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tloco Jun 2015
Coming to now, the story of life not as a practical lesson in wisdom as such in a parable or teaching only casual experience for individual. Experiencing this wisdom will change your knowledge gained through the events of becoming with the kingdom of heaven. Ways on the tree of life or paths which are ordained or divined in the Lords or spheres build your learned life knowledge. Adapting as a disciple on the natural skill of the soul shows a person whom, the individual is in a pure state of self and exponential in the ***** of the tree of life.
As a child of light I lived happily joined in the union of spirit, my young soul always with the Almighty Father and Creator in the Tenth heaven. From a dream of the past awaking as a watcher of an extremely large craft inside the entire vessel I could see animals each of them were named and had most important characteristics from the Father. From high aloft in Heaven to the boat a watch was taking place omnipotent over the last life within. Many hosts and angels spoke once I was inside the boat but wasn’t as a soul like a spirit invisible I saw and heard. Angels divine in accord to works of commands were at work in heaven whole groups of choirs known as orders were not ever interrupted by my watch. Trumpet sounded heard in the spirits from heaven to the sea and rush gate of the heaven’s upon the earth. The name of angel that sounded and captured fallen in the thirteenth month; Tebae-et, into the stellar order of gates or fallen paradise.
A child of light borne in spirit always with the hosts or different characters in life such as Chanokh (Enokh-Father of Melekhi-Tsedek order), but it was either in dream or warden amongst crowds of souls touring in celestial spheres with paths of light on the tree of life. Walking outside my house the morning after my dream, I felt as if I could float in the air body and soul light as a feather. Surrounding me was Topaz, chrysophrase, jasper, chalcedony, and amber gemstones still transparency like crystalloluminescence. Above me sapphire with alabaster and my soul looked down upon me with white eyes shining light out of them in a robe covered in my names brilliantly shone in gold light in the temple of my soul. My body was in euphoria and I stared into the future and realms of heaven, seeing into the seven seals as celestial wardens. The divine experience was wholesome pure enrichment to my soul each word I had in communion with the throne of supreme majesty firm with glory, order, and unconditional loving care. Differences in the Father; whom was a body of so many names and creations perfect in commands, recordings, gates, cycles of hosts myriads, elementals, migrations of stars, and firmament upon firmament.
The way of the most holy spirits as complete body of the Father the original tree of life, which is known completely in the true names it was created as. The spirits, angels, guardians or incessantly serving hosts help the Father governing of the kingdom of heaven in the four parts of man. The structure I remember is perfection with tongues that fill the heart with everlasting laughter, hope that cheerfully overcomes in a soul victory. The heavenly abode the height of the throne gives the soul countenance of wisdom to the word unto man. Upon a single walk with the Father had taken my body and spirited my being in soul countenance of wisdom so far through the future I had saw unto trumpets of revelation.
Melekhi-Tsedek order the true religion to be proclaimed unto man the creatures such as animals, fallen accursed, the plant life in, promise, orphans, and widows were watched over on the decree or divine ordination from heaven. Ascending up to the throne; I went through the knowledge of the complete day in heaven or paradise recorded then toured the solar spheres, through the knowledge of the spirits or holy hosts that did in accordance to the orders. The process was divined in the Father’s willpower over my essence I had knowledge to what was being experienced in a connection unto every living creation. Completely, opening the mind unto Ratsiel (secret of God), through the third-eye founding of my soul into mysteries of kingdom of heaven. Voices of many named angels were annunciating with pleasant tones and choirs voices of angels by the thousands. Recording archangels kept the things that were occurring in the kingdom of man, while also serving the obligated roles of their natural being as direct personification of God. Organized, synchronized, and in spirit of prophecy patterning so perfected without error moving about in every way structurally sound through commanded orders. Systems of planets were kept sealed in the seven hallways or wards that divide heaven’s celestial nether space from the foundation of firmaments of word and universe unto the highest Lords signs of zodiac places. Above Almighty Father can sit omnipotent as ascending angels, spirits, or orders can go the entire flight focused on the Father’s throne. The orders of body were eminence Seraphim, Cherubim, Wheels (Thrones), Dominions (Authorities), Virtues, Powers, Principalities, Archangel, and Angels. Although the kingdom in spirit was always changing and becoming according to the cycle of the sun’s orbital sphere into the gates of each day on a 28 year cycle and 7,000 year unto 7 days in heaven the Lord a light-giver and also Lord of completion, Sabbath day.
A fresh gust of wind and a light pure feel was a regular experience while awakening my mind I learned of the Elders of heaven whom had crazy stories like when Samson had the might to slay the lions or tore down the temple of Dagon. I knew the hosts and things that had become in the kingdom of heaven to allow the might shone as a show for the heaven, but also act of the devils in his life. This knowledge was in a book the scripted the entirety of all the acts that take place as a divine act, once a celestial being was in visitation in spirit. The seraph Ratsiel (secret of God) investigated the acts of the temptation of Adam by Chavah and the acts of the archangels in response to the threat. The accord to the acts of everything that exists in the accord to knowledge of the solar is obtainable through this book, the book of knowledge.
Later in another dream I met the minister of death in spirit which as within a myriad where thousands of spirits were at works performing the acts in which is their existence and adapted behavior as a role in realms. Being in one place while still seeing into a complete different world or plane of existence doing as is need or divined in nature. Black darkened pillars came down on me as this space ship shaped like a pyramid with the patterns of natural earth red and black like lava years after a volcano. Around me each pillar stood as a being in realm invisible to my eye except for one being on a throne centered in the myriad the throne of death. Fiery torment in flames along with brimstone flowed in two pooled lakes parallel from one another with a long path going from gate to the another gate leading to Sheol or Hades. A base foundation of the throne is a horizontal shadowed hallway with many smaller pillars which give no support to the throne, while the path is vertically centered. Two stairways go up to the platform of the throne one on each side of the platform decorated with images of Baaliyal in form of a torrent. Death sat upon the throne with darkness like the appearance of black smoke blowing from his mouth a complete skeleton. Skeletal body covered in black cloak with a screeching voice like a woman’s long fingernail’s scratching a chalkboard. Terrified I walk my being over the site of my soul-mate who is on my like side and here with me she is like a dream and become in multiple places at the same time. Beautiful she was consistently becoming in hosts of cherubim changing into many different forms of the adapting natural instincts of animal’s behavior for survival, she is tan Carmel skin color and flesh uncorrupted by any mans thoughts of lusting ruin. Passionate vivid dreams of a                maiden lying in an alien jungle full of