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1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o
the electronic dispenser is out of order yet the automated voice keeps repeating it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem…



i hint to Mom maybe the nightly sleeping pills might contribute to her forgetfulness she replies what? i didn’t hear what you said i repeat maybe the nightly sleeping pills might add to your forgetfulness she answers what? i can’t hear you i say Mom you’ve been using sleeping pills since i was little maybe they’re a source of your fogginess she snaps what? what are you saying i can’t hear you



Tucson 2001 in the heat of disagreement Mom accuses i am the cause for her need to rely on sleeping pills do you understand what that means Mom you’ve been taking sleeping pills as far back as i can remember miltown seconal nebutal placidal ambient (when i was young i took some from your medicine cabinet then sold them to friends) was it always because of me your off-beat weird troubled kid or were there other reasons thank you Mom for all you have given me i am grateful appreciative truth is none of us trust each other these defenses we’ve created will someday turn on us



2010 it is difficult to write about Mom so many conflicted feelings our struggles contentious exchanges expectations criticisms blame all the money she and Dad poured into me hoping i would turn out successfully employed married with children instead her difficult child chose painting writing punk rock yoga Mom will be 90 in October she caught viral pneumonia last month concerned for her i flew to Chicago to see her my beautiful glamorous Mom who lives high up in tall high-rise doorman deskman elegantly decorated 3 bedroom apartment along lakefront my little Mom who’s once lovely figure shrunk in size morphed in shape with arthritic painfully twisted fingers hair color light ash skin spotted with dark purple brown splotches estate dwindled to crumbs my clever shrewd Mom still so talented socially telephone constantly ringing lunch dinner engagements accompanied by frantic loony sister both dressed to the nines shopping returning hairdresser appointments manicures yet memory rapidly disintegrating my poor sweet Mom who now needs my loving protection it is time for me to step up to the plate shield her from caregivers poised to pilfer my vulnerable Mom leaves her wallet in cab loses her glasses forgets events 2 hours ago furious at pharmacy for neglecting to include her sleeping pills i know i cannot change her whirlwind 24/7 world of gossip scandal denial it is i who will need to change sacrifice my simple sparse existence quiet desperation scrambling for pay gardening gazing up at the moon stars adapt to her dizzy drama driven life style in order to look after her



i’ve written about this before a defining moment that haunts me Bayli and i are staying at Toby Martin’s spacious loft near corner of Bleeker and Broadway 1973 Toby offers me job building stretchers canvases for Warhol he tells me lots of nyc women will model for me if i want to keep drawing vaginas he advises me to drop out of art school like he did assures me i will become famous it is October Sunday i am wearing white turtleneck wheat colored corduroy Levis jeans taupe suede clogs Bayle is dressed almost exactly as me except powder blue clingy top we are just art students Toby takes us up to Rauschenberg’s loft on Lafayette Street Rauschenberg is in the Bahamas the kitchen is all industrial size stainless steel coffee stained glass Chemex drip coffeemaker on stove  upstairs on roof many currently trendy painters edgy artists a sculptor who uses dynamite to blow up quarries in Vermont they scrutinize Bayli and Odysseus with voracious glares the men eye Bayli several women send flirtatious looks at Odysseus he feels fright protection for Bayli it is all too much too complex too threatening and in that moment he drops the ball creeped out fearful he takes her hand and they flee back to Hartford Art School but maybe he was wrong possibly Bayli could have handled those depths heights perhaps she would have blossomed i’ve thought about that moment many times torturing myself with my cowardice insecurity adoration for Bayli our love remaining pure never corrupted



a boy/man makes love with a girl/woman once twice in bed then falls blissfully asleep wakes up makes love all night in secluded room in sheltered house on quiet street in sleepy New England town in the morning with Velvet Underground turned up real loud they dance wild then make more love



perhaps my fears insecurities shyness are about a diminutive ***** or concave ***** at center of chest or all my weird physical psychological inhibitions idiosyncrasies not wanting the world to ever find out know a secret between Bayli and me possibly Bayli never noticed but probably she realized my desire longing to be recognized acclaimed yet remain unrecognizable live in quiet privacy i don’t know sometimes i wonder if Bayli loved me like i love her if there was only one twinkling star in her sky like there is in mine Mom says it’s wrong to limit my skies to one star she says Bayli separated from me and married someone else she asks has Bayli ever made an attempt to contact you since her 2nd marriage i answer you don’t understand Bayli is entirely devoted she would never look up or away from her man Mom says open your eyes there are lots of special stars meant just for you in the sky



at some point it becomes obvious the latest is instantly embarrassingly obsolete why would anyone want the latest



let them come these winds of change blowing sands garbage leaves twisting branches bending trees up the coast down the hole displacing erasing everything oceans rising currents colliding mountains crumbling fiery red skies there was a time once but that time is gone there was a girl once but that girl is gone a street a house  a room  a bed once but that street house room bed are gone hunter buried under hill sailor lost at sea he who steps courageous mindful compassionate will pass beyond the terror
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
They say
Words can leap off the page.
They say
Words can cut like a knife.

Come home from watching Lubovitch's dancers
Doing crazy eights upon the Joyce stage,
Rat-a-tat and seconds to bed tablet two-handed,
Some of thy words to keep, relish and visualize.
Tongue-taste delights, imagery dreamed, conceive'd!

Read four or five and I am
Crucified.

Anguish
Unrelenting - knocks planet Earth
Off its axis.
Star watching observatories call
NASA
"What's going on?"
But hey, they don't take the
Call
I don't make
Explaining soular word flares.

Anguish
Black and bold apropos.
Its asexual attendants,
Greet me, as I lay me down to sleep,
Souls inferno'd true confessions slap
Reality TV down to a pathetic joke.
Words, thorns without roses,
Bodies ready for extreme unction,
Punks puncturing peace with no punctuation,
Respite, none,
Spite, aplenty.

Google "sayings about words," thousands exist, pithy.
Amusing, insightful, but can't uncover any that relieve
Anguish,
the way needed now, for this crisis state.

Anguish.
Say it slow with your hands clasping your head,
The electric **** stabs connect your ears, but
Like water seeking release, head southbound to test the
Cavities of the heart's boundaries, probe for the
Satisfying silent ******* screaming weak spots.

Anguish.
Say it     r  e  a  l     slow,
feel the sounds of a summary of
Many other words, subsets of misery etc. etc.

The Aingsound,
Reminder of the dinging ringing stinking stingers,
Happy in their ***** work,
Here a hurt, there a hurt,
Everywhere a hurt hurt.

The shhh sound,
Is the bitter taste residue down sinister,
Ends in it,
No wash of the body or the mouth
Removes the endless shhh sound that is the exact
Opposite of a silencing hush.

I say,
I have words too.

Though I am not now,
Next to you,
You will hear my voice,
Out loud, out now, speaking
My words, recite or
Stop.

My words:

Feel just like those squeezing hugs parents
Give their kids when they are six seven and eight.
Hugs so tight the breath stops, but no minded,
For the message well received,
You are mine, my always, unencumbered,
Safely will this hugging touch see you through the night.

Foolish parents thinking those hugs unnecessary,
When children are "old," you know, like
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, when
Anguish
Needs defeating then, needs them hugs,
Now more than ever.

My words:

Are the arm unexpected slung fastball of simple affection,
Over and around a shoulder sent and spent,
A best friend's gesture that says, I know, I care.
A costless measure that measures in caring
What no precious metal could dare contend.

My words:

Are hands, a corps, a division of single soldiers,
Stroking thy cheek, caressing thy forehead,
Corpsmen coming for the wounded with comfort,
Antiseptic syringes, stretchers to take away
What needs taking away.

