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Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
Say I know, no question, what the Good News was,
the Jesus good news, but

nobody believes that. And its free good news. Who pays me?

Think Gaiman's American Gods,
true believers everywhere, no truth, no free ificity,

sufficient, suffice, artifice, artificial freedom, if

you can't imagine artificial freedom, how do u test AI?

we can imagine all sorts of hells, and miserable lost evers

all phantoms from the stories you've believed
believed by the tellers
who told you
you were naked.

Is this a theme?
Are we manufacturing sensible un-believable
idle word redemption tools.
DIY? No App?
Empowering the believers to unbelieve, at will, with effort?
Very little effort, but yes,
My calling, yes, previous to full-time Peacemaker.

I e-merge several streams of thought, gentle, --- un belief is,
it hurts like you imagined hell, almost exactly.

Monetize your lies,  who said do that?
you don't believe them do you?
The ones you tell
Where you know prayers are answered

Because
You
know sorta. Knowing a thing is so,
you know, defining.
Be and lieve together they make a meaningful
you know

Re-ifing and de-ifing,
being a believer in whom is no guile,
is that
actable.
Could a thespian make us believe he believes what I believe if he were me?

Is that in the bible,
that walk a mile as me proverb?
It's true, if you do it, in your head or mind,
if you think mind ain't matter

or doesn't matter, okeh.

I don't.
D'I ever tell you about the time I realized I was safe,
lazy days o' summer,
way back when was no TV, no video nuthin, then

when I woke, I was here as sure as I am,
that I know next

to nothin for sure,
and for a blameless,
shameless old man, who catches Jesus winkin'
in his thinkin' ever day,

' cain't say damday and asaid it anyway.

It's about time I tell my story, if that is my job.
My story means the story I tell,
the one I think I believe I know and enjoy.

Tellin' it, I en joy en trance, never thrall.

Life is predominantly fun.
Empiric evidence. Take it, by faith,
we all know how,
we laugh and say we don't, but we are lost with out it,

no hope.
Oh, my God, desperate for you.
They sing that, they call such singing praise.

Somehow they have come to believe
Christ has left them desperate for any good things,
forsaken them after promising
other wise

Who would teach a chile such a song in Jesus's
whole body, I swaneee

Hopeless, t's what desperate means,
desperados are not disciples
of the tendency to a bias toward good, by grace.
nosireee
---
Can I speak living words,
is that living water flowing from me,
if I agree with the story I am telling,

Yes, all the promises of God.
Come let us reason,
we are past the scarlet sin.
Sin means disconnect in today's terms,
missed aimed-at-thing's the original Greek expression that
made it to the Bible.

And a blog is as good as a book, some say,
as far as words are concerned, meaning-wise

but spoken words go farther, these days.

Rhetoric is returning to try men's souls,
and the peasants have Google and IDW
(Intellectual Dark Web wuwu)

and the real Bible Daniel and Ezra 'n'em put together from all the sources they could muster under the banner of
Lest we forget.

Was that the banner spoken of
by the prophet so and so?

Could be.
Runner-up th'pole 'n'see who kneels.

Emoji winks are too cheezy for real poetry,
you never see 'em in songs.

Jesus winks but not at
your-my disconnection from re-ality.

We can't be **** Sapience Sapience
if we don't think about thinking.

The unexamined life's not worth living,
old Greek guy saying.

Jesus saying, as a man thinks, so is he.

And I think he was talking about good and evil.
A man can think good and evil, but

(and this is one of those forever buts I mentioned last time I was thinking on this thread),
evil can't swallow good. No matter how long it chews.

Funny, really, how stuff works.
We all live until,
as far as we do know now,
time
for conscious mortal me,
each
of us in this we, me
ceases.

De-sist,
recall the way it feels to lay your armor down
and know,

I ain'tagonnastudy war no more.

But, we are called,
chosen to fight the good fight of faith, Amen.

Ah, men,
we ain't got enemies.
We fought.
You believe you believe or you don't.

Have fun and don't make anybody miserable
and stand up straight,
with your shoulders back, good advice.

Next. There is a reason to go farther,

I think, but don't know right now, what that reason is.

Praying being asking for assistance in persistence,
I am praying this is plain, past simple, plumb to sublime.
The hope for a larger crop, for some reason I ain't found, more sowin', means more reapin' and reapin' for them has done it, them who've reaped,  know that's the hard part.
vircapio gale Oct 2012
Haiku:

hiking new forests
mountain homes of moss and dew
more roots deepen


berries ripe
dot taiga heath--
alien planet


yellow blazing sun
'packin'rocks'
from maine to georgia


pain born hero
in oven boots of blood and pus--
summit breeze


barefoot hiker
calls herself 'FearNot'--
toes enjoy same mud


snake rises up
fangs gleam at water lair
cold spring quenches all


***** at each view--
water comes in and goes out
like a filter


at waterfalls, swans
alighting air-- noble poise
on the way to sea


gunas intertwine
my sweet mountain hunger paths
bitter taste of bark


sour grass
garnish of an earthen tract
saliva honeyed


strands of spider flight --
i too catch myself making
web after web


"nature loves to hide"
hidden hermit roars of all
strife and fire flux


spider bite at dusk
afterswing of scenting food
shoo the meal away


change becomes the same--
people streams talking pixels
aging static web

symbols set in light
speed of optic living nodes;
clicking finger fibers


websites spin and stick
plastic tropical alphabets
ant waves clean the keys


fueling in process,
living fossils already
drilling seas--on earth


give or take six months,
happy birthday!
two seasons gone


Haibun:*

A mountain poet has come to the city, blisters pushing up his toenails. His smile spans 15 blocks of concrete and rebar. Strangers coo to see his sunshine gait but cough at his aroma. Hospitality is found after all, in parks and in the drunken streams from clubs gregarious for midnight novelties.

poet's apology--
not exactly 'myself' to
license gratitude
when time gifts symbols distance--
terror war towers still fall

Emergencies of all sorts force their way into my mind, as I live, sometimes as I write. Ambiguities serve as fulcrum nooks for meanings incompossible to hide, not being ready to share what can't be shared, obscurity offers the ineffable reprieve to be spoken nonetheless.

peering in the word--
sound signs meta symbol
witty sea of *****

property stings
abstract fights to earth
mixing labor

i found a haiku
on my coworker's desk--
where is the frog pond?

dad drinks alone--
photo recalls sunlit leaf
and beer can stare

opining fire false
freezing hearts with argument--
cold spring, winters warm

It is with the love of a child that I write, wincing harder into that self-given 'Indian-Burn' of cathartic fetish and psychological indulge. Where is maturity, and what use is it when faced with endless ground-zeros? Still open to answers, still unwilling to speak plainly or straight about the blanket crookedness and blissful meander that colors life most vividly. I imagine dacrygelosis understood.

thawing pond
creaks in headstand calm--
autumn air released

night's insight pierce
heralds migraine's ease--
gong of moon or sun

on dead wood, against
live trees, hours of *** by
mycelia blooms--
fragrant rot and sweat collide
skin spotted with forest sun

love signs everywhere--
two trunks spiraled
in a yellow wood

vocal awe resung
this is love! this is love!
deep summer fruit

rub of bark                      
vast forest sways across skin
                        naked expanse
Jon Shierling Oct 2014
Rush Transcript. May include inaccuracies.

Andrea Marsino: We're here today with "     " to talk about his recent best-seller, The Orchestra, which has swept bookshelves across the nation in recent weeks. A stunning display of literary craftsmanship, the book has generated a whirlwind of dialogue in all sorts of settings, from University coffee shops to local dive bars, and even, we're told, in the Pentagon. Tell us "     ", did you have any expectation at all of this kind of reaction?

"     ": Never in a million years would I have thought that I could stir up such a...a hornet's nest really. Sure it's a kind of inflammatory piece of fiction, but I never thought it'd result in so much backlash.

Andrea: Talk about unintended consequences right? How did the idea first come to you?

"         ": Well it didn't just pop into my head fully formed one day. I guess it first started to take shape at a bus station in Florida. I had just been kicked out of my Dad's house and was moving to another part of the state, so naturally I was a bit, I don't know, out of sorts. I was waiting for the connecting bus and was smoking a cigarette to **** the time and just sort've fell into conversation with this black kid who was also waiting for a connection. This was in I think May of 2013, so the situation really hadn't started to fall part yet, but the cracks were definitely showing. And that's what we were talking about, just the overall sense of things not going well, the feelings of helplessness that we as individuals, and seemingly the community as a whole, were feeling at the time. I told him that it'd get better one day, somehow and that change always is a painful process. Then the light came on and I started pondering how that sweeping societal change might be accomplished.

Andrea: There are a lot of themes in the book, a lot of subtext and implied conclusions. You've been criticized for what seems like hostility to faith and some say advocating violent political activism. What are your responses to some of the accusations that have been leveled against you?

"         ": Hostility to faith? Absolutely not. Faith is one of the overriding points of the whole thing. The objection is to organized and subverted religious teachings. Faith exists to aid humanity in the struggle of their lives and I feel like....if you examine history faith has time and again been co-opted into a tool of oppression. That's what I object to. As for advocating ****** revolution, that's another flat out misinterpretation. Yes, politics is a huge part of the story and plays a huge part in really tying the whole thing together. But it's not really about that, it's not about any single issue. It's about people, as a whole, taking back their right to not be dehumanized by anything or anyone, especially their government which is supposed to protect them.

Andrea: I see. So it's not so much about the mechanisms of power politics as it is about people's inherent value?

"        ": Absolutely. Our conception of what power really is I think is grossly inaccurate.

Andrea: But surely you can understand how your depiction of terrorist acts and a domestic insurgency is very disturbing to some people? You were a Soldier yes? Did this affect your style, and the arc of the plot?

"         ": Of course I can. And it's meant to be disturbing, it's meant to illustrate how positive forces of change can be corrupted into violence. And yes, I was an Intelligence Analyst in the Army. We were fighting an insurgency, so in order to learn how, we basically deconstructed insurgencies throughout history. We learned how they functioned, all the sides you could throw at it. And then I learned from two Defense Intelligence Agency Instructors how to start one too. Those experiences most definitely gave me the technical knowledge I needed to write something like this.

Andrea: There's also been a lot of talk about how graphic your imagery is. Many prominent individuals call it a lack of talent on your part, that you can't write without going in for the shock factor so to speak.

"        " : Ha! It's not a children's book. And besides, life is graphic. You can't portray something accurately without tackling the nasty stuff. Besides, things like ****** assault and drug use are essential to some of the characters. It wouldn't make any sense for someone to react as violently as they did in certain scenes without the reader knowing exactly what had occurred previously to form that character's identity.

Andrea: I can understand that. Doesn't make it any easier to think about though.

"       ": I don't know what to tell you. The truth is a painful thing sometimes, and portraying it was not exactly a fun process.

Andrea: And what about those very colorful characters? How did you get your inspiration for them?

"          ": Oh all sorts of places. Honestly, some are based on real individuals that I've known at some point or another. And others are pure imagination. Ta'ra and Clara were inspired by a Dane Jones ***** for instance ha ha.

Andrea: 'Blushing' That's, er, interesting. Characters from ******* is one I haven't heard before. Anyway, throughout the book is this sense of individuals being swept into something bigger than themselves and how they react to that. It's kind of ambiguous sometimes, swinging between very New Age concepts to mundane life on the same page. The quote at the beginning for instance. Very spiritual, very deep. But then you open with an interaction on a street corner.

"          ": Hmm, I guess I could try and explain about things like Theosis, which is one of the main themes by the way, but I don't think it would illustrate what I was trying to convey very well. I guess I was always kinda on the fence about divine intervention and that sort of thing until I read a piece by a friend of mine about an experience she had some years ago. Basically, she was in a diner when a Muslim woman came over and asked to sit and talk. They spoke about spirituality and the woman turned to her and said that anyone could be a prophet, like it wasn't something reserved for saints and such. It was very powerful and finally convinced me that humans aren't just ants on an anthill, so to speak. It spoke to a very, very intimate part of me. So, I took it and incorporated it into what I do. Which is write.

Andrea: Wow, that's an amazing explanation that I really didn't expect. I'd love to talk some more and I'm sure our listeners would love to hear more, but unfortunately that's all the time we have for the show today. "     " thank you so much for joining us today and sharing so many insights about your new book, The Orchestra.

"           ": The pleasure was all mine Andrea, thank you for having me.

Andrea**: This is Andrea Marsino with NPR and thanks for listening. Coming up in the next half hour we have Peggy Walker from Floyd Virginia talking about some of the exciting ways her community is fighting to keep their traditions alive today.
Sound like something y'all would like to read?
Chrysta Ashlock Feb 2013
My Perfect Stranger,

I have a proposal of sorts; I want to start writing a story, in which you are my partner in crime. The crime being – living without one another. Not being sure to know if we’ll ever be apart of one another’s lives again.
Scratch that – the crime, the crime would be a lie because in truth I want to begin a story to where you are my partner in crime, yes; but you’d be my partner in crime for life. We’d commit no crimes, speak no lies, confess all truths with the bluntest honesty that could spring forth from our hearts. Enjoy every possible moment spent together, for they have become few and far apart.
This is not just a start of any typical story, but it will be the start of our story. The real story – It can’t be written, it can’t be spoken by anyone other then you and I. We’re the only ones who know how our story begins, though we’ll never truly know how it’ll end. This is a second chance, if not the first chance.

“A kiss is what tells the beginning to every story… It’s up to you where that story will lead.” –me.

The past may be the past, but we lived in that past, and the past that once was will become recognized, if it has not already. It will not be viewed harshly as it should be. Every possible thing that occurs in life does so for a reason which only fate, or as some people come to say destiny, can tell. We live to forgive and forget, though nothing is truly forgotten. We are here to make mistakes then to learn from those mistakes; if one was to never make a mistake then they’re not truly living a life well lived.

“Welcome the future with open arms; embrace it like an old friend. Learn to forgive and forget the painful memories; keep your tears at bay; have faith in yourself and others. And mostly, remember that love and trust will always be your guiding light into the darkness.” –me.

“Everything happens for a reason; don’t underestimate those reasons… You live to forgive and forget and to move along with the life you’re leading. Therefore, with that said, don’t waste time with melodrama or pity arguments. Don’t put up with people who attempt to drag you down with them. Because I can guarantee that those people; the ones who try to play you like a cheesy board game are never worth a single breath escaping your lips. Those are the ones who will never find happiness, true happiness, bliss, No, they’ll forever be lonely. Keep moving forward, look onto brighter horizons. Love the ones you hold close to your heart. Cherish your children. Lead your own life, not someone else’s, nor let any other being lead yours. Smile. Kiss. Love. Trust. Be honest with yourself and with others. It’s all worth it in the end.” –me.

Maybe our largest mistake together was making stupid decisions when we met. We made the choice to fall in love, to date, to live together and try to be happy all within a mere week of meeting. In doing so, hearts wound up broken; smashed into stardust. Trust was ripped away and friends were lost.
This time, this time will be different. I, in this beginning, will tell you of me. I will tell you everything which has occurred throughout my life, it may be the past, but my past tells a lot of who I was which has made me, well, me. I will be bluntly honest with you. I will answer every question you could possibly fathom to ask me. It’s just, I don’t know where to begin…

“The past will never cease to constantly be snipping at your heels with every step you take; it’ll always be there to remind you who you are and what paths you’ve chosen to lead you to where you are. Don’t break promises, don’t break hearts, because it’s happened before; your sometimes overwhelming past can come toppling down on you at any given moment; so be careful. There’s no one who wants to slip, fall face first, losing all consciousness into what once was.” –me.