plants most like a rainforest but yet close to the planet’s beaches, wearing a purple robe. Dark and warm humid with a damp feel to the observer of the smooth cover of the claylike terrain of the solar sphere. Again I dreamed of her while she was separated from me by the prince of Tyre or the cherub covering the mercy, she ran amongst different hallways while in the tower of Babel and giant nephlim watched with other gods in gold cursed trying to look down on things in spirit. I walked up the stairs and could see myself from outside of myself, seeing my form as a human being in appearance most like Michael or Melekhidael with breastplate of gold without a helmet. Death screeched out at me and I saw an ancient giant of hell also the spirit of Tanhumeth trying to send me into the past. Awakened into a new form I walked through the gate vertical in the chamber beneath death’s ministry. Sopheriael Yahweh took me into the spirit of a seraph Hadaneriael then, into the 10 archangels of punishment over the 10 nations of Babylon the great which took me into the depth to the ninth circle of punishment for a reign in gates of the Phul seal or in Phalek. My soul was the loosened stars of Kesil through Samuil the poisoned messenger a discernment spirit involved in the surfs of the accord of the kingdom of dark princes in paradise, the divine comedy Queen of Angels enchanted songs counted into paradise. Darkness in the kingdom of heaven, with the ability to paralyze minds with seraphim hosts of terror, I walked through the brazen gates of Hades seeing everything on fire but also thousands of thousands of different forms of creations each rarity seen with delightful insight to provoke interests into any living being. The life paths of a multitude of creations would come through Hades and become baptized through spirit’s fire of pure refinement spoken as worth in the golden city, precious daughter of the loom, here in accord to John the Baptist’s   prophecy.
At a young age of 6 years old I began to refuse the world or play directly into the kingdom of heaven which was a lonely elect of self in my family also in the church my family attended. Wicked spirits attacked the gates of my inner ear where and had began to tell me of things that would happen in future then, keep me from being with the Father completely in heaven. My memory started to fade in fear that I would only to struggle if I kept learning. Gradual disillusion way from the throne began while I was only a few years old, the devils were wise in deceit most from the tree of knowledge and future mistakes from which I saw rolling with wheels of heaven. Moments of times in the future I would soul determine things into happening from the spirit of prophecy it was something I kept special between the Father and mines relationship. Constantly I would hated life and wanted to die, feed into temptation, stole, and spoke accursedly cutting my relationship from the Father.
Was not until I was seventeen years of age when I felt an overwhelming feeling like I had just explained something about the firmament of heaven which usually gives me this same feeling like a gust of wind in my person with a prestigious self worth from outside of self comforting to my soul. Looking up into the pitch black night sky, I saw a strange and odd formed constellation of stars above me I raised my arm and pointed at three stars. As if on command or through a governing of the stars each was loosed and fell immediately after pointing to them. Excited as the skin of my body was stinging as hairs stood to the point of super natural acknowledgment of the world’s great mysteries finding depth in the human soul I watched the sky then turned to the east. About to use the marijuana I torched a bowl of green bud then thought in the medium mostly of the kingdom and Father in heaven. In the zephyr region of the sky I saw a light floating, soaring, flashing, and moving faster than anything I had ever seen in life but on movies scenes. Astonished again I watch the spirit jumping around in the sky with multiple purposes and clear intent to do for the Father most high. My only other witness to this was my black minx cat shadoe, whom I looked at and said “I going to have a vision tomorrow” then finished two more hits of the cannabis before leaving to my room in the basement of a two-story house.
Awakening to the day was full of feeling of mystery I didn’t tell any of my experience from the night before. On October eighteenth in the day I smoked some marijuana went to Crook County High School and a blood drive was setup, I planned to give a pint for my first time ever so I went to auditorium where the blood was taken from my arm. Feeling faint and in hope for a high opposed to school I left and was excused from classes. Arriving at the house I stopped my Suzuki Sidekick in front then went in and downstairs to the place after the last step knowing something amazing was about to happening I uttered the name Metatron. Linear thought was tremendous while spirit balanced on a pillar and the first seal Arathron had me in celestial hallway warding the ancient spirits from the night before. Sitting down in a lazyboy recliner chair I first start the satellite television turn it on with remote, the spirits are crazy making grandeur boosts of how I can control everything like that remote but from mind. Flipping through stations I begin to change the channel in accord to how I sense and feel the spirits. Crazy things start occurring watching until I was seeing a celestial vision. Hearing my mind from above it was intriguing and making my pride compulsive like no one living I was experiencing these sights. As a mode of characters in a set ordained function were becoming visible on the tree of life but each were in a different realm not visible to the other. Beautiful alien life most exquisite to the eyes in the planes of other worldly adobes just doing into a set way of commands rare without repetition. Nine characters panther, eagle, falcon, wolf, coyote, Siberian tiger, and one man with blonde hair came into view in a dense rainforest like jungle each was adapting to the environment but they were only one soul becoming the entire time. The forest was no longer and the upper places had new hosting since I had entered and changed things with my thoughts, I became the soul of the characters. Seeing upwardly was a flight to the top of the extreme heights of the Father’s presence through the third seal of Phalek. At the arrival of my being I saw the most adorned and absolutely marvelous splendor of white shine like that of the sun’s rays hitting snow filled fields. The Father’s presence so handsome and gorgeous I have never seen another beauty like it only his eyes were so bright shining when he created my being as a star to his left-hand above a white marble pedestal of wisdom. Father had most elegant white robe shining in purity and sat upon a throne center below seven pillars known as the tabernacle of creation or tabernacle of seven days. In the presence I was pulled back down I felt spirits by the millions entering me, fusing to the dawn star in me finding a place inside me. Possessively filled with spirits till an evil pride overtook me and I felt ever sinful or dark taint of the soul. Lightening fell on the seventh pillar in the tabernacle blue bolts streaked downward as I fell from the presence back to the sphere of Adam’s where I heard two voices speaking. Red clay-like surface with rough igneous and metaphoric rock on the solar planet were a tree had burned to charred pieces. Sin from the Tree of knowledge was present as a spirit she was a young apprentice of the ancient one or Athiquelis. Introducing herself with flaming hair of red orange flames, her eyes shone as big red gemstones of ruby and a body covered with a black dress that faded into the natural darkness of her nature. Waving and floating in the air seducing temptation in her words that spoke into my mind and not from the channel. Soothsaying feminist voice would move me to her place and origin beside a large eleven foot pillar of smooth dark bla
MJ Aug 2017
there is
a           mess
about her,