My words:

Are a neck architecturally designed to take your
Head, be a pillow resting place, your bird house to
Shelter or hide, as you need, see fit.
There is no rent charged,
Except for what I pay you in the coin of comfort.

My words:

Drum beating chest for your rest, each beat a
Message of connection, my beats purposed to
Remind you that thousands beats more yours,
So look up raise up refreshed head, to listen
For it's the song of steady, a reminder, a remainder,
So many much chances yet.

My words:

The drowning pools where anguish suffocates,
For it cannot breathe in a world of words of
Pure oxygen that resuscitate, filter, restore.
Each breath a clarification, each one  word speaking,
No more, no mas, done, enough,
Anguish
Extinguished, banished.

They say,
Words can leap off the page,
They say.

No, you try, you hear it, the voice clarion,
These new words that travel up thine arms
Holding until the until, no end demanded,
Awe and then some,
Some more,
Healing words, meant to be read back to me,
So I can rest knowing you've lesson-learned,
Homework done, cause it is your words speaking,
Out Loud!
My words,
Become words of yours,

Your words.
Created October 17th, 2013, written on October 19th, 2013
Said and sung, simpler and better...a fav tune of mine...

Falling Slowly Lyrics  
by Glen Hansard.,
From Once.


I don't know you
But I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me
And always fool me
And I can't react
And games that never amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You'll make it now

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back
Moods that take me and erase me
And I'm painted black
You have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice

You've made it now
Falling slowly sing your melody
I'll sing it loud
Today, I watched a heavy insect of
indeterminable species
repeatedly slam into the wide picture windows
of my college library’s
third story as I read a book
analyzing one poem
Teilhard de Chardin wrote
after carrying casualties
on a stretcher
all day
from a war for which no name is presented
to me.

It is inferred de Chardin's time tells of world wars,
yet his poem deals with virginity
and mothers
although of each he was in just one.

Resistance to our ****** urges
and the potency resistance drains
was compared to
minute prosperity provided by the pursuit
of retaining 'innocence'.

The book was named "Eternal Feminine"
and its author's argument functioned
as a double victory for remittance
to a cloud kingdom
and shivering loneliness
seen through invisible barriers
on earth.

Hooray!

He seemed to be
rationalizing the struggle
with sickly pleasure
from repetition of denial.

But I lost interest in his foolish, war-time words.

Watching the flying thing reverse directly,
then continuously speeding ahead
into various windows
which were thought to be bare air,
confused and jolting with every attempt
and frantically circling in my sight,
I was led to thinking of a
demolition derby
at a fairground to which
my parents brought me
each year
of childhood
in the Autumn.

I watched, fascinated
machines stave-off
self-induced decimation
until the very last collision, after which
their motive force removed itself
rushing off to pilot
some variant of bumbling insects
and stretchers
in the form of French theological poets
throughout the past
carrying bodies
into the hands of a college student
backing up determinately
to burst through, toward the one who bares
no sons, who may become warriors
or demagogues.

This kind, secular Hannah
crosses my vision
walks out
beyond frames and doors,
clothes flowing with her
body, like a
sweet corona
sweltering with unseen heat
the fading horizon
of my day.

He sees her reflection on the moon.

Now he may not see space’s vacuous expanse
while
she may not be able to touch time’s clear fabric,
although they each feel
glass’s frozen liquidity
in silence.

Each
continuously strikes their head
against motion’s transparent barriers
with force
stubbornly flapping
into matter
with passion
and wings pulsating
toward a new direction
which does not seal them off
to the outside
of a building
in which they would be swatted,
punished for what they are.

Then the moment passed
and the sun’s thousand year combustion
had reached my neck
and penetrated matter
to massage me;

for eight and a half minutes
it travelled
toward a shadow I pushed
across the table
when the sun suddenly was helpless
to tell me where I ended,
which windows I flew through.

I was on top
de Chardin’s stretcher
as he looked at me to say I shouldn’t
charge in that way,
but I fell down
when he let go
or he evaporated
when I doubted he had lived.

Pressing my cheek against the glass
I reversed my propulsion
like the flown insect
and sounded again
my body's tinging
reverberation
on every surface.
July 10, 2012

You can listen to a version of this poem here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J80hSP2xWL8&feature;=plcp
Jamie L Cantore Feb 2017
I ne'er half thought of you as best
Painted, frozen on canvas, still, set?
Static & unmoving...  but I do rest
In my bet you feign'd it. The man Thus, he is as a criminal! If hold he Must you as possession -Beauty's Pageant.
A sun proving to ne'er grow Stagnant.
Go'th then, swept in wind, smooth &
Seminole, with no frame to so seal In
YOUth within his lines -rather reel In
Lines of my rhymes to sustain YOU Ever
Both A's & Q's. No pause, Sure Forever.

Inks & links rather than oils soon Cracked &
Dried out, faded with careless Neglect
And old Time, proving Spell checked
Words, ripen'd on a vine, (freely repro-
Duced,) is better than stretchers 2 show
In one place, wired/hooked on a dim wall
Of your captor. His penchant 2 refuse call,
Or to face, why your smile wert so small.
Unbeknownst to the brushed up painter,
Who with gobbledygook stained your
Heart, but took you as his Sitter bitterly.
So if your Silence art your bitter Mystery,
Then book Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall
As my pen chants only 4u -a wonderwall.
Wonderwall- Barrier which separates the mundane from a transcendent Reality which has a slit where the observer catches a glimpse of what lies beyond.

Not a reference to an imaginary friend who saves you from yourself.


A's=Answers Q's=Questions or (Cues.)

The Argument: Writing is a better way to sustain a person, because when copies are made of the original words, they still have the same value as opposed to copies of a painting. Also, a portrait locks the Sitter within the parameters of the frame, whereas the lines of verses set the subject free.

Or perhaps she is better painted now that I put things in perspective, if she is both the canvas and the paint -I will let that sink in for a while. Update* Did anyone fig it out? I  half-implied she is self absorbed... Lol
Zulu Samperfas Jan 2014
I went and saw and lost myself and never thought it would happen to me
like a car accident with fire trucks and ambulances and police
and stretchers and pour souls waiting
that will never happen to me
Until down into the abyss I go and time seems to slow
and I surf without getting wet
pathetic just like the rest
An addiction nevertheless that freezes thought in an instant
and replaces them with endless searching for meaning and fragile connection
Circling around, look here, no direction, life on hold and desperate without risk
spinning out of control on the internet.
Mel Holmes Feb 2014
Apocalypse Dreams


Pt. I

a handful of unknown faces--familiar strangers--mixed
with recent visitors of my flat
(like the faerie friend with the voice of a man, the proud & queer
Ms. Bobo-Dancy herself, who taught me how
to glitter everyone in the dance hall)
come together to swim.

we tread water in canals, naked along
the European street whose frames are
pastel towers, elaborate easter-egg homes.
untouched elation sits in our chests,
a rare, extraordinary *****.

our legs tango in cyclic waves,
we do the dead fish float in the rising water.
when we relax our eyelids, our bodies are carried
right to a high school gymnasium.

the dance continues, takes our legs
down the stairs, we duck against
descending ceilings, to reach the blue mats in the basement
where we stretch our limbs fully, infinitely--
(until gravity bickers).

the blonde lady in front instructs the flow--
until
Sirens shriek in routine breaths
(the alarm we prepared to disregard in school drills
presents itself).