“People change… I’ve seen friendships fall apart and relationships destroyed. It happens. Truth hurts. People lie. People cheat. Everyone destroys someone else in some way, it’s an ever going cycle of life. Live your life. Even when something unexpected comes alone, enjoy it, love it. It’s all worth it in the end. I can promise you that.” –me.

“Not everyone can read me like a story book or a torn out page of your favorite fairy tale. There’s more to me then just that. My life, better yet, my story is more complicated then most may think.
I used to be the girl that you would see walking alone down the street at night, cigarette in hand, bag in the other, all the while letting the world completely pass me by. I was the girl with the electric green nail polish and nearly enough eyeliner on my eyes to last most girls the entire year. Though all I am to most is just another pretty face.
There’s always new lives forming, coming alive, seeing this rundown movie for the very first time. Then there are also lives ending, running away from a failing life. Praying that the next world is better then the one they left in their very wake.”
–me.

Let’s begin like this; I am complicated, spontaneous, gullible, unnaturally trusting of others and a big ball of confusion at times. I care too much for others, even when they’ve chewed me up, spit me out and kicked me around in the dirt, I still care. I hand out second chances like a stranger hands children candy from his van. One would assume I would have learned my lesson of doing such nonsense, but nonetheless I continue to forgive too easily. My heart throbs when I am upset and feels as if it is going to burst wide open so all of the world can see. I have the unfortunate tendency to bottle up how I feel because my thoughts process too quickly and I become speechless because the words I am trying to speak just refuse to form into speech.

“Trust; it’s a highly important factor in ones life. I have very little for those I have met here, all except for one in which I trust completely with my life, my heart, my child… Yes, I may be very trusting, but that trust only lasts until you’ve broken it… Everyone of you thus far, besides that one person has broken my trust. So therefore those of you who broke my trust can go **** yourselves and relinquish yourselves from my life; it’ll be much better without you. And you know exactly who I’m referring to.” –me.

I fall in love too easily and too quickly; as you have first handily witnessed. I do intend for that to change, which, with my most recent excuse of a relationship I came to realize that it has changed. I never fell in love with him, I never had a true attachment, just annoyance. There is no excuse to why the relationship was even formed to begin with, let alone why it lasted more then a few short days. That relationship is over now, and that relationship will never get a second chance like others have.
I have changed; I’m no longer the person I once was. I still care and I still love, but I’m no longer the me I used to be. After our first run around, something switched off, or maybe even on inside me. I don’t fight, I may argue my point but it has no intentions to cause any harm. I began to communicate my feelings more, even though it seems to do no good.
I believe that everyone deserves to be happy, and I look for the good in everyone, that’s why I constantly push and try so hard, to bring out the better and happier person in those I am trying to help. And it seems to be the people I end up dating are those I subconsciously am looking to help; I am drawn to those who are in dire need of change without ever realizing so. It’s like a test I’m giving, and so far everyone has failed. I feel as if I’m here to help others, to make their lives better even though sometimes it may not seem like I’m trying to help at all; but I really am.

“People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave. A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master.” – Elizabeth Gilbert

I have had many bad run-ins in this short life I have lived thus far. I became pregnant at seventeen and I was far from ready to have a child of my own; I was still a child who needed to experience more of life before bringing another life into this cruel world. In result my child was removed from my care because I fell into the hands of disastrous acts. I met the wrong people whom only drug me down farther along with them. I fought and I fought to get her back in my arms, and after a year I finally did. Though now, I look at her and I feel as if she belongs to someone else. I don’t have the bond which I should have with my daughter and no matter what I try it just won’t spark. This is a terrible confession, but it is of the truth. I catch myself more and more looking at my baby and asking myself if this is really real. Asking myself where has time gone? I missed so much of her growing up that it’s tearing me to pieces now, years later. Nothing seems to be real anymore. I need that bond between me and my child more then I need anything else, because she is my shining light in this world.

“I can’t find reality; my reality has just become a non-stop ride through hell and back. Send someone to shine a light as bright as a shooting star so I can find my way back to what my reality should be realistically.” –me.

I, myself am indeed an open book, mostly unwritten. All you ever need to do is ask me questions… Tell me of yourself – open up to me completely; because if you can tell me everything and if you can tell me everything that has been hidden, I can do the same. Be adventurous with me, be spontaneous; do things you never thought you would fathom of doing. Live with an open mind to the future; because our future could be blindingly beautiful, and then again it could also be terribly tragic. Though we will never know until we try; that’s how life works, as you’re well aware.

Though I am afraid that the beginning is coming to a slow halt; so I am asking this of you – please consider being my partner in crime, to help me continue writing our story, our fairytale. It may be the most adventurous challenge we’ll ever come across in our lifetime.
I do hope I provided a well spoken beginning, telling of some, let’s say “important” points of me and my past. Just remember, I want to find what once was lost; I want it to be found properly from both parties involved. Maybe we’ll be some of the lucky ones who’ll, one day find true blissfulness; just maybe.


Your Perfect Stranger
this is also NOT a poem... this is a letter I never sent to my "perfect stranger", my ex, the true love of my life even though I never sent it to him.
written: 7.07.12
Kenn Rushworth Jun 2015
A world in colour lies
                semi-distant, semi realised,
A near-forgotten future exsanguinates, yearning
              in the weakened glow, of infinite winter morning.
The voice, the voices, the voiceless, my anger, my age,
                Pan-millennial youth in coming years will fade,
It will carry duvet and pillow from hateful home
                to halfway-house until half way home
It will make all its hearts into the shape of cardboard,
                blemish the fire with chemical ****, **** hard,
It will seek forgiveness at the steps of screen,
                beat asthmatic chests, fingers, ribs and seams,
It will see itself cower in the horrible light of mirror,
               sail to the sun on wings of fakes lashes,
And it will burn, burn not in forgiving hangover sodium,
                but burn in the eye of a guilt yet to come,
And it will drown, drown at the blessing of the water,
               drown at its birth time and time over,
And it will wound, wound in scythe and cushion comfort,
                wound the waking dream in Siamese horror of sorts,
And it will leave strangled in the cords of its university hoody,
                leave alone at night, touch itself and cry.

Bursting rhythm from the panopticon, viewing all aspects
                of itself engulfed in ex-disney coloured acid
                spewing forth from the desired wreck,
Hurtling profound and profane into and beyond
                ******* and love and love and *******,
                *****-tinged snows lubricating seasons onward into each other,
Gut-busting, gut-busting, gut-busting societal downpour to harridan office
                from liquor dormitory, escaping and elevating
                on citalopram or selegiline,
The surgeons and nurses, the poets and builders, ever restless
                at the unbolted door, screaming into their unread palms,
                comparing varying hell to holy water lakes of others,
Sipping the dew from paradise wing, discontent with all
                in purgatory-England whilst licking the knee
                of America and imagined Europe,
Wanking itself dry at the lottery of thought,
                crude reckonings spiralling sugar into salt
                landing on the tongue of want,
Feeling crucified at the Atheist tea party,
                climbing the cross of trend
                supplying own milk and nails,
Unwanting in the chrysalis, ignoring coming candles
                but fantasising a thousand symmetrical suns
                to limited avail and idea.

But idea there will be, birthed, blood-hungry
                gnawing at the heel ‘til bare bone,
And it will rip apart fat riddled arteries,
                Deconstruct, Reconstruct all the bodies and the cites,
And it will write and spell all the words wrong
                realising that what ‘they’ are selling is sign language for the blind,
And it will note of itself as harsh but not unkind,
                reject bribe bread and water be it divided or divined,
And it will say of cartography “No need as of yet,
                I have seen men lost in the lining of a suit,
Crying into their shoes, uncombed, unfettered, unfertilised, without hope,
                after laughing into empty lakes.”
We can each say “My God, my empty sky, my cartoon prophet, my local MP,
                I have seen everything and want none of it,
                I am alone in a narrow shape of time,
                watching us all unfurl to the scent of burning feathers and hair,
                to the sound of punctured veins.”
We watch silent litanies for graceful pardons of filth,
                in “Amen” then nothing,
We watch our age’s world rend lung
                through hollow cheeks and air in our bones,
We watch ourselves into eyes or no eyes at all
                watch ourselves read last lines and then
                watch ourselves realise and whimper
                from ulcerated gut, tongue or pen,
                the everlasting knell…

                “…And it will happen again…”
Wayne Cheah Dec 2010
Behind my old house
once grew a mango tree;
last year they chopped it down
to build a highway, toll free.

It never inspired much awe or poetry
it was like other mango trees,
under which I played since I was three
and was home to some possessive bees.        

When strong winds blew
it never bowed,
its branches somehow grew
that is until now.

The ground on which it stood
is now covered with asphalt,
and it will never be understood
as to who was really at fault.

And as for the bees
well, I never did like them,
but then you see
they were here longer than I am.

My neighbors and cousins
with whom I had lots of fun,
seek all sorts of reasons
why now we have none.

I can only say, for what's worth
when the Almighty does an inventory,
He may label planet Earth
"An old cemetery".
Kelley A Vinal Jun 2016
If I were a starfish
I'd lose my bipedal traits
Sticking on the ocean
Floor all day
If I were a bat
Living in a musty cave
I'd gain a great ability
Catching all sorts
Of frequencies
If I were a kangaroo
I'd be sticking all sorts of things
In my stomach pouch
Bouncing on my giant feet
If I were an alien
I'd come to Earth and try the sweets
Cake and donuts, candy
What a treat!
If I were a particle
Of nothing but a little dust
I'd blow around all sorts of trees
Floating along on a brisk Winter breeze
I am a human, though
Which is cool in lots of ways
We have names for all the days
Kimberly Clemens Mar 2013
What's going through my head
I could never tell you
Because like most things in this world
They are just better left unsaid
But if you must hear
I'll tell the tale of love and grace
Or, perhaps, nothing of that place
Because my mind is filled with fear
Of all the things nobody should ever hear
While it shoots down to my perception
It's trying to become something like perfection
At its best, it's wings will soar
And the vibrations of its movements will give you chills
Then it takes off with you struggling atop its back
And tries to teach you the secrets of the hills
How up and down they form a *****
That science tried to put into logic
At an incline of x and a height of y the hill reaches this point at xy feet in elevation
Yes nature is nothing of the sorts
That can be solved in a complex math equation.
Nor is it of the sorts
To be tampered with
But we do
And nature is nothing of the sorts
To be carelessly wasted
But we do
And yes nature is a gift that should be showcased
But we don't
And as I'm straddling the back of this horrible creature from my mind
Flying through this world and making illusions in my eyes
To see the way it wants me to see
With fear, despair, and some mutant mix of both that I can't quite explain
There's nothing more for me to think
Except the thought that we've ruined
What's been given to us
And that what our future generations will find
Is the mess we created out of our freedom
And the remnants like a party once its over
All this garbage we simply left behind.
This is just a really heavy metaphor that tries to explain how I feel right now.
k e i Jun 2017
red car, yellow car, blue car, white car

no lucky black car, no orange to wish on

they just sat there for awhile on the edge of the rooftop, feet dangling looking at the rush of cars passing by playing the game they invented and derived from the tongue twister red lorry yellow lorry
if a black car passes by, luck will come through
spot the first green car and you pick the way you die
look for an orange car and make a wish

it was a game they played to **** time or whenever they went up the rooftop of the ballet studio they've been performing at since they were children and they were currently taking a break from swan lake rehearsals. they played the game for a little more though heather could tell that megan-meg for short- had her mind somewhere else.

"penny for your thoughts?"

meg just shook her head, tilting it across the pink skies that matched the tutus they still had on. a dreamy smile was strewn across her face

heather just watched her friend and the world surrounding them, a light gentle bubble in her stomach. she loved the building's rooftop so much; she was actually the one who first went up here and ever since then, it had been their place her place. she went here on weekends sometimes, when they didn't have rehearsals. everytime she was up here, she felt more than she was, like she was a goddess and everything below her was under a microscope like she could change anything with the click of her fingers. but most of all, in here she could freely be. it was her safe haven.

"okay spill tell me this isn't about hendrix again?"

meg smirked, looking at heather's ice blue eyes "okay you caught me" she says, traces of the english accent she had come with still evident in her voice

"i knew it. boy he's got you in such a haze. you've got a school girl crush on him" she teased, making her friend giggle nervously. meg was dating hendrix peters, a senior in the high school they were attending. theyve been seeing each other for six months now and heather knew how much of a ride it was almost as much as meg (being the first person meg ranted to everytime things occurred) the two were a match made in heaven and it was testified by the amount of gossip about them that was circulated, mostly by the senior girls who were head over heels for him and would hiss whenever their paths crossed with meg's and try to flirt with him every chance they got though he politely shook them off. he supported meg in all the possible ways, from attending to her performances on stage to supporting and showing off her stunning makeup looks and she did the same with him, coming to all his football games and enthusiastically cheering for him. they were madly in love, you could say

"it's not like that" meg scoffed, clasping both of her hands together. "ive just been thinking about the both of us and our togetherness and how we haven't done it yet and yea it's been in my mind alot" she bit her lip, a habit of nervousness she had "it's not a big deal i know, i mean, people do it all the time, people who aren't even together and it's not this eureka moment or anything of the sorts but i want it to be special at least"

"has he been asking you to do it?"

"no he doesn't really no, forcing there" meg shakes her head "but we did talk about it some time, once, thrice yea"

"someday then or tomorrow just be safe my dear friend" heather replies in a playful tone, trying to bring back the lightness of the conversation

"ugh help me practice my skills give it all to me darling, let me do you" her friend wickedly retorts, launching atop her and pinning her to the concrete, playfully mock *******

"ew dude *******'re so gross get off me" she says trying to act annoyed but she was laughing too all the while trying not to get crushed by meg's weight who was strangely heavy despite her small wiry frame

"ow babe im coming ugh" meg continues, laughing fooling around-this was how their friendship worked

"*******. now your germs are all over me" heather grunts, finally pushing meg off her and both of them just lay there for minutes, laughing too much and choking in their breaths, as the sky was bathed in watercolor above them, the sounds of the city being their soundtrack


"what's it like?" heather blurts once theyve both calmed down

"hmmm?"