fluttering
towards  open

    space.


writhing

below pale
skin,

refusing to sit

so structurally,
so secured

in flesh.


wildly
           bending
and      swelling,


becoming

the
           savage


she so calmly
swears

isn’t there.











*-MJS
igc May 2015
Remember me as a Letter
Carefully written in order to best explain
Everything it is I could not seem to say
               write me easy
               write me deeply
               write me only once.

Remember me as a Love Song
Structurally crafted lyrics filled with melodies
Sweeter than the first time we met
               sing me to your mother
               sing me to your lover
               sing me to your children

Remember me as a Poem
Metaphor coloured emotions
Putting together moments amidst events
That never really happened
But we would swear over and over
That actually did
               colour me purple
               colour me blue
               colour me Red

Remember me in your Nightmares
Think of me on those nights that simply closing your eyes
Causes fear to prickle on your skin
And adrenaline to race through your veins
               close your eyes anyway
               embrace the feeling of helplessness
               let it help you remember

Remember me when you Don't Want To
Promise to think of me in those moments when
Remembering numbs you more than feeling nothing at all
               love me easy
               love me deeply
               love me only once
Silence Screamz Mar 2015
I was a solid man.
A solid man with broken pieces
Pieces astrewn on the dusty floor of life,
thrown away with my own guilty verdict

No glue or wires to hold me together,
just a small tangent of sanity and veins.
Structurally not sound,
my moral compass has taken the wrong course

A course of insurmountable ill wills,
wills that would make a grown man, cry and beg.
A beggar that I see before me,
seeing myself in the mirror of near death.

That death bounds to me,
like the leather restraints of a sadomasochist
No more control over thoughts or person,
fearing what lies ahead in waiting

I waited for life to come to me,
but only saw the emptiness.
My empty mind,
trying to put the puzzle back together
Pieces of life's puzzle thrown all about, do we really know how to put it back together?
Sarah Michelle Mar 2016
After what feels like
a plethora of years
I've fallen in a hole
that may be love, but I'm not really sure about it
because once in a while
after a plethora of days
or hours
I am pulled apart by emotion.

No, not emotion--
the repercussions
thereof

The repercussions,
the repercussions of those repercussions,
and the repercussions of those--
A plethora of consequences

Have you ever been so stressed out
that you actually vomited?
Me... neither?
Instead I sway
from side-to-side
like a swing pushed
in the wrong direction
and as the sky turns
I make corrections
only hoping my wisdom is
"grammatically",
structurally sound--
unlike a skyscraper
pushed in the wrong direction--
As my eyes begin to burn
I wish the sky
would just stay dark
and that morning would never come
so I wouldn't have to meet
my daily migraine
nor the time of day
when I have to stop
wait
listen
learn
work
negotiate, speak, drum, impress,
produce, create, multiply
add and subtract
all in one sitting
all in one hour
every **** hour

Nor the time of day

when I start

to think

about

you.

That's when my mind
finds my heart.