***** smoke rushes down the stairs to play tag,
my eyes dash, but no doors,
all the fibers in my thighs work together to perform the sprint,
across the tiled floor, up the crowded stairs

but flames rule the spiral staircase
i **** in air, hold it, as i rush against the cloud of grey, the block.
fellow stretchers surround me, but i reach the door right in time,

I look back. I am Lot’s wife.
Against my will, I look back.
I watch the orange killer strike--
In one motion, he absorbs the school
The girls behind me on the stairs
become walking bodies of fire.

Pt. 2

Tonight we are at the ocean,
the boy from Budapest, my father, & I.

We stand with toes on the shore
as waves gently turn in with the aid of the Moon.

It is winter, yet the ocean is bathwater
under Midnight’s sky, under the rickety boardwalk,
We push off into the deep water.

The boy points at the scarlet seahorse latched on my arm like a tattoo,
Through the clear water, a stingray sways, spots my legs, &
chases me back to the sand,
my heartbeat runs faster than my feet.

Back on the sand that starts to growl,
quiver, faster, and
the Earth hiccups, an awkward sonic thunder,
then it vomits up seawater, with much vigor,
--an epic volcanic belch--
only over the ocean,
I am untouched.

But the boardwalk,
It acts like a sewer
The water rushes through its pipes
I see one man on the walk,
a tall, dark-haired stranger with a top hat, suitcase, & a story
The water sweeps him up
and he drops straight down,
his bottom plops onto the shore
and his arms fall right off like a plastic doll with removable parts.

A smile strikes his face,
Is it the satisfaction of a future in disability funds?
The humor in being knocked down by random burps of the Earth?
The random vomits that take us with it.

His suitcase is out of sight, and
I am being transported to another new home,
with purple walls and a **** green carpet.

I am yawning at the apocalypse.




Pt. 3
August 1992, Miami


Off the highway ramp to Miami,
Clusters of cars perched as birds in the treetops

Like baby robins, some shimmied back and forth—preparing to fly
Telephone poles and oak trees did the tango ‘til they dropped

Like unwanted *****, they dispersed among the grass and streets
The twin palm trees from Carol’s backyard spilled into the in-ground pool

Her once-favorite spot—they will forever be swimming. The sun, the only
light in town, radiated in waves, darkness to light to darkness; the stench from

lack of running water permeated the air. Carol had phoned the bank earlier; her untouched safe deposit box was the reason for her trip. She parks her Buick

in the spot with the least ashes, and walks towards the bank, NCNB.
Its walls were scattered among the cement, the teller’s desks have vanished.

She eyes the security guard sitting (in uniform) in a grey folding chair near the entrance. “How may I help you, ma’am?” the words exit his lips as if it’s a normal

day at the bank. She tells him her business, and starts towards the back, but triggers the guard... “Enter the front door, ma’am!” Her feet guess where that used to be, start over,

She gathers her savings, leaves out “the door.” A sharp smile crosses the guard’s face.
How long will the it last?
Moving at the speed of sound.
We took that turn just a little too fast.
We were livin’ on the wild side,
No seat belts,
Just watching the night go past.

Thought we were in total control,
Didn’t realize how much we had to lose,
Not a care in the world,
It wasn’t suppose to happen like that,
Didn’t know we were just a burning fuse.

But it wasn’t even our fault.
Just the wrong place and the wrong time.
If the drunk driver had never left the bar,
We’d still be cruising around town,
Instead of being victims of that crime.

The lights grew brighter the closer they came,
Didn’t take in the fact the car was actually in the same lane.
But coming at us instead of moving away.
Getting closer at high speeds,
Pause the moment, say a prayer, then proceed.

Feel the jolt,
Feel the pain,
Feel my legs break,
Feel the blood start to pour,
Feel nothing.

Unconsciousness was welcoming,
Put me out of my misery, for the time being,
Floating up, higher and higher,
Becoming the bystander,
Looking from above, realizing what my eyes were seeing.

His head was laid upon the wheel,
Arm across my chest, tried to hold me back,
Eyes shut, feeling as I was, nothing.
Not even the rise and fall of his chest,
Which alarmed me and sent my mind under attack.

Screaming down to him,
But seeming like my voice was on mute.
Like a loaded gun,
Bullets and all,
But unable to shoot.

He stayed unmoving,
No signs that he might be improving.
I felt helpless looking on from above,
Like there was nothing I could do,
Then came the sirens, flashing red and blue.

See the paramedics stop at the scene.
See the men run out of the bus.
See them take our pulses,
See them begin to move faster,
See that there was still a chance.

As I watched the scene from above,
The drunk driver stepped out of his car,
And was able to walk just fine,
No limp, no scratch,
Not even the smallest bit of a scar.

The medics took out the long straight boards,
And brought them to the car we’d been victimized in,
Cutting both of us out of the vehicle,
Placing him and I on two separate stretchers,
We were apart, the first time since I couldn’t remember when.

Speeding to the hospital,
I kept my eyes on his ambulance,
Instead of my own,
His chest didn’t rise and fall,
His eyes didn’t give me the slightest glance.

Feeling anger all at once,
Feeling more alone than ever before,
Feeling stupid for being so crazy,
Feeling ugly because of the big cut across my face,
Feeling dead.
Paul Glottaman Nov 2011
You went upstairs to go to bed,
but you never came back.
Or rather you didn't come back
under you own power.

It was MEs, stretchers,
and tear stained sunrises we never
saw from the kitchen floor
where we wept.

The arrangements were made,
open casket confessions and so little else.
You were ashes by the days end.
No mantel piece resting place.

Because it's not fair.
Because nothing ever is.
Because you were so young,
because we weren't ready.

Because your love was so vast
that it would light up the room.
Because you taught us to close our hands
and catch starlight in between our fingers.

There is a hole in my soul.
An error in my morning light.
I can still smell the tea.
How you loved strong tea...

"Black as the night and
sweet as a stolen kiss."

Memories of your made up language,
the one so few of us knew fluently,
will always dance in my brain.
To think, I failed Spanish.

When, days later, we opened the microwave
to find your cup of tea,
the one you left out every night,
you were such a fan of strong tea...

How are we supposed to go on?
Where will the hand be that is meant to guide?
I had never cried over tea.
I had never cried over much of anything.

Imagine my surprise,
my sweetest mentor,
my treasured care giver,
when my shoulders began to shake.
King Bacon Oct 2014
I see these recurring themes,
In my recurring dreams,
I can’t seem to encolor the world
my whole world is blowing gray,
and them recurring themes
I’m seeing seem to be scene securing
recurring dreams to my recurring days.

I was counting sheep,
hoping in some way it would amount to sleep,
I wasn’t even drowsy must of been about a thousand deep,
way up on some mountain peek,
somewhere where the clouds can speak,
If I don’t ****** fall asleep soon,
I think I’m about to leap.

Now I am falling like rain,
Someone is calling my name,
Woke up driving a car with some fool up all in my lane.
Saw some dude with a sign he said, “The end is coming soon”
Last night I swore I saw another moon.
Hoped out my tomb it must of been around eleven-ish,
The second moon said that the red moon is devilish,  
The red moon said,
“I can’t imagine what the hell it is to be in prison in your present tense,”
But when the sentence ends its possible if not probable there will be better friends,
stretchers and machine to give you medicine,

When the setting said go to bed again don’t forget me kid,
went to counting sheep and I woke up in a shepherd's skin.
softer than a leopard skin ,
wonder what the sheep the shepherds been,
another setting setting in,
another setting setting in
Now this is where the stress begins,
The wool was full with strings and scabs,
and all I could think of is I want to sleep so bad.