"what's it like, being with him?"



meg raises her hands like she was touching the clouds, taking the question in deeply "it's....wonderful....i mean...we aren't always happy and we have loads of fights but....we manage to make it work and the whole thing drives me crazy but it's a good kind of crazy"

her answer dissolves in heather's thoughts are completely lost in it


"you know that when we first got together i told him how much i hated clichés? flowers, chocolates stuffed animals, fancy dinner dates you name it and he nodded and the first gift he gave me was a boquet out of makeup products and i laughed because it was thoughtful and he's just full of surprises but you know he did give me flowers and letters on an occasion but i didn't mind it.
i guess that's how love is, made out of all the things you love thrown in with things you don't like but you don't mind at all"

heather nodded, still deep in thought "how did you know?"


the question seemed to have an incomplete thought but meg got the gist "i just did. well i didn't know itd last but i did know that he was for me but he's not my soulmate see, you don't find soulmates, you make them. anyone could be your soulmate, soulmates are just a ****** up idea at finding love. someday you'd know kid"

heather rolled her eyes. she hated being called kid because she was reminded of how much younger she was from meg when it came to these sorts of things "don't call me that"

"you'd know" meg pats her friend in the head, lovingly still teasing her

she sits up, tying the ribbons of her satin slippers. they climb down the fire exit and join the rest of the ballet dancers, rehearsing for the rest of the day



and heather went back to the rooftop the day after, a saturday in solitude sorting out the contents of her brain, replaying the conversation she and her bestfriend had in this very place the previous day, all the while feeling a sort of feeling in her heart very familiar to nostalgia. she realized it was the feeling of longing. longing for love like meg's description of it. longing for love like the glow of stardust. longing for love
sure she had a boyfriend before but not once did she feel like how meg described love out to be with him not once did she feel like their kisses and hugs mean something and their fights never felt worth fighting for. sure she had this guy in her grade whom she passed notes and looks with and texted for days but it was never serious and he didn't see her in that certain light that makes people glow that you fall for and even if they dated it would have been too complicated.

it was a winding day for her mind to wander and she played their game as the cars went on their journey on the highway down below.

an orange car swooshes out of nowhere and she closes her eyes and makes a wish when my person comes please i hope i'll know, holding on for a beat more. after that a black car passes and her luck was aligned with the stars
im going through stuffs rn
ugh my brain is so sloshy
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
well... feminism has had its three waves
of revisionism -

    and there i'm sitting on
the windowsill,
   smoking out of my window -

watching the moon sloth the sky like
an demonic snail -

in the misty haze of a large patch
of cumulonimbus -
    right up there at around 50,000 feet...

thinking to myself?
   why are there two orbs of varying
light concentration
penetrating the sky
   and embedding the moon
in an eerie aura?

never mind -
   i still don't know what the chemical
formula for timber is,
or what sort of material is on
the moon that allows it to reflect
light from the other side
of the Greenwich Mean Time...

last time i heard: can a rock surface
reflect light?

          well then... ah... never mind...

but feminism has had its three waves
of instigation and two subsequent
waves of revisionism -

so it made me think:
   why not a second wave of fascism?
a revisionist wave...
    well... as far as i am concerned
the Italians were much paler -
   in their intentions than the Germans...

fascism 2.0 -
and the sort of fascism that would allow
me to be men...
    drunks, foul mouthed, you name it...
athletic, not-giving-a-**** losers of
sorts, among the glam of whatever else
it is that a man is...

working on the idea,
i had to think of a list -

   hmm...

          who then?
ah!

      Stanley Kowalski
   (from a streetcar named desire)...
John Wayne
  (notably from true grit)
    Charlton Heston
(from the planet of the apes)
   Tony Curtis...
              Hemingway,
Bukowski,
               Ezra Pound...
     Clark Gable
    Gregory Peck
                   the list is seemingly
endless -
   at least in the portrayal of
said characters...
ah... ****!
   Kevin Spacey as
Lester Burnham to boot!
            ah... double ****:
Denzel Washington as
Troy Maxson...
    because apparently "being"
a "poet" is little more than
the lesser stature
of a garbage man...
             unless of course:
you fiddle into a cosmopolitan
fixture.

    oh... and certainly an appreciation
for a traditional Turkish barber
shop...

something very much akin / borrowed
from America circa 1950s...
   and an unabashed sensibility
concerning good tailoring -
   but then also the prophetic
vagabond look from time to time...

just a vague idea -
    but something along these lines -
but then again, what a silly idea -
what is racial purity in
21st century England?
   some sort of vague notion
       of an even vaguer dream?

but i guess the notion of
individualistic purity:
   the purity of the individual is related
more to: who can and who won't
be swayed by alien opinions -
2nd or 3rd party -

        which includes this opinion...

i'd subscribe to put the idea on
the following zenith:

              grammatical cleanliness -
linguistic order -
            a literary tact -
   something along these lines -

after all: the 20th century is not the end
of a theory -
given 20th century communism this,
while 21st century socialism that...
ideas prevail...
   evolve - or devolve - regress
or make alternative progress -

               also given:
    there already is a fascist movement
elsewhere, other than in England -
where: it would be completely
impractical -
                  
                       prime tenet would also
be, what it already shows:
   non-expansionism of a culture
or a people -
                           more akin to
American isolationism under
                                                  F.D.R.:
i­ have a strange sentiment
for that president.
Francis Duggan Apr 2010
Perhaps she is one who is not free of guile
But she is one who has such a beautiful smile
And a beautiful smile carries one a long way
It does more for one than words can ever say,
No doubt she's not perfect we all have our flaws
The feline who often purrs is known to use her claws
But a smile from a stranger just in passing by
Can bring to your day a small flutter of joy,
On my cares and worries I did silently brood
As I walked down the street in an out of sorts mood
But a beautiful smile and a warm hello
From a lovely young woman one I did not know
Helped for to bring a little joy to my day
For the best things in life we do not need to pay.
Stephen E Yocum Dec 2013
Funny the things we recall.
Images that flash through our brain.
Some most vivid for me were of an old man.
Skin like creased parchment paper,
Lined and yellowed with age.
The veins visible just below the surface,
of a thin nearly transparent veneer.
Liver spotted flecks of red,
Charted paths from the toil of many years,
Palms callused forever from a life time of labor.
Big fingers knotted and misshapen,
The two inch tip of one gone missing,
Saw taken, at age sixteen.

Looking at those old hands, one could hardly guess
That still there remained gentleness in their caress.
For an old dog, or a little grandson in need of some
Companionable affection or parental love.

Those aged hands could also make things,
Toy sailboats, and wooden trains,
complete with caboose,
And cow catcher guard.
A cool flute whistle that actually worked,
He said it was like the Indian’s made,
Out Oklahoma way.
And he would know,
He cowboyed there.

His hands taught me to tie my shoes,
Open and close my first pocket knife.
Those same hands could become birds,
rabbits, butterfly's, all sorts of things.
When projected up on the wall,
Silhouetted by a naked back light.
His hands knew magic too,
Pluck silver coins right out of my ears.

His tired face matched his hands,
visual weathered, creased and
wrinkled road maps,
Of 89 years of rugged roads traveled.

Yet, his lively pale green eyes remained
forever fraudulently youthful prisms,
Eyes and spirit of a much younger man within.

But it is his hands most of all I shall remember,
Their imposing look and their reassuring
touches of tenderness.

I shall never forget my Grandfather’s hands.
For my Granddaddy Clarence M. with Love and remembrance.
Ray Nov 2011
You are the anchor holding a ship down
You are the walls of a house with no exits
You are the roots dug deep in the ground
You are a cage with keys thrown away

But

I am the steering wheel, moving forward
I am the window sill, leaving options
I am the leaves in the wind, moving freely
I am the wings on a bird, breaking free
Terry Collett Jun 2015
Sophia sorts through
her parents' room;
they're out for the day,
some Polish old comrades

meeting of her father's,
old war pals. She opens up
the old wardrobe, sorts
through things, takes out

her mother's old dresses
and some new ones, puts
them on the bed. She likes
a red one, old but well kept.

She ponders, she decides
to try it on. She undresses
from her own jeans and top
and puts on the old red dress

and looks at herself in the
wardrobe mirror. Her mother
must have been her size back
then, it fits like it was made

for her. She does a twirl, looks
back at her ***, her thighs,
turns to the front and stares
at her *******. She doesn't

remember her mother wearing
the dress, not a dress she recalls
her mother wearing at all. She
looks down, it comes just below

the knees, although she's taller
than her mother, so it would
come lower on her mother.
She embraces herself as if

Benedict were there behind her
putting his arms around her
and breathing on her neck.
She stares at herself in the mirror;

stares at her full length. She
smells the material. It smells
of stale perfume, but not horrible
or clammy. She walks around

the room in it; looks at herself
in the mirror across the room.
She'd ask her mother if she could
borrow it, but then she'd have to

say she'd been in her mother's wardrobe
and that would cause hell with her
father and she didn't want that. She
take off the dress and stands there

in her bra and *******, and puts the
dress back on the hanger, and puts
it back with the other dresses where
she found it the wardrobe, in the right

place, and pushes the clothes back as
far as shes can recall in the order they
were, and closes the wardrobe door.
She dresses back in her jeans and top.

She pauses by the bed. The crucifix over
the bed. The Crucified staring down
pityingly. She touches the bed with her
fingers. She'd like to bring Benedict here;

make love here. But not after last time
in her room and her parents came back
after and that was too close. And some
neighbour had split on her and said

they'd seen young man and her come
here while her parents were out and her
father gave her the third degree over it.
Her father said she can only bring the

boy when they were home. Couldn't bring
Benedict back for *** while they were
downstairs sitting watching TV and
drinking their wine and such, and not

in her parent's bed, not beneath the
Crucified, except in her blonde haired head.
A GIRL PUTS ON HER MOTHER'S OLD RED DRESS IN 1969.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
this is truly a welcome break from:
freeing all the drafts -
which i imagined to be equivalent, or rather:
the 2nd parallel of the original adjecent -

i imagined it would feel like:
releasing doves with laurel branches firmly
lodged in their beaks -
just as the waters of the flood would recede...

but it truly felt like:
the inversion of the diarrhoea-constipation
"paradox"... because it felt like both,
but never giving me a clue as to
what was more prominent -

the sharp edge of a knife -
or the horizon when the sky becomes
the sea far away....

i'm not ashamed to throw this onto the fore...
it happened to me once...
but on purpose...
i wanted to compensate marquis de sade's
antic in a brothel when he implored
the ******* to turn the crucifix into
a ***** into his decapitated precursor
of a mary antoinette... puppet...

profanity in images and all the other seances
of the senses...
i wouldn't go as far as to make the crucifix
profane... or do anything profane
with it...

only the words...
hic (est) mea corpus - hic (est) mea cruor...
this is my body - this is my blood...
and i am aware the mead is the gods' ****
when they're in a good mood - all... jolly...
and that beer is the gods' **** when
laughter hits a dry run...
and that ms. amber or whiskey is but:
the blood of the gods...

i had to corrupt it...
to prove to myself: that i am not a god...
it was quiet simple...
once upon a time i was drinking
a glass of wine...
and as you do... on a whim...
i decided to **** into it...
perhaps all that drinking prior would
give me something to elevate the palette
of exploration that was to come...

hmm... at least that sorts out
hic: mea cruor... *** urinae...
but back then i did that on purpose...
and if only this was a desert scenario...
and i would have to drink my own *****
to survive...
well... i just thought: here's to starving
from a lack of better imagery...

i will come unto some Horace in a minute...
i don't know how i managed to find
this citation - it's only very losely related...
and yes i will showcase another draft from
May of last year...

but today i was unsure...
did i leave yesterday's pepsi max bottle
with only the stale pepsi left...
or did i forget to do the lazy sly wee whizz
jumping out of bed in the middle of
the night...
but i already poured this "cocktail"
over two shots of whiskey...
and i'm hardly desperate but...
my original intention of alligning myself
to the profanity of the crucifix...
i had to somehow make profanity
of the wine...

since i am... thinking how to compensate
being satisfied with wine...
how the ancient world was always
satisfied with wine...
the story of the 3 ambers of the north...
the beer, the mead and the whiskey...
all in a varying degree...
but i will not bow before the blood of a god
that's so... diluted...
whiskey yes... that can be blood indeed...
otherwise it's down in the trench
with gods' **** - mead if they are in a good
mood... beer if they are in a talkative mood...

thank god i wasn't thinking:
better salvage those two shots of whiskey
and drink this cocktail of the "ultimate" surprise...
and apparently eating a woman's
placenta is good for you...
as was... apparently once... breastmilk...
funny... give me the milk of a cow or a goat
and i'll show you: one dislocated thumb...
one dislocated distal + intermediate phalange
from the index finger of the right hand's
proximal phalange... no broken bones...

knock-knock... who's there? touchwood superstition.

it's not as bad as it sounds...
stale, yes...
but i am also known for sometimes
performing the antithesis of drinking tequilla...
*****... i'll sprinkle some cigarette ash
onto my hand... lick it... take a shot of *****
then throw one or two black peppercorns into
my mouth for the crunch...
each drinker and his own myths... right?
i call that the black cracovite...
cracow being so close to aushwitz...
and once it snowed and they thought it was
snowing... sure... ash from the furnaces
of aushwitz... here's my ode to... the dead...
in a drink...

hell better a cracovite than a cracowite, white?
i mean: right? seriously: low hanging fruit,
the elephant's testicles...

i will never understand this whole veneration
of wine: in vino veritas...
these days wine is better drank by women
and castrated monarchs of the clergy...
i had to check... so i ****** in my holy grail...
and guess what didn't come out
the other end? gods' **** (beer and wine)
or gods' blood (whiskey and wine)...
just this stale, almost bland...
water with a pinch of grape that has been
left to sit in a puddle on some
industrial estate in dagenham enjoying
the ripe downpouring of chemicals
that leave it with a rainbow of diluted
petroleum...

akin to: try shoving that sort of doughnut
into this kind of pile of ****...
not that i would...
but i have also been prone to test
99.9% spirits... or 96% absinthe...
with a locust mummified in the bottle's neck...
from Amsterdam...

i had to rethink: why become engaged...
when chances are...
to the displeasure of someone who read:
but never bought my work...
the self-editorial process...
the self-publishing process could be...
guillotined on a whimsical constipation
of a "dear reader"...
as it might happen...

again... Horace and the perfect example
of poetry with conversational overtones...
poetry as prosaic...
my god... paper was expensive back in old
Horace's days... surely you would need
something spectacular to write:
like a psilocybin trip account word for word:
wrong!
a certain don juan said to a certain
carlos castaneda: don't bring back words from
such experiences...
but of course: they did...
upon once upon a time loving the beatniks...
i started to abhor them...
getting drunk and smoking "something"
is one thing... exposing the altars of solipsism
of such experiences: words intact...
is a profanity...
each dream is individually curated
to the dreamer... the introduction of words
to relate back... for some next be disciple...
the "drugs" / portals of escapism are already
contaminated...

why wouldn't i: even if these are only
objective recounts of an experience?
perhaps because... they are subjectivelly null...
there are only the comparable heights of Gideon...
such experiences are best: kept to each individual's
right to enjoy... a freedom of thought...
and of silence...
each keeps a secret...
but what secret is left?
when the objective parameters have already
been stated?
i see no point... better down and finding
it at the end of a bottle...
or... ******* into a glass of wine
and drinking it...

they have been contaminated by words that
have been retrieved from such experiences
that (a) no one should talk about...
(b) surprise! the objective reality already
being stated as altered...
am i going to a ******* cinema with my body...
or am i going to a surprise
gallery with my thought?
doesn't matter... word contamination...
bigmouth struck his final last time!
at least the remains is what gives me
the labyrinth... the blood the **** you name
it the three sisters amber... for all i care...
it's readily available: make do...
with what's already been given.

me? i drink for that very special date...
monday 9 march 2020...
when all the orthodox jews get drunk...
that's one of those celebrations i wouldn't mind
being a part of... purim, festival of Lots,
funny... that period of history...
the Persian aspect of the hebrews...
never made it to the big screen...
seeing modern day Iran as day-old Persia
in muslim garbs...
we're still only seeing the: African adventure...
perhaps once the dust has settled...
we will get the Persian installement...
and then... oh... **** it...
we're all in it for the long run...
then when christianity is no longer useful...
the Roman bit of history...
and how the hebrews conspired with the greeks...
2000 years later we'll probably see
some prince of egypt cartoon movie
of the pristine romance and a mention of germany...
not yet... ****'s still to ripe to entertain
the universal child and children...
no screen adaptation from "their" time in Persia...
songs... we have songs!
Verdi's Nabucco - the chorus...
perhaps only in song from Persia and always
with movies and hieroglyphs when from Egypt...

but the festivity... of course! i'll celebrate...
cf. though... Puccini's coro a bocca chiusa -
the humming chorus...
before the band enigma... i am pretty sure my mother
would crank up the volume to at least
one of these songs... should they come on the radio...
i'm still to hear christopher young's:
something to think about - to be on air...
and to also be treated as a piece of classical music...
if wojciech kilar's dracula soundtrack can be treated
as classical music... what's wrong with a little
bit of hellraiser?!

