of long dead dreams
like Christmas morning c-section strippers
five dollar bills stuffed in withered *****
S Olson Mar 2018
He smiles with the graces of crumbling eyebrows,
with wit, megalithic in the cavern behind
his unformed eyes; i lowered mine, seeking
elsewhere—that here as i sleep, he is formed
from half memory.

The better part of me
remembers him in increments, steadily handed

our orchard, our healthy fruit. His arms overladen
with fibrous molten undulating movement,
a cacophonous cocoon for my madness’

half love. The truer part of me
remembers him as mountainous, thunderous,
a storm eating into the distances. arms
kneading throughout time, becoming. stone.
held helplessly in the hyponotic gaze
of the full moon i sway
the sea is the charmer’s flute
i - the drunken snake
mesmerized by this magic

the cold shock of the nightly surf surges
from the tip of my toes to
the peak of my consciousness
i’m lost
and i find myself
all in the same moment

i rise with the swell of the tide
anticipating each breaker
with closed eyes
just feeling the sandy waters swirl
******* away at the ground beneath my feet
i’d gladly fall and be swept away
i’ve let go

i am at peace

there isn’t a better feeling
there isn’t a greater pleasure
there is no where i’d rather be tonight
except with you
on this beach

- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   26.01.2013
   Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
This poem was inspired by a visit to the beach at night. You can see this poem along with a photo  at http://vijyalakshmiharish.tumblr.com/

Soma, in Sanskrit, is both:
(a) an intoxicating drink
(b) the moon, or moon-god
Butch Decatoria Mar 2017
Muscle relaxer
Puts you to sleep, a gentille pusher
R X hits the spot
To feel easy on Sunday
Mornin's

When you really feel
The nothing
In the pit, on that spot, at the bottom,
Of your soul

When the air is thick and sticky
It must be sin city
It's juicy rife with indignities
Para socialite delights
Flesh not feelings

The world feels oddly oblong
Alien stranger through my mirror
Adrift and soaked
In the sweat of my demise
A foreigner with the earth of my eyes

As the stress drowns
In Soma,
A half mind in the clouds
My indifference just as hollow
As the experiences of a corpse,

Muscle relaxer
Put you to waking sleep...
    Is that what is truly happening
The experiences of
Poetry without life,
Life without Poetry...

Half asleep
One eye full of worlds
In our world
Every wonder
Everafter

Even in sleep
We fill our dreams with color
And soul and heart and
Meaning ...

(Loves light forever
Beaming)
Michael John Jul 2018
i

why don´ t they just make a machine
that does our living,lily,darling,
save a lot of messing..

we live all these years and then
slowly our memory depletes them
(though they say all memory lives within..)

if we were programmed at the beginning
some kind of limiting of emotion
ambition etc..

alpha to epsilon
brain washing
soma..

*** but no reproduction
endless fun
order..

is belonging
art gone
the way sure..

simple dogma
love or go
love..

ii

lily says
love is meaningless
unless we are ready to

die..
who is..
would i..

i
stood
high
to the very

devil..
fall over
weebil..ha..

but to die
and see sun
rise no more..

little bird
sing
in

the silent
dawn
sweet voice

eternal greeting..
blithe angel
o children

of the future..
messenger of
the gods..

loyal gaurdian
to ever
and never..

outside
and know
a silent cosmos..

be born anew
to heart
be found..?

through-out the poem are references to the
brilliant novel brave new world.for which i make no
apology but as a mark of respect to great talent of
aldous huxley..
Benjamin Woolley Jul 2011
Bursting taps
Like broken feet
Crack,
Droning a beat.
Exclamations and hearts.

Facebook Frankenstein:
Nerves made senseless,
By hyperbolic sentiments.
Stripped as wires,
Latex skin and a rib removed,
Bringing the heart close to the keys.

Orchestrated wires and pulleys
Raising muscles like curtains.
Brushing ***** bleached hair,
Catching fingers like paper cuts.

A hollow form,
Designed in California,
Approved in New Jersey,
And made in some sweat shop.

Flash your smile,
Take your soma,
Dream of MTV;
You're the nightmare of my society.
JDK Nov 2014
64,500 words have never meant so much.
Read enough books and you'll find your out of touch.
The rest of them can't know what it's worth.
They don't read enough.

I've been meaning to reread A Brave New World.
Something haunts me about the ending.
Between slaying lions for loved ones and belts of contraceptives,
I've taken on a whole new perspective.

*** without love,
and love dismissed with ***.
In high school I thought this world would be best,
but all of a sudden, it's happened too fast.