They don't speak--
They just listen to one another
smiling sweet as Tupelo honey
I can almost imagine it
through the blood rushing
in my ears when I close them--
But it just feels
like a fist fight in my chest,
and the rage of it burns in my throat
and the spectators cheer them on
which resonates in my hands
which are then unable to write
which is a sad fact
that keeps my eyes from shutting at night,
at least not as soon as I want them to--

You don't have to tell me I'm crazy--

It screams at the back of my head when
you stare at me like that
thinking a plethora of
things that I can't keep in
a jar so that I can spread it
on my toast in the morning--
Saying a plethora
of things I misinterpret
to silence this
plethora of thoughts
that fall from my eyes
without ever reaching the ground
and the plethora
of grass-roots
who wouldn't know how to drink them
if they did
The plethora of times
I passed opportunities
without saying a word,
disguised them as reasons
not to say a plethora of phrases
in reply--
The plethora of plethoras
that communicate through an alphabet
of more than twenty-six letters
so that, in the middle of the night--
when I don't know what to dream about
and therefore must think instead--
it can irritate me
in more words than belong
in a dictionary.

But sometimes there's just one word
and the word that haunts me tonight is:

Plethora...
Plethora...
Plethora...
That's the flat sound of Pl-,
a soft, tender eth-
and the gasp of an -a
Plethora--
Plethora--
A hundred things yet to be said
Plethora--
So many crises
so much time
Plethora--
Not quite enough to make you mine
Plethora--
Plethora--
Plethora--

Plethora...


Ple­thora...




Plethora...




Plethora...







*Plethora...­
Probably the longest poem I've ever written, and the first good one in a while. About that special someone--we both wish I would open up to him.
Hear the buzz,
they're questioning the mountains.
The halls of decadence,
the hum resonates with sin.

Their words echo,
far beyond the stretches of our universe.
Like a chant,
like witches muttering a curse.

Do not move,
there's a dead man in the gallows.
We're on thin ice,
and the water below isn't shallow.

To fear or not,
when fear is not a choice.
Be careful when using,
the power of your voice.
Copyright Barry Pietrantonio
Deyer Jul 2014
With leaders and life coaches
          mental doctors
they must have discovered the
                                                                                 Right
way to live.

With dreams broken down
crushed into a dust,
and structurally analyzed,
                                              they must know.
We exist from 9 to 5, monday to friday,
breathing in and out only for a

bi-weekly

paycheck.

Our lives revolve around
                                             one thing.
Religion has taken a backseat to this new obsession
that people fight and die for.
Now, we battle over
paper and metal,
pressed into coins, printed as bills.
Kind of makes you wonder
why you are
really

here.
Martin Rombach Jan 2013
It's been a while since I've let my fingers do the talking
Subtle clattering intermittent between self consuming stares into space
Strange and conventional instrumental atmospheres driving fantastical thought
And that self indulgent need to be heard by people without discernible cells

I guess my poems are a hobby of sorts
A collection of ideas, observations and metaphors put forward (barely) structurally
Though I admit the process is more for introverted enjoyment than anything direct
What my tongue would sound blurting these words is a fantasy in itself

I try to stay optimistic in them
Holding on to my passion for the positive, despite the convoluted dysfunction of the day to day
I do it with the same eyes as speaking to others, trying to be someone who's worth being around
Ending with some ******* non-committal message about an approach towards tomorrow

I hope one day I'll get around to reading these poems
Hearing what my inner monologue sounds like in that quiet but intently occupied space
Taking the time off poor sods who'll listen, hoping that the messages mean more than just metaphor
But I'll get over it if life doesn't produce such idealistic circumstances

Thanks for reading what I've written
These white spaces have given me a quiet personal realm for exploring ideas
A place where I can explore my intelligence beyond academia
Indulge my passion for the written word by pouring out gallons of *******
And hopefully make someone, somewhere, smile in the process
AW Sep 2015
Though first, I evolved according to plan
Little enabled me outlive this predator
With few permanent armor plates, strong
Muscles capable of crushing
Anything, bones extremely tough,
These serious injuries go beyond
My cold-bloodedness.
I like my environment, have developed
Behaviors to control it, to save energy
That can be put to other use
An evolved entirety of reason
Is why I can go for over a year
In extreme shutdown
My own tissue will feed
On anything it can overpower
Extraordinarily adaptable
During difficult times,
I will scavenge for everything,
Digest nothing left behind
My social interactions are complicated
I primarily lead a solitary life, don’t recognize
Vocalization, postures, signals, touch
My brain more complex than that of any other
A powerful sense of perception
The ability to learn, to avoid situations
That modify me structurally
Adaptations have allowed me to thrive
But surviving human encroachment
May be my biggest challenge
Through habitat enhancement
I may be able to ensure these
Sophisticated survival skills
For years to come
This is a found poem carved out of an article titled "Crocodile Secrets of Survival".
Riley Cartwright Apr 2019
/|==============================|\
/|=====I don't burn bridges=======|\
/|===I just let them structurally====|\
/|=decay because I don't use them=|\
/|==============================|\
my friend said this once
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
502 bad gateway bypass...
title: shattering of stone
body:
in the rubble: a mountain could
be found;
as might be suggested...
given enough time and there's plenty
of it, as there is of space...
the now known deserts of the world...
were once great mountain ranges...
the ancient Egyptians even tried
to replicate this truth by erecting pyramids...
as if implying: look! look!
there were once mountains here!
now! there's nothing but sand!
how the gods, grunted at the idea of mountains
in what is not Sahara... fickle creatures
like the creatures they created are...
who knows... perhaps there will one day
be the desert of Himalaya...