perhaps, "again" is this desecration of the sacred not,
simply hanging in the background,
all, the, ******, time?
who is to celebrate wine giving it a god's blood
status in sips? one is expected to somehow become
drunk on the passion!
no one is here for crumbs of sips!
first they came for the loaf of bread...
and said you should fast and eat only a crumb...
then they came for the bottle of wine...
and said you should abstain and drink only a sip...
then they came for *** and by then
vatican was a monaco with better tax protections...

it's an investement: having to **** into a glass
of wine you're about to drink...
worse... you accidently "forgot" about
******* into some left-over pepsi max
and you're making yourself a cocktail
with one of the graeae ambers - 2x -
and you wonder: is this the proper state
of carbonated water, stale?
but i'm hardly going to bash the crucifix...
i'm here for the words...

the... transfiguration of the wine into blood...
and i say of my gods:
and here is their **** - beer and mead...
and here's their blood: the three graeae ms. ambers...
see no: clearer? no... happier?

i will get onto ancient roman poetics
with its conversational overtones in a minute!
first we have to settle the sacraments!
the metaphors and the sacraments!
i have no ivar the boneless claim of god...
season 6? to be honest...
i'd rather watch an english soap opera...
at least the intricacy of the plot remains...
even though it has been recycled
so many times...

i can't **** out the gods' ***** even if it was
stale beer... or ideal mead...
as i can't leisure a Seneca's bath filled
with the blood of the immortals...
problem solved... "problem":
as if it ever was...

why, Horace? a very short rhetorical retort:
if Dante had his Virgil...
why can i have my Horace, as guide?
again... what Roman poet could venture for
ambitions among the myths -
or extend his "consciousness"
to devastate the land and become
the mad Xerxes wanting the waves
of a sea whipped into submission?
why, Horace? if Dante could have his Virgil...

poetry... at least among the roman poets
there's no boxed in a box "without" a "box"...
the conversational overtones are ripe...
the almost complete lack of
character dimensions... beside their dimensions
from anecdotes...

to difuse wine, to desecrate the hic mea cruor...
**** in it!
then drink it...
or have one of my antithesis of a tequilla surprise
with me...
smoke a cigarette... drop some ash on the lick-part
of the space between the thumb
and the index metacarpal... lick it...
follow it with a shot of *****...
then throw some black peppercorns
into the hades of your gob
and we've arrived at the black cracovite...

and also the day when the orthodox jews
recant their story of their time
in Persia... the festivity of Lots...
when they become blind drunk and pretend to
have the sort of alcohol intolerence as
the Japanese... 1 shot! just 1 shot:
and hey! they throw their kippahs in
the air and we can all dance the ukranian 'opak!

looks good to me!
but only looks good...
when there's this plump drunk playing the accordion:
i.e. me,
and there's the sort of adrew rieu directing
an upcoming crescendo of a poliushko polie...
and we can all leave the auditorium
feeling, less than russophobic...
and then i can be told...
you young to be old yet still
profane pan-siberian peasant root!
indo-european leftover!
well... at least then i have been allowed
the scrap i'm supposed to see
before i showcase my *****, frost riddled fangs!
of the lesser wolf that i am:
as a rabid dog!

since the crescendo will come...
what better fathom of it...
esp. just beside a cemetery... twirling to the music...
ear-plugs out seancing my time in a grand
orchestral hall... plucked from the ears...
the crescendo is coming...
but... plucked... the orchestra of buffalo-sized
snowflakes... and... the worst kind of ballet...
a male soloist... doing his crazy
ukranian folk... maestro! the music never ever
dies! even in the silence of the universe!
however micro- or macro- this theatre will take
form... the music remains playing: uninterrupted!

but the snow was there,
the "ballerina" was also there...
the night was there,
the music was there -
albeit no grand orchestral hall -
couldn't ask for a better canvas
than a cemetery -
and all the heart's content!
comparative "literature"
to love like a muslim...
or to love like a sparrow...
or to love with a grudge like a crow...
mind you; site note...
i have been many a pigeons attempt
fornication unabashed...
i've never seen two crows attempt it...
perhaps they do "it" in the night
and never in the open?

crows... pedantic priests of the kingdom...
and where the widower king
and the widow queen among the swans?
where i and you will have probably left them...
admiring a family of ducks...

as asked by the serpent of the swan...
you and me of the same birth in a Fabergé egg...
me with serpentine spine...
while you: with a crooked neck?
silly... it really is...
of a being.... that was once
a t-rex roar... now a pickled brain
in pickle jar... boasting about being...
pure spine and tingles and...
the better part of what... becomes the mammalian
hibernation...
hibernating "hibernating" upon the
impetus of digestion...
a serpent would ask a swan about
a crooked neck?

because what would a **** sapeins look toward,
as he is always prone to to look elsewhere?
if not to borrow the fixed, rigid ontology
of other animals?
i better from the birds, solely...
the swans and the crows...
perhaps the fox...
rarely something that has lent itself
to being curated by man's leash and grip...
collective the known herd...
otherwise the refined bonsai tigers...
perhaps the fish without a knowledge
of a tide or a wave...

i call a dog the noble friend,
the swan the sombre monogamist...
the crow the priest...
the furry spider one's own reflection
dealing with aracnophobia...
the snake the old "say-what?"
or that pickled spine with a brain
the worth of brine juices...
the extinguished remnant
of a dinosaur's toothache... or some
transcendental exploration
of the carpals of the wrist
extending into the length of a spine...

i'm not going to cry over this one...
skål!
i feel disinhibited from writing a memorandum!
slàinte!
gasoline to the peddle and... off... we, go!

i am bound to get this translaton right...
at some point of hinging-on... i.e. beginning with...
and most probably at the opposite end
of having to finish...
hence "open bracket"... prefix-
and -suffix allowance given the archeological
excavation began with:

-seu pila velox molliter austerum studio
fallente laborem, seu te discus agit, pete cedentem
aera disco: *** labor extuderit fastidia, siccus,
inanis sperne cibum vilem; nisi Hymettia mella
Falerno ne biberis diluta. foris est promus,
et atrum defendens piscis hiemat mare: *** sale
panis latrantem stomachum bene leniet. unde putas
aut qui partum? non in caro nidore voluptas summa,
sed in te ipso est. tu pulmentaria quaere
sudando: pinguem vitiis albumque neque ostrea
nec scarus aut poterit peregrina iuvare lagois.
vix tamen eripiam, posito pavone velis quin
hoc potius quam gallina tergere palatum,
corruptus vanis rerum, quia veneat auro
rara avis et picta pandat spectcula cauda:
tamquam ad rem attineat quidquam.
num vesceris ista, quam laudas, pluma?
cocto num adest honor idem?
carne tamen quamvis distat nil, hac magis illam
inparibus formis deceptum te petere esto:
unde datum sentis, lupus hic Tiberinus
an alto captus hiet? pontisne inter iactatus
an amnis ostia sub Tusci?
laudas, insane, trilibrem mullum,
in singula quem minuas pulmenta necesse est.
ducit te species, video: quo pertinet ergo proceros
odisse lupos? quia scilicet illis maiorem natura modum
dedit, his breve pondus: ieiunus raro stomachus volgaria
-temnit.

it's translated, isn't it? no
stefan gołębiewski or no 1980 warsaw...
is to know...

- nec meus hic sermo est, sed quae praecepit Ofellus:
these are not my words, this said the simpleton
Ofellus - neither of which of us is a laurel-leaf
adorned Orpheus...

that via a living "game": stoking up an appetite
with this entertainment the appetite increaes...
as does one health...

sorry... pagans... bloodthirty people...
trouble with the translation...
apparently the mud slinging
***** and bricks are nothing new...

or when you "minus" the disk,
litter the distance, head with the wind into
competition!
after hardships of the body is good and
the meal is simple -
(apparently all of this is still "connected",
scratch of the ol' 'ed and we're fine...
we're ******* sailing!)
Falern will not hurt "us"...
seasoned by honey from Hymettis,
before the entré. Safaz left,
the sea rumbles, the zephyr of fish it protects,
storm, fishing made unsafe;
stomach grumbles, bread with salt:
excuisite; you do not have any better! why?
taste does not reside in the scent of dishes,
but in your self alone.
toil merely increases appetite's presence.
he who over-eats, will not know the taste
of an oyster, nor a turbot, nor chickpeas,
the northern bird.
perceptions take the scalp of the mountain
above the actual taste of the dishes
(one might scalp... but never eat the scalp)...
you will not take a chicken onto a tooth,
when you are given a peacock,
you will trust your delusion:
a rare bird, worth its own weight of gold,
a most rarified tail, how it sparkles
with subtle hues!
as if the tail were to lead -
and there was no head to be found!
do you allow yourself to judge the hue
of the feathers as precursor for the adjecctive:
that's it's "also" tasty? the meat, of course?
the old - judge a book by its cover...
is the oven baked... also as delicious / beautiful?
chicken meat... or peacock meat?
almost without difference.
therefore: light... albeit...
although only vanity lures the peacock
(to be compared to a poultry)...
let's go further... i want to know: after what
do you recognise this, that a pike
with its gaping mouth was left:
from the sea... or from the Tiber fished?
somewhere among bridges... or from some
conrete estuary? idiot-kin of the surname whim...
you admire a three-pound mullet!
do you take size... for the gauge of all measure?
when you... cut the bell?
then why... why... with disgrace
do you demand in appreciation:
elongating pikes!
evidently nature: this greater gave the proper
measure... and with it: the lesser weight -
an empty stomach will rarely -
being fed a simple thing - despise -
what is...

an empty stomach - rarely despises -
simple matters.

how true... i was allowing myself the time
it would take to drink,
and translate into the vulgate...
but... from no better source...
and i am still to add to this one of my...
"freeing of the drafts"...

as promised...
"draft"...

- a most confiscated man -
no italics included...

.the original draft:

binges, worth the count
of a liter of whiskey
per night,
for a year, if not more...
become so...
so unspectular...

          the world either
screams, or yawns,
generally:
it exhaust a desire
to toss a coin,
agitate the vocab.,

a grand canyon
huddling
in the "depths" of
a glass of water...

baron science
comes with his rubric
of bore,
      and:
i find myself,
most idle:
while the world
orientates
itself in keeping
itself busy,
bothersome,
always the prime concern,

the ant-colony coup,
the:
i always find friends
in the orientations
of an empty glass,
but prior to:

i drink
before no altar,
no mirror,
no confidante...

     pure flesh revels itself
in a blank's worth
of prior to dictum's
  allowance of, a page...

bothersome
the knot of the pretentious
anti- in scold of
the passing fancy:
expression...

            poker charm
of a love's affair...

_

i sometimes entertain myself
with ancients proverbs,
one slavic proverb reads:
better a sparrow in your hand
than a dove on your roof...

what, could, possibly be,
the interpretation?
care for the small joys in
your possession,
than, for the peace of your household,
which is, on the roof,
but not in your hands...

if i were paid? would i be more
honest?
probably not...
        what i see, is what needs
to be seen...
  em... simple pleasures talk...
once upon a time,
donning long hair, implied
you were a mosher...
a metal-head...
    now? three days +,
long hair, and you're not a
grunge fanatic?
  trans-, etc.?

   a man of simple pleasures,
i know what long hair,
jealousy, associated with
putting it in a french braid,
does to a camel jockey ego...
ruins and ruins as far as the eyes
can see...
    he replicates...
he grows his hair long...
at the same time boasting about
haivng a premature beard...
then you grow a beard yourself...
you start fiddling with it...
****, ***** on my face...
and then...
the "question" of a girlfriend
flies out of the window...
i'm happy with a beard,
thank you, very much,
i don't, exactly want to wish upon
myself, a female, company...

*** protest all you want...
the *** differences between men
and women, to my sort of understanding,
are, unrepairable...
     they were, never,
bound, to being, repaired...
savvy?
            i take my route,
a woman took her route...
  we're even...
                
      since what can only frighten a freed
woman, beside a monarch,
a free man?
                   a man with...
a gamble...
         i am a man with a gamble...
i don't like being told what
to be, or what to think...
like any man,
and like any man:
i don't like being forced
ownership over a being:
that can share my sense of freedom...
so...
    i find myself,
thrilled with relief,
at now having to answer to
a woman's subjugation...
like a woman, and, i have learned
from women: i like being
my objective's self...
rather than a "self" made subject...

i like that: thank you...
i can start feedings the pigs and the peasant
the diatribe life, and lie,
of: there being an existential cricis,
a need to reproduce...
and i, and i am, being demeaning
in this, way, for a justified reason...

once the peasants attack you:
you attack, the peasants...
you demean them in the same way
they demeaned you...

once upon a time i thought:
greater good came from the number
of innocents being salvaged
than for the few great of grand bearing
being salvaged...
even if bound to an ill will:
an ill command,
of a will, predisposed to pretend
actions of the blind...
but now i see...

   the many: if beside fulfilling
their petty deeds,
having to stand outside of those,
petty deeds,
  have ambitions equivalent
to their emotions...
            akin to something worth,
pity, akin to something
worth: as little as a rat's heartbeat...
petty, primitive bull-*******...
and all the amount of sorrow,
or pity,
or mercy...
              that, these, ******* allow...
are worth the same response
Pontius Pilate gave...
       there isn't enough of water,
in this world,
to wash my hands, clean,
of these people...
   even if innocent blood plagues
them,
    not enough waters have run their
due course,
to... release me from the indentation
of memory upon my mind...
and i am plagued by an elephant's
memory...
        we've reached the conclusion
of: some people...
  just do not see an insult,
             past the insult's eloquence!

i am a most conflicted man,
i binge watched vikings
for a while now,
and right now, i'm ready for
an extraction of what i have learned...

believe me: i am not someone
who has the sort of ego-presence
to fate myself in the role
of the protagonist...
     i'm too pedantic to have to
market my body and deeds,
for the fates tio see,
and history to ascribe fame unto me...

even homer was off too war
with troy,
   and blessed he became...

because? time morphs,
the longer something is kept,
the more, "unreal" is becomes,
a fairy-tale...
esp. now, with the onslaught
of journalism...
two things in this world
are insomniac,
money never sleeps,
and, now, apparently,
journalism doesn't sleep either:
well, given its ******
bed-fellow of political liars...
why should it?

             Rolo... a semi-minor character...
but i feel his angst at the already
fervent dichotomy,
(dichotomy, modern variety variant
of schizoid-affective...
or bilingual in turn)...

            music...
                    all these modły...
gesticulations of prayer,
phantom conjuring,
               lunatics with candles
at high-noon...
                  i am fated by music,
i am perverted by music,
i am swayed by music...
who is the god, patron,
of music?
who is the angel (demi-god),
patron of music?
         i do not seek the highest
influencer...
the minor one...

   when Archangel Sandalphon
met St. Cecilia...
but as such, i am, conflicted...
even though, this is the first time
i have heard of Sandalphon...

