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Lux
Those who were marginalized by the braids and serpentine lights, devotions were made in San Juan allowing electromagnetic discharges from the imperceptible space-time of Vernarth's parapsychological quantum; alluding to clarities that achieved everything by having Patmia in the material and incorporeal from the start of the stained glass windows and archetypes by Transfer Quantum that burned the chins of hominids who believed to be immortal as if they were looking in this position for the direction between the eyebrows and the chin , for the Euclidean incidence crossing all the pools that are between quantum means of transfer of ions and cations. The oscillations of the sparkling field of consciousness of the containers were of ethical variables that became perpendicular to the space of draft or levitation of the designations that originated with accelerated electric charges on Patmos, developing albiceleste skylights over the harmonic equations as they elongated in proportions of quanta that They argued greater than those that circulated elliptically from Grikos to Skalá, and then to Profitis with assiduous progenitors of long-wave quanta. The magnificence of the halo became rectilinear up to the high altar that was atomized from the unskillful penumbra to reabsorb the inclinations of physical life in the Macedonians and the Achaemenides when they were trapped by the loss on the propagation of the Lux, which was imposed in hemicycles where they were they reclined to relax in the lux of rest of the path of the reasoning that made pederasty in the links with the minuscule obtuse lights, reeling from the clothing and its finite speed of what measures the ability to be undetermined in the margins of error of the antagonists when originating flow rates, greater in his dermis to regenerate towards any other that could be clothing of greater speed.

Thus was the scenario of dimensional magnitude between the powers that did not have contact, but their dimensionless energies on a surface that reached absorbent to the one that rectifies the concretive of the error that partially abused them. Their legacies would pass to a supplementary electromagnetic plane, separating their masses and retaking orientation from where they returned, where if the ideal of the final rational was refracted where everything would be vivid darkness. The obstacles classified them in the closure of the average height and the average surface, to then redirect to the maximum height and maximum surface propagating in irregularities of the Ego "Believing that they were never overcome in the diffuse perception of the metal mirror." The incident rays of the Lux would go to meet the multi-incident plane of the Mashiach, the wave angles were refracted throughout the sinuous law as radiosity passed over the greater mass that was normalized from the tangent that was projected 180 meters above the eyebrow. and Vernarth's chin, along with the recharged electromagnetic strengths of Alexander the Great's reactivation bezels, which at times seemed to levitate over the Lux's high frequencies and vary independently with its crowded functionalities, among scattered restraints that it presented to both weightless behind. from the decayed marble sawdust, separating from its phosphorescence that bounced between the rigging of solid surfaces and semi-solid ones, when realizing that the sea and the silica were confessed to the Pronoia of Delphi. Inducing Vernarth for the first time into a Pronoia versology on the Athena of Delphi, prompting them to separate from the world and it's holistic to divide into three portions of the dissociation of consciousness from the end of the Lux of Parapsychology, which had hosted them for centuries and centuries. . The Pronoia conspiracy systematized the reaction that would reunite them after this oracular parapsychology, making the adversaries believe that they were discrepancies of clinical parapsychology, equating warlike causes in the containment of Delphic neuroscience. From this quantification, the predominance of Vernarth's Lux de Pronoia was announced, linking peculiar segmentation of submit logical historicity in this work as a starting thesis, which speculates the same for those who have to make an analysis of historical dogmatic imperialism as a justification for mythological normality. The Lux thesis aimed to show that the dimensions of the mythology and the submitology, when exposed in physical quanta, made a tendency of irresolution in the abode of spiritual Tractatus reasoning and not in the instinctual one, which watches over recitals where history and its collective memory indicate outbursts of moderation. The role of the submithology  is to pretend that this normality is made close to the instruction after yours temporary for causes of your deep patrimonial, that makes them captives from the social complexity, with the disambiguation of certain criteria by maximizing the hidden truth of the ascending opposition forces that they have generated great conflagrations, intuition being the unreflective pseudo-reality with historical formalities that stumble into the terrified directionality of the myth that was to be reality. The tiny spaces of the verve left by the silent mechanics of the Persians became defensive when they saw their emissaries incoherently in the verticality of Allah when they saw that the confusing world with anxiety exaggerated predictions and failures invulnerability of a lineage that always had. been condemned to the desert.

Everything conspired with a Pronoia of siege, before the exegesis that sought purification and that was how they headed and misdirected their mistakes in the active train of the recess of their abstracted retreat, in a universe that also abandoned them after the subsequent train of Aurion waking them in their illusions with swords, and stealthy spears in dreams that specified safe rest. The ferocities of the proto-souls of assault carried away the translucent bodies of the Persians, and the Hellenes in acts of honor made such congenital paths of the understandable vocabulary that he did not speak. The prism was located in the cautious measure of its contractile dispersion with white separations of mantles, earth, and water scalded by dynamics that formed colorful activations with their withdrawal phenomena in the immaculate albino Lux that dissolved all of the facet optics that it made. Lux's great brain in the instant that the Thuellai airs transfigured the nuances of the Atros monastery, with objects that refused to be absorbed by the black hue, generating mechanical waves of equivalence in their identical interference that caused two opposing forces to distill the coherent differential that had to be overexposed in the category of historical Submitology. The two inverted waves separated, the Hellenes moaned and hiccupped for having to become identical when separating from their immaterial bodies, doing wonders that would house additional souls that would complement a transitory becoming towards the garden of the angels that provided them with identical beams of light, interfering in what animated the lights of pageantry, with the antithesis of interference where they resided in constancy knowing that they felt possessed of benefits of the eternal length of existence, but with pressures of mutable in some involuntary constancy and amplitude of having parallel directions with Saint John the Apostle and the Siblis. The phenomenon of polarization of both empires was denatured in a transverse way in all the electric fields after this feat, inciting unique fields of the pure and selective ascending ecosystem, which generated polaroid substances at the angle of ninety degrees above the browbones and chin of Vernarth, to approach the Pronoia of concatenation with Alexander the Great refracting unscathed hyper-vital and transcendent faces of infinity. Like any other phenomenon, the Lux crossed both bodies like two Xiphos swords that processed the electromagnetic valve, by iridium that converted with all the coarse Lux that crossed the succumbed immateriality and stopped the shaft and the nail that hang in the typology of electromagnetic radiation from the Hellenic world between them, making an ominous redemptive fire that was regimented to leave them both in the middle of a farm where there were farmyard animals, stockpiled pastures and a house that absorbed them as parents who would love them as beings of Lux. Thus, this primary parapsychological quantum network penetrated the level of the archangels that made them be together in planes of manumission, and that does not admit bi-quantum personality or bi-parapsychology that can cancel out the portent of the helmets and the lineage that does not dazzle if they are not made of iron.