i felt it coming at me like a freight train...
i was going in for work sharp...
woke up at 6am, had a coffee and ate the prepared
bun with pickles and liver pate...
but couldn't finish it... drank a coffee and smoked
a cigarette... had a shower, pampered myself
with about 7 different pampering products...
usually i'm obviously to how i smell like...
but on the bus i could quiz myself:
who here smells like soap and who here smells
like either stale bread or a curry / eggs?
that's the 86 route for you...
it's the immigrant bus... and... funnily enough...
i'm an immigrant myself... although...
it's different when you come to foreign shores
aged 8... and thrown into the education system
rather than bypass all that jazz & enter the work
force... by immigrant status i'm a veteran of sorts...
by 7am the pains and spasms in my abdomen were
becoming excruciating... i could feel
a plug-hole of a **** building up...
      like a bear before retiring to hibernation...
i wouldn't be able to just simply, **** this plug-hole
of a **** out before or on the job...
why? because there would be more to come...
dizzying effects of focus...

i was nervous... she said she would be coming to
do a shift today... who? Jeminah...
she sent me a text telling me how anxious she was...
i figured... the best... blatant: covert question
would be... you worried the trains are not working?
oh... you can get the 86 bus... the tube might be open...
pulling a long long stick...
a lever even... something Archimedes would
use to lift a mountain off the ground...
she felt anxious... oh... because of those two storms?
Eunice - the worst for 30 years...
red weather alerts? you worried about that?
i was seriously stroking a massive bear silly...
she felt anxious for all the reasons i wanted her
to feel anxious about...
n'ah... the way to get to the venue wasn't on her mind...
neither was the weather...
she was found out... she didn't want to be in
the company of the other girls...
and because i put my foot down:
this is getting silly... i'm not going to get blamed
for your son's and her son's friendship fallout...
telling the truth...
    what a recurrent theme with me these days...
well... at least its not a soap opera style of
a multiverse of competing dramas...
there's only one... and i'm fortifying myself with
all the right answers... i need to play this out
like an opera... petty **** that can grow and grow like
that must be explored from many angles...
down the line...

she didn't show up... the other two girls involved
acted slightly funny... she must have passed on
my Pontius Pilate messages: i'm washing my hands clean
of the matter... you girls created this issue...
you sort it... those two boys are not falling out
over something their mums did...

handshakes all round... two clingers...
one ****** with a nervous tick but one guy with
cerebral palsy... well... oddly enough...
having been a recluse for almost a decade...
i have managed to surprise myself by fitting the role
of a people person... i don't know where i was storing
this confidence... self-assurance... stoic silence...
i don't feel the need to talk unless talked to...
sure... i might say an anecdote or two:
how Millwall fans at Fulham told me a joke
about a West Ham player who's fond of kicking
cats... cat lives matter...

the shift itself... West Ham are back to their usual
antics of not respecting lesser opponents...
Newcastle are on a campaign trail to survive
in the Premier League... two of their best players weren't
playing: yet they still managed to draw 1 - 1...

who do you think are going to fall?
i says: Burnley had it coming for the past two years...
yeah... Watford is a boomerang team...
one season on the Premier level...
the next on the Championship level...

seems i can have much fun with people,
whether coworkers or the actual public...
the freaks among the coworkers follow me like
dogs, while the public?

an old lady wanted me to use her camera to take
photographs with the West Ham mascots:
some bear mascot was first, then Harry the Hammer...
i had to tap Harry's shoulder when a father asked me
to call him back while he moved along the stand
so he could go back and have a photograph taken
with his kid: so heavily padded he almost didn't feel
my touch...
but he went back...
then that retired police officer that took my side
when some busy-body ***** of a: not my supervisor
kept on demanding i put on a face mask...
that infernal: secular niqqab...
the retired police officer noted: he's distraught...
**** the club: if they can think they can get away
imposing their own rules: all staff must wear ******
coverings... this busy-body even said:
i don't you not covering your nose...
so, what then? my chin is capable of breathing?!
scale of escalation... the from me to the supervisor
to the busy-body third part...
the ex-police officer used the hypothetical
argument: but i have a deaf person, friend,
sitting next to me: he needs to lip read...
how is he going to read my instructions if he can't
see my mouth...
and then... well... i wasn't bothered...
wearing these nappies always brings back
memories of my grandfather's funeral...
he was a big deal in a small-town where i was
born... a foreman in the metallurgy industry...
he knew a lot of people...
but how many showed up to his funeral?
not even the half that i'd have expected...

we kept chatting... my supervisor later came up
and asker me... so...   ?!
oh... you know, we just talked about life...
his father was a widower... living in Cornwall...
he used to get free grub from the local (pub),
but when the pandemic hit...
he lost all WILL to live...
and me says: you know how people say that
you can die from a broken heart,
i guess you can also die from being denied
WILL... we agreed... we shook hands about x3...
like a post-scriptum he asked me for my name
and i asked for his... Mark...
now living in East Sussex... but originally from
Dartford...