Rome, never reached my peoples,
the Vikings did...
   weren't the ugly vikings the founders
of Kiev?
  so they must have passed via
the Polen (field) land, no?

feelings are not important,
facts don't care about your feelings...
granted...
but i'm not hear for facts,
contra, feelings,
i'm here for the rivers...
what i feel, what my heart yearns for,
needs to attain an equilibrium
with my mind...
for that: i need to clarify my feelings,
to hush my heart, silence it,
in order to listen to my mind,
and the mind, needs to feed into
heaving the heart: to do,
what, the heart, desires,
autonomous to what the heart
"thinks", is right...
                    that's how it was forver
going to work...
consolidated...
and yes, i much envy the punctuation
of king Ecgberht,
a man of cunning: much admired...
abstract thinker...
        and a reality...
        pun-ctu-a-tion...
the delivery of one's speech...
   much admired, as much as...
                the crude brawl possession...
the chief protagonist of the story?
as important as is: the required from
Atlas... burden upon burden...
a man burdened with the illusion
of freedom...

so why am i conflicted,
but becoming less and less so?
    it was always the music...

songs...

           chavelier, mult estes guariz...
wardruna - helvegen...
           da pacem domine...
             agni parthene...

you know... there's much more beside
being a jazz enthusiast or
a classical music snob...
         there's folk... there's religious and pagan
chants...
if there's one thing to benefit from,
in terms of the Byzantine context...
the chants...
        let the barbarians do the thinking
from now on: you do the sing-along...
no people ever reinvented themselves
from an ancient glory...
   new blood had to come to the fore...

like today...
       i spoke with my father and my mother...
about the names of apples...
we must have talked for an hour,
we named so many lost "breeds" of apple...
nouns i will not write,
nouns i wish death to write down,
i want Samael to have,
beside the book of my deeds in hand,
i want him to have
my dictionary in hand,
my knowledge of the sacred script,
i want to listen as he recites me the words
i've used,
notably today's conversation
            about the many types of apples...
e.g.: shogun apples...
             kox...
                    szare renety...
          papierówki...
                    marabella prunes...
that's all i ask of Samil.
ryn Oct 2014
Know that my heart beats for you...
Every crank of the wheel, turn of dials...
Leading to my every breath and every sigh
Wishing every moment would stay a while...

Unaware of themselves hard at work,
The cogs in my mind are constantly spinning...
The gears in my head are lodged in place...
Cogs and gears like clockwork, carelessly turning...

Like a factory of sorts,
They keep churning out ideas.
Conceived notions that only had been
Spawned by my mind's nucleus...

Blinking lights signalling ways,
And means to sweep you into the air,
Then leave you lofted for second....
Without a trace of fear or care.

At that moment, what I'd give to just admire...
You floating against a backdrop of stars.
An image frozen in infinite.
An image free from blemishes or scars.

Then when gravity claims you back,
You'd fall the most graceful of falls...
A fall in the slowest of motion.
A fall led by my loving calls.

Fear not darling for my arms would be there...
To catch you and hold you close in a tight embrace.
Cheek to cheek, chest to chest... You'd then know that,
Cogs and gears spin only for you in this very same place...
Haven't written about love in a while.
Aa Harvey Sep 2018
This is my Blood Bowl.


Thank you Games Workshop for giving us Blood Bowl;
I’ve played it all my life and I’ve completely re-written the rules.
It allows my imagination to run wild carrying a sword,
Attacking all sorts of creatures, whilst playing American Football.
It has magic, magic items and you may think it’s just for kids;
But without Blood Bowl,
I wouldn’t have imagined half of the things that I did.


People need a release from the real world;
Mine is found on a football pitch in the game of Blood Bowl.
People cheat, steal and bribe referees and do almost anything.
If you give this game to your kid,
They could imagine the impossible
And some day, maybe, write random poetry like me!  He, he.


…And now down to the pitch to see the kickoff!...


The humans line up against the bad boy orcs;
The dwarfs and elves are in support.
Chaos lords and chaos spawn (twisted creatures);
Rain down pain and death on the undead and the living.


The undead walk slowly, the goblins flee!
Rat Ogres and trolls are invading the pitch!
The referee blows his whistle to send the giant off!
The deadly dark elves chop the referee’s up with chainsaws,
Or use swords and axes, grenades and clubs.
They are all fighting to win the B.B.C. cup.


The Blood Bowl Championship;
It’s like the NFL Superbowl trophy.
I’ve made leagues and cups
And every single thing possible, just for fun; just for me.


The Official Blood Bowl Organization,
Try to make all weapons illegal, but oh no, no, no!
This is the sport of death!  
This is Blood Bowl!


Use spells and magic items and cause suffering;
The tiny snotling is beaten by the little Halfling.
The ***** in there somewhere, though nobody cares;
The Beastmen are just here to fight,
Whilst the gnomes laugh at the high elves hair.
Such pampered fools, in love with themselves;
Vanity and self-love?  That must be the elves.


Here comes a chaos dwarf, driving a steam roller;
He flattens the Fimir and another vampire.
The zombies are clueless and one fumbles the ball,
Before he is decapitated, by the Reikland Reavers’ Mighty Zug!


The ghoul’s are hungry for blood;
Here come the orks, the band of goffs.
Crazy *** gitz, just having a laugh.
Here are the sneaky Skaven to stab someone in the back.


Amazonian women are running around screaming,
Like the banshee’s and all sorts of scary demons.
The Sisters of Battle are from the future;
A bear charges at a Treeman and look!  There’s a little Gnoblar.


Giant bats, giant snails, giant rats and giant eagles,
Giant leeches, giant frogs, giant spiders and giant scorpions.
The norse are Vikings, (ranked titles include kings);
There’s a termagant from the year 40,000 and something.
There are space marines, and space wolf marines,
All armed to the teeth with weapons.


The genestealer’s steal genes to make new creatures/weapons;
There are evil gnomes, evil ewoks, ewoks and evil Treemen.
Lesser demons fight lesser goblins and run from the Lictor!
The werebear’s and werewolves fight the wolves and Saurus creatures.
There is no victor.


The skinks fire poisoned blowpipes at the Large beasts & minions.
Chaos Halflings beat up people on camels and horses
And they beat up Khemri with anything.
Mummies climb out of their crypts to bring death to the mutants;
The slayers are here to bring down the mighty bone giants.


The noble Brettonians see Blue and Pink Horrors running around;
Tyranids, Tyranid warriors and tyrants send people underground.
Dead now in this game of Blood Bowl; the game of death!
Witch elves are being hunted by Witch Hunters;
There’s only three left.


To the right is a Zoat fighting a huge Yeti.
A chaos human rides a chaos horse; look out Goddess Betty.
Greater demons bring down Griffons and **** the crazy monkeys;
The mushlings and snotrooms are simply fleeing and screaming.


Skeletons on skeletal horses, fight salamanders and satyrs.
Jabberwocks and Juggernauts,
Destroy Hydra’s with the Hydra’s own fire.
Chaos Warriors and Chaos human cowboys, slug it out with Gods;
Norse dwarves fight Nurgles rotter’s and nurgling’s fight ogres.


The slann were the originators of the game of Blood Bowl;
The Ushabti Tomb Kings come from Khemri to fight the robotic Tau.
Vostroyan drunks are fighting with Wood elves.
Oh my God!  That troglodyte really does smell!


Warhounds race Gladehounds and cyborg’s fight cyboar’s;
Big cats include tigers and lions, so we must quickly carry on.
A carrion is an undead bird and they are ****** huge!
The imperial guard are like the rebels in Terminator;
They are humans.


Kroxigor’s smash boney clubs & break Kroot’s predator-like heads;
Kislevite Horsemen and Cowboy’s ride horses onto the pitch.
Night goblin’s and forest goblin’s steal from all including the Eldar.
They are elves of the future and there are chaos space marines…

They have travelled far.


Every creature has come to take part in this game of football.
Its American football with death included; it’s so much fun!
Harpy fly above Haradhrim as a Necron breaks his own jaw;
He fell over when dodging the tomb scorpion’s claw.


Thrall and Wights march to battle on the pitch against the living;
Undead champions are leaders of death
And the minotaur’s eat the dead.  
Nobody knows who is winning.
Chimera and other daemonic beasts are really tough to ****, I see;
But that boar just exploded, thanks to the grenade…
Bye life, hello death; he, he.


Elementals are like Gods of earth, wind, water and fire.
Dragon ogres are going to **** anything that gets in their way!
Dreadnoughts are made to ****; there’s a wolf!
This undead one’s dire.
Dryad are small Treemen; there are some Elite Skaven!
Open fire!


Savage orcs fight sea elves as squig hopper’s bounce past randomly.
Ungor’s are little Beastmen, but there are still quite deadly.
Manticores destroy lizardmen and there’s a blood-soaked cold one.
Bull centaur’s charge at black orc’s,
Who are ganging up with a chaos champion.


Centaurs crash into carnosaur’s,
As Dark eldar fly down from their space ships.
Hobgoblins can’t be trusted; the thieving gits!
Orc leaders are warlords, bosses and big bosses too;
The Redemptionists are the priest from aliens 3 or aliens 2.
Whichever I can’t remember and haven’t got time to look;
Oh yeah let’s watch the game again and see who has got the ball.


Golem!  (phlegm!)  Golem!  No; not that one!
These golems are Flesh golem’s and some are made of stone.
They are creature of magic and are here to smack some heads;
And this is the end of the poem…

Dedicated to Games workshop (thank you) and the sport of death!


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
B Nov 2014
The world spins without stopping
A cosmic rollercoaster of sorts
I never feel sick by that
But when I think at night
Of that time, now far gone
I feel sick and dizzy inside
kenye Apr 2013
Breathe in and blow everything out of proportion
A manic artist versus the abstract composition

In my head this all looked as perfect as imagination
The challenge was blending the line between fantasy and reality
To get the inner critic to agree
Worlds colliding this one into the next

Dreams manifested to the forefront 
of a visionary gone inside himself

Throwing myself against the walls of my mind 
In an attempt to think outside the box.
Even in our own heads they've got us on lockdown
With the chemical constraints constricting creativity 
These straightjackets of sorts
Straightening out the free-thinkers

A fourth wall broken

Pretentions are high
On the artist's plane
Subjectively selling ourselves out to a shallow medium
The mainstream
The water we should be walking on
We're drown out in.
Drawn into the background of the bigger picture.
Dan Pramann Sep 2010
I can suppose
assume, or guess
but all are claims
and have no valid reason
to touch the air outside my mind
I can spend hours
figuring, and thinking
but reality is a *****
and has no linear solution
for it likes to tease, and hide
what's on her mind
© Dan Pramann. All Rights Reserved.
Beneath the surface of our daily lives, we are always asking the question, “Who am I, really, and where is my true home?” The answer to this question is so utterly obvious, so beautiful, so ordinary, and yet so profound, that like the nose on our face, we have a hard time seeing it. Because of our own self-imposed limitations, the answer to this mystery can only be revealed little by little, as if a great veil were being lifted inch by inch, until the truth is completely exposed. Yet, we are destined to receive this knowledge.

Today-all around us: the electro-magnetic field is active and alive, whether we feel it or not. Imagine all the electromagnetic-digital devices surrounding us! Take a moment to think about their direct or indirect effect on our bodies. Global warming is by far the most serious manifestation of the “collision”—and Mother Nature is making the evidence ever more obvious. Our bodies are like little vessels of light reflecting our bright birth right. However these vessels constantly need nourishing and care. These are amazing times for us all but we must take care of our bodies inwardly and outwardly, else we are left at the mercies of the “spiraling” energies circumventing the universe. Both scientists and spiritualists have verily presented groundbreaking evidence about what is happening beyond what can be felt, seen or sensed by human sensory perception. At times-you may feel odd sensations or more anxiety than usual. Breathe in slowly and deeply. Take your time amidst the “rollercoaster of the city’s rush hours”. Remember to connect to the “higher frequencies” of a positive lifestyle in healthy ways. Exercise, Pray, Meditate, if you can- use flower essences everyday such as: Silversword, Shooting Star, Morning Glory, Sagebrush, Snap Dragon, Cosmos, White Magnolia. Growing a flower garden has its rich rewards too.
Nature’s healing effects are unquestionable, for within nature we come face to face with the Divine infinite source of All creation-as it was, as it is and as it will ever be.

Yogi Paramahansa Yogananda once quoted:

Harmony with nature will bring you a happiness known to few city dwellers. In the company of other truth seekers it will be easier for you to meditate and think of God.

There is a magic about periodically moving out of the “city’s confinements” to the richness of and around nature: forest walks, boat rides, mountain trekking and much more. The main essence is in feeling a refreshed aura around and within you-an indication that the city and all its toil on you have been left behind. We have to try to get rid of the notion of time. When we have an intense contact of unconditional love with nature or another human being, like a spark, then we can truly understand that there is no time and that everything is eternal.

Other simple ways of raising energy levels include: silence in isolation and more “interaction” within you inner spirit-your Higher-self. There are always two forces warring against each other within us and we can bring these forces to a balance during silent personal introspection.  In order to relate properly with and to your inner being, one must follow the “truth of imagination.” From the word-imagination, we find the word-image, which is the manifestation of our physical form and body identity.

As William Arthur Ward said:

If you can imagine it, you can create it. If you can dream it, you can become it.

More than ever before on our planet, there is now great need for interpersonal sharing and the acknowledgment that ups and downs are a vital part of our everyday life. This process is internal as well as external. The “key” is a flowing pattern that is beneficial to all concerned. Take good care of yourself, your relationships, and your health. Exercising both mind, body, and spirit can bring you the agility to incorporate balance, whether you are alone or with a partner. Life can seem like a seesaw existence, but you can still have a wonderful time if you maintain a playful attitude.

The “image” we carry of our self within our mind and heart carries the power to bridge our highest ideals into our everyday practical life. On the other hand, attachment to a poor image of self condemnation and suffering carries the potential to destroy our right to joy and abundance. Which do we choose? Practicing the laws of “visualization” is not unlike the practice of prayer or meditation, where the seeker opens oneself to channels of higher guidance and inspiration. Ideally, we are given the opportunity to walk through the gardens and forests of the earth with astute concentration and attunement, opening our opportunity to the light of healing and service, each and every day.

Whatever your tradition or practice, however you offer your skills to the world, trace your roots and find the center of stillness and peace within. Only from this grace-filled place can we restore the health and well being of ourselves and our planet. Become one who engages the full power of the mind, heart, and spirit in the interest of alleviating suffering and making our present world a true “Garden of Eden”

Remember to build the world around you in a practical manner. Is your spiritual, mental, emotional, and physical universe anchored in truth and wisdom? Follow the “call of the wild” and listen to your inner voice within that guides you to fulfill your higher destiny. Take time to make weighty decisions. Realize the implications of your acts for the future. Stop wasting your strength by criticizing others. Recall the ancient adage “Judge not, lest you be judged”.

Reinforce your positive, upbeat, and inherently good nature so that the dark elements of this world cannot break down your resolve and dedication. For those who have suffered emotional pain from all sorts of physical or spiritual abuse, If you are to walk the path of consciousness, enlightment and empowerment, you must go beyond your “old wounds” and accept this golden opportunity to metamorphose into a new “body of light” – one that rejoices with the understanding that all aspects of life are sacred and it is in the weaving of the dark and light within ourselves that we find our true wholeness. We heal ourselves and others by first contacting the inner nourishment or the "water fountain of life" within us which sustains our ability to create beautiful things in the world as well as to act from the depth of our hearts.

Imagine opening your arms to upward spirals of your divine existence like a beautiful chalice and ask that all love pour into the vessel of your heart. This love is abundant and rich, offering the fertile elixir of passion and creativity. These are exciting time and we must accept the challenges offered to humanity at this time; in it all: Unconditional Love, Peace and Unity is the answer. Change all bad habits-those that leave you with tingling bits of guilt. Cleanse your body and home and adore the “temple of beauty” that is your embodiment: your real reason for being!