I used to relate to Bernard,
with his inferiority complex,
but now I fear I'm just like John;
one day my feet will swing from the north,
to the east,
south,
and then west.
If you have any idea of what I'm talking about then we're already friends.
flowing rivers simulate the virtual reality of love
warriors topple over forgotten
like cartons of used milk
silk worms speak sovereign messages and warn us of our fate
are we ill or are we healthy
stealthily imprisoned by our visions
finish the sentences and sever your attachments
respecting tradition leads to detachment
a semblance of serenity
the giver of the dawn used shards of standard force
hover in the mind’s sky
houses pass you by
in finite allegories
gardens blossom
governing movies and seating our jobless
go outside now
remove the shades from your eyes
breathe in soma and drink from the sky
sightless sorrow forges on towards tomorrow
art is a balancing act
she came out of her shell in order to tell you a story
of garlands of silver and gold
woven finely into ribbons
greased with oil from a rare toad
Alin Jan 2016
I dated two robots yesterdays
Both were programmed to service me well
We did things
In the same
good old  
learned order
of doing things
And after sunset
we kissed
at the beach
With one -
our feet touching
With the other -
our view inviting
the rush of salty waves
Alas
Both robots could suddenly
not speak
One even bluffed
he had a virus in throat
AI intelligence?!
jaa ha ha
The other was hanging just with
With variations of
what do you feels
Tell me your fantasy s
‘Don't think
tell me whatever comes first’ s

And
I believe
And
I say
But
Mine is what he can't understand
His’ is
I think a drink on the beach
But unfortunately I don't drink
Using coconut biotica only
These days
Ahhahhaa
...
While they chatted so well!
Without any error of a word to spell!


I dated two robots yesterday
That sighed only to say
I can't believe I am holding yous
How much I missed yous
Hugging robots
Vibrating robots
Robots with small mouth and twister tongue
Ready to penetrate into mine at a slightest chance of an opening
A disguised disgust of my sincere failure
not towards the robot but myself
Hiding you still under my palate
from where the soma of your love drips
Now as if forcefully been replaced
to a taste of this preprogrammed chatalike

Have they lost their voice because of my best dress
or maybe the fantasy of the sandy bikini
which they will never see
in the dark wherein
Both hiding their face
But I see
By my loose body parts
Maybe a lookalike
But I ain't no robot

Oh my sandy bikini
Oh Chosen so carefully
To rejuvenate their fantasy
a different pattern for each-
yes. I do take care of that!
Stays now
as an Everly Brothers’ dream
In my mind only

But
My ‘okey ‘ is an ensuring
‘yes yes’ the Indian way
Of course
They did their best
Seriously
Thus
A big CHAPEAU
For the zest
That obviously still can break china hearts
I took it as a test
To get to know me better
Let me be broken through your dream
Let me cry and shake and perceive an angry cloudy color world
let my remains of china burst

I dated two robots yesterdays
while expecting for a man
Thankfully though
these are yesterdays
Today I met a true man
A gypsy
We will date sometime
Play tabla and darbuka
Drink dance and sing
And sleep
To salute the sun
early in the morning
At the beach
LOL
Chalsey Wilder Jun 2017
Pinching pins,
                               Up and down my curve
Napping needles,
                                In the nape of my knee
Sprouting stings,
                               Stabbing the span of my soma (body)
Swelling sores,
                            Has my soma aching
Psychologically speaking,
*I just don't want to be in pain for the rest of my life
Craig Reynolds Jan 2011
no rest
for the wicked
or for
me,
no my
dreams keep me
tired,
no fire
has burnt my
bed yet,
no i’m
watching
laundry line
silhouettes
from:
the shadow box
of my head,
no this
isn’t pain
as much
as its
disorienting,
no i
need medicine
something to
keep me
awake
because
i forgot
to blink,
no it
makes no difference
whether my eyes
are closed or
open,
no dust
left
suspended in light
over the ocean
trenched
darkness.
copyright 2010
ConnectHook Sep 2015
तत् त्वम् असि

for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons,
washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo


(the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute
)

Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the ***** water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:

“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots

Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their ***** with priestly garments, saying

“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight

Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting

“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful  heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day

Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming

“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.

Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt –
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming

“These are Gods –
worship them, worship them,
these are Gods –
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now –
drank fresh ***** from a heifer’s  bladder
for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow.

Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman –
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying

“These are Gods – worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”


THE MORAL:
(slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp)

Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.

“This is God –worship Him, worship Him –
this is God – let us worship Him now…”
attain instant enlightenment:
Cary Fosback Feb 2012
You keep me up at night
With your "I don't care," unaware stare
and the words thrown at me
To the wall
Now broken ceramic pieces
On the floor
Loko ndzi tihanyela andzi hanyeli nwina ndzi hanyela xikwembu xamina.
Loko ndzi famba miri ndzina matsolo yontswontswana,xana amilava ni fambisa leswi milavisaka xiswona ndzi tshika leswi hosi yindzi endliseke swona.

Loko ndzi khongela miri ndzi twa ndlala,xana ndzinga tshika kukhongela hosi yamuna hikwalaho ka nwina.

Ndzi tisomele tintombi nwina miku ndza oswa,amolava ndzi soma nwina ,mitaswivona leswaku ndzi soma hirirhandzu kungari Ku huha.
Xana ni endliwa yini?

Xankoka kanwina iku vona munhu axaniseka,leswaku mitaba swikhiyana minga heti.
Ebo mhe na ala,ndzi nge pfuki ndzi ni yingisile.