The life of the other world began to be encompassed in all the Subtraigus beings that would correspond to the astral plane that was confirmed after the Kalidona Romantics deduced the Unicorn Uilef or Uilef Monókeros after Pronoia. Kalidona being an uninhabited island and the Uilef sleeps in between copulating with Spinalonga and Kolokythas along with other smaller islets, plus two hundred that will make up six islands of the twenty-six tetragram of Alef. Here Drestnia went with her consort of Etréstles from the Koumeterium of Messolonghi to find fateful encounters of Pantheism based on the majestic copulation of beauty, among twenty-six numbers that prevailed in virtuosos who took refuge in Kalydon or Kalidona, preparing for their rampage with grafted grotesque derived bodies of the Falangist Hellenes who were arranged of their musculature, so that they directed the finesse of the civility of Hesiod, Terpando, Archiloco, Baquílides, tragic like Etréstles, Aeschylus Sophocles, Euripides and comedian like Aristophanes.
Lux
Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
Shut your bloodshot eyes
Release your tight fists
Take a deep breathe
And come to your senses

No not sight
Not hearing either
Neither taste nor touch
But something more

A gut feeling
Instincts
Emotions
Instinct

Listen to your heart
And your unconscious mind
Thoughts can betray you
Or can they aid you

There it is again the question
The quandary that’s reoccurring within me
Do I go on emotion or thought?
Feeling or thinking

If I close the door the room shall implode
But I want the door shut
Maybe threes a way
Can’t talk it out

The volume turns up
The blood boils and my nerves percolate
Howling obscenities then hyperventilate
Striding in a cloud of lust searching for an outlet to release my demons

The walls shake
The sound bouncing off of them
Tears fall to the floor
Bonds are broken

The table does 360 in the air
Who had done that I have no idea
I am grabbed
No way

Fighting and grappling slamming against the walls
Pulling screaming
Punching

Pushed into the door
Push through the TV
Runs to the phone
To alert the police

Cast out
Forced to leave
Out in the streets
Presenting to the neighborhood our dysfunctionality

A heated punch to the car
A bone broken
A bridge burned
I walk away

I sit on the curb
To catch my breath
To calm down
3 cops pull up

Hot and ready to bust some heads
Firing questions
Ulterior motives are obvious
I can see their 2nd face

They come as friends and open ears
The tale is told
And their friendly aura disintegrates
And they treat me as a criminal

Putting me down
Talking down
Looking down
I spit at them

No respect
Talk to me as if I was a human
An equal
Not some animal

Come back to earth
You say the same thing
You think I’m on mars
But you’re all the way on Neptune
And I’m right here on a curb in a suburb
Of the county of Bergen

Or were both lost
Deep in the Milky Way
Neither is right
Let’s agree to disagree

My hands busted
My family’s torn
My girls crying
I fall

This is where going on emotion got me
There was no thought
And if there was it was evil
And spiteful

I begin to think
Using logic
Reasoning with all that occurred
I’m caught between the two

Can’t have one without the other
In all decisions
Over thinking
Over emotional

Balance
Balance is key
the rain sifts through my attempts
to grasp it with mere hands:
one cannot understand
without going through its constant
shift and change of faces.
As to another, one learns
to ask the right questions,
naturally, at the opportune time.
Like in all things
Every conversation
Which pass through us
Were never truly there.
Those that do stay are bereft
of meaning.

What remains often
is the damp, moistness
of the late -ber month showers:
regret, loss, a tactless remark.
They share the same fate in all
of this, the slow, uptake for words:
closure, a second chance, a bad joke
like the heavy traffic we always have
to endure - a cartload heavy
-laden with stockpiled souvenirs
with no particular use except
for reminiscing, a flickering hope
for the last bus ride home.

One day, you will
miss all of this.
And the only thing
that is left to endure,
is memory.

14 October 2017
* *Special Thanks to Jeffrey Pua for convinving me Romantic Love is still important in writing.*
*(*There you go, I have learned well from the Kuya Ruping, I have made my intentions clearer while maintaining an arm's length persona - as usual.)*
- I write from my Rain Poems' Voice, similar to my persona in "grasslands", Storm Surge and The Question of Rain
bleh Nov 2014
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barometric tendrils
psuedo-random and hybrid sets
growing like ivy in the clutches of time
such a
           chocking
                   but actualising
    grasp

..huh? what?
oh yes! sorry, sorry
come in, come in,
                       ..you know,
I too, once, like how you are now,
was here too
                          so
                                 very
                                            very
                                                       present.
Aha! Oh yes!
Permit me a mock stifled cry of ostentatious self derision,
'hee hee hee'
aaaaaahhh..
I really was pitiful back then.
seeing you there now, I feel oh so whimsical and overcome
with
ahem
sorry.
..dank and musty cellars,
    hashish and a can of beans.
(baked, not fried, -we were really naive enough to believe that?- )
had it all back then though, didn't we?
By which I mean we had nothing,
but the conviction
that obligation was something that actually meant something
rather than a Cryptocurrency in a Ponzi scheme,
                                                            (with a slice of lemon)
confidence intervals stockpiled in the stocks of confidence men.
Derivative markets
oh, so very much so
                        so very
                            derivative
                                  idiomatic
                                        and *******
                                              asinine.  

..Still, it does harken to its era, doesn't it?
'detached and disposable.'
toothpicks
limbs
ideals
all that
goodness!
I was supposed to be offering advice, wasn't I?
Interpolate up some mediated conjecture.
But the kids can look after themselves just fine, can't they?
So our fiscal policy seems to think;
'I wager we shear up the youth
to buy shares in implementing youth wages.'
sorry, I guess it's an antiquated complaint,
“think of the children!” , they say?
Can't they see,
the whole **** market's aimed at the proto-teens??
we do it all for them the little snots.
laissez faire welfare
hedge or double down?
A shrubbery?
Or a bacon butty with bread as ****** chicken and cheese?
(I just vomited in my mouth a little,
(how pastiche))