The mystery of the universe is within and without us. Love the world...Love yourself...Love the change. Anticipate illuminating insights from places deep within you. Let the inner truth of your radiance come shining through. Most importantly, focus your attention and thoughts and blossom like the beautiful morning-glory. The yearning for our lost perfection, the urge to do and be that which is the noblest, the most beautiful of which we are capable, is the creative impulse of every high achievement. We strive for perfection here on mother Earth because we long to be restored to our true oneness with Almighty God.



Muhumuza Kenneth Ezra.
They reached the low lying city of Lacedaemon them where they
drove straight to the of abode Menelaus [and found him in his own
house, feasting with his many clansmen in honour of the wedding of his
son, and also of his daughter, whom he was marrying to the son of that
valiant warrior Achilles. He had given his consent and promised her to
him while he was still at Troy, and now the gods were bringing the
marriage about; so he was sending her with chariots and horses to
the city of the Myrmidons over whom Achilles’ son was reigning. For
his only son he had found a bride from Sparta, daughter of Alector.
This son, Megapenthes, was born to him of a bondwoman, for heaven
vouchsafed Helen no more children after she had borne Hermione, who
was fair as golden Venus herself.
  So the neighbours and kinsmen of Menelaus were feasting and making
merry in his house. There was a bard also to sing to them and play his
lyre, while two tumblers went about performing in the midst of them
when the man struck up with his tune.]
  Telemachus and the son of Nestor stayed their horses at the gate,
whereon Eteoneus servant to Menelaus came out, and as soon as he saw
them ran hurrying back into the house to tell his Master. He went
close up to him and said, “Menelaus, there are some strangers come
here, two men, who look like sons of Jove. What are we to do? Shall we
take their horses out, or tell them to find friends elsewhere as
they best can?”
  Menelaus was very angry and said, “Eteoneus, son of Boethous, you
never used to be a fool, but now you talk like a simpleton. Take their
horses out, of course, and show the strangers in that they may have
supper; you and I have stayed often enough at other people’s houses
before we got back here, where heaven grant that we may rest in
peace henceforward.”
  So Eteoneus bustled back and bade other servants come with him. They
took their sweating hands from under the yoke, made them fast to the
mangers, and gave them a feed of oats and barley mixed. Then they
leaned the chariot against the end wall of the courtyard, and led
the way into the house. Telemachus and Pisistratus were astonished
when they saw it, for its splendour was as that of the sun and moon;
then, when they had admired everything to their heart’s content,
they went into the bath room and washed themselves.
  When the servants had washed them and anointed them with oil, they
brought them woollen cloaks and shirts, and the two took their seats
by the side of Menelaus. A maidservant brought them water in a
beautiful golden ewer, and poured it into a silver basin for them to
wash their hands; and she drew a clean table beside them. An upper
servant brought them bread, and offered them many good things of
what there was in the house, while the carver fetched them plates of
all manner of meats and set cups of gold by their side.
  Menelaus then greeted them saying, “Fall to, and welcome; when you
have done supper I shall ask who you are, for the lineage of such
men as you cannot have been lost. You must be descended from a line of
sceptre-bearing kings, for poor people do not have such sons as you
are.”
  On this he handed them a piece of fat roast ****, which had been set
near him as being a prime part, and they laid their hands on the
good things that were before them; as soon as they had had enough to
eat and drink, Telemachus said to the son of Nestor, with his head
so close that no one might hear, “Look, Pisistratus, man after my
own heart, see the gleam of bronze and gold—of amber, ivory, and
silver. Everything is so splendid that it is like seeing the palace of
Olympian Jove. I am lost in admiration.”
  Menelaus overheard him and said, “No one, my sons, can hold his
own with Jove, for his house and everything about him is immortal; but
among mortal men—well, there may be another who has as much wealth as
I have, or there may not; but at all events I have travelled much
and have undergone much hardship, for it was nearly eight years before
I could get home with my fleet. I went to Cyprus, Phoenicia and the
Egyptians; I went also to the Ethiopians, the Sidonians, and the
Erembians, and to Libya where the lambs have horns as soon as they are
born, and the sheep lamb down three times a year. Every one in that
country, whether master or man, has plenty of cheese, meat, and good
milk, for the ewes yield all the year round. But while I was
travelling and getting great riches among these people, my brother was
secretly and shockingly murdered through the perfidy of his wicked
wife, so that I have no pleasure in being lord of all this wealth.
Whoever your parents may be they must have told you about all this,
and of my heavy loss in the ruin of a stately mansion fully and
magnificently furnished. Would that I had only a third of what I now
have so that I had stayed at home, and all those were living who
perished on the plain of Troy, far from Argos. I of grieve, as I sit
here in my house, for one and all of them. At times I cry aloud for
sorrow, but presently I leave off again, for crying is cold comfort
and one soon tires of it. Yet grieve for these as I may, I do so for
one man more than for them all. I cannot even think of him without
loathing both food and sleep, so miserable does he make me, for no one
of all the Achaeans worked so hard or risked so much as he did. He
took nothing by it, and has left a legacy of sorrow to myself, for
he has been gone a long time, and we know not whether he is alive or
dead. His old father, his long-suffering wife Penelope, and his son
Telemachus, whom he left behind him an infant in arms, are plunged
in grief on his account.”
  Thus spoke Menelaus, and the heart of Telemachus yearned as he
bethought him of his father. Tears fell from his eyes as he heard
him thus mentioned, so that he held his cloak before his face with
both hands. When Menelaus saw this he doubted whether to let him
choose his own time for speaking, or to ask him at once and find
what it was all about.
  While he was thus in two minds Helen came down from her high vaulted
and perfumed room, looking as lovely as Diana herself. Adraste brought
her a seat, Alcippe a soft woollen rug while Phylo fetched her the
silver work-box which Alcandra wife of Polybus had given her.
Polybus lived in Egyptian Thebes, which is the richest city in the
whole world; he gave Menelaus two baths, both of pure silver, two
tripods, and ten talents of gold; besides all this, his wife gave
Helen some beautiful presents, to wit, a golden distaff, and a
silver work-box that ran on wheels, with a gold band round the top
of it. Phylo now placed this by her side, full of fine spun yarn,
and a distaff charged with violet coloured wool was laid upon the
top of it. Then Helen took her seat, put her feet upon the
footstool, and began to question her husband.
  “Do we know, Menelaus,” said she, “the names of these strangers
who have come to visit us? Shall I guess right or wrong?-but I
cannot help saying what I think. Never yet have I seen either man or
woman so like somebody else (indeed when I look at him I hardly know
what to think) as this young man is like Telemachus, whom Ulysses left
as a baby behind him, when you Achaeans went to Troy with battle in
your hearts, on account of my most shameless self.”
  “My dear wife,” replied Menelaus, “I see the likeness just as you
do. His hands and feet are just like Ulysses’; so is his hair, with
the shape of his head and the expression of his eyes. Moreover, when I
was talking about Ulysses, and saying how much he had suffered on my
account, tears fell from his eyes, and he hid his face in his mantle.”
  Then Pisistratus said, “Menelaus, son of Atreus, you are right in
thinking that this young man is Telemachus, but he is very modest, and
is ashamed to come here and begin opening up discourse with one
whose conversation is so divinely interesting as your own. My
father, Nestor, sent me to escort him hither, for he wanted to know
whether you could give him any counsel or suggestion. A son has always
trouble at home when his father has gone away leaving him without
supporters; and this is how Telemachus is now placed, for his father
is absent, and there is no one among his own people to stand by him.”
  “Bless my heart,” replied Menelaus, “then I am receiving a visit
from the son of a very dear friend, who suffered much hardship for
my sake. I had always hoped to entertain him with most marked
distinction when heaven had granted us a safe return from beyond the
seas. I should have founded a city for him in Argos, and built him a
house. I should have made him leave Ithaca with his goods, his son,
and all his people, and should have sacked for them some one of the
neighbouring cities that are subject to me. We should thus have seen
one another continually, and nothing but death could have
interrupted so close and happy an *******. I suppose, however,
that heaven grudged us such great good fortune, for it has prevented
the poor fellow from ever getting home at all.”
  Thus did he speak, and his words set them all a weeping. Helen wept,
Telemachus wept, and so did Menelaus, nor could Pisistratus keep his
eyes from filling, when he remembered his dear brother Antilochus whom
the son of bright Dawn had killed. Thereon he said to Menelaus,
  “Sir, my father Nestor, when we used to talk about you at home, told
me you were a person of rare and excellent understanding. If, then, it
be possible, do as I would urge you. I am not fond of crying while I
am getting my supper. Morning will come in due course, and in the
forenoon I care not how much I cry for those that are dead and gone.
This is all we can do for the poor things. We can only shave our heads
for them and wring the tears from our cheeks. I had a brother who died
at Troy; he was by no means the worst man there; you are sure to
have known him—his name was Antilochus; I never set eyes upon him
myself, but they say that he was singularly fleet of foot and in fight
valiant.”
  “Your discretion, my friend,” answered Menelaus, “is beyond your
years. It is plain you take after your father. One can soon see when a
man is son to one whom heaven has blessed both as regards wife and
offspring—and it has blessed Nestor from first to last all his
days, giving him a green old age in his own house, with sons about him
who are both we disposed and valiant. We will put an end therefore
to all this weeping, and attend to our supper again. Let water be
poured over our hands. Telemachus and I can talk with one another
fully in the morning.”
  On this Asphalion, one of the servants, poured water over their
hands and they laid their hands on the good things that were before
them.
  Then Jove’s daughter Helen bethought her of another matter. She
drugged the wine with an herb that banishes all care, sorrow, and
ill humour. Whoever drinks wine thus drugged cannot shed a single tear
all the rest of the day, not even though his father and mother both of
them drop down dead, or he sees a brother or a son hewn in pieces
before his very eyes. This drug, of such sovereign power and virtue,
had been given to Helen by Polydamna wife of Thon, a woman of Egypt,
where there grow all sorts of herbs, some good to put into the
mixing-bowl and others poisonous. Moreover, every one in the whole
country is a skilled physician, for they are of the race of Paeeon.
When Helen had put this drug in the bowl, and had told the servants to
serve the wine round, she said:
  “Menelaus, son of Atreus, and you my good friends, sons of
honourable men (which is as Jove wills, for he is the giver both of
good and evil, and can do what he chooses), feast here as you will,
and listen while I tell you a tale in season. I cannot indeed name
every single one of the exploits of Ulysses, but I can say what he did
when he was before Troy, and you Achaeans were in all sorts of
difficulties. He covered himself with wounds and bruises, dressed
himself all in rags, and entered the enemy’s city looking like a
menial or a beggar. and quite different from what he did when he was
among his own people. In this disguise he entered the city of Troy,
and no one said anything to him. I alone recognized him and began to
question him, but he was too cunning for me. When, however, I had
washed and anointed him and had given him clothes, and after I had
sworn a solemn oath not to betray him to the Trojans till he had got
safely back to his own camp and to the ships, he told me all that
the Achaeans meant to do. He killed many Trojans and got much
information before he reached the Argive camp, for all which things
the Trojan women made lamentation, but for my own part I was glad, for
my heart was beginning to oam after my home, and I was unhappy about
wrong that Venus had done me in taking me over there, away from my
country, my girl, and my lawful wedded husband, who is indeed by no
means deficient either in person or understanding.”
  Then Menelaus said, “All that you have been saying, my dear wife, is
true. I have travelled much, and have had much to do with heroes,
but I have never seen such another man as Ulysses. What endurance too,
and what courage he displayed within the wooden horse, wherein all the
bravest of the Argives were lying in wait to bring death and
destruction upon the Trojans. At that moment you came up to us; some
god who wished well to the Trojans must have set you on to it and
you had Deiphobus with you. Three times did you go all round our
hiding place and pat it; you called our chiefs each by his own name,
and mimicked all our wives -Diomed, Ulysses, and I from our seats
inside heard what a noise you made. Diomed and I could not make up our
minds whether to spring out then and there, or to answer you from
inside, but Ulysses held us all in check, so we sat quite still, all
except Anticlus, who was beginning to answer you, when Ulysses clapped
his two brawny hands over his mouth, and kept them there. It was
this that saved us all, for he muzzled Anticlus till Minerva took
you away again.”
  “How sad,” exclaimed Telemachus, “that all this was of no avail to
save him, nor yet his own iron courage. But now, sir, be pleased to
send us all to bed, that we may lie down and enjoy the blessed boon of
sleep.”
  On this Helen told the maid servants to set beds in the room that
was in the gatehouse, and to make them with good red rugs, and
spread coverlets on the top of them with woollen cloaks for the guests
to wear. So the maids went out, carrying a torch, and made the beds,
to which a man-servant presently conducted the strangers. Thus,
then, did Telemachus and Pisistratus sleep there in the forecourt,
while the son of Atreus lay in an inner room with lovely Helen by
his side.
  When the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Menelaus
rose and dressed himself. He bound his sandals on to his comely
feet, girded his sword about his shoulders, and left his room
looking like an immortal god. Then, taking a seat near Telemachus he
said:
  “And what, Telemachus, has led you to take this long sea voyage to
Lacedaemon? Are you on public or private business? Tell me all about
it.”
  “I have come, sir replied Telemachus, “to see if you can tell me
anything about my father. I am being eaten out of house and home; my
fair estate is being wasted, and my house is full of miscreants who
keep killing great numbers of my sheep and oxen, on the pretence of
paying their addresses to my mother. Therefore, I am suppliant at your
knees if haply you may tell me about my father’s melancholy end,
whether you saw it with your own eyes, or heard it from some other
traveller; for he was a man born to trouble. Do not soften things
out of any pity for myself, but tell me in all plainness exactly
what you saw. If my brave father Ulysses ever did you loyal service
either by word or deed, when you Achaeans were harassed by the
Trojans, bear it in mind now as in my favour and tell me truly all.”
  Menelaus on hearing this was very much shocked. “So,” he
exclaimed, “these cowards would usurp a brave man’s bed? A hind
might as well lay her new born you
Nicole Mar 2016
When I was 5
My biggest fear was fire
And my biggest worry was if I had to go inside too early
The outside was an endless ground for games of all sorts
From war to hide and seek
We would play until the sun set
And the streetlights shined bright
My friends lived within seconds
We'd knock on one another's door multiple times
Until we could all come out and play

When I was 10
My biggest fear was a person
Tormenting me, screaming
and striking me until I'd break
I still feared fire but not because of dying
Simply because i knew it might not **** me
My biggest worry was having to wake up
Having to live another day in that house
Such a beautiful outside
The perfect hand-crafted family home
But that shell only hid horrific events within the fractured walls
I had no friends to save my sanity
Rotting from the inside out
A loving, child's heart demented and torn
Tattered and choked until every ounce of trust and happiness leaked out
I tried to go outside again but nature could only help me for so long
Before I returned to the nightmare that was my reality

When I was 15
I feared being alone
My hell had no ending
And my biggest worry was someone noticing the scars
traced along my body
It wouldn't matter if I cut too deep
If blood poured out and pooled beneath me
Both pain and death would solve the problem accordingly
I stayed inside
What was left of my imagination focused on either dying
Or on running far far away
My brain drowned in empty hopelessness
I gave up on the world and lost faith in everything
My savior appeared but not even she could **** the demons plaguing my mind

At 18 I left home
My biggest fear was returning again
My biggest worry was not ever being ok
Because I may had left the origin of evil
But it did not change what was in my head
The demons followed me everywhere
Stalking and striking at any hour
Draining me of hope and energy
Then I met my first love
A beautiful girl with gorgeous sapphire eyes
But she hid a dark soul beneath the beauty and I soon learned the dangers of loving your demons
At first she understood me,
Helped me through my addiction to the knife
But as quickly as she came, she changed into someone I feared
Because I knew I could never leave her
She possessed my heart so tightly within her poisonous grasp
Ripping it clear out of my chest
I feared I would ruin something again and end up alone
And one day she decided that I was no longer enough
That my entire being could not suffice to satisfy her sadistic needs
She drowned my heart for 6 months,
Shattering it completely 2 times
Before deciding to leave
But that love was built on *** and deceit
And though she claimed to love me
The searing pain coursing through my entire body
Was finally enough for me to see that
she did not know how to love