Loko mindzi vona ndzi hundza hi ndlela mi yimbelela tinsimu ta michongolo,onge hiloko mondzivona ndzimu vhevhulela.
Amilava ndzi titshova tshova bya vanwambhurhi kona mita tsaka ,Mina andzi fambeli kutsakisa munhu ndzi fambela kufika laha ndzi yaka kona.

Xana mindzi endla yini.
Andzi dyi swanwina ndzatitirhela himavoko ya Mina,nwina miendla onge vatomihakela.

Ndzi tshikeni ndzi tihanyela Mina.
Xana mindzi endla yini.
Ndza engeta nakambe xana mindzi endla yini?
Nielsen Mooken Jun 2014
Through darkness, laced in edges of light,
And rain, falling like angels plagued by blight,
Shattering their heavenly bones and wings,
Onto the eyeless dust of their return;
Through paths stranger to the hope of spring,
Where voices of ghosts hang with cries of “Burn!”
And moss mottled trees, like macabre jesters
Dance, limbless, leaves flailing grotesquely
To the secret japes of wind-bourn nesters;
Through corpse-ridden forests of insanity,
To where the rocks dress as the three witches
And chant midst their vainglorious riches
*“All hail, Eremita, bound to the adamah altar,
All hail, Eremita, your blood soma from the mortar,
All hail, Eremita, thou shalt be dead hereafter”...
james nordlund May 2018
Lil' Israel, today, scuttled the long struggled for 'Iran ...Deal',
an acheivement of the Obama Presidency, although he failed on his
promises of "...watching the robots..." (20 % of "Bernie Or Bust
'Bots", the "hacker 'bots", and hackers globally, etc., biological
machine parts of 'la machine', mega, mecha, techa vs. orga, soma,
Gaia, which were central to the invisible coup that, with the tug, the
S.S. Tea Party, to the tune of their manifest destiny rag, dragged
'The U.S. Constitution', our Ship of State, into the 'Plymouth Rock'
Of this nation's original sin, imperialism, as they landed on it
while it landed on "...we(e),...", Native Americans, Turtle Island,
derailing democratically directed progress and installing Trumpler in
the klukahouse) and "closing Guantonomo", etc., he kept many, making
him singular amongst the number of the fingers of one hand at the top,
The "Presidents Club".  His legacy includes allowing the intelligence
industrial complex, of the corporate structure's convolution, to
purposely not prevent the hacking of the Presidential Elections of
2016, yet also includes such acheivements as the A.C.A., and the
'Iran ... Deal', it being the best possible foreign policy endeavor
To move forward with Iran.  Yet, Trumpler's feuhrer, Netsenyahoo's,
putting on a show of shiny cd's, old intelligence that didn't even
support his delusional projections, was all the cover 'The Donald'
needed to follow his channeling of his inner-worst yahoo and "scrap",
Racistly, that epitome of foreign policy success, "...because it was
Obama's...", as was Trumpler's campaigning on his desires to
"...update and use nuclear programs and weapons...".  For, it's been
common global foreign affairs knowledge for half a century that any
nuclear war is the extinction of humanity in a can, thus 'containment',
not proliferation', was the eternal order of the day.  So, His Trunc-
ularnesses not understanding why "...a country has weapons if they're  
not going to use them...", was not just a confession of his utter
criminal insanity, it was also one of his intent to break the "Non-State
Agression" part of the Nuremburg Accords that was central to the lessons
learned from WWII, like if you're not taking bullets you're making them,
By globally selling not just unending war, but nuclear ones, discarding
containment for proliferation, 'cause war pays extremely more than peace.  
What do you get when you mix imperialism, materialism, racism, religious
bigotry, patriarchy, oligarchy, notsee Germany before it annexed Austria.
Trumpenstein, blasting the keinder and gentler imperialism of remocrats,
Is warring on dempublicans, voting, women's rights, healthcare, health,
Et al, exterminating non-rem voters, etc., now he is angling for a Sunni
wished for unending worldwide war on the Shiite, Iran, to be nuclear, ****
all non: US citizens, Caucasians, upper-middle-class to rich, supposed
Christians, as our notsee war machine has ever been oiled by the blood
of, for more (like merx for more thru to mercs for unnecessary unending
worldwide war).  Separating the real religion which all religions,
etc., are a front for, avarice, from the State, as is dictated by our
Constitution, is not only a necessity for "a nation and an individual",
like Gandhi said "abhaya, fearlessness", is, it's now a necessity for
the existence of humanity, neigh, all life and the Earth.  He will end
U.S. if we don't protect the vote, GOTV, vote, and impeach him a.s.a.p..
I fear my disgust with presidential politics might be able to be gleaned through the twig of poetree   :)   c'est la unvie; no?   reality
Brandon Conway May 2019
Soma that seeps
flowing
like little creeks
sprinkling
off the edge
wetting
a tongue outstretched
watering
wilted flower beds
feeding
that pretty head
cycling
arid to wetlands
ConnectHook Apr 2017
Six-armed things of Asiatic trances,
temple belles entwined in temple dances:
mantra in one hand, the other holds naan.
One holding chutney and the other, paan.
Two hands left (befitting of deity):
one offers curry, one incense.  Aseity
signifies self-contented wonderment.
(One wonders as well what that mantra meant...)