See, and people ask why I’m trapped in the past;
the future's got me car sick.
and honestly
we're just brimming with history
(the scourge of post-modernity)
like a black moss spewed on the walls
Poisoning visions and Rheumatic fever
tearing up our lovely
lovely
pacified
pay and display
psuedo
proto
posterity
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Mike Bergeron Oct 2012
The last drops have been swallowed,
And the last vestiges
Of post-wage labor
Libationary sorrow
Swagger slowly off
Into the night
Across cracked pavement
Like slugs after rain.
I pick up the chemtrail
Left by my father
And follow it to
A makeshift master suite
Wedged between a
Rundown groundskeeper
Shed and the unkempt
Wilderness beside the
Desolate bike path
In rural Seekonk.
The rest of this comatose
Town in this overdosed
Commonwealth
Are separated
By enough trees
And undergrowth
And small
Night creatures
Calling to each other
In the dark
That they can't hear
The nightly
Rattle of .38
Rounds my father
Sends flying into the trees.
The pistol was my
Grandfather's,
Brought over from France
In 1947.
My father cries
As he pulls the trigger
Over and over
Sporatically,
Like a Sung Tong,
His eyes wild,
Darting side to side
In milky blue trails
Back and forth
And up and down
Across the dark
Chasms of his
Eye sockets.
When the chambers
Of his firearm
Run dry he fills them
From the box
He took from my basement,
In his old house,
Where he stockpiled
Ammunition for
Twenty two years.
I've learned to stand east
Of my father when
I make the visits
Expected of children
When their parents
Are old and trapped
In the recesses of
Their insanity
Or nursing home
Or empty nest,
Because he always
Aims west.
I wait for tonight's
Box to be empty,
Then slowly walk
To where my father
Is huddled,
Clutching the pistol
Like a teddy bear.
He is breathing heavy,
And has **** himself.
He hears me coming,
Turns, and smiles
Upon recognition.
"I got em good mikey,
Got good, not taking
My land from ME
Mickey, never going
Blow south,
See it?"
I pull the pistol I've
Brought from my waistband,
The one my father,
Gregory Bishop,
Gave me on my
Eighteenth birthday.
The weight in my hand
Is deafening,
The illegal ivory
Is seamless
And cold against
My palm.
I raise my arm,
Aim,
And pull the trigger.
Railroad tracks along the Keystone Line
Gleamed with a copper luster under light
From the Dog Star and the solstice moon.

Those slivers of metal became more valuable
After they were squished by the weight of train cargo
And blessed by the red light of the railroad crossing.

The coins we minted weren’t trinkets
We could spend at the general store.
They didn’t belong to the government.
We created a currency for our neighborhood.

We stockpiled them in mason jars,
Traded them for boyhood commodities,
And made necklaces for our girlfriends.

I can’t say when the others cashed out.
Maybe it was the day they started earning
Bigger coin in the mines and the mills.

I walk the tracks at night, searching for the
Cents we lost beneath the splintered ties.

There is a rusty coffee can in my garage
Filled with distorted faces and Lincoln memorials.
I recognize those weathered shapes
Better than my friends’ faces
This is a poem from a small collection I publish last year. If you are interested, you can find my book here:

https://www.etsy.com/listing/215383084/keystones-christian-sammartino?
Chelsey Sep 2014
I know what it's like to wake up every morning
Wishing you hadn't.
I've pressed the blade to my skin,
Stockpiled on pills,
Written so many notes
Explaining how much it hurts
And how I'm not strong enough
And how I'm so ******* sorry for giving up.

You talk about it so casually,
Like losing you wouldn't tear me apart,
Or drive me to that point myself.
I know what it's like.
I've been there,
And sometimes,
Sometimes I still feel that sadness,
The kind that fills your soul and consumes you.

There is a difference between us, though.
I fight the sadness,
I fight for my life.
You let it snake it's arms around you,
Choke you until there's nothing left,
And then have the nerve
To talk to me like I don't understand,
Like I haven't been there.

Well, I do understand.
I understand that you are the love of my life
And that with each passing day
I am losing another piece of you to the sadness.
I want to save you,
To put your broken pieces back together,
But I can't.
I'm just hurting myself in the process.

You're a time bomb.
I can't be around when you explode.
EgoFeeder May 2013
These lost years of loneliness and social depravity
Have left me with nothing except this written tragedy
I sat and watched as the walls of my life crumbled away
Into this contorted sensation twisting through dismay
These ceaseless rememberance sessions screaming inside
A dead fixed stare on old friends taking cyanide

These bonds have come together in such a swift motion
And, just as fast they've came to their abrubt destruction
Dispersing any tint of mutual belonging from view
Molding a sad landscape of sighs and failing virtue
Watching as the remnants of my relationships loiter
The catacombs of these stockpiled confession letters

If only I could say anything my empathy had to tell me
My skeletal pose might have perched upright in a higher degree
And I would of have grown to a more formidable size
A clear cut aspiration that I never came to realize
Until all that I held grew too big for me to carry
and left me to stumble and sleep at the cemetary

Scratching dead love songs on century old gravestones
Where the forgotten have slept for generations alone
Hoping the crude penmanship might grace a weary heart
Or help a looming ghost feel a taste of love and depart
From the fog filled graveyard parade that it dwells
A final ringing from the synapsis of the greif bells

Sparking the ruin of a memory that doesn't seem real
A fading echo of a brotherhood I wish I could still feel
Detached from a reality that lurks in a decrepit imagery
Reshaping my empty cognition through a fake neuro surgery
I've reached the point where I have no reason to find
A replacement for all these buried pictures astray in my mind
judy smith Dec 2015
I've always been obsessed with beauty and experimenting with trends. As a little kid, I dug through in my mom's purse to snag swipes of her Revlon lipstick. As a teen, I mixed and created my own colorful nail polish long before Hard Candy came out. In high school, I experimented with Manic Panic, going Angela Chase red. In college, I stockpiled Narsbronzer and baked my fair skin in the sun for glowing cheeks and abs. Finally, in my 20s, I stopped trend hopping and embraced a look that was natural and celebrated the unique attributes I was born with. I also adopted an approach to beauty that was very authentic and low-maintenance — no more heat styling, hair coloring, or tanning. And I felt more confident and comfortable than ever.

Now as a beauty editor in my early 30s, I'm bombarded with samples and pitches to try out new products and treatments on a daily basis. While I opt for makeup and creams that play up my natural appearance, I see many of my peers electing stronger and more permanent solutions. I never thought I'd have friends getting Botox and fillers at any age — but so young? Yes, our society is youth obsessed, and if media is to be believed, I've already passed my prime. But I refuse to spend the next 30, 40, 50, 60 years fixated on looking younger.

You know how people say, "I wouldn't try that if it were free"? That's me when it comes to Botox and plastic surgery. About once a week, I receive an email about trying out the latest treatments — typically no strings attached. I delete them. Am I scared that trying something would potentially ruin my face? You bet I am! These procedures are supposed to make people look younger or "better," but everyone who has work done ends up looking the same. To me, beauty is all about celebrating your differences and your unique features. I don't want to look like a cookie-cutter ideal of beauty. I want to look like me — the way I look right now. These smile lines and crinkles in the corners of my eyes? They show the world that I am happy and I have lived a great life. Why would I want to erase that?

One of my peers recently told me, "Well, I never thought I would try Botox, but I went to an event, and the needles were out, so I thought, Why not?" I've heard similar statements since, and it shocks me that nowadays altering your face can be such a casual afterthought — like getting an impulse candy bar at checkout. Another industry friend confessed, "I'm starting to think I should have work done while I still work in beauty so I don't have to pay for it." Should the free element play a factor in being OK with changing your appearance? Especially at what I consider a particularly young age? For many people, it does. Some naysayers claim I'll change my mind when I'm older, but I just can't imagine it. All the women I feel are most beautiful show the signs of a life well lived on their faces, and I want to be one of them. Not a 34-year-old beauty editor with a tight face full of free Botox.