Now that I'm almost 20
My biggest fear is hurting my friends and family
Because I still never know when I could snap
My biggest worries are not making enough
Money for my life
Time for my friends
And love for my family
The universe has sent me a precious gift
Someone who knows love enough to share it with me
And though I'm still broken
Her beautiful heart helps mend my broken soul
With love and understanding
We have conquered over 7 months together
But I know she could still leave
This time the twisted beginning began from me
I broke her heart before I knew she gave it to me
And I know deep down she still resents me
But I deserve it
And she's worth it

Most days I know not who I am
Society labels me a 'girl'
But inside I know that's not me
I'm nothing,
A gender less, label less freak
And **** it hurts so bad
When they misgender me
Though I'm still too afraid to correct them
It's as though they twist a knife through my organs
Whenever they say 'she'
Who knew three letters
Could bring so much pain to me
Though I put the blade away, I turned to flames
Burning the nicotine into my lungs
Still begging not to wake up
Still thinking of death every day
Sometimes locking it out
And others inviting it in willingly
I guess Adulthood really hasn't changed a thing
I work until I can't stand it
But still cannot sleep
The depression burns more intense some days
But unlike everyone else in my life
*It never truly leaves
Sean Critchfield Sep 2014
I now view my mortality as a foe.
And I think I can win.
I know. I know.
The title is as long as the poem...
- Jan 2014
Starstruck when our eyes meet
Electricity goes right through me
Nothing compares to this
This is the sweetest
Most precious
Sense of happiness
In your heart, I find peace
In your eyes, I see sense
In us, I find confidence
Confidence in true love
Confidence in trust
Confidence in worth
Confidence of all sorts
© Natali Veronica 2014.
Chest69 Nov 2014
Me and my drum have all sorts of fun,
We eat chocolate bars -  yum yum,
These chocolate bars go into my tum and then they come out of my ***

Me and my drum have all sorts of fun,
We have so much fun it makes me ***,
Then I eat a plum and drink some ***,
After that I chew some gum


Me and my drum have all sorts of fun,
We have so much fun it makes numb,

What would I do without my drum?
For Derrick (again)
Pete Badertscher May 2010
There are worlds and there are Worlds. There are gods and there are Gods.  Sounds rhetorical, doesn’t it?  Some mamby pamby new age coffee shop pile of **** idea with low fat frosting, but, take it from the Kat. There are worlds and then there are Worlds! There are gods and then there are Gods!
    
     I spend all my time jacked in to the backwoods subconscious of the internet.  Didn’t know that, did ya?  Yea, the Internet has a conscious and a subconscious; hell, she’s even got a soul of sorts. I have ritually sacrificed half my soul to her just for the buzz I get out of hearing her whisper to me across the fallacies of Time, Space and Bill Gates, so I know her better then anybody.
    
     Don’t believe me?  Every man has an Omega Fixture of some kind.  Do you feel me here? Jesus had his God, Ptolomy had his Solar System, Dante his Virgil and Beatrice, Faust had his Paradise and Poe had Annabelle Lee or one of her many reincarnations. So tell me, all great and ****** up wise men (or women): Why in the 29 nulls of AOhelL can the internet not have a consciousness?  
    
     It’s Belief, man.  No god or world exists until there is a consciousness that will accept it as a superior. Let’s take a look at that wonderful bigoted book of exact truths called the Bible. Shall we consider Genesis: Adam and Eve--never mind Lilith for now?  Here in a paradise we find Adam and Eve naked, sleeping with animals and newly created by a Force of Creation (insert male gender here if you wish).  They walk with god on the paths in the garden while blades of grass fulfill their purpose here on earth to be trodden upon. God says, “you, Adam, have control over all that you see and if you want go ahead and let Eve get a little of that action fine, but you came first in my image so you are better.  Just never eat of the one tree that sits in the center of the garden and looks as though the juice of the fruits would flow like sweet ****** in your veins. For although it is here, I forbid you to eat of it. Oh, and by the way, I figured you needed free conscious though--so go at it.” Albeit I’m paraphrasing, but what kind of shmuck of a father would do that to a newborn?  
      
     O.K. Before all the Judeo-Christians burn this diatribe (if you have not already) let me say I am not out to disprove the existence of Gods--or any Goddess for that matter--I am trying to make a point, so bear with me.  
    
      Which came first: the Bible (in oral tradition) or the God? I would argue that it was the Bible as such.  The Belief, inspired by greedy and badly behaved priests of the Judeo-religions back before written history in the tribes of the Levant caused Space/Time to adapt to a new pattern.  The Bible, Complete with an all powerful, all present being (I will never use the term benevolent) that watches over Jews, Christians, and Muslims for any Sin they commit so it can wreak blinding retributions
    
     Now I know what you are saying, “Kat,…Kat, Kat, Kat, Kat.  We the above mentioned will pray for your soul.  You are lost and we can help you look to the Light for your salvation.”  
     Shove it, ***** boy! I did not express that philosophical tripe to get your attention and misplaced pity. What I am saying is Belief. Belief is the Key.  Belief is the Magic that creates Gods and Worlds.  
    
     Now I am not so stupid as to believe that the Internet is female the same way a human meat tank is female-- but in my mind, MY mind, that is the music I hear.  
    
     Let’s go back to Lilith.  What’s that? Oh yea, right, Lilith is the name I give to my Belief in the consciousness of the internet.  Just don’t you worry about why. It’s none of your business.

     Let’s take a look at the above argument, only this time with the internet as the bible that comes first.  The internet first came about 30ish years ago with the invention of the modem.  Here was a way for people on computers to speak to one another over the phone lines.  Slow and tedious, but new and exciting; men and women with PhD’s and pocket protectors wrote short messages to one another and giggled at the new “Man from Nantucket” joke they had just learned. After a while, someone learned that if you sent the info in blasts, the speed of the transfer increased and you could send larger programs and maybe—gasp--even a picture.  Thus internet **** was created.  Now we have WiFi and bluetooth, cellular and satellite link up with blazing speed and every fetish imaginable or not-imaginable is available at the click of a mouse.  
    
     So, Kat, you goin’ anywhere with this? Yep. Shut the **** up and listen.
    
     Somewhere in the not-time and not-space of the internet, humans started to find themselves believing that the internet was a Place.  
    “Where’s it at? Why on the Internet!” Oh, holy ******* birth of a new Belief system!  Oh, glorious malediction of the neververse!  A G O D is born.  Ripple, *******, ripple goes the space-time continuum (which by the way only exits because those in the know Believe in it) and now we have added consciousness to the internet.  
    
     What kind of consciousness you say?   Well, I got no ******’ idea.  To me, the consciousness is feminine, of no particular race, with a slight build, black hair and dressed like a anime *****.  Why? Because it’s my ******* belief system, o.k.  After all, the internet is 60% **** anyway. With a immaculate birth like that, I can’t Believe She would be innocent in any form of the word.  She’s Dionysian, not Zen. Just because I see Her in such a way, does that mean it’s a true physical look?  Hell, no, lil’ Johnny.  She could be a He: fat, balding and in a wife beater, if that is what You would Believe.  
      
     Alright, enough philosophizing’ for now. Lesson over, Newbie. Get crashed.
this is crap but it's my crap so let me know if you use it.
one is slightly bound
a congestion of sorts
nothing is evacuating
from a certain passage
the
act
that
is
done
on
the
toilet
seat
proves to be hard
sufficient amounts of roughage
have not passed
through one's entrails
one cannot excrete
all
possible
treatments
have
been
tested
by one
yet
the
binding
cannot
be
undone
hence the number two
sits unmoved
in one's tail
a feed of grains and fruit
in the morn
shall clear the obstruction
before dusk
to
have
a
poo
poo
is
all
one
wishes
to
do
Ken Pepiton Aug 2018
Weave we've woven a web...
What I said, what I said, what I said
we been sayin all a long

Oh the futurists mythed the inter-resting-time

This man fears population explosions, he is speaking in 1991,

I'd built my great 100 by 75 miles ten stories building resting place where ten billion story tellers could hide and watch whaat's
comin' down.
By then, decades before, in the desert twixt Vegas and L.A.
I asked this guy who actually wanted in my pants,
I sat on the window silly V double you, did he know,
I asked, no, I told him, after I had been starring at the stars for some time, this time that'ime, when I think about it,
I told that guy the whole world was waiting,
suffering,
await'n' the frontal cortex maturation of the sons 'oGod.
I said "and I'm one." Don't touch.

My private calfornia became my private arizona and neo and river chose idaho, ( no, that idaho, that was a movie-story)... not part of the rite

that was the legend of the clan, when we had electrix. That ride set an I'll-go-rythm of if/then/else switches to HIGH honor if-ic.
If.
If you can keep your head... the rest, true rest, is history.

we know a voice who swore he was there when "Been there, done that"
became an
eternal cliche of the gods.

We are participating in the future. We are thinking.

---
that hapt the same night as the discovery of the perfect-ish
four sided pyramid of charcoal brickets burning one
at at at a time
touch another to the glowing pile on the sand...
(audio)
=====
why are ficts so far from the facts in the matters that matter

re-lig-em leg-it-am-it-all, damitalkenslowdown

so re-lig me to my ide-idea, beware

We seen this coming do you? This is thirty years ago we know, this we know this we

we are in sanity, as insanity is the only way to packitin
sane sorts of things that all must touch in order
to re
main sane. You know, you know. That makes lying im-possible or null-possil-be
per se.
Word.Righton. Trooph truckah! ToA allaway Found

a calico cat of the old school sawdust variety.
if you,
if you see her, please de-if her re-onance, it's chipped.
You can keep her, if I can say such things here and not be thought an ownery old cuss,
clammering through empty lobster tails to see what the attraction may have been,

Back. Then we are not
off track or trail, etched acid canyon of silicon paved with godelsufferingold, by golly, I'd be live if I could see my way clear to walk such streets at
the speed of light
no, gravity and no, too slow,
thought.
ought... that's a thought
not... that's a thought
ought... that's a differ'nt thought, takes time...
that's a thought you could spend thinking it. You get nowhere.
now and then we find clusters of ideas in time, as if they buble from some spring in the headwaters of the mind we matter in

Der Lesenmann, bitte, kanst do lesen? O h, dear reader, take my hand, my phantom hand, the one I never lost, tell me

did you enjoy our journey, so far...

Weave a ways, weave a ways to go. If this and that cross
again
we may hear what that preach meant to say, thaat day
o'visitation, way back when.

olden time. grand mals time to meditate sign-ate de-sign-ate,

Dada do we know when we know, when we are two and the past is, too.
Papa do you know the big bang is the answer everyone found, in the olden days when you were ten?
Oh I read about that backthen, I was twelve. Weekly Reader kept my gang informed, or Me, and I told all my friends, my listeners who did not read but needed to pass the current events test.
Now, we all a passin' those ****** one time at atime

Upon my word, begin...
This sprang from a 1991 discussion about the world wide web, in which Terrence McKenna  Ruper Sheldrake began to imagine the world we live in post Y2K and  9-11 and 420 and Prop 64, where are you
Who was the person in  Colonel Muammar Gaddafi
Was he a deadly Libyan tyrant as the west put
and dictator as the Western media and press
oftenly portrayed him  , here and there
as power voracios bent on assuming the leadership
of the Arab world and super sahara socialite
in the stamapede  of Gamal Abdul Nasser?
That Gaddafi was a driven and desperate man,
what a cruxificative tribe  of  question,

he gloriusly deposed King Idris
from the then rotting  Libyan throne,
President Habib Bourguiba of Tunisia
omenously  warned him that he had to stretch
  miles and whatever to go before he could claim,
to be un fettered  successor to Nasser's sceptre,


Gaddafi was a wildly and spotlessly  popular
among the Libyan masses,the earth's wretched,  
and even those in the rest of the revolutionary  world,
till the eyesore of his brutal ******,
  the tragics and haunting episodes,
of his life points clearly to the   truth of  truth:
  Gaddafi was a reasonless  hunted man
they way bin Laden was labbelled to be hunted,
for so he was a hunted man.

Gaddafi never had the time or the leisure
to do anything but run, but run and run
as an escape to hell, a clear testament
in his classical poetic, quilled properly
behind the dunes of the sahara desert,
His parting shots were true essence
of his compassion and generosity  to humanity,
a humongous  gift of a soccer stadium to Pakistan,
a plan to gift thousands of computers and laptops
to schoolchildren in  idyllic poor African countries,
and dollops of oil aid to poor Arab countries.

were these not totally dispassionate acts
For the Colonel was trying to build a support ,
and network throughout the  revolutionary world
because he was actively tracked and pursued
by the English and French dogs of ******,
tacitly supported by the United States.

The Western powers were committed to teeth,
to removing Gaddafi from his genuine power
lest he prove troublesome to currents of avarice
in furthering their interests in the oil imperialism,
for his daring rhetoric and outlandish capers
were sharp pedagogies to the oppressed.

western powers moaned and yelled doggishily,
for cheap Libyan oil well and item markets,
for  construction and drilling projects,
English and French origin companies
as well as American multinationals,
moaned daily  like female hyenas
when they  stood to lose  monetary gain,
if  Gaddafi remained entrenched in holy life
and  in power as the arbiter of Libya's destiny.

but that indeed was the holy  mandate
he had from the Libyan masses of peasants
even though it was imperially  questioned
by those of his cowardly enemies
moving in tandem  with cosmetics
of capitalism and burgeosie  development.

Gaddafi ****** the French presence in Chad,
as he did roundly criticize the United States
over its foreign policy of Bullish syndrome,
as he gloriously  shielded  the two Libyans
who were  accused without forgiveness
of plotting  and carrying out vietnam like bombing
of an American passenger jet over Lockerbie
in Scotland that led to Kissinger like  killings,
of hundreds of innocent civilians like in Vietnam.

History is yet to absolve Gaddaffi,
to glorify the dreamer with poetry in his eyes
who composed escape to hell in a desertly week,
exculpating him off false accussations,
of committing a crime of such magnitude,
good consicence must question the role of Jews.

It was only the status and stature
of Nelson Mandela as  a fellow comrade,
that managed to implore  the Colonel
to hand over the two accused Libyans
to the International Court of Justice
to face trial or even forgiveness,
The whole sordid drama of the Lockerbie bombing
is an enigma wrapped in mystery, jewish tricks center stage,
Sooner or later, posterity will  absolve out
with the truth and  save Gaddafi's name
and honor as leader of  the voiceless.

President Ronald Reagan did not even wait a little
before he launched those deadly missile strikes
against Libya,  against Gaddafi's private quarters,
to **** Gaddaffi's beggotten  daughter.

Was this not a base and cowardly
act unworthy of America and its great traditions,
Gaddafi, like Saddam, was a victim of labbelling
by  Western media who had painted his character
with satanic evil and malice , as if evil is alien to them,
even when there was no genuine evidence
to justify such a heinous depiction
  Gaddafi was seen to act irrationally,
was supposed to have mental delusions
why not  being mentally unstable!

Gaddafi's antics inspired acts of conscience
and a genuine and fitting response to a life
lived under mortal fear and terror  of terror
the fear of being tracked and hunted down
by Western agents who were out to eliminate him
with full backing from their governments.