Mark said he had thick skin... and i told him...
your eyes are watering... i don't believe it...
looking at them feels like watching a very bountiful
aquarium... you're not going to fool me mate...
life... plus, it's not against the law to not wear
the *****... as i later said:
now you get to see who the people with OCD
and the hypochondriacs are...
yeah: it feels weird... i'm walking around without
the "*****" while my wife is still paying
servitude to outlaw rules...
but if they want to... why deny them the right...
sure sure...

but i had to use a member of the public
to infiltrate the hierarchy on the job...
he used the proper arguments... i was just thinking:
perhaps people just want to see my face...
recognise it... see ****** expressions...
after all: we've been playing a game of pretending
to be Muslim women for two years...
how about we start playing hide & seek once more?

what happened later... the curiosity of the children...
i looked at them, smiled, they smiled back...
they felt so comforted... they felt like:
well... thank god this cubist-esque freak-show is
running and hiding... little girls, little boys...

like i told Mark: but the young 'ung suffered... too...
you need to see people faces,
i might have slouched with the expression
of "****** recognition"... but expressions matter...
you sometimes have to out the tongue to the face...
you want to see someone laugh,
at ease... nowhere near the culture & the people
of Afghanistan... this might have to be the building
block of the supposed "great" restart...
seeing people's faces...
esp. when it comes to children...
they want to see faces they can trust...

but it's outright blatant...
i'm not going to make a comparison between
The Beatles "vs." The Rolling Stones...
for me it always been
Bruce Springsteen "vs." Chris Rea...
no... can't choose...
who the **** do i couple Bob Dylan with?
i'm currently sipping some whiskey while
in the company of ol' Bruce...
ah... Bob Dylan vs. Tom Waits...
        Tommy 'ol boyo...
                    live circus... going out west (live)...
Tom Petty though...

there was one expulsion... a ginger she-male...
all the fans were laughing: don't give her out...
the SIA guys were playing gorillas while
i was on my break... putting my hand on the shoulder
of the hurt party... calm... calm... you ginger ostrich...
stop pandering to the parade of:
already lost teenage hormones...
it sort of worked... i giggled... and no one
became involved... i chewed on my gum like i
like might have been found chewing on a broomstick
or a horses' mane...
i chewed so hard until my jaw hurt...

Tom Waits - going out west (live)...
now we're talking...
prior to Prince dying: you had not access to
songs like Party-man... Trust... all copyrighted
material... yeah.... but i own the best of CD...
why can't i stream it?!
oh, right... he's dead... free-for-all...
free meat for the crows...

why oh why would someone walk up to me
and ask to take a selfie with me?
yeah... this American accented dude...
i watched him through the second half...
off his nuts...
but at half time he walks up to me and asks...
can i take a selfie with you?
sure... weird...
am i famous?! or am i just ****** approachable...
all the other stewards are like bricks in
a mountain: but mountains don't have bricks...
or they're over-anxious busy bodies...
it's like people never learned their NVQ training...

safety, security, service....
the service part is the building part...
you pass off being attired in safety / security tactics...
but... service comes first...
you talk, you interact... you learn to be human...
one year of this, before i ask for being given references...
that's when i'll work toward looking toward a more
permanent employment as a chemistry
teacher... even though... scribbling this sort of *******:
i'd love to become an English teacher...
ha ha... an English teacher... even though i'm not
English...

i need the references... working with my father in
roofing... no, can, do...
they don't want familial ties in references...
one year... i'd still do these gigs on the weekend...
but one year...
you get a chance to deal with a football crowd...
you got a belt... when it might come to dealing
with a classroom of rowdy children...
like Louis XIV stated... it's the trick of the eye...
look the authoritative type...
there's nothing more to it...

then these three supporters at the front...
when they first started singing the song for the cat-lives-matter
footballer who was more into... kicking
cats than a football... how did the lyrics go?
almost Dr. Seuss...
he kicks with his right foot... he kicks with his
left foot... i pursed my lips... i tried to cover my
face with my hand... all the while trying to as
instructed: not taking sides... not showing emotions...

but their remarks came fast... i must have looked
interesting...
so where are you from?
Russia? guess again... Ukraine? nope...
Czech Republic? nope... ******! yep...
but i've been living here since the age of 8...
and i'm 35...
have a nice life: she said... one of them was
ginger... presuppositions of Irish... the beard was
pulled... oh my god, the girl looked proper, proper,
drunk...
i went on a break... i came back:
oh! he's back! you know you're the only one
without a hood on! all the other stewards...
the guy who's usually here is somewhat asleep
while prying open his phone...
where's your pancho against the rain?
oh... i gave it to a spectator... blah blah...

point being... i was actually waiting for her...
Jeminah... all the time... she didn't show up...
i've just received a text from her...
what is... drotaverini hydrochloridum?
i had to take it today...
a rubric of buzzwords...
it sells alongside suggestions akin to the morning-after
pill...

well, it will be a rubric of buzzwords...
i had to take some pills for the cramps in my stomach...
it just felt like one of those Sprintsteen,
Chris Rea, Bob Dylan, Tom Petty sort of nights:
when you feel nervous about thinking bout
a girl while simultaneously feeling nervous
about taking a ****... so you feel like taking a ****
at 7am but delay it to until 5pm... 6pm...
because the girl's easting away at your mind...
you're getting cramps in your abdomen
like you you're about to do a clown trick
with balloons turning them into theoretical poodles...
because you just love the girl:
you just love the girl...
she might be a single mother, she might think
she's a woman... but she's just a girl to you...
even though you're not her father...

oh right... the buzz... words... as someone who studied
chemistry i should know what drotaverini hydrochloridum
is... it's for the abdomen cramps...
for: i ought to have taken a ****...
but here's me stalling...
will she, will you come?
DROVATERINE....
an antispasmodic drug...
   used to enhance cervical dilation during child-birth...
i'm giving birth: to a feeling...
i think i'm in love... she's all anxious...
Bruce's: Maria's Bed... yeah... i'm on that same page
in this story...
esp. noted use in Asia and Central Europe...
i'll be lazy: i'll cite it verbatim:
it's structurally related to papaverine,
is a selective inhibitor of phosphodiesterase 4
and has no anticholinergic effects...