Sure, beauty can be enhanced on the outside, but true beauty, to me, is what you're born with and what you grow into. Advancing technology in Botox, fillers, and invasive procedures may be a huge part of my industry, but I'll be actively ignoring it. I'd much rather educate myself and others on how we can feel good in our own skin.

read more:formal dress shops

www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses
Cecil Miller Mar 2018
Where were you when country music performers did not make political statements?
Did you stand or kneel when they sang, "God Bless the U.S.A."?
If the south would have won, would we really have had it made?
If you don't plan to take a stand, what are all hidden stockpiled rapidfire rifles for?
No wonder you won't talk about current events.
You have been silenced in so many debates.
Seeing how the republican officials are doing, I wouldn't want to talk about it either if I were you.
We hate to say we told you so,
But we did.
I loath hypocrisy
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2017
transitional times

midst the ordinaries, not paying close attention,
the yet to be baked batter of chatter while driving past the familiar,
a plain pasta with butter conversation,
the human carbohydrates of our racing consuming energy,
she slips me up, by slipping in two words,
her icing on the cake phrasing

"transitional times"

pull over to the side of Menantic Road
in the early of the late afternoon, Saturday's reclining sunlight,
question her closely, CIA taping her words to my brain:

did she mean the late afternoon hours of our lives when
reflection of sun sprinkles on our bay voyages us as voyeurs
past the old longings and into the future recalling?

perhaps, the au contraire, the steady stepping,
sneaking away of the sheltering night so that the earth's
inhabitants and organs may be revived in yellow golden greens of damp grasses and the whiteness of a Sunday's fresh milk?

of course, of course, the times when the horizon calls,
saying come to me, cross the transition to the newness
of everything, in the ages and days of celebration of
unfamiliar entrances?


No, no, she answers, bemusedly grinning,
not everything is a poem,
you thieving wordsmith, simply did I observe
that having an extra pair of sunglasses in the car for
transitional times*
was a good idea!

pulling back on the road that goes past the
Tuck Ice Cream Shoppe, the island treasure hunt Dump, the ordinary homes on the range, all  along the way to the boatyard where are kept and stored and stockpiled each summer colored sunset evening along with the drinkable French pink Rose wines and gleaming yellow Sancerre and golden ales of Nantucket,
I think to myself,
nuh uh,
every transition,
every glorious mindless conversation,
even in the town dump,
treasures in each word, in everything, especially the
extra extra-ordinaries,
is a poem*

June 25. 2017
5:20am
Taurus Apr 2017
Commonplace language
Comfortable impressions
Automatic concrete deadbolts
Stockpiled beginnings
Automatic appearance
Comfortable language
Unlock the commonplace deadbolts
Holding us concrete
In our beginning language
and stockpiled impressions
Appearances automatic
Poetry Month prompt 1
One nation under assault,
one nation under pressure,
one nation claiming greatness against
an outdated measure.
With liberty and justice stockpiled commodities
and legions of disgruntled youth
left to deal with the atrocities.
One nation under-loved
One nation over-policed
One nation claiming Jesus
wearing the tell-tale mark of the beast.
With hate in the left hand, and hate in the right,
and both hands balled up like we're dying to fight.
A New Day, they call this perpetual night
This suffocating darkness that chokes out the light
And EVERYBODY THINKS THAT THEIR SIDE IS RIGHT.

One nation underwhelmed by the policies they chose
One hypocrisy of a democracy, calling their own stink a rose
One thing after another, no wonder the kids are cynics now,
thinking "You CAN'T make it better, WE don't know how."
Love is lost in the struggle between apathy and hate
America, the beautiful.  America, the great.
America, the fractured paragon,
We cling to ghosts of a changing time
We've fallen for the distractions, and
our pedestal is too high to climb.

Oh brothers, oh sisters, what else can we do?
If you'll look out for me, and I look out for you,
just a ripple in this pool of ****
may clear the waters, just a bit.
But as long as there are white votes
black votes
Latino votes
left votes
right votes
there'll be no vote of confidence
in the future of these divided states.
We'll rip ourselves apart,
tear out our own heart
waving our flags the whole time
and claiming no blame for the divide.
God Bless America,
and do it quick.
All sides of this society
are dying or sick.
I love this country.  It's my home.  I love its people, my fellow Americans. But I'm not in love with how everybody is behaving.  I don't love the rage, directed at people that can do little to change things.  We're like a pack of dogs, fighting one another over scraps of the ****, while the hunter grows fat on our efforts.  And as long as we're divided, we are CONTROLLED.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
it's not like i was away from society,
sure, i crawled into my room and stockpiled on books,
the Tibetan Book of the Dead was never something
i was going to finish reading and find translatable
insights to compliment...
but there were plenty of books...
enough newspapers too... all the culture sections
written by critics: just today i was reading
up on two reviews in the culture section of
yesterday's the Sunday Times:
  poetry reviews! wow! wow! poetry is being
criticised in a mainstream media publication: still?
isn't poetry dead? last time i heard
TS Eliot killed poetry...
    well: if anything needs a killing -
i imagine trying to **** a dead person...
**** a dead person by mime?
**** a corpse by propping him in a chair...
talking to him, it, her,
pouring her, it, him a glass of whiskey...
dealing cards to them?
pretending the dead thing is somehow still
a body and all the mechanisation process of SIGMA
we dare to call soul or a seal of falling leaves or self?

horrors of the novel and all things
flashy and pop... i could if not for the autobiographical
drip drip drip...
   today i stood in the kitchen and imagined
myself: the demon cook of hell...
tomorrow i'll be making a Turkish dish
of finely cut beef... rosemary (oddly more complimentary
of beef than lamb), chillies, garlic,
sumac, pepper... cheese... white wine vinegar
to cure the meat...
                        black pepper... salt...
eaten with LAVASH...
                                          gorge of all gorges of
the thirst -
      but i will also be making two curries for the day
after tomorrow... to give myself more time for:
more time...

i went away from society: but didn't...
society tried to cement my ear into a lunatic asylum:
how i wished i made it among the madmen,
truly... how i wished i was at one point sectioned:
i tried my luck, i tried and tried but failed...
i never was... pop pill X white as nerves
and the bleaching of aluminium -
   pop pill Y... no result... the desired result...
the world span forward and still the same world
i returned to... although with quaked psyches
reaching out for hands instead of receiving
pointing fingers... exclude you: exclude i and you:
you-not-you i-not-i: or even:
i as "i" and you as "you"...
                    
in this kitchen: this, not this: any kitchen...
what was playing in the background? a spin on vampirism,
a blood-disease romance...
i thought about: if i wrote a YA novel about
vampires in the decadent period of the 1980s
with the height of the AIDS epidemic?
imagine: i "said" to myself...
    imagine vampires with AIDS... i started to imagine
vampires suffering from AIDS...
    not the sort of pristine vampires that needed
virgins or children to survive...
just a wild-thought: an unnecessary thought...
i'd be better off thinking of windmills...
    like that one coming up to Upminster from
Hornchurch...
               because this book, will never be written by
me... but a theme exists...
vampirism at the height of the AIDS pandemic...
vampires with AIDS...
             the homosexuality of vampires is yet
to be explored... seems these creatures might want
to exchange blood, spit and *****...
perhaps vampires would be immune to AIDS...
but then again: that's irrelevant since there's a cure
for ***: the virus that designated the past-"redemption"
state of AIDS...
or at least: this is what i "think" i "know":
point being - i don't care to know...
                              