I looked up at the wall and I saw the clock was melting,
I fell to my hands and knees and then began collecting,
its stiff ***,
ran my finger tip through the tik toks.
They could trick my wrist like an handle filled with wrist watch,
That **** locked oh **** I wish that I could pick locks,
woke with a fist **** in a boxing ring.
The clock went ding,
My opponent was a clock.

God that clock started clocking me,
I don’t wanna punch my clock,
This is ****** sad,
Put a boxer in a box turn him into a punching bag,
Put a boxer in a box turn him into a punching bag,
I see this recurring themes,
In my recurring dreams,
I can’t seem to encolor the world
my whole world is blowing gray,
and the recurring themes
I’m seeing seem to be scene securing
recurring dreams to my recurring days.
Thousand years ago, the world somewhere began
an escape, a thousand years later still trying to get to the end, but my body becomes a decorative piece, becomes of a number one digital romano ... that turns into flames cinch and dressing this base disencounter ; that is my physical, on an all, regardless of who will manage and the rule ... "

... I find it hard to breathe ... i do not know if i can continue what i have proposed ....
there is so much to say. i never wanted to write about it. and now i am here, changing the paper by words.
   better...... so nobody will remember anything, thanks to the evanescence. I have nothing to leave, no one for whom to stay here. i just hope to leave my soul in peace ...
   ... tonight i die.

**** dreamer who i am! i never got anywhere by myself. i never got to be what it was if it had not been for someone else.
   my days, my whole life governed by feelings ... they left me?
  
Inserts 1 - full moon in three shooting lights threshold pierced window shades sea view. there were three golden stingrays. they went to his room versailles, with some electricity that flowed from their bodies corps plans were roots electro-magnetic. upon entering threshold, their bodies pressed proportion to the input capability, but yes, each tidily came one after other. snipf believed to be asleep yet, but ***** it finding that was very real., many thought to pray, the saint who heard his confession had derived dimensional elsewhere.

Each stood before him. they looked with your eyes ldeep blue, relighted one in your iris reddish tint. your long antennas your heads caressed her room like recognizing them. snifp raised his arms as if embracing them, but put them over his head like imitating them, so began to turn, as if he were at the bottom of the ocean. this way, began to rowing with his arms in the room. the four members looked at each other, until snifp stood in between them, restarting your memories and confession to your new species of visitors. - no doubt their gods were they who visited because they were the ones that helped him in difficult and conflicting tasks. they must be highlighted; no le imposed a religiousness, only you your matches proposed delayed stages,

Four together, sit finally, focus on one thought as he took him to snipf arm for lease gate reality. aso these blankets emit a high-pitched noise that made snipf his new travelers to dream where would be the master sea and land beside them.

Romanticism is only rain emotions between winter skies sweetened; it is the cessation of rain from storms deaf. those deaf people who never believed in sentiment. Perhaps they have died without discovering it, and so poor and eager to continue living. instead i say goodbye to my land, my things, my memories. i'm so overjoyed without missing anything because what i miss is dead.

Insert 2 - feel distant sounds thunders and lightnings - some cats stumbled after feeling loud noise.

   I was born in 1832, dressed in beautiful costumes me, but i was on saturday mornings bathe with my blankets friends, all that leave very soon because every day stuttered more, and i found it hard to beat in my talk. They moved me with all my belongings to higher school, even only place to hear the bells of the cathedral, filled me with hearing loss and mortuary pain inside me was a place that then fled, over time i graduated from journalist, without anyone in my family believed in me. they never could understand my lack of realism. some call me naive, not without reason, i must admit.

   It's curious. whatever it is that one wants in life, always have obstacles from the people closest. from them comes the pain of misunderstanding and apathy. of them come from the larger wounds heals any ointment. Until i met a fisherman near a marina rivera long in a bar, then he told me his adventures and i became the eager boy children's stories. that night made me drink and drink until you drop at the side of a fishing terminal on the deck of a great ship.

Insert 3 - sleep - my in between growth stingrays, they were flying at night over my house, and sometimes brought me messages about the new season climate. interrupted my homework prepared, and most important, including, the most important; me included among the best, to sail with them. some among their ranks, me and took me taught to fly, although i always kept my body cold, completely oblivious to provide me own will enough heat. they gave me when stuttered or epileptic seizures, they did me your riding world where no disturbance physics i was afraid. But my blankets, me covering, me had in his pilgrimages slitting sea, sea to own and only, just for me. noises in them moderated my ears oversensitive, and for the first time vi from the sea depth rain fell as planting the ocean, as vast brightening the room he shared alongside them.

Insert end -

my life was empty without a firm helm, but ... god!
   she was several years younger than me. a beautiful creature in sight and confined to good feelings. i met a rainy night. she was with hat, with umbrella. we were heading to the same place where there was no one, because the activity had been suspended. after waiting and exchanging timid and nervous words we decided that we would be together forever.

   I do not mean it was love at first sight. rather, it was like finding my soul mate. and although we knew that the road would be hard and painful, we launched into a destination built by us and our struggles.

it's beautiful outside, with the moon through the trees can they see me sitting here or your mind round inside me?
   All of me are gone, even the children we never had. they left me in the cold. she will not sit in front of my fire more, because now she is snow.
    Is dark outside, trees writhe can they wait or live without me?
   but his fingerprints are still marked, marked in the snow left in me. everything is so white that hides the traces of tears that you never saw. everything is a blanket of snow falling on the memories you used to have. But even heart aches as before, i can not help feeling that someday come back from the dead to take your hand.
  
it's warm outside; the trees are gone. my soul took another turn. he never appeared someone like her. if your fingerprints are still, and i can see them in the snow! Everything is so white that covers the trails that she was not allowed to continue. everything is nothing, that clouds the movements that made me.
   But my heart is still suffering as he did. you followed the path that never again will bring.

I am confined to my bed in a dark room. i have a window overlooking the sea from the east, and another that puts me in front of the forest. i left on my bed a wooden box with yellowed leaves are the letters we sent her and i for so many years. yet i keep them all ... no, it's not true, many were lost in the fire flash - she will walk through the park until a curtain falls separating both. - pauses then your thinking and strongly bites pencil in her mouth was.

But no matter, i have the words engraved in my memory. and that will continue.The branches of the tree, which adjoins east window of small ones are ways to my walking, like war heroes. further, on stretchers, bring my faithful subjects in about trust management mi. but to raise my head like a big diving, they come see some maimed, come without it, come without his presence, bring only pieces of his body.
    
Our whole life, a very short time we were together, and not that we would not be, but there was always something that separated us. first the family, then the distance. We were separated and had to go in your search. at that time i was studying and trips were long, tedious and very damaging to my career, by the way, my family did not look favorably upon our union, rather than being recognized by men had communed in the sky ...
  
How i detest this ancient time! it is not day nor night, and i am not a man more educated to think more than this ... i hate to see the sun when i pray to the west, but someday she will take my dreams where the stars shine, where all they talk with their hands, without anguish nor grief, where all secretly want to go where the beauty sing constantly.