the way i see it... i'm giving birth to love....
i want her fat **** to sit on my face...
sorry... what?!
i'm being absolutely serious...
just looks up the article on Anticholinergics...
i don't have a womb...
but i have a heart that seems to have
sunken into the levels of the intestines...
while i get all spaghetti tangles
for brains...
i'm in love... i can't help it...
she a cougar red head... a deep red...
a mahogany red...
i can't stop thinking about her...
it's exactly impossible to live:
without having to think about her...
anxious cluck by cluck...
if she's not going to abide by failures in life
then... no... life's not worth living without her:
when she's at her pinnacle of failure...
let me pick her up...
let's pretend there's an old world
worth looking at... that there might be a world war
in the theatre... none of these proxies in
the H'American department of... up-keeping
hard-ons and kaleidoscope coyotes...
now for the text messages... why weren't you around?!

i wrote this yesterday, i went downstairs for sone grub
because i couldn't fall asleep...
my mother came down... saw me in my TOMBSTONE
mode... drunk... what? you want me to punch
myself in the face? lucky for her, lucky for me
i remained silent, because the night was silent...
she ****** off i ****** off... today i made mein vater
und mein mutter some ******
chicken broth with vermicelli...
all the usual suspects were used...
the leek, the parsley root, the carrot,
the garlic (skin on), the celery... chicken... d'uh...
although i didn't use the chicken *******...
that's going to be used for a curry...
  
and what are my other options? living alone?
paying rent to a landlord from hell?!
shame... sure... but the attic is full of clutter
and there is no basement...
plus i have a private library the deservedly might
need a proper: HEAVE! HEAVE!
50 oars...

i'm in love and not for all the right reasons...
if my youth took the route of an atypical man...
starting from 20 working my way up...
yeah... but i went mad at the age of 21...
******* invisible choir, great wind dispersing it...
psychiatry that tried to attempt its regression
tactics of implanting me with false memories...
giving me anti-psychotic drugs that fattened me up
until a nurse said:
you either loose weight... or you'll be put
on high-blood pressure tablets...
so... i bought a bicycle... lost 20kg... cycled off
into the sunset...
now... 35... years old... oh... look...
they're looking... they're actually interested...
the young girls have: "woken up"...
yeah... by now? i'm not interested...
i don't and i didn't pay much attention
to the game of genes... it's a fractional impossibility...
unless you're cloning yourself...
by the time you're a grandfather...
only a quarter of you remains...
  why bother with the argument?
        it's silly...Darwinistic unrealism has always been
a thorn in my side...
eh?                            my genes have my consciousness?
i'm... translatable to future generations?
sure... but they can't be my own...
why would i be interested in young girls...
if things worked out for me like they might have
worked out for other men...
a walking *****... and spare parts of monetary dough...
i never wanted to make money...
i took the principle left around for others to see...
between the aesthetic and the ascetic...
well... St. Francis of Assisi...
other men in my position: who have hungered and
been left out in their 20s... now in their 30s can have
their comeback...
their revenge... me? i'm trying to court
a woman 4 years older than me... with a boy
that's 11 years old...
i said: bully them into teaching your German...
you know, it's the mother tongue of English...
grammatically the two languages are very much
aligned... Fredrick... "bully" them into making
you learn Deutsche... i said BULLY i implied:
persuade... do i need to use sign language...
finally... though... a third head on the Hydra...
if i had a little Frankenstein in my possession...
i could be learning Deutsche proper with him....
a youngling like that... sponge for brains...
maybe i could teach him some of my ****** zunge...
wow... no no... that's the whole point of turning
toward art... by 35 i could have been earning
100+ £... yawn... no, truly...
playing this to-and-fro with younger girls
because i now might have status...
not much fun... to be exacting...
single mum... problems at school...
you should learn German rather than French...
he understood it splendidly...

             just you wait... i'll get him into modern German
folk music... did i buy her off with my homemade wine
and him with my own made banana loaf with hazelnuts?!
here's to me!
salute!

              - on these isles for most of my life...
35 - 8 = 27... twenty-seven ******* years!
and no chance at a pluck at the Rose...
up north she was giving it up to grooming gangs
from Pakistan... down south...
shy ******* nunnery: "all of a sudden"!
but now... ah... this... hybrid of Scotch and English
stock... i'm shuddering... i'm still getting these
cramps in my abdomen that says:
you have a womb... what?! i'm transgender?!
what the ****?!

that's why i didn't want to earn money...
well... it's not that i didn't want to...
you see what happens when you go mad aged
21... and how you figure things out...
at least now i'm not a target...
i don't have anything to offer expect for...
knowledge...
it's a blessing...
since... it's hardly what any woman wants...
women tend to want only their own advice...
they conjure this advice like witches conjure up...
perhaps the rosemary herb
goes well with lamb... but like the Turkish
broads suggested... but if you add it to beef...
oh! mein! gott! the Turkish lavash!
with that red onion & parsley roughage of
a side salad... mouth-watering stuff...
i don't really need to see the competitive hard-on
of whatever Sultan to counter the Hagia Sophia...
just that beef lavash...
and yes, you'd be wrong... English cheddar
works just as well...

but... i'm no Frank O'Hara... there's no qualm in
me about not being a painter...
why i'm not a painter translates to me as:
why am i not a painter?
i abhor colours... well... i like some more than
others... the amber and the auburn...
the greens... whiskey... autumn...
but when it comes to movies?
i prefer them to be black & white... less strain
on the eyes...
if images are moving? black & white...
sure... no one is expected to paint in black & white...
like no one is expected to write in
rainbow hieroglyphics... i can stand for an hour
beside a colour painting...
it doesn't move, i don't move...
time, the world: moves...
fair enough...
but colour-riddled movies?
a strain on the eyes...
    why am i not a painter?
                     why am i not a narrator?!
i'm clearly neither... what's the middle ground?
priest? psychiatrist? *******... poet?!
oh you have to be choking me to make me joke...
let alone laugh... but i'm not rhyming...
but there was a time and a place
when people identified this art with
a need for mathematics... measure... ticture...
rhyme... music...
like **** that's happening now: proper...