the following rubric also came up...
on the topic of gravity...
swimming - ∇ (you find gravity in the top part
of your body... in the torso)...
the feet are slackers... they come in for the swim...
cycling - (again) ∇ nabla schematic...
your torso actually manages the coordination
of the body on the bicycle...
your feet do all the work... peddling...
but your upper body needs to coordinate
the centre point of gravity being: you're not falling...
you're not falling when either swimming
or cycling...
you're not falling when walking...
you're not falling when climbing, rock or tree...
∇... the legs are only there for the "ride"...

but? ice-skating... it should be the same!
it should be a ∇-schematic...
but is it?! is it?!
hardly some darkened mysterious, poetic O...
oh god... not another of those O O's...
like O is ****** or O is orbit
or O is eye or: whatever happened in Ur
and why not Oor for up-sigh-alone
   is not different to oh-mega-n: oh Meghan?
not a name in the tabloids... just
a coincidence, a little coincidence...

i can't be blamed for underachieving in the second
wave of literacy: basic example i can give:
frightoffreedom = "FRIGHTOFFREEDOM"
print(f"{frightoffreedom.lower()}")
who write so complicated but still performs
magic in 2D and can't translate 2D into 3D?
did every child start speaking said, any said
language to an unsaid capacity of a Buddha's
silence? gate-keepers some say,
a new literacy i say: i too could learn if
there was someone willing to teach...
but as the first pigs to the trough...
first learners come first and the rest "struggle"...
that's me sorting out the basics of ever used
EXCEL twice, properly...
HTML building blocks once...
sorting out my father's change of accountant:
three years prior to his retirement:
quick-books confuses everyday tax-payers
except for the intended audience of accountants...
but... how happy i was... filling out the rubrics
finding math fun without doing any math...
my new favourite expressions
are =SUM(D3:D34)
   that's for the total of money spent...
next column... =(D3*1.2)
   that's the rubric for the Netto (without VAT)
slide the mouse down from D3 through to D34...
next column the VAT (Brutto)..
    =(D3-E3)
             ergo... the VAT in cell F3... scroll down
to F34... then at F35 type in:
    =SUM(F3:24)...

                   modern poets are yet to have discovered
or used the internet or computers...
Poet-Luddite... conflated language:
i want to forget outside of the immediacy of having to
know an elephant is an elephant and
there are five blind men trying to tell apart
a chair from a table...
                 perhaps seeing each item represented
by a cubist painting would leave them
the same blind men if they were only given
a snippet of sight to tell a chair from table apart...

conkers left on windowsill and other locations
in the household allow you to spend the winter
months: freed from feeling spiders...
spiders apparently abhor the scent of oak seeds:
i've been huddling in my winter abode
freed from spider bites... in winter...
when spiders morph into mosquitos and draw
blood from mammalian flesh...

- i can't believe it though! it was so easy!
but... it had to take a lesbian to ask me out on a date!
it took me from the age of 21 through
to the age of teasing 37, done so casually...
hey: do you want to go ice-skating with me
after the shift is over? sure! why not!
today i paid for it... however many hours
i spent cycling, today i felt muscles i never thought
i had... but it took a lesbian to ask me on a date...
a coworker mingling scenario...
we worked the shift, we went ice-skating...
she filmed me trying my best not to fall over...
her laughter, or rather, her giggling reminded
me of Ilona... that masculine-feminine aura
of self-assurance...
i'm not attracted to these women:
they just seem to be attracted to me...
tattoos, piercings, bully-boy butch-Toms...
standing a proud 5ft4 eyeing up a 6ft2 example
trying to kick punch and kiss all at the same time...
well... it was so easy, so much fun...

it should follow that finding the centre of gravity
within the confines of ice skating
should be the same as that of finding the centre
of gravity while swimming or cycling...
i.e. ∇... that's the schematic...
upper-body: the torso is giving prime psychological
concerns... the legs are secondary...
but no... it's counter-intuitively: "intuitive"...
you can't exactly begin finding gravity while
either swimming or cycling by flapping your
arms about pretending to learn to fly:
but you do! you do!

            a drowning man is flapping his arms about
but his legs... his legs...
i'm starting to think i'm getting this theory all wrong...
swimming = cycling = ice skating = ∇...
i kept looking at my legs
pretending to walk while simultaneously trying to glide...

Δ schematic insinuates: don't look at your legs...
no one who walks upright looks down
asking the legs to do the walking...
one looks down to resemble a humbling
expression of grace: thank you: mechanisms of
what binds water to a tide and the mountain
to itch for rising above the setting sun...
thank you...
no one looks at one's legs insinuating:
you're not performing my unconscious demands
of moving from X to Y...
but on ice? ice skating...
it's a fake schematic... ice skating is truly like
swimming and cycling...
next time? my 3rd time on the ice? i will have to let go...
i will have to fall the nth number of times...
what's scary is generating a momentum
so easily without any obstacles of a hill
of grit of grind...
     it's a bit like: people exercising in the gym...
performance art... they can lift weights as a spectacle...
they can create a sexed-up physique, body-shape...
but throw the same people into a manual-labour
environment: with the drudgery of manual labour...
the bulkiest of them will stumble...
tell them to lift, perform "art work" on a roll of
      felt in the roofing industry...
lifting weights is an abstract compared to actual
physical labour...

still... aged 36 and the first "date": it wasn't a date...
was with a female who just so happened to be a lesbian...
what sort of heterosexual woman would go on
a date with me so simple... she asked to go ice-skating
i would have asked: want to go cycling with me?
want to go to an art gallery with me?
was there any talk about what job i have?
was there any talk about what living arrangements
i'm living "under": more like over given
the current climate of renting in London:
12 months upfront rent?!
             of course i still live with my parents...
i clean the house, i cook, i sort out my father's invoices...
i do the VAT for the accountant,
i tend to the garden...
                              i pay "rent"... well...
thankfully i didn't have hopes to get married...
so... my parents didn't have to fork out from their savings
for some grand fakery parade of ceremonial pomp
of ****** white: bride to be...
easier with the prostitutes in the brothel...
but i figured: if the the 8 year old me figured out
how to ******* before he could produce *****
he could also have an inkling into the current debacle
of men who *******: like that was ever a hindering
"problem": because women are all pristine
because they rarely talk about it:
cipher: Madame Bovary...

         two bad experiences having *** in one brothel
and i'm thinking about curing my ills seeking out
another brothel... but it's winter and my libido is
obviously not up to scratch...
so? three times daily... jerking off to the point
where i: i don't have to actually enjoy it...
no movies... just pictures... cleavage... ***...
eyes... mostly eyes...
                           bacon, butcher, bacon,
tenderising meat, curing meat with acids...
spices... herbs...
                 the more i do it the less i think of it...
worried about communal hot topics about loss
of testosterone?
                   i have hair on my chest
my stomach, my back and on my chin...
                  blah blah some parrot said...
seagulls dived in for a *******... the Kraken yawned...
Norse mythologies crept up on dying Christianity
and all was well... meadows covered by frost come
late January somewhere in the open green patches
of Edinburgh...