Note the third eye in the figure's forehead:
a spare one in case left or right go dead?
But really—how freakish these idols look:
a ******-pantheon from a nightmare book.
(Outdone only by the Aztecs for fright
along with demons born of tribal night.)

Cobra-crowned elephant-headed mutants
sickly-sweet incense, divine pollutants
mix in with the stench of bodies burning
alongside the filthy Ganges churning
flowing with ashes from funeral ghats
excrement, corpses of humans and rats
that swarmed humble hovels of Hindustan
where gods are mass-produced for fallen man.

Maidens in saris with red tinted lips;
glossy vulgarity, loose at the hips
now growing more arms; an insect vision
enough to make one gag on religion.
The ubiquitous trident looms, a sign:
the eternally present un-divine.
Instead, it ought to stick some sacred cow
in its bovine buttocks, and so allow
beef curry for a hungry avatar
craving fresh meat in his juggernaut car.

Turn from this antediluvian scene
in sincerity, ask: what does it mean?
Were you created in these gods' image?
Is anything real behind their visage?
Blue skin and sick smiles, anointed with ghee:
exotic... but wrong theologically.
Till lingams are yonis I'll spell it out;
these Aryan idols should merit your doubt.
Such weirdness deserves some analysis
(as did old Diana of Ephesus).

Would you tingle if such a god showed up
and offered to refill your soma cup,
sending siddhis up your spinal column
with you in full lotus, clueless, solemn.
Would you offer puja in their temple,
bedeck your soul in a robe to sample
veggie-masalas, chapatis and dal,
peruse the Upanishads, and enthrall
your mind with the mystic old Rig-Vedas
fall for idolatrous sin conveyed
as spiritual truth when it's just a big lie...
bow before a multi-armed freak?  Not I.
Not for all the visions in Satan's world.
Better to call B.S. than to be hurled
to hell for living and loving this lie
embracing monstrosities. By and by
the books will be opened. The Lord will judge.
Consider this your transcendental nudge
toward something less false, less fearfully fake
than the idols Antichrist nations make.
NaPoWriMo #15

TS Eliot
wrote highbrow literary
poetry (so-called)
B Young Feb 2015
Captive of the city.
A walk between the drawing and the camera, a drawing and a camera.
Blindness is about understanding gesture.

Stereoscope Sound Scenes Systems

Blue lines form the links between
the black cats suggesting, what we know is that we do not.

Forget me the sweet song
rising from her ashtray
be gone hearts frayed afraid.

Coma Cluster
Coma Cluster
Coma CLUSTER
COMO cluster
CLuster cOma ClUsTeR CoMa

Soma simply trying to muster
Domino Christos no longer allow my suffer

ECCE ****
IN The GARDEN of ever EARTHLY delights

Strings
Filaments
Voids
Soap

bubbles filling a sink
slide through

Pop. Pop.

I float above stronger than a rock
my blue black burning body

love
emirates
emanating

Red-Shifted

For You

though dust clouds interfere
Nic Burrose Aug 2011
The City lights blinked out forever--literally overnight--with a sudden finality that caught even the most nuclear-winter-prepared/Guns N Ammo reading/Campbell's canned soup and distilled-water stocked/backyard-fallout-shelter-owning-survivalists completely off guard. Armageddon had always been there, sleeping just beyond the horizon line of our periphery, but it awoke fully clothed and ready to go to work that day.
It was an ordinary Thursday, just like any other. The MUNI lines were choked as always with angry elderly women clutching plastic shopping bags full of pungent vegetables, poultry, and recyclables as if their lives depended upon the contents of those bags (maybe they did) and the usual gaggle of gibberish-mumbling crazies talking to themselves with cellphones plugged into their brains, some without. 
That day, baristas were 5 minutes, 23 seconds late for work on a city-wide average. Bartenders were making their rent in tips as rowdy soccer fans converged in their local Sunset, Richmond, Mission and SOMA district faux-Irish pubs to watch the latest big championship match between Ireland and...some other country.
By Saturday, less than two days later, the desperate siren-blare of emergency vehicles, the insect hum of DPT tri-bikes carrying cutthroat ninja-sneaky meter maids ready to make their weekly quotas by slipping bogus $55 parking tickets under the windshield-wiper of your best friend's beat-up, barely-working mid-90s Mazda you were borrowing just for the night, and the cloud-cutting rotary-whine of channel 5 news traffic-report helicopters chopping through the sky had been silenced forever.  
As if sensing the absence of gardeners, street sweepers and garbage men, weeds grew out of the cracks of the streets and sidewalks with the newfound urgency of a wildfire. Leaves swirled through glass and concrete skyscraper canyons, settled, and slowly began forming mounds as if attempting to fill the spaces that angry elderly women with plastic shopping bags, cellphone schizophrenics, and drunken soccer fanatics had once occupied.
Speculation about how the End of the World would actually occur had always been a theological reference point for religious zealots hell-bent on giving the Book of Revelations some validity, but had taken on a tone of comical absurdity in the hands of post-Y2K pop culture and disaster movies. A horde of zombies rising from their graves and feeding on the flesh of small bands of living human survivors was one of the more popular, albeit fantastic, apocalyptic theories. Some predicted that robots would enslave us, some thought aliens would invade us, while still others--baring signs reading "THE END DRAWTH NIGH," arms stretched meaninglessly up towards the hollow heavens in the sky above--believed biological or nuclear warfare to be the most likely form of humanity's demise.
But by the following Thursday, speculation had become a moot point; none of it had mattered at all in the end as the power-grid of the City, and then human civilization altogether, had been suddenly switched off for the last time by an alcoholic rent-a-god, leaving the face of the globe devoid of any trace of the spiderweb-night-glow of terrestrial city-lights. 
Only the birds in the sky and the fish in the sea were spared to fill the blank pages of history that were to follow human(kind's) fading footprints.