[ellipsis n 1]  

Adulthood - in the municipal choir - snifp came with his briefcase wondering if had kept all their material header, then trying to put his hand to pocket inner his coat, pulls out a key, this will be falling from his hands, and could realize there was a leaf on the floor, announcing a performance coral group in the premises of the municipality.
[end ellipsis 1]

[ellipsis 2]

Children age - in the conservatory - this brings another memory your memory with air fire, a dense air, movement of people, unable to help each other. it was toward the end of his second childhood, with his mother ran near a school where she thought enroll for classes theater.  mourn strongly but his mother, asking what was wrong? she said nothing for you not to worry. small but was snifp intuited by the uncertainty of their economic resources. he hugs her and says he has talent, that will come after all. snifp for a moment lets his mother and a photo seen in someone like his father, leaving the building and walks cobblestones wetted by the ***** of a vil exploited horse, and suddenly caresses their hands caress end the cabinet of the lord of the book store. and see i was like his father, but this time had the pipe on the left hand and lenses in the right hand. then, scare away horse and scared snifp trying to crossing the street leading the news to his mother. Her, i had signed up for next season.

[end ellipsis 2]  

After his assistant will take a reactant concoction snipf felt memories of those rejuvenated, making faces on the wall of his room. some of them were very funny and some not. but suddenly crossing the fingers tightening strongly and fix your clothes. buckle his belt. to sing is arranged, to shout and satiated to see if it really true the spirit that motivated him aires to be acquired new life. gets, fell knee, runs open window. try to touch everything with his hands, then kick chair to sit down and write. for each paragraph writing was setting and take off  lenses. for every paragraph, she took a sip of boiling concoction that was with him at that time

   Many of these letters were written thought in poetry. some might object letters "form", but the content, our feelings ... they can not be judged by anyone. I can not symbolize things. for me a bottle is a bottle. i need to reach a level of abstraction, because i recognize that everything beautiful i've seen i remember; because i know that to forget, everything will fly in the wind. so i can not symbolize anything. on the other hand, i know that everything that meant something to me, i could never do completely reach your heart. i hope to be wrong.
- get your consultant with tray in his hands unite.
snipf lord, your medicine. remember that leave this excerpt stingray than recommended by your doctor. You and your advisor and the look before opening the door thinking it would the last time i'd see him, then snipf recommences his speech ._
... i consider myself a failure fledged. some of those past failures are transmuted into fertilizers for ephemeral successes, lost in the sound of the wind beneath me accommodating my feet to tie them to my chair inquisitor.  TO  BE CONTINUED
SCREENPLAY ONIRIC POEMS - MAIN CHARACTER SNIFP  THE STINGRAY - under edition
Jedd Ong Jan 2014
Sometimes I wonder whether
The monsters underneath our beds
Have simply learned
To leave us alone

Fully knowing that the fear comes
Regardless.

Knowing that many times we scare
Ourselves into thinking
Once we dream
We will never wake.

That every night we hear
Sirens
And ambulances wailing-

Mistaking them for gunshot wounds
Buried deep within
Our chests waiting
To resurface.

And we dream of our stretchers.
Of if our arms
Will seamlessly tuck
Into
Our chests as we curl up
Beneath the smoke and
Rubble
Of to-
Morrow.

As if our sleep leaves open wounds
Left for them to
Sew.
It's getting late.
Danielle Jones Sep 2011
we are all made out of house fires,
smoke has filled out our frames and
our throats are held up by burning
structures.
electrical impulses shock us back to life
and the matches flare the tears of
hope and tears of relief
as we watch the paint melt from our
porch.
we think of it as doubt washing off
our steps and sometimes we need
to build off of facts from the basement
stored away in cardboard boxes.
all we have left is references and
yet faith is all about that.
we are all intertwined at the nose tips,
and our breath can been seen from miles.
that's where things get lost,
our tears of hope and tears of relief
are put onto stretchers for the ambulances
to evaluate how our lives are really going and
we all know the weight tied to our ankles are
cords from the light fixtures.
sometimes the darkness can put them away.
sometimes a fire is bolder than
our free will and sometimes
the ashes create history.
our ashes will tell stories of the
tears of hope and the tears of relief
that our doubt melded to the earth
so we'll never forget our roots.
we will never forget where we came from.
the breakers will cause sparks up our spine
but this will just accelerate how we will
douse the flares and accept the tears of
hope and tears of relief when the come
running down our chins and realize how
simple it was to let embers fold the alignment.
this is where we begin building off of the burn
we started with.
© Danielle Jones 2011
Sophia Jan 2013
stimulant jitters
again:  another
cigarette , why not
coffee, why bother
to eat

if infinity exists i’m sure to get there
quicker; if god
is real i’m not going to meet him
in my sleep.  i promised you
to not stop writing;  now I can’t.  
this is the only high
i’m used to, anymore.

                                              i
have been introduced, finally,
to the mirthless dementias
of awakeness,
and the men who strap them down,
screaming,
to stretchers, and to            sleep,
and they don’t wear white coats but axes,
and the axis turns too
quickly
for biblical words
to anymore impact us:
                                               the heels click,
the sidewalk cracks              minutely,
the hungry
daydreams
die
-----------------
[ i
  sleep.
  the heels click
  minutely ]
Sora Dec 2012
Mist swallows my body whole
Stretchers emerge
Marshlands have captured me
Slime covered my limbs were
Mission Possible no longer
Rain slams down on me
Like bullets in your back
Trees appear to spin
Rough turning to cushy beneath me
Ripples of grass from my tumble
Now through the woods I stumble
No longer awake
Laid to rest
Never witnessing the newest dawn
Living was a luxury...
Another dawn breaks,
“Again the chilled border,
Has gone red with terror”
On my TV screen Olive green
Uniforms shaded in brown,
Lied on the stretchers,
Some still, some wriggling with,
Pain creeping to the core.

You and me being safe at home
Fought with each other, over
The extra cube of sugar,
That spoilt the taste of tea.
We always grumble, castigate,abuse,
Inside the safe walls of home.
While those fearless men,
Sleeplessly guard our borders.


Salute to those brave men who,
Forget their love and life for us,
And go back home in coffins,
Covered with a nation’s pride.
Bullets pierced their body, splashed
The warm blood, from their hearts,
Flooded in the memories of their
Loved ones, all far off.

Salute to those mothers, sisters
Wives, daughters, sons and bros,
Who surrender to their loss,
And say,” I love my nation,
And I‘m proud, that my son,
My brother, my love and life,
My dad, lived for this nation,
Lived for each one of you…"

Let’s pity ourselves, you and me
For, we forget them in a day,
Sitting in our cool, cozy rooms,
And argue over mean things
Because we have no worries,
When they are there to die for us,
Not letting us to surrender,
To the terror, fear and worry..
DEDICATED TO ALL MEN AND WOMEN IN UNIFORM AND THEIR FAMILIES
Sadly Kida Jan 2019
Anyone else getting so
tired
of scrapping pennies
Meal stretchers
and cold with ripped
leggings
Fillin up on what was
suppose to be
last week's rent
Can't help not havin a real meal
since month 10
Sleepin on
Air mattress beds
Just tired
I anesthetized myself
with
fifteen pints of Olde English,
**** good health
I'm going down.

But coming round when
the pounding in my head
reminds me that
I can't be dead
is a drawback.