                - the labour and the pains of the crucified-foetus....
some say it's like waking into a world
where women perform the splinter-membrane
argument of what's living and what's not...
how ancient male mammals performed infanticide...
yet how chemistry and the abstract allowed
a new-mammalian-wave of female infanticide:
because: early birds in the dynamic of ***
made their first falls the fault in the opposite ***...
while some of us waited and waited and
by waiting became freed from ugly brides
and social expectation: Darwinism's pressures
to procreate...

i can't listen to both Darwinism and Buddhism
at the same time: i simply can't knife through
to the fork to subsequently spoon up and gulp down
this sort of duality...
like i can't stomach the dualism: if there is one
of consolidating the aesthetic with the ascetic...
i can't consolidate the AESTHETIC with the ASCETIC!
Christianity did just that! Christianity
married the AESTHETIC with the ASCETIC"
Aveline Mitchell May 2015
I don’t love you anymore.

I love hot cups of coffee, and cold cups as well. I love feeling summer grass between my toes. I love long showers. I love curling my hair until it frames my face with red vines of ivy. I love my bed in the morning, before the sun peeks through my curtains. I love petting dogs as I pass them in sidewalks. I love eye contact with pretty strangers in coffeeshops and bookstores. I love the echo of an acoustic guitar in a small room. I love trying new food that my mother didn’t cook when I was a kid. I love the one dress that makes me feel beautiful. I love the voice of the skinny English kid in the concert venue. I love fireflies in the summer. I love fireplaces and afghans and good books. I love red lipstick. I love the dozens of empty notebooks stockpiled in my house. I love maps and I love globes. I love doing kind things for strangers to see them smile. I love comfortable sweaters. I love baking desserts. I love drinking more coffee.

I don’t love you anymore.
Jesse Salgado Nov 2011
Life lessons are stockpiled in my pantry,
I think of them as I look out of my front window.
The sweet smell of tabacco lifts from my pipe,
reminding me of times of naivety.

Laughter, my only defense from most of the deeds I committed.
It comforts me to know that even in my youth,
I knew I would laugh at myself for things I've done
Oh to be blinded by young love.

The strip of grey in my beard excites me,
They say with age comes wisdom,
I would venture to say not all of the old are wise.
For with life comes wisdom, and too many watched it pass.

To be loved right,
I am most thankful for this,
In youth we tried so hard to love,
Neither of us knowing how, these things dont just come to you.
Pain always came of our scholastic journey.

I look forward to what lies ahead,
I have at least lived enough to know,
I never knew,
To accept that, was my greatest accomplishment.
NitaAnn Aug 2014
Dear Tears,

How very sorry I am for what you have lived with.  You and I have not spent much time together.  I avoid you because I despise crying.  You avoid me because we are not supposed to cry.

So other than objectives, we have not known much about one another.  Sure, I've squeezed out a few tears here and there; but a sob?  Not really.  And those times that I have needed to cry, you stood by and fought a deluge at much cost to yourself.

Over the past few days I have cried.  And when I say cry, I mean real and bitter tears.  Tears stockpiled over years of pain.  Tears we both did not believe to exist.  As this happened I watched you through my blurry eyes, shaking in a corner.  You were waiting for him and he did not come.  We were both surprised.

No one hit us until we stopped crying.  No one ****** us until there were no more tears to cry.  Not once was the blood running faster than the tears.  In fact, there was no blood at all.  

Each tear, it did hurt.  Like crying razor blades.  But it was a healing kind of hurt.  To borrow a thought... it hurts a lot less to rip a band-aid off quickly than slowly.  Or not at all.  So I sit in my car and cry while I peel the neglected, crusty bandages of abuse away.  I do this while I worry about keeping you safe.  It's a role reversal of sorts.

Watching you with intent, I see that you are small.  You are a skinny  girl who is young, about five.  And now I am not seeing you through the haze of my own pain.   Without the need to dodge his fists, I see that you have glasses and black hair.  Your glasses are broken and behind the cracks you have no eyes.  No eyes that cry no tears.

No wonder.  

I can cry your tears now.  And it's OK if you never shed one of your own; that is not your job.   It's mine now and you know, tears are not that bad.

And neither are you.  So go and rest.
One nation under assault,
one nation under pressure,
one nation claiming greatness against 
an outdated measure.
With liberty and justice stockpiled commodities
and legions of disgruntled youth
left to deal with the atrocities.
One nation under-loved
One nation over-policed
One nation claiming Jesus
wearing the tell-tale mark of the beast.
With hate in the left hand, and hate in the right,
and both hands balled up like we're dying to fight.
A New Day, they call this perpetual night
This suffocating darkness that chokes out the light
And EVERYBODY THINKS THAT THEIR SIDE IS RIGHT.

One nation underwhelmed by the policies they chose
One hypocrisy of a democracy, calling their own stink a rose
One thing after another, no wonder the kids are cynics now,
thinking "You CAN'T make it better, WE don't know how."
Love is lost in the struggle between apathy and hate
America, the beautiful. America, the great.
America, the fractured paragon, 
We cling to ghosts of a changing time
We've fallen for the distractions, and
our pedestal is too high to climb.

Oh brothers, oh sisters, what else can we do?
If you'll look out for me, and I look out for you,
just a ripple in this pool of ****
may clear the waters, just a bit.
But as long as there are white votes
black votes
Latino votes
left votes
right votes
there'll be no vote of confidence 
in the future of these divided states.
We'll rip ourselves apart,
tear out our own heart
waving our flags the whole time
and claiming no blame for the divide.
God Bless America,
and do it quick.
All sides of this society
are dying or sick.
One nation under assault,
one nation under pressure,
one nation claiming greatness against
an outdated measure.
With liberty and justice stockpiled commodities
and legions of disgruntled youth
left to deal with the atrocities.
One nation under-loved
One nation over-policed
One nation claiming Jesus
wearing the tell-tale mark of the beast.
With hate in the left hand, and hate in the right,
and both hands balled up like we're dying to fight.
A New Day, they call this perpetual night
This suffocating darkness that chokes out the light
And EVERYBODY THINKS THAT THEIR SIDE IS RIGHT.

One nation underwhelmed by the policies they chose
One hypocrisy of a democracy, calling their own stink a rose
One thing after another, no wonder the kids are cynics now,
thinking "You CAN'T make it better, WE don't know how."
Love is lost in the struggle between apathy and hate
America, the beautiful. America, the great.
America, the fractured paragon,
We cling to ghosts of a changing time
We've fallen for the distractions, and
our pedestal is too high to climb.