*

Aeons later...
When those birds learned to read, they would see cryptic symbols inside a crooked heart jaggedly carved into a tree trunk surrounded by a mote of fallen leaves and ragged newspaper pages blowing through the streets like tumbleweeds.
Aeons later...
Those tree-scratched symbols would form the sacred commandments of a secret new religion built upon the ashen, worm-eaten remains of two skeletons holding hands and a ****** trail of broken hearts trailing from their ribcages into the worm-mouths of babes.
Ridonsi donne e giovani amorosi
M’ occostandosi attorno, e perche scrivi,
Perche tu scrivi in lingua ignota e strana
Verseggiando d’amor, e conie t’osi ?
Dinne, se la tua speme sia mai vana
E de pensieri lo miglior t’ arrivi;
Cosi mi van burlando, altri rivi
Altri lidi t’ aspettan, & altre onde
Nelle cui verdi sponde
Spuntati ad hor, ad hor a la tua chioma
L’immortal guiderdon d ‘eterne frondi
Perche alle spalle tue soverchia soma?
Canzon dirotti, e tu per me rispondi
Dice mia Donna, e’l suo dir, e il mio cuore
Questa e lingua di cui si vanta Amore.
Josh Harrison Oct 2012
From ivory towers
to the streets of Paris
the hopeful and hopeless
devour what they've gathered
they all want their chance on the parade
but on epsilon streets it only rains
erroneous stale induced calm
of tropical hibiscus and cool lemon grass
in neat little packaging
and the suits milk their crops
and shout
make me king!
yeah one day I'll be king!
and none of this will mean anything!
and the lions will all be tamed!
because they all want their chance
their chance on the parade
the young and the widowed
the lonely the echos
our self induced coma
oh god give him soma!
oh give him some functionality
his cold lips feel no reason to breathe
the reason
the treason
vociferous silence  
buy one get one free
or sit there in silence
because everything's on offer
there's nothing to scoff at
the birth of today
for the death of tomorrow
floral effervescence
     wafts around you

          thy theo black temperament rose iq
          ushers lulabies as playful amor kru
          apollo is falling for the aquamarine
       rays, reflecting the sea's craved ardour
     and our love is like a cyclamen oleandro

  the fascinating, dissolving, poisonous sleep
  inwardly unaware of the whitest clouds oro
  seducing the beauty of a ceruelan absolute ~
   if i were the wave i would foam your dream
    if you were a black panther i'd be your kaa
       for a day to experience your mighty paws

     to tremble like open window shutters, strickened
       by the fire, by light, by thunderbolt's love flame

       oh, come on, come on sweet man of the fantasia
       i've got to tell you i ain't foolin' around those dim
      alleys at nights like this; luscious calls lure hello
       at least, hear my hearts deepest throbbings, hear

     them, embrace them, conquer my world's cream
      taste the strawberry sweeteness on a tip of me, u
       trickle your tongue against my open buoyancy
       write kaligrafic words of love's invisible tint
        beautify the untouched pergament, maestro

        write like there's no time nor tomorrow's no;
       inaugure every christmas crickets flash mob
       within you and awaken me from a slumber,
       deeply rooted, lovely and mild as wood's chi
       and I will cherish you, praise and love long
        forgotten wild forest's animals as panacea
        for the dissolving salt upon a love wound  
          which torchered your solitude for who's

         pleasure, for what reason, for a slick slap
          of an epic trustful faith as lux aeterna
             crashing the myth of a love superior;
          a desolation of waning touches soma

         hiding its fragility in madmind's attempt
       to overcome what's earth's given inferno;
        to die in a lustful blazing heat of creatio

          contemplating about heavenly key lock
        how to forge a golden key to your anima,
      gracefully giving a hand to her emperor
      to dance on a verge of an existence' folie
       to blossom upon hushed world's meridian
         in dreamy space n' time, first darlin' flush
        the prime animus dances, dares, waters~
written and imagined
by impeccable space
aquamarine poetess
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
https://youtu.be/bbS-Zhz31CA
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The moon, just now
is a cradle full of milk
pouring sweet glowing soma
into our drowsy hearts
rocking us so deeply into sleep
and the gentlest of visionary dreams
©Elisa Maria Argiro
Janette Bustos Jul 2016
Prescription by Mother Nature
Soma that lasts for as long as you dream
Medicine without side effects
Caviar with no expense