Yet
Olde English sounds so quaint,
believe me folks and yokels
it ain't,
the locals where I live
give
free stretchers for the
wretches
just like me.
Julian Mar 2023
3/30/2O23 WRITING
https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/l8njruxa73yee9b0jzmhd/The-Ultimate-Unabridged-Guide-to-Esoteric-Working-English-2.docx?­rlkey=kunoar7ghpfkb7fjk5xkdgx95&st=i84ornny&dl=0

THE WROX OF ATTINGENT ATTRITION WIELDED BY AKINESIA ORBITED AROUND GALERICULATED JARVEYS TO THE PANMIXIA OF BARNSTORM WASES OF BARTONS ENTANGLED IN THE CRUCIBLE OF ERUCIFORM MOTIVES FOR OLIM WALLETEERS AND WALLFISH THAT BREAK THE BRATTICE RANKS OF APARTHEID THAT ABORNING ALPENGLOW SUNSET SAFFRON CAJOLES OF THE WELKIN SCYTHING AGAINST THE PLEROMORPHY OF REDACTED AND REDOUBLED PLEONASM THAT MIGHT BE AN ESCADRILLE ON THE FOREFRONT OF THE CAMARRA OF VENTRILABRAL FEATS OF KNEADED MALAXAGE FOREVER THE SUFFRAGE OF BODACHES ENTANGLED IN SARSENETS OF SERICULTURE. WE WITH RIP VAN WINKLE THORNY IMBROGLIOS OF THE COLLECTIVE AMNESIA CREATED BY SIMULTAGNOSIA WE SPURN THE ANZACTILE FLASHBANGS AGAINST SECTILE DOLDRUMS OF WINTRY SUPPEDANEUM USING THE FAGINS OF SUBACTION THAT THE CLOFFIN OF GEZELLIG TRAMONTANE TO ALL SPECTERS NEVER A BUGABOO OF BODEWASH RINSED IN NIHILISM COULD EVER SURMOUNT WITH THE CARYATIDS OF CHOMAGE AND METEORIC CHOANIDS WE STAND A FIGHTING CHANCE TO REVIVAL AND WITH THE WAPENTAKE OF CONFEDERATE OMPHALISMS WE MIGHT SEE A CLEAVED WORLD DISMAL ON SATURNINE SYCOMANCY BECAUSE THE NEMESISM OF ROILING ROARING ROORBACKS OF CAREFULLY PLUCKY VENOSTASIS MIGHT THE BARRULETS OF HABITUES OF LIONIZATION BE GREATLY ENRICHED BY THE ENLISTMENT OF NOVERNARY MACROPICIDES BECAUSE OF FALTERING STEVEDORES THAT EVENTUALLY THE CURGLAFF BECOMES AN APOTHECARY SENTIMENT OF DELIBERATE POISON TO THE WELLSPRING OF WINTERBOURNE ARCEATED ARMISTICE WITH THICK AND DENSE CURDLED BONNYCLABBER THAT CLOYS THE MUTILATED ETHOS OF THE VANGUARD CORTEGES AND THE CORBELS OF THE SYBOTIC FENNEC AND FIDDLE. WE BLACKGUARD AGAINST RHADAMANTHINE AGENTS DEPLOYED BY SENTINEL TRIBUNES TRYING TO GLITCH THE FUSION OF PARVANIMITY WITH THE CAPABLE BANDELETS OF SPECIOUS SOPHISTRY THAT SCRAWLS INTEMERATION IN EVERY SUBDICOLOUS SWARF OF GRAVID IRONY PREGNANT ONLY BECAUSE OF MIDWIVES TO CIRCUMLOCUTION THAT MOTIVATES THE THRESHING FLOOR TO SEIZE THE FIG TREE AND GALVANIZE THE MUSTARD SEED ECONOMY OF ERUCIFORM DELIGHTS KNOWN FAR BEFOREHAND BY COGNOSCENTI FRAVVERSCRIBBLE BECAUSE OF THE OBLATED NUTATION THAT GOUGES TOO MANY BECAUSE OF THE ZOOSEMIOTICS OF NEKTON TRUCIDATION THAT THE HARVEST OF NYALAS IS NOT IN VAIN FOR ALL OF THE CODSWALLOP THEY DERIDED IN THEIR PERENNIAL FICTIONS AND THEIR BONTBOK PROSELYTIZATION OF MANY SUSCEPTIBLE SURQUEDRIES OF SURDOMUTE MYTHOS SPANKING THE MONKEY UNREEVED BECAUSE OF TURNSTILE PHARMACEUTICAL ROT THAT DISTILLED IN ITS ESSENTIAL CONTORTIONS THE CORDWAINER APPEAL OF CURATIVE NOSOCOMIAL RANCOR TRUCKLING TO HIDDEN EPITHETS BURIED IN ACCOLENT TEMPTATIONS RATHER THAN SUPERSTITIOUS IDEOGENIES THAT BECAME THE BELLWETHERS OF INOCULATION IN AN ERA BESET WITH PLAGUES AND THE BLAINS OF BLUNGED ORTHOPTEROLOGY ZESTY WITH THE ZEAL OF THOUSANDS OF ANGRY ANGARIES FOR THE UMSTROKE OF LABILE LEVERAGE FINESSING THE BARCAROLE SUCH THAT THE INSIGHT OF THE WIVERN OF ANTICTHON MIGHT EVENTUALLY BECOME A DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER PARABLE OF THE RETCHED MISCEGENATION OF OUTCAST MANUFACTURE STRICKLING A FENESTRAL DISGRACE FOR THE JANGADAS OF THE CAMPANILE SEED ****** BY CALUMETS OF THE VEES OF MOULIN ROUGE SCANSORIAL CONDUCT OF THE DEMARCATED DERMATOLOGY OF PATINAS ABOVE THE CIRCULAR REPOSE OF VISIBILIA BECAUSE THE GIAOURS OF SPHACELATION OF GRAMERCY BROWBEATING FOR SPECIOUS RANTIPOLE RANGIFERINE SERROWS OF ESTABLISHED ELITISM ABOVE FUNNELED BURROLES OF BRAINTRUST SUBORNING ALL ALLEGIANCE TO THE GREATEST PINNACLE OF SUBSIDIARY CIVILIZATION THAT IS NEVER INDOLENT AND ALWAYS A REPROACH TO THE WISEST PEOPLE OF WISEACRES WIDELY ENTERTAINED BEYOND VAPULATION IN CATERCORNERED ELITISM. NYALAS ENGINEERED THE BIGGEST SCAM IN THE HISTORY OF NYALA AND THE STULMS OF CORPORATE SABOTAGE DESIGNED BY THE MAJORITARIAN TREACLE OF URBANE BERLINE DERELICTIONS OF PROXEMICS THAT WE MIGHT SEE THE BOLAR STOLONICITY OF CASEMATE BRITSKAS RENDERING THEM EFFETE IN DISEASED MENTICIDE ABOVE CARPAL TUNNEL FORESIGHT OF TWADDLING SCRIPTURE THAT BELONGS TO ROCKSTAR PARLANCE BUOYED BY BRIMBORION BLACKLISTS OF SAMIZDAT BECOMING MORE IMPORTANT TO THE ACT OF BALEFIRE THAN THE PORTREEVES HANDING THE CLAVATE OF GHAWAZI THE CLAVIGEROUS MIGHT OF HANDSPIKE FOR JALEOS AND JARABES OF GREATER TRICOTEES THAN TREACHERIES BECAUSE THE VINTAGE WINDCHEATERS THAT SOARED WITH CORSAIRS MIGHT THEY BE SO PRIVILEGED WITH PREROGATIVES OF SUBLIME EXCHEQUER THAT HOPEFULLY THEY STORGED THEMSELVES ON HEALTHIER DIETS RATHER THAN THE NESH DEBAUCHERIES OF MISERICORDS BECOMING BETHELS OF THE COMPANIONWAY OF LECHERY THAT SCOWLS AT OWLERIES BUT INSTEAD WANTS THE NECROTYPE FOR ROOSTERS BECAUSE OF HEYDAY HATRED RATHER THAN SOCKDOLAGER PROSELYTIZATION TO THE LARGESSE OF PYCNOSTYLE PERSEVERATION. INSTEAD OF