Oh brothers, oh sisters, what else can we do?
If you'll look out for me, and I look out for you,
just a ripple in this pool of ****
may clear the waters, just a bit.
But as long as there are white votes
black votes
Latino votes
left votes
right votes
there'll be no vote of confidence
in the future of these divided states.
We'll rip ourselves apart,
tear out our own heart
waving our flags the whole time
and claiming no blame for the divide.
God Bless America,
and do it quick.
All sides of this society
are dying or sick.
Divided we fall.
Lee Nov 2014
This Is How To Be Cool:

Step 1:
Hate people.
Hating people is in.
This should build up the sense
of mystery  most
people you now hate will
be attracted to.
Don't enjoy the company of people
you now know why you
hate and ask yourself why you
didn’t do this sooner and why only most things seem the same.

Step 2:
Wear shoes.
Wear shoes as
comfortable as
middle aged men that
don’t please their wives now
that well anymore.


Step 3:
Lose sense of time.
Lock yourself in a garage
with no windows that has 2
TV’s that play different things.
Have limited water. Have friends
that you tell to buy you malt and even still
cheaper *****.
Listen to not stop talk
of the grade of **** in strip clubs at a $ per/for a
tall boy all day happy hour/s.
If you have or had a phone or a clock hide it.
If you have or had a sun dial or set of fingers
set it or them in front or in-between 1 or 2
of the t.v.s
so it or them always tells close to the same
2 times.
Never, not even for a moment, look at them.  






Step 4:
(4a)Watch.
 Watch an old man walk an ugly dog
   with a bag of **** in his hand.
  (4b):Come to 1 or 2 safe conclusions
   about why the man has ****
   in his hand/s.
 (4c):Come to exactly 2 [(4ci) and (4cii)] unsafe conclusions and write  them on the bottoms of separate chairs in an IKEA warehouse store.

(4ci)The man needs   to theoq **** at someone nearby.
 (4cii)The man has  a collection. A stockpiled **** supply.
(4d) Reference and annotate your secret **** propaganda.


Step 5:
Go someplace.
Go someplace  you
do not belong you
will make yourself unknown you
will develop a cult nonfollowing.


Step 6:
Write a poem.
Write a poem using useless metaphors to
end a poem that doesn’t seems to be about
women but  the poem at the end and inside of this first poem is about
one anyways.

Example:
You're a book just closed,
you aren’t done yet,
Your drawing yourself out
Waiting on someone else to return.

You are a sun just
set, you can’t be seen.
All the lights you left behind
have limits in the streets they shine in.

You are a photograph of a photograph
of an unfinished drawing:
a pointlessly layered mystery about
something someone somewhere
has already finished and made
better without you.

You are a woman
the least concrete image with
the least valid explanation.


Step 7:
Lie to your audience and end the
poem in an only slightly less useless
fashion then I told you to previously plan to. This is not about a relationship, this is about being ******* cool. About remaining in a slow waiding motion through yourself the planet like spin of a fire kicking up and consuming the last of the air around it, Nothing will happen to you. You will only make things more clear around you.
Jonny Angel Feb 2014
The hurricane was
bearing down on us rapidly,
windows were being boarded,
grocers were sold out,
water was being stockpiled.
The drunkards
under the burnt-out building
had stolen our goods,
had broken in
& just took all of our stuff.
Myers & pineapple
twisted my thoughts
and I lashed out,
cut one of them in the dark.
The morning after the tempest,
we found no one there,
not even a blood trail,
thought they might
had been washed
out to sea
in the storm surge.
The incident still haunts me.
The night is as dark as ever
in a rapidly changing World,
that never changes.

Daylight saving is fine
as far as I know
but what I don't know
is
who is saving it
and why.

Perhaps it's being stockpiled
in case the Sun burns out
and we'll then be charged
for it,
(pay per ray)

Nothing else is new that I know of
not that I know of much,

in dreams
occasionally
genius touches me
that
I do know.

I wonder if performing seals
get fed up,
I don't mean with fish,
but do they ever wish they
weren't so artistic?

If I elect to play 'snap'
is that a snap election
or just
miscommunication?

bundling my belongings
into an old canvas sack
trundling along
not once looking back
as it all disappears,

years ago
I think I did know
but not anymore.

the lights are still burning
and those yearning for hope
can get it for free
from the wandering missionary
who
used to be a minstrel until he
retrained under yet another
government initiative.

I still see the bare bones
of the lacklustre,
with homes enough to spare
I shouldn't be able to.

Harder times
failing visions
blurred lines
the ever changing
always feels the same.
Butch Decatoria Dec 2015
This will end with its beginning. When nothing never was, nor ever will be again. When metamorphosis' of worms to float like blooms of fairy flutter, or pillars of sequoias scraping sky can burn away to char, then from cold thin air or winter lungs of clouds can cry fractal flowers. Nothing comes from nothing, therefore there is always something more, even when our human sight is veiled, preconditioned by what we fear before we learned.

When will we look with not just seeing, peering with more of what is feeling, evolving to feel the pain of leaf and leaving? Cry with our world as it is grieving, heaving with the smog while all else is eaten; when will we realize that this is alive, the blue of all eyes are the same as the ceiling, browns of the soil enriched for seedling, and the blood of the world is not liquid nor spilling. It is the circumference of a heart, a floating castle, and the joy and the lively creates the splendor. The karmic rivers in our considerateness, lifting up to heaven as our worthy witness. See this here, of what we've made?  Rather than say, oh well that's life, **** happens and so it is, say, say, say...

A gift for a gift is given because we cherish whom we are with, when did we forget to celebrate the life that has been given : the basic breath we gulp, and quenching of every thirst, whether deep as poetry, or dry as elephants in desert lakes--we have water falls with queens in their names (yet people are starving and dying, mind you not that far away).
We are able and have enough, stockpiled for winters whether nuclear or Eskimo, yet nothing seems to still be nothing, but then there's peppermint ice cream pies. Starvation in Africa, but dead children do not cry, nor do they--too weak without the food or energy... but then again there's Little Debbie's fudge cookies and marshmallow pies...

And we all praise Ala and Thank the Lord our souls, our being spared of our sufferings, (pipe bombs to and fro) all the while admonishing and bigotry, hatreds and slavery / are given a different face, a dress of expensive tastes. Our only skills are selling wares that is our one time youthful flesh. Because just because we are desperate to have - something more, not having any less than a meal, a roof on four walls, the door.

In god's name we pray... we always see and say and sing and wait... yet nothing is still nothing, impossible I might add, since we are not without we should just all shut our mouths and do something more...

Because if this ends, we are the only ones - all of us - to blame. Not gods, alcohol, or the rain.