A state of mind
That takes you anywhere your imagination pleads
Being able to become whoever you want
Even not a human being

Travelling the world at the speed of light
Braking the barriers of distance and time
A conversation with those who for long have died

An unlimited world of happiness
Brought upon the hiding of the sun
The rising of the moon
And the twinkling of the stars

Pathway to heaven
Caviar with no expense
State of mind
Taking you to the limit of your imagination
Unlimited world of happiness
That begins as you close your eyes
Allowing your brain to take you
To the grand tour of your life
Poem written on 2012 from the perspective of my eighteen year old self.
brandon nagley Dec 2015
A lunar eclipse passeth between ourn Soma's
A solar eclipse maketh glitz
On ourn lip's;
Kiss of pneuma.
                            Aforetime quietus, breathless existence
                            Now coalesced in vivacity;
                            Sculpted, in the creator's
                            spiritus.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley-filipino rose dedication





Note;
Happy four month anniversary Reyna Jane Nagley!!!!
Love you more Reyna, thank you for sticking with me the last four month's, seem's as If we've been together for lifetimes now,which verily I've known thee a lot longer than thou hath known!!!! Mas mahal kita Reyna.... For anyone who don't know what ( mas mahal kita Reyna means) it means I love you more queen.. In Filipino tongue.!!!!!! Me more queen Jane!!!! Happy 4th mine Reyna!!! Mine soulmate....
Spiritus means- the Latin term for breath, often used figuratively to mean spirit.
pneuma means- (in Stoic thought) the vital spirit, soul, or creative force of a person.
Soma means the parts of an organism other than the reproductive cells.
the body as distinct from the soul, mind, or psyche....
Aforetime means before in archaic in other words...
quietus means-
death or something that causes death, regarded as a release from life.

Vivacity means pretty much alive or lively!
Edward Coles Sep 2013
The wicked, they come
In a cerulean dream.
The cellar door opened,
With an opposable thumb.

A disposable past
And no ties in the future,
They live within ******
And die through their caste.

Oh, Ford! They cry out
For all of their blessings.
Oh, Ford! I cry too,
To drown silent doubt.

“Take me to your room.”
She breathes, voice coppered,
She conducts me. Unzips in
One movement, fit to bloom.

“Lenina,” I call,
Eyes blinded by her colour.
In a world so built and grey,
I live only in her sprawl.

We finish, my heart descending.
She nicks her lips to my ear,
Then reminds me thus;
“Ending is better than mending.”

To bed we fall; once, twice, thrice.
Each time I cling longer,
Wrap her in bedsheets,
‘Till she feels our ****** splice.

With no use, she’s gone
To some other embrace.
Some cold shouldered support,
Then to the salon.

She’ll tell all to her friends,
A gaggle of giggles.
And he’ll speak of her,
Like some means to an end.

“Pneumatic,” is she,
He’ll say with no stutter,
“You should have her,” he’ll offer,
Like the fruit from a tree.

No, like meat, like meat,
She is passed around.
Like animals, the Alphas
Bruise, **** and maltreat.

Community. Snake-like,
It moves as if one.
Each person a muscle,
Not separate but a part.

Identity. It blurs,
‘Till I forget the use
Of my name. Push it out,
Repeat in my dreams.

Stability. It comes,
A two-gramme holiday.
A superficial guffaw
That veneers my face.

Oh, Soma! Come take me,
From where I don’t belong.
To where passions are birthed
Far from the hatchery.

To where feelings are heartfelt,
Not found in a pill.
Where waistlines aren’t throttled
By a Malthusian belt.

A savage I am,
In my pursuit for more.
When I long for freedom,
And not another half-gramme.

Gaia, she held us in her womb.
From fish to ape, she mothered too.
Now all that’s left is this soulless gloom
Where man is born only to consume.
Ken Pepiton Jan 9
My grand daddy taught me to start a rope,
with a Turk's head knot. This be that sort of rope.
-- it takes less time to use
than to make
long enough
for any actual perfect purpose.

Mimetic pretenders,
euphoric make believers,
ritual passage over or under open limen
- cross the t and dot the ego.
- seek and find the missing pages
- all the mysteries in time
- that form our fundamental
- common sense in crazy made time

Lacunae rise from forgotten reasons used
to teach guardians
of secrets reasons
for war, how
to love,
in all the ways love is made worth dying for.
Blut und Grund, das Sein,
und mein, danke Schön

-- time ghosts pass, remarking at the weather-
-fine day, suns ablaze, breeze is light,
bemusing the beguiled thinking
'tis fairy, times fairs became cities, and all agreed,
election by contest, war in the spirit, in truth
using mere words, no audio, no video,
no styling nor fancy letter forms, unicode
alone no secret scripts, only sound marks
accented acutenesses and all,
+

y nada mas, mere words, redeemed, for this.
one new day redeemed for glory story need.
Morning glory teas,
in tiny shell shape cups.