- perhaps it's not painting, i think it;s painting,
perhaps lacking in colour, perhaps lacking in contorts..
in shapes, in disguises...
what? no traffic light: goes green?
no traffic light remains red?
no middle ground for the amber?
no cyclist prepped to be the shepherd of traffic?
to leech onto a truck where he might be
visible... to orientate the roundabout congestion?
no one, ever, minded, this?!
before moi!
           oh... what shame... what utter shame...
we were supposed to help each other out...
not be these... petty demigods...
silly ******* idiots...

             i might have to reiterate my stance...
she's giving me the love-ups making me feel like a woman...
i'm getting cramps in my abdomen...
sure... i ought to have taken a **** 7 hour prior...
but i keep it in... like a bear about to hibernate:
a plug-hole ****...

- anticholinergic agent are substances that block the action of the neurotransmitter called acetylcholine (ACh) at synapses in the central and peripheral nervous system...

-  anticholinergics are divided into two categories in accordance with their specific targets in the central and peripheral nervous system and at the neuromuscular junction: antimuscarinic agents, and antinicotinic agents (ganglionic blockers, neuromuscular blockers...

she says she's anxious... i'm nervous too!
i'm getting cramps in my stomach...
i'm giving birth to love...
i want access to her son... i want to learn Deutsche
with him... is that too much to ask?
i don't have the sort of money
to access younger, fertile, girls...
i'm left with single mothers... MUFFAS...
oh... she's rounded... like the earth ought to be...

i'm still shy on one reply...

Apologies for the lateness of this message, came home and "had to", i.e. wanted to make some Silesian gnocchi with beef in a dill and a horseradish sauce... cooking for three, it takes time, then I fought up on some footie... was soaked at West Ham, but it was a good shift.... so what happened to you? Weren't you supposed to come? I found out late that the tube was working, managed to use it on the way back... so what happened? What were you anxious about? The bad weather the day before? I took a walk for a newspaper when the storms hit... it was almost fun-windy... at one point I stood rooted in one place for about 3sec being unable to move... the winds almost roared, i even stopped listening to music on my headphones as I listened to the wind whizz by and ruffle the trees... sort of like ASMR but with a loud speaker... I imagined the wind ruffling the trees like someone brushing their hair on an ASMR video... you feeling better though, yes? You doing Fulham this week?

but we're talking about a psychotic girl...
one layer of narrative against another...
she might as well conjure up
a missing 13 year old cousin
to just test you...
thar's how it works...
this reality, this ugly "thing"...
and the deviances of how much
i want to sleep with her...
there... i said it... beautiful view.
Em MacKenzie Dec 2018
I’ve been counting stacked bricks
running my hands over the grout,
tracing each corner with my fingertips,
building them up to cover my doubt.
You could marvel at the beauty in the stone,
completely ignoring that it fully insulates
it keeps all out and ensures you’re always alone,
can’t even slip through the cracks or the grates.

I was dying to get out from where I was in,
oblivious to my own paradise,
with a tongue in cheek and **** eating grin,
ignoring all the ways words can slice.
I’m always left with empty hands
and your court is overflowing with *****,
a simple truth no one understands;
there is no life beyond Verona Walls.

I’m inspecting crumbling support beams,
running my hands and my skin catches a splinter.
It’s not as structurally sound as it seems,
but the continuing construction it does not hinder.
What do you even label an impenetrable wall,
is it a friend or is it a foe?
Do you judge it on it’s length or if it’s tall,
I guess only the person on the other side will know.

I was waiting to escape my own dwelling,
unaware of the safety it always could bring,
could I ever return home, there is no telling,
but the consensus is a no that can sting.
I’m aimlessly drifting among the sands,
and you mistake my pleas as cat calls,
a simple truth no one understands;
there is no life beyond Verona Walls.

How can you know if the grass is more green,
if you cannot even glance to the other patch?
It could be more vibrant, or just more clean,
or it could just be a perfect match.
When you know every corner and every nook,
you can’t help but feel that you’re Iocked in a cage.
Maybe I’m dismissive and should take another look,
I mean sometimes you have to re-read the same page.

I’ve seen that time keeps going on
and that our lungs continue to breathe,
but the blue skies and sunshine are gone,
I’ll never forget the day it chose to leave.
I’ll cling to all crumbs and strands,
ditch rivers and streams to chase waterfalls,
‘cause no one ever understands
there is no life beyond Verona Walls.
Emilie Pece Jun 2013
You muttered lies and empty threats
With the intention to collapse all that we’d built together.
Our empire was structurally sound
And flawless to the last detail
But you've crumpled it
With your angry footprints
And your inexplicable ability
To reek havoc upon the unsuspecting citizens
You created dysphoria in city streets
The muffled screams of children pressed into the breast of their mothers
Clinging to their shirts
For all the life that their tiny bodies had experienced
Appeared to be crashing down.
In a nanosecond everything changed
Our quiet halcyon