What there is to be seen now are dead oceans and forests in flames. Fire and more fire, some in forms of steel, and blades of atrocious acts, and influence of them our holies - accosting us with lies - crapping on our whiles, feeling unworthy because of this chapter / verse, because they're better than that and we are worse. All beneath our noses, defiling our future hopes, in the eyes of our own beloved - turned into wingless birds.

How my love to look upon the whole of the face of the world--becomes desperate pleading for mine vision to be done. When the sights are blindingly painful, numbingly remiss of the hopeful wonder when I was young and a telescope looking up saying this :

"One day I will visit that planet, go flying through the stars... When I'm old enough to be there, where the future are..."

Nothing seems to still be nothing, and never was or could. What is a nothing, when he thought that it was something, to live and just be good?

I'm still here waiting for the beginning, if this is how it ends... a ghost of a poet, with this heart ache and pen...

(Oh Goddess my Goddess...!  When...?)
david mitchell Apr 2017
echoes of ****** ghost town mysteries
  devolving into our lonely synergy
where we can constantly misdemean each other in our gutter schemes
of battling anger with dreams,
  never again to split the seams,
   never again to be seen

please, hear my plea.
i never knew what we could or couldn't be.
  i just wish you could see me
   i am what you almost are and yet everything you're not,
tie my tongue, twist my heart, knot it up and let it rot

"maybe i'll get shot" we stockpiled musings on dying young,
seemingly out of all the time we thought we bought
you are an alleyway thought bay,
  forever haunting me enough to keep all my other ghosts away

  "the world is ending in all my dreams"
  i crushed what i had left of you, you'd never let me stay
we were a walking paradox, never nothing,
always but a dream never to be siezed

"we"
what a lonely synergy
sunny d got a facefull of fishbowl bombs in september
Instead of wrestling around here
And chasing my dreams and fleeing from fears
Maybe I'll run out of breath and stop
At a high altitude mountain top.

Maybe instead of stockpiled art
And information, and all these parts,
I can clear my mind for a long time
And work through the stigma in my mind.

The fears, though all are self-inflicted,
Also can name society as their derivative.
What do they think, what will they think,
Will I ever escape society's brink?

Etc...before me, such a plethora
Of options of routes to go down.
And they are just detours along the walk
That many people tread, and very few balk.

Should I trudge on? Should I sulk?
Smiling so much, acting so false?
Or should I just go on and take it all off?
And seek my own personal mountain top?

There's too much invested, too much to lose
But who knows what's worth keeping.
Everyday, I put on my shoes,
And my heart keeps on beating.
Andrew Rueter Aug 2020
After harmlessly crossing your border
          you take our friendship hostage
guarding your perimeter with sandbags of arbitrary etiquette
a no man's land of manners separates us
   you snipe from your defensive position
              so I retreat and start strategizing.
Consulting my generals to discuss your tactics
  they advise me to start stockpiling weapons
                and to start looking for weaknesses.

There is a counteroffensive to your intentions.
            While you were destroying my satcoms
a successful infiltration of your command center was accomplished.
Once your defenses were understood
           your flanks appeared vulnerable.
                      Blind spots were revealed.

You only sign a treaty once your resources start depleting
then you ignore the rules I'm reading to give me a beating.
          So I'm building up my arsenal and
enriching my uranium in this centrifuge
                             where we spin in circles.
My nuclear option is prepared and capable.
                  Pacifism is more appealing than violence
     but when you try to erase who I am I must take a stand.

Armed with an ability to attack
I get a warhead on my shoulders
               found from old schematics
you shared with me while I fought your enemies.
               They were never thrown away
now they're dusted off and revisited
to make your walls crumble
and incinerate you flag.

Your nation starts hiding from what they were once confiding
                              after my nukes obliterate your infrastructure.
Rebels and runners fill fallout shelters and basement bunkers
                                         hiding from the radioactivity in the air.

Everyone's death equals success proving I'm best
        so I develop a permanent wartime economy
                                      and fire missiles mercilessly.
There's no difference between fighters and civilians
             because some insurgents are chameleons
                                      so I **** them by the millions.
                        The more weapons I get
                        the more needless death
                        until the only nations left standing
are those that have stockpiled weapons of their own.
Tammy M Darby Apr 2020
and yes along with my other work I write Political Satire. Have some

My Interview with (Drum roll and rockets’ red glare, bombs bursting in the air) The one... The Only........ Donald The Ding -a ling- Duck

Viruses yeah, I know them. We have a great relationship. They love me.

This is the virus, it’s like a wave, it may or may not go up or down like this. Watch my hands, like a wave. The coronavirus is a hoax.

Sir, WHO has said there is no stopping the virus from spreading what do you have to say about that after you said we had shut the door on the virus in this country?
Fake news fake news. I never saw a memo.

The Virus is here because the Democrats clicked their heels together 2 times, said the word Socialist 3 times, sacrificed a chicken and hey the virus was here.
Democrats are bad for the country.

Well, what about the 8.5 Billion you just asked for from Congress to the fight virus and stimulate our economy?
No more questions from you, I don't like questions and you are a bad reporter.
Like I said it’s a beautiful test, like the letter…… perfect.

But it's spreading and you said it was a Hoax?
Fake news It’s a plot by the Democrats, my enemies, the Martians and the kids from the Good Ship Lollipop to make me look bad
I hate that question

Where are all the medical supplies that were supposed to be stockpiled by the Feds in case of a Pandemic?
I don’t know, no supplies here, I don’t know where they went. Its Obama's fault, the Chinese fault, WHO's fault, and the state's fault, and you over there not gazing at me in adoration, it's you're fault
too.
I take no responsibility.

Money? Money? we have lots of money here have some, you and you too, take some and vote for me
God sent me to save you know. (Cue the halo light around his head).

What about the U.S. federal budget deficit for the fiscal year 2020? it's $966 billion before the economic damage from the virus is factored in? You said you would reduce it?
What Deficit????
The economy looks great. (Raise the flag behind him and turn on the fan).
Quack Quack


Tammy M Darby April 15, 2020, All Rights Reserved
I wanna reinvent meetings,
with the proper composure
and bright sense of humor,
nothing can be awkward
and sad at 24;
and everyone for the rest of
the year will hope for more
meetings, classes and more
get-together meetups
that includes me
but hell no. . .

I am engrossed in all
the events, conversations and
relationships I’ve had
that didn’t end ell.
I am one with
the common strangers,
the hidden prostesters,
the loners,
the all assuming and
over analyzing
disarranged bedroom
clothes’ owner
engaged in a deadlock with
how well things aren’t
doing good.

My playlists are stockpiled
and it is too much for
only two ears to listen alone,
the music seems to be distant
no matter how straightforward
it is for people
because no one ever
speaks of loneliness
and keeping it is
supposed to be the only
way there is.

The contradiction
of the help
I get from others
is that it always has been the help
I didn’t really needed
and as for how
The Wonder Years’
song goes:

“I’m sorry I don’t
laugh at the
right times...”

— The End —