May all magnificence be truth's.
Kernels of truth,
seeds producing tomorrow's
criteria, substance of things hoped for,
picked out details
to see in myths, the accuser's uses,
mysterious roots in ancien' riparian realms.

Oreithyia and Pharmaceia, intercession
for the poor.
Early spring
bulbs and flowers
the maenads chaos wine,
effigy effigial me, burning
for your mis-perception
of procedural authority,
instant re-co-gnosis,
vestigial dreams
time minds
in tow, riding your own
recognition,
around the spiral, down,
you would tell me if you were insane
so would I, the ego, living aight,
this it, you read, that's all she wrote
∞ *+
∞ -> =
aha, you think,
may be so,
say so, or no, go and
find the connection closed,
and energy flowing in to the either real realm,
or the null set, like old never minds, you had
while the circuits were fried
at the fusebox
for pennies
used to save a dime, to keep the energy
flowing to the magi's visual representation
of all that's known to hold attention,
by reflex,
look out, see windsense, energy electricity,
elect to let your curiousity fix all your if-I'da

knowns

open for conjecture, to catch subjects
objectified from the precept wisdom is, whole,
as the whole truth, we understand, makes sense
nets form nodes of both knowing, as a me,
we, each grow old at the same pace,
we become that which is,
at first step, precept assuring the runner,
there is always a place to put your foot,
goat-sense, Ein Gedi balsam eating
'scaped goat,
running down the cliff,
at the edge of annual reboots,
reconnecting reality, and the balm
traded for silk in Giliad, and
entertaing news
of miracles in smoke…
and mirrors of mercury, and
-------- time, out of mind dangling hook
make believe, fishing
we pretend, making be specific
imaginary gravity and survival codes,
for a chosen few, catchholds, grapples
for those not inclined
to lean
on a lesson
that demands experience,
to contend, hold that thought, this ain't war.

- Khai Vinh, set like the roof
- Ai can find the images,
- the place was real
- those were my antennae
- crazy true, after the fact, signal
- now, how much of that was CIA?

proud Mary keep on boinin', 'long
Bayou Bleu,
down Plaquemine way, deep night
on roads made from tiny wet white shells
that something made, while living in it,
- one way trace, wide enough
- for an auto me mover
- tugging my at to here
as we live inside our head, as far as
our fingers reach
from where we stand,
our feeling fingers only reach so far, so good.

Held a thought
a while back,
it may have been a trick, but listen, if it was,
I'd have taken it, and won, for midsent-morphing
turning tropes for the dopes hoping something new.
In fancy forms of wannabets.
Peace on Earth, is real.
Baby,
the price is all the attention you can muster,
and then some, as time seems
to have
modes, like we have moods, hormonal
catch and release reflexes, you know, like…

what, what, who cares why, what must be first
priority, ah
what are we intending to pretend to be?
Wordwise,
entertained, fed to satiation, what more, prior

to the next wisea
* asking me to believe, in hell.
I just came to fish.
I came after the curtain was torn, top to bottom,
nothing kept secret
for the artifactual value, remains
here. You know, free as any knowing, now.
There is no enemy that truth cannot love, once
you understand, the limits
of your learning curve, ai,
you accept, no lie is
of the truth, no wisdom form
is flawed, first glance,
glimpsed, real as war
glory, as valued a common lure
to the unshined …
initiate turn on … flip
the switch.
Imagine Grace.
Riches with no sorrow,
worth the effort, found
pure, then peaceable, gentle

right snap
fit, just right, no excuses, we got the mystery
imagined for us,
in the end, pain free,
in the collective consciousness some say is spirit
of our time, our Zeitgeist, doing what it does

close up, nothing spooky at a distance, eye
to eye, mere words with wishes twisted through

outs and ins and ups and downs, and
wells
deep as pressure allows,
right, I ought to sleep, but buzz…

O' no, I said too much… or did not say enough.

Slowly, Monday came.
Morning harbinger to sailors, says sit tight.

Find a fire
far from the threshold, and wait.
Talk with the locals
from the same boat, survivors,
boast of storms ridden out, and ones
that swallowed brothers
and some malicious captains. Good riddance,
some say, while others flick a libation
offering a drop of grog across time's stream.

Lift up your eyes, look down
from your satellites and see the future
coming on the weather channel, thanking
all the forces fixing droughts and flushing deltas,

with the first of winter's predictable trials.

-------------
Hunker down and listen, feel your self, you
deep down, your sacred feeling, especial self

red sky warning seen
before by wiser men, older
by experience, made
acknowledges your luck,
as a ware for use
by innocents, listen, take heed,

all things work together
for good,
for keeps
for those with hearing ears.

Listen to the wind, and thank the dry truth
for being.

just being used to
form fibers for twisting into ties

---- long lines for this ride pray patient perfecting

Rush to judge the blown away reason.

To whom is thanks given, and why, I
the desert dweller bound for Tarsus, stuck

at the edge of the raging sea.

The whole world shuddered at the blow,
the earthquake, peleg in the old tongue,
timeless
as the story eventually got writ, in a modded
Phonecian script, survivors were mostly kids,
resiliency of innocents,
one here,
one there, some whole neighborhoods,
where all the kids were in the swimming hole,
all around the shuddering islands on this world.