ERECTING  STANDPIPES TO THE ILLITERACY OF SEDIGITATED DELUSIONS FED INTO CAMISOLES OF BROCKFACED BRAZEN STRETCHERS FOR THE WALDGRAVES OF WARDCORN EXPERIMENTATION WE FIND THAT THE WINZE THAT LEADS TO THE SYRINX OF ELITISM NOT GUARDED BY ABESSIVE PRIVILEGE WE ENTERTAIN THE STALINESQUE SYSTEM OF PSYCHIATRY TEETOTALING AROUND THE CEREAL KILLER MENTALITY BECAUSE OF A SWARTHY BIAS OF PREGNANT NIGHT AND KNIGHTS TO RULE OVER HEADLESS HORSEMEN TAXIDERMIES BURIED IN THE CLOTURE OF CETACEAN MYTHOS GIRDLING THE CARDIMELECH OF BASELINE PRIDE RATHER THAN CARDIOGNOST UNDERSTANDING THAT NEPHROLITHS OF  STOCKINETTE ARE IN FACT THE BOLSTERED ECONOMETRICS OF SCALING THE TOTEMIC LEVERAGE OF SUBSTRATOSE SOCIETIES IN VARIOUS DIVERGENCES OF IDIOSYNCRATIC ARRAIGNMENT THAT RESULTED IN SUCH A PROFOUND NEUTROSOPHY THAT EXERTS A TUG UPON THE STOKEHOLD SPODOMAN CY AND SPODIUM OF SPECIAL INTERESTS THAT ATTEMPTED TO MAGNETIZE THE MESMERISM OF DEFEATED IDEAS AND IDEOLOGIES MIGHT THEY SURVIVE WITH CATHEXIS FOR THE WASES OF BARNSTORM OF RHEOTAXIS IN WAPENTAKE. THE WORLD NEEDS TO KNOW HOW SEVERELY THE IVORIDE OF THE IVY LEAGUES AND THE CONSTELLATION OF PEOPLE WITH PERVERSE COMPASSIONS DISCARDING THE EMOTIVISM OF BLUEPETERS TRYING TO EDGE BEYOND THE BOUNDARIES OF IMAGINATION TO FORSIFAMILIATE BECAUSE OF ECCENTRIC PECCADILLO THAT LURCHES AGAINST TIMBERLASK VIRILITY TO ENTRENCH A QUIXOTIC AND QUISQUILOUS MULIEBRITY TO ROUSE THE SEMAPHORE ALARM THAT NO LONGER CAN THE BANDEROLS OF THE SIMPLEST MEN BECOME THE SIRENS FOR EVERY PROTEST RATHER MIGHT THEIR TURGID DISREGARD RENDEM THEM IRRELEVANT BECAUSE ONOLATRIES AND SCRIVELLOS BOTH PANDER TO WICKED WICKS OF THE TABLE OF ALL AFFAIRS THAT EXLEX REALISM IN A PRAGMATIC WORLD OF STUNSAIL SUPERNOVAS DEFEAT THE NOMOGENY OF THE RADICALISM BECOMING MORE RADICAL BY INCULCATION THAT CONSTERNATION IS THE CRUCIBLE OF ARISTOPHREN DISTASTE BUT THE EXCHEQUER OF ELECTORAL CERTAINTY OF PERIBLEBSIS ABOVE CLEARHEADED SIGHT RATHER THAN MYOPIA IN FAMISHED LANDS FATTENING CALVES IN THE PROVIDENCE OF PROWESS THAT MIGHT RESCUE US BEYOND PETTY DELUSIONS THAT WE MUST ENCOUNTER TRIBULOID CNICNODES WITH THE BEST ABDERVINE AFFAIRS RATHER THAN A NOMENCLATURE ELITISM THAT IS SAVVY ONLY WHEN THE ABAFT TURTLEBACK ONLOOKERS OF THE NOYADE APPROACHING FROM MILLIONS OF MILES APART THAT THEY BECOME DISENTHUSED BY THE COMPOSITE SPECTRUM MIGHT THEY TURN INTO DEMOCRATIC SOLFERINOS OR OTHERWISE SOLFERINOS TO BEGIN WITH, THE LACERTILIAN CROTALINE SONDAGE OF DARKNESS IS A KNELL FOR THE DARK RASPY DAYS OF WHERRET AND STULTIFICATION OF GARBOLOGY EVEN WHEN IT REMAINS THE LINCHPIN OF ALL TROPES OF TRUTH FOR TROMOMETERS AND STADIOMETERS THAT UNDERSTAND WANIGANS OF WAINAGE. IN CONCLUSIVE HARBINGER UMBRACIOUS SERVITUDE TO A SUFFRAGE OF SPHECOID LITTORAL EMBANKMENTS THAT RIVULATIONS GUARD ABOVE THE GROUNDPROX MUGIENCE OF BRAYING JACKALS HAUNTING THE JIBOYA FORESTS OF AFFORCED AND ATTEMPERED ATTENUATION THAT RANKLES THE GRAVAMEN OF RANCID HINDSIGHT IN CHRONOPSYCHOLOGY THAT SPRAWLS OUTWARD FROM THE PROVENANCE OF ALL ILLUMINATION THAT THE SORBILE SOURDINE SGRAFFITOS TO THE ELECTORAL REGARD BECOMES A SWANK BEYOND SILKALINE BANGTAIL OSTENTATION THAT NEGAHOLICS AGAINST CRETACEOUS SUFFICIENCY OF THE PALLOR OF ARENTRUM ABOVE BLANKETED WALLFISH WHO SPY ON PISCIFAUNA MIGHT THEIR SENICIDE BECOME THE CAREWORN OPPOSITE TO ALL CAREER TEMPTATIONS FOR GIGMANIA IN A SLOW CARAPACE OF FORAMINATION ABOVE THE RESOFINCULAR DISTORTIONS OF BOLTROPES INGRATIATING THE INSTRUMENTALISM OF DECLINE. WE MUST HEED GOD AND OBEY HIS PROVIDENCE SUCH THAT THE CHEVET OF THE RELIGIOUS ACCLAIM OF GENERATIONS EXPANDS TO BE A DISCIPLESHIP TO ALL WORLD LEADERS IN THE SEDERUNT OF PATIENCE RATHER THAN IMPETUOUS FUROR AGAINST RIDDLED PRAXEOLOGY. IN THE CULMINATION OF ALL AGES WE MUST ENDURE THE SUFFRAGE OF COGNOSCENTI PIRATES MIGHT THEY EMBARK IN OPPOSITIVE SUPPORT FOR THE GRATUITIES THEY SEE THROUGH THE PORTALS OF ABATJOUR THAT SPAWNED MYTH AND MYTH CONQUERED THE TREACLE OF DECEIT BECAUSE OLMS OF THE PAST AND ZEKS OF THE PRESENT DESERVE A BETTER REGARD OF THE CREDENDA. NEUTROSOPHY IS THE BALKANIZATION OF QUIZZICAL IDEAS DERIVED FROM FAULTY COMPASSIONS TO MINORITARIAN BACKPIECES OR ROTUND PROPAGANDA COALESCING PEOPLE BY GIROUETTISM THAT THEY MIGHT BE ENTHUSED BY A WEIRD CISVESTISM AS A BADGE OF HONOR BECAUSE OF LIBIDINAL IMBALANCE AND MANY FORMS OF RADICALISM POLLUTE SOCIETY PRIMARILY BECAUSE ECCENTRIC BOOKWORM PROFESSORS HARDLY THE VICTIMS OF POLYHISTORY OFTEN TRADUCED THE CONTEMPORARY MALAISE AND INVENTED FROM A VACUUM A DERIVATIVE OF WARPED EUHEMERISM THAT MISLEADS MANY ONTO DESOLATE PATHS OF ISOLATION IMMUNE TO THE CONSENSUS OF GENIUS WHICH FLOUTS THOSE SPECIOUS SOPHISTRIES BECAUSE THEY ARE RACKRENTS OF ACADEMIC BANKRUPTCY THAT NEED TO BE ANNEALED OF A REVIVAL OF PEAK MODERNISM IDEOLOGIES BEYOND THE IDIORHYTHMIC PROGRESSION OF TRUCKLING COMPROMISE AND CLOYING TOLERANCE.
Alan MC Kenna Oct 2018
A  Lebanon  winter  Sunday  morning  ,    
i  am  orderly  cook  first  up  braving    
the  mountain  wind  in  my  face,    
head  shrugging  into  my  shoulders  hunched,  
shiver  .