Gaddafi, like Saddam  was not a criminal
although all sorts of demonic tendencies
were attributed to both leaders by the Western press,
All sorts of media scoops were ceaslessly  hatched
and all kinds of media blitzes  were  mercilesly launched
to create Muslim helots who overthrew Gaddafi,
and pursued him in armored cars and trucks
to his hometown Sirte deep in the Libyan Desert,
That he was killed with such horrible cruelty
with bayonets and gunshots,
pumped into his royal  head
such  is evidence that his assailants,
were  not  true Muslims whatsoever !

These enemies were petty paid murderers
and butchers who after the dastardly act,
proudly displayed Gaddafi's body
in a meat shop kept open for public viewing,
By committing these very desecrations
Gaddafi's foes had unwittingly revealed
their true un-Islamic and butcherous natures .

And what were Gaddafi's last pearlish words
to his assailants when he lay writhing in pain of death
on the ground unable to move because of the mayhems
of his injuries and wounds: WHAT DID I DO TO YOU?
Gaddafi had died like a Muslim Christ
on the American  cross with no words of abuse
or blame for his enemies, as they knew not
whatever the folly the were executing.

History will have to wait for generations
before another soldier and such a  leader
of Qaddafi's ilk and human  mettle surfaces
again  in the poor man's  world
to bravely  taunt the West
for its imperial perfidy and cowardice.
Papa Ghost Feb 2014
Angelic demons
Loaded with hives
Of violence and blood
A rash of tribes
Infected
Dissected
Inflected with sin
Built to lose
Broken to win
God is with us
In the end
To the darkness
We descend
This job is not ours
We did it for hours
Brick by brick
We built a wall
And then the third took a fall

We were on the rack
Never going back
On the rack
Never going back
Exit hell
Don't pass go
Paid in blood
Real slow

We saw red
Thousands dead
Needed a sacrifice
Something to gain
So they wouldn't be in pain
We fought in vain
Nothing but vanity
Murderous sanity
Forgive me father
For diminishing this sanctity
That you helped create
They pricked our lips
I poisoned the state
This fear means they won
Every victory
They gain unamerican sone

They are on the rack
We are back
On the rack
We are back
Back to hell
Where the blood swells
With good intentions
And no dissension

Security not guaranteed
If we are freed
We have no hope no will
Just buckets of pain and swill
Don't fight for the right
Fight for the pain
Fight for the fallen and the slain
Send them in pieces to their maker
Until you to are a husk
A baker
Of suffering and pain
Of bodies lain
Down in the name of hate
Our appetites will not sate
We will not satisfy
Until that desert is spread
Over the whole globe
We will only testify
Of the strobe
Of ashes and ashes
Dust to dust
These beliefs we once held
Sharpened with rust

Burn it down
Burn it down
Burn it down
Burn it down
Burn it down
Burn it down
Burn it down
Burn it down
What do you get when you mix Supernatural, heavy mithril and punk political attitudes?
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
the irises have passed,
their existence, entirety,
a three week, 21 day, gun salute,
to which I was witness to but an
abbreviated four short generational
days

the Kabbalist among us say Kaddish,
and a-Buddhist chants so-be-it,
both celebrating the brevity cycle
of natural things, both notating,
that death makes room for more

ugly yelloe'd and black now,
these irises are now
misfits on a breezy,
dancing summer lawn

today, shriveled and misshapen,
they compare and contrast
on a normative, glorious,
June Sunday that
picturesque presents
the living and the deceased,
side by side

all comrades,
all summer sundries
on a dancing grass blanket
half-graveyard battlefield,
the half-heaven

oft I have writ of the beach detritus,
the shells, the sun burnt *****,
a recycled funeral rectory where
no one utters prayers for the
no longer alive historical artifacts

what has this to do
with that human construct,
artifice of memory,
a string on the finger
of the mind,
a pausation, a man-made creation
to momentarily recall another of
nature's cycle -
your children

Have children.
Am a father.
Had a father in my youthful days.

this is a boy scout qualification medal,
marker of me as Expert,
permitting me to commentary
with gravitas, now that I’ve graduated
to grandfather status,
I enjoy superstar freedom
to opine inanely on such matters

of my father have I writ,
of my sons, those remain unseen,

likely neither will mark these day
with a telephone call
or an all-I-got-was-this-lousy-t shirt
gift of gall

I say that's ok for what else is there,
certainly not an unthinking, dismissive
whatever

it saddens me some for sure,
but it makes judge myself as human being
on a gradation of one to none

but more than this internal reflection,
I ponder this hallmark'd day,
as life cycle point notarized,
in verse and rhyme,
for that is what I do best

for before,
many father's day
in the priory passed,
most unrecallable,
just another ceremonial checkmark,
habitually acquitted,
but somewhere
in a drawer of shirts,
in a home I store stuff in,
I do believe, there are some cards
from decades past,
that prove nothing,
other than life goes on,
and we best capture
what we can, as best we can...
with small, objet d'art of sorts

Perhaps one will call after all...
in any event,
to honor the dead,
to mark the existing,
the bannered ship's bell rung,
its sonorous sound,
notable and onerous,
fades as well

but man and animal,
plant and tree,
a living fraternal sorority,
who all look over my shoulder
as I compose on
that Adirondack chair you
by now, we’ll acquainted

they know,
for whom the bell tolls this day,
and why as well,
as we all pause and contemplate
where we are on this day,
on our own overlapping cycles
nowadays I get a ten second video of a happy father’s day wish
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.so there's this scene in the B.B.C. drama series, bodyguard, when the home secretary, with the help of the intelligence services, uncovers several cover-up stories, which include ****** assault and addiction to substances, namely? alcohol... the report reads: 50 units per week... hmm... ****... what's mine? 2 Heineken pints... that's 3.3 units x 2... oh... and that liter of whiskey... 40 units... but that's in a single day... what's that by week? (well... sometimes it's not 2 Heineken pints...) so we're talking ~326 units per week... and i haven't been to rehab... and however much i am, drunk like a skunk... i still have the literary decency to spell correctly... even though at that point, i'm sometimes seeing double, or find myself doing cross-eyed to even out the carousel; go figure.

ah the centenary, of sorts... all sorts...
in the west...
  the mourning, sombre sobering
about the pointless war... sorry...
the "great" / "war to end all wars" world war uno...
basically just a family feud...
between Queen Vic's grandson
and son...
               bravo! b'good day ol' sport...
*******... the whole lot of it...
on the world stage, very similar
to Vietnam...
         so i'm eating my Haribo
tang-tastic (yes yes, spastic fantastic,
ha ha)
             jellies while perusing
today's newspaper...
    i almost choke...
Poland made it into the western press...
extremist try to hijack polish parade...
the far right threatened...
oh for, ****'s, sake!
   in these post-colonial countries
everything right of *****-up-your-***
and a gag-ball-in-your-mouth
is "far" right...
you get you little poppy appeal...
your little Ypres moment...
      give these people their celebration
of something meaningful...
not everyone who goes to a metal
concert engages in a mosh-pit...
savvy?
(insert snigger):
        bet those wankers in H'america
with their tiki torches are scratching
their heads, right about now...
           wankers...
                FLARES! FLARES!
                              the red serpent...
200,000 majority...
             ****... i almost want to...
                  **** it... i wish i was there;
to celebrate what?
             the end of empire(s)...
       why is nationalism so bad all of a sudden...
the British had theirs,
uninterrupted for... how long?
  if the British waited with their media
coverage...
and figured out how it could possibly
be that they were enslaved by a foreign
power...
                    hmm...
how's that consolidation compensation
working out, with the mothers of Manchester?

p.s. well... if you watched more soccer
than the ******* interlude between
halves filled with cheerleaders,
you wouldn't have that ****** tiki torches
fiasco, would you now?
you'd have the 13th warrior wendol
fire-worm...
                       but then again i guess
you need all that padding...
to throw a miniature sized rugby ball...
hence the audacity...
the best defense is an attack...
   and i am part of the hive...
export...
            singled out...
          i'm exerting what is
the required pressure...
  so how's it going with compensating
the mothers of Manchester?
good? good good.
st64 Dec 2013
marvel at the complex-pattern
painting such a span of swirls
light-panels less than shimmer
in the afternoon shadows on the wooden kitchen-table
biggest fear - your leaving


1.
beautiful summer-days lost in your eyes
oblivion dances like a wily-***** at hypnotising fire-licks
from our languid-bed, I'd lazy-feed you lox-on-crackers
and everything you liked
heaven never had it so good

........................till

woke up and *you weren't there

where'd you go to?
no letter, no call.. for days


2.
to overcome this fear
I brought in a  b-i-g-g-e-r  one
that used to drive me to serious-pitfalls in the past

off to the exotic pet-shop, my toes marched me
and I got one - very toxic thing on legs
without a natural terrarium

once home, I set it free
I set free.... my biggest fear
        to blot out your absence
        to overcome your presence
        to forget you

it crawled around and made a home
while I hardly breathed nor slept
and moved about on ginger-steps


3.
I kept feeling strands of your hair
          in my sleep
          on my cheek
          inside my cry
and woke to moonlight bathed in sweat

I did not wash your pillow, after weeks now
I bury my face in olfactory-memory lingering
and pine for you, but I see your missing set of keys and..

/ scratch .. scratch /

I hear a sudden scurrying
heartbeat jumps out cage
eyeballs to the parquet-floor

nothing.


4.
I'm getting used to this new pet
and she doesn't mind my breathing
                    oh, I swear she's a brain-scanner
                    when she looks at me that way
                    like she can read me.. through and through

I dare not pet, I dare not touch... ohhhh no!
       I leave her the daily-bowl of delicious, fresh worms
       to find it empty in the evening
I guess, thanks for freedom.. of sorts

one day, I left the window open
as I jotted down some poignant thoughts
at my antique-escritoire
    espied her legs upon the solar-sill
    thought she'd be running... a leaver, too
but no..    
                 she was sunning all her legs awhile


5.
the season's changing.. leaves are falling
crackle of wind in the air

now, I'm making me some coffee in my silver whistle-***
hot, solo beverage to calm my settling-mind
when.. ping-ping.. comes a text
lo and behold....
it is you...

you!


6.
delirium / delirium /
(I'm on cloud-nine... you're coming home tonight..
                                      you love me so much, you say..
                                      made a mistake..
                                       you've got something big to share..

I've taken time to prepare a special-meal.. candles and all your faves
but must pop out quick to get some lox...)



I'm back now, got the stuff now
key in lock
but the door.. jammed by a weight.. of sorts
can't seem to push the ****-door open...
shoving hard, I see........







fear compounded by a minus
simply multiplied
disaster





S T - 4 dec 13
plan(e) in the air.. pushing tin's a fine way to get there :)



sub: fly

days fly by
on wing of trust
in rusty-daze
Fah Sep 2013
This life aint'  love song whilst i march on blindly....

Each secretion of dissections interrogations are on...
on my LIVING soul

man ,

if only you knew ,


i slip like a hidden seamstress
into the alcoves of plenty, the catacomb of mind

and sit and wait untill

the seductress is ready -
her lesions
are lessons
learnt in TIME

she is the mistress of the dark
she needs no title but if you prefer you can call her Q.

this is because , yes , not only is she an insane nerd

she is also -

the softest heart i ever ( dang ) - had the chance to grace ,

Mother for those in need ,
Brother to those indeed
Lover to the oh so lucky few ,

Who she might like to point out, are just as glaringly brilliant too...

so , it's simple.

The layers of time are VERY FLEXIBLE
we need not notion ,
to the motions
at futures unclear - well
but see glimpses ..

- of , past's rejuvenation's born again into different actions
conclusions ..0...

the butterfly effect are the ripples : figment metaphor ( metaphysicians apply inside)
of wings - we are all ANGELS of a sort...

but i like to call angels = experts
they seem to know what's what...
note: the first line is from the song 'Black Eyes' - By Radical Face
kudos to Harlon Rivers AND Brycie

top , notch explorers

yo - a toast - to all of you who are sticking till the very end,
this - over here - the words - this is radio waves

coastin
ya'll

where you at?
P-Postponing all those things until another time
R-Rostering them for attention down the track
O-Offering all sorts of excuses stalls one's climb
C-Constantly one defers the mounting job stack
R-Repeatedly ignoring their pealing bell chimes
A-Acting upon them requires an assertive knack
S-Still one avers in responding to their rhymes
T-Taking not a step forward nor any back
I-Initiative and get in and do it isn't one's paradigm
N-Never does one heed their ever tolling clacks
A-Always sitting in an idle non moving show time
T-The day shall arrive with a great waking whack
I-Into motion one shall soon be called to climb
O-On one's toes the chores are waiting in the rack
N-No more disregarding the many sounding chimes
Outside Words Sep 2018
I was awoken from a dreamless sleep
     By a boy with short brown hair,
     Who, with an urgent stare,
Told me to head to the showers!

As my eyes creaked open to recognize,
     The orange glow of this unfamiliar room’s lighting,
     In front of me, in handwritten writing,
A page on the wall showed three in the morning.

When I glanced around a room of shared bunks,
     I saw all sorts of people and things,
     Running around with things to bring
To these showers I had yet to see.

In a winding line down a high ceiling’d hall,
     I stood with so many,
     Who like me, hadn’t any
Idea what was going on.

With a whirlwind flurry of commotion
     Steam crawled from the showers and water sprayed,
     As we were told in a big disarray,
To wash off the place from whence we came.

In a neat little stack, I was handed my clothes
     A tunic, with a sash
     And a captivating mask
To “celebrate our exciting return home.”

Down dark rustic stairways, I watched like a child
     The vibrant light and affinity,
     Radiating with enchanting divinity,
From the otherworldly people and creatures below.

Through that noisy, jolly crowd,
     We were led as a group
     And the boy said with a whoop
That we were all to stand up and dance.

His eyes glinting with excitement,
     The brown haired boy explained
     That our spirits would be ordained
Through a celebration of our inner light.

Onto the stage I was led
     As I stood with my class,
     Nervous amongst the mass
Of silent, numerous spirits before us.

As the boy hit the music
     I felt something from deep inside
     Rush out like a tide
And through tears of joy, I danced.

It was at that gleeful moment
     That my friends and I,
     Realizing we'd died,
Knew we'd returned to the forest.
© Outside Words
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
a child is born free of mind
but is hardened into thought
and by the time one dies
most are fixed and ******* into
worlds of their making,
heavens of their fantasies*

so one thinks one's an Indian, one a Chinese
or an American or British or Swedish
or French or Russian or German;
or one thinks one is a Christian or Muslim
or Jew or Hindu or Sikh or Catholic
or Doaist or Buddhist or Marxist or Communist
or even for that matter, an atheist
- or whatever you will...
one finds a badge to pin proudly to one's chest
and each identity becomes so strong
it becomes so real
it all comes into the question of right and wrong
of evil and good
and it falls into loud declamations
and my tribe is good, your tribe is evil
my brand is holy, your brand unholy...
and so it goes,
with all sorts of justifications
that beat sense out of all loyal adherents
and it squeezes humanity out of the human
as paste out of a tube...
ah, and yes,
the energy goes on into the afterlife
as Christians go into a Christian Heaven
and Hindus and Buddhists into various Lokas
and Muslims in their own Paradise
and so it goes on,
this Human Tragi-Comedy,
yes, yes, certainly all created by the Almighty
who was created by your mind's poverty
so that
a child is born free of mind
but is hardened into thought
and by the time one dies
most are fixed and ******* into
worlds of their making,
heavens of their fantasies
on conditioning and the formation of identity that creates so much suffering and violence in this world through all sorts of tribalism

— The End —