It was as we have imagined,
until the grownups crossed lost time,
using lost knowledge locked in idle words,

deem the day redeemed,
feel the emotion defined

gratitude for gratified if I'd known,
missed terminals, crosst wires,
connect to the sea of God's forgetfullness,
relink the collar think canals on rivers,
holding the course men set for cities,
dhghemed damdamd-dayamd indeed…
No river muses suffer such for ever

we all know enough to be accepting
oddities in timed chance trial understandings,

we all know wills to power, and notions
to jump into the ocean and go on down,
to the bottom mind tele far long now mind

space shared across time, like the snow,
when the tv went native,
in the olden days
my minds child watched the hush of creation,

let it happen, let it be, this is it, or we are lost,
and that
is un thinkable, try.
Try thinking you do not follow the whole idea,
life
is us, all of us in our most common sense,
this one, translation by Google Bard,
passed my Hausa native speaker friend's
blind Turing test,

that happened days ago, next, ah
SYTF
precept, reception tune to the humm,
listen, humm,

call the editor.

"very interesting." Rest assured,
after accessing the way made plain,

Habakkuk habit, make it plain,
make it make the motors turn minds
in to wills, and wills into power,
pure peace
prefects feel good flicked libation.
Perfect.
Print.
The entertainment, many minds
attention paying to the shared event,
today.
Today. EXTRA, read all about it,
death has no lasting sting.
Live to the end. Redeeming your time.
Swiftly passing to the beat of your own drum.

One step past the simple, love,
you find sublime, nothing down and *****,
nothing missing,
nothing broken,

as one learns to think from the heart,
part of me that's thought in you, feels as
mere words some scribe imagined hearing

as he wrote,
line upon line, asangin' twangin'
a strangle hold, twisting hairs into a rope.

A riata, I think they call em.
Horsetail lariat, patiently plaited,
to make my own noose, when the time
comes to put the tool to use.

CLASSICAL LITERATURE QUOTES
Plato, Phaedrus 229 (trans. Fowler) (Greek philosopher C4th B.C.) :
"Phaidros (Phaedrus) :
I should like to know, Sokrates (Socrates),
whether the place is not somewhere here
at which Boreas (the North Wind) is said
to have carried off Oreithyia
from the banks of the Ilissos (Ilissus)? . . .
Sokrates :
Oreithyia was playing
with Pharmakeia (Pharmaceia), when a northern gust carried her
over the neighbouring rocks;
and this being the manner
of her death, she was said
to have been carried away by Boreas."

Morally ambiguous. Us, our we, we know not valid reasons
to do useless things, making
vain repetitions, vain making of many books,
all vanity, the making of many things from nothing.
We live on a living planet, and we have tamed parts of it,
not the part common sense comes from, it is still forest dark and lively.
Raj Arumugam Sep 2010
Oedipus man
you’re not done
worlds move in and out
and meaning is undone;
and the Sphinx says
it’s your mommy and daddy
and this time
you can never unravel the riddle

the woman dad sleeps with
is not his wife
and his wife is not your mom
and your mom never carried you
and the womb you lived in is anonymous;
what else is new?


times are always the same
there’s nothing strange or novel
except terms and focus and brands

and the child who calls you daddy
is not yours
and the man who calls you "Son"
is loose in his morals

O see how man
how things unwind
and you have seen
unknown things
tease and strip;
and you have wept in
the face of the storm
in a world of King Lear’s
turned upside down, inside out
and you have cried like the Fool:
Ah, Hold! Hold!


O man don’t die on us
for we won’t die on you;
you’ve lived on hallucinations
and walking alone and wandering the face of the earth
you’ve tried all drugs, and ecstasy and Soma
and now you’ve adopted God and religion -
ah, it’s always been one drug or other



Oedipus man
you’re not done
worlds move in and out
and meaning is undone;
and the Sphinx says
it’s your mommy and daddy
and this time
you can never unravel the riddle
Keith Ren Aug 2010
I see demons hiding.
I wink at their shadows.
******* themselves, halfway to the curb.

My censor is muted.
My eyes now so lidless.
My voice, oh so set to disturb.

You ring out your outrage-
Crowned Queen of the Vapid.
I mirror the things that you chose.

The Soma, the money,
You burned through such tinder.
I break sidewalk with spoon for your dose.
Meagan Moore Jan 2014
I – the girl you observe
guilty pleasure

marching through molten black
torch ignited
orbiting phantasms in the aphotic
burning within
corruption incinerated upon ingestion

tucked behind your frame
nestling ear
lip grazing canal

zest to soliloquy
vivacious saccharine tone
ruminating in the lilt of your tongue
resting in gum scoop and jawbone (mandible) reserve

adroit pivot
humbled gaze
locked
exteroception engaged

hard swallow
pearls scooped catatonic
atop lingering breast ascension

prudent olfaction volatile
cribriform annihilation
ginger – basil - brine - ruminate

etch of lace
sailplaning flesh topographic
aureate sunlight cresting soma
intoned morning – essence of miasma

— The End —