I  say  hello  to  the  kitchen  ,  
turn  on  the  lights  open  the  fridge  .  
Blast  the  warm  gas  flame  
somehow  reminds  me  of  a  turf  ad  on  t.v  back  home    
I  lower  the  flame  and  fry  some  eggs  .
    
The  bacon  spits  and  crinkles    
when  up  the  hill  a  hairy  frenzy  brakes  .    
I  step  outside  and  peer  ,    
red  tracer  rounds  race  and  rake  
Dangerous,  no  Chinese  feast  this  .    

Darkness  grabs  the  kitchen    
The  first  mortar  hits  .
I  turn  the  lambent  flames  off  .    
Shrill  siren  groundhog  .  
Bedlam  ,  flak  jackets  ,  helmets  ,  casualties    
the  kitchen  is  now  a  bunker.  
  
Roache  and  O'Flaherty  from County Clare    
two  big  genuine  men.    
O'Flaherty  hands  crossed  the  outside  door  threshold    
with  a  flop  as  he  collapsed,  the  lads  drag  him  inside  .    
Roache  now  bleeds  on  the  kitchen  floor  
blood  spurts  from  his  thigh.  
  
I  do  my  best  to  help    
breath  deep  yet  worry    
We  are  all  U.N  ,  defenceless  
can't  hit  back  .I  hear  shells  whistle    
and  impact  the  building  and  our  state  of  mind  ?    
is  this  my  last  moment  ?    
we  wait  we  cope.

We  even  manage  to  ****  ,laugh  and  then  mortars  boom.    
The  Israelis  want  to  ****  us    
but  we  have  a  T-wall  called  luck  .    
Pat  our  medic  plays  a  stormer  ,  fair  play  
I  see  young  soldiers  sitting  on  the  floor  shaking  
with  fear  ,  cant  stand  ,  do  i  see  tears ?    

Medivac , stretchers  lift  Roache  &  O'Flaherty  
Six  men  to  lift  big  John  .    
Noel  is  calm  ,  shrapnel  is  his  thigh  &  a  kitchen  knife  
his  ad-hoc  splint  for  his  thumb.  

Eventually  relief  its  all  over  now  .    
My  heart  pumps  ,  what  should  i  feel  ?    
How  can  i  analyse  this  ?    
Can  i  have  a  cup  of  tea  Alan  ?  
I  put  on  the  kettle  as  people  are    
now  reaching  for  normal  .    
I  get  down  on  my  hands  &  knees    
wiping  blood  of  the  floor  .    
Visceral  inner  fight.    
i  then  light  up  the  gas    
and  i  fry  some  eggs  .
I dress modestly,
Carry a worn out handbag,
Wear worn stretchers,
Be humble and courteous,
And speak politely.
The doctor's clinic,
The lawyer's office,
The  principals office,
To minimise bills or donations.
22/6/2024
Travis Green Jul 2023
I am so enraptured by the magically
Charismatic attractiveness of lustful robust studs
How they take my breath away
Attract my attention with their **** beadtastic faces
Their fiery, passionate attitudes
Their tasty, flirtatious lips

I love how their slick *** appeals give me chills
So smooth, luscious, and rugged
So rude, groovy, and hoodalicious
Their top-notch macho cologne drives me crazy
I am so hooked on their confidence and tallness
Their manly qualities, their awesome sauce
Their explosive mind-blowing dopeness

I am so overawed by the hardness of their chest
Their long, massageable arms
Their flat, spectacular abs
I wanna grab their tight, breathtaking *****
Feel all over their delectable, youthful flesh

Take me to the blazing hot depths of ecstasy
The more I gander at their heavenly handsome entrancingness
They are so freshalicious and sweetalicious
So eatable and kissable, so feelable and squeezable
I wanna stroke their ferociously dope poles

Choke on them, hold on to them
Provoke their senses, tease their manhood
Please their needs, turn on the light to their inside worlds
Take in every last drop of their hotness
Forever **** my  throat, let the spit drip
From his rock-hard **** stick onto my delicious lips

Look them in their distinctive dancing eyes
Carrying a torch for their gorgeousness
With a soft spot for their hotness
So attached to their mantasticness
So sweet on their slickness

Worship their big suckable walnuts
While they pound my mouth with passion
Bring me such sweet delight
Make me sweat as they finesse me forever and a day
Leave me breathless, venture through my vessel

Make me hanker to reach into the extremes of their dreaminess
Make me delirious with happiness
Slap my bouncy ***** flabbergasters
****** at my ripe devourable peaks
Let them know that all I want is them

Just to gaze at them in their nakedness
Work their pipes out for them
Let them feel my ****** energy
The more my moist mouth moves
Up and down their hard, heavy tools

So groovalicous and good-looking
I wanna inhale their life and dreams
Feel their mushroom head on the surface of my alluring lips
Such an untouchable vision of loveliness
Their thugness captures my heart

Such a hairy tattooed attraction
The reverent seamless men of my dreams
Take a shot of their hotness
Draw me close to his smoking hot thunder
As I inspect their impressive stretchers

Put in the zone, make me moan
Make me so erotically hot on their exaltedness
My top-drawer macho showstoppers
The best men I could ever had
I can’t get enough of their immersiveness

The way they got me floating on air
Yearning to share their worlds with mine
Feel oneness with them
Sinking deep into the red-hot beat
Of their thugged-out striking frames

My scrumptious gangbuster lover boys
I wanna absorb them to the core
Feel their crunkness plunge into my system
Loving them that much more
**** the **** out of their thick fun sticks

Put my back into it, move my hips
Spit on their ****, show them how addicted I am
To their unfuckwithable unforgettable exquisiteness
Discover their essentially authentic history
Surrender to all of them as they clamber up
To an exhilarating elevation and *******
His rich, thick, and nutritious man gravy
All over my bright, rapt face
Bobby Copeland Sep 2020
America, these unconventional
Blues got bags and stretchers
For the blue light special,
Chalk for the teachers
Of the wrong kind of freedom
My old co-worker from
The sawmill days
Steers a riverrun now,
Tugs barges through
The stations of the
Mississippi bridges,
Writes on FB
These protesters should
Get a job
So we don't pay
For their cell phones and health care,
Bullet wounds and bad decisions
Like the color of
Their parents
And the shape
Of their skulls
Phrenologically
Speaking.
He's got no ear for the music,
America's Blues,
Just get off the street
Son, it's yr own
Fault if yr head
Gets Kracked
Or yr shot in the back
By the Blues.
He'll vote for law,
Pardon vigilantes
And fire those *******
Millionaires that dare
To take a knee
Or fail to play the game.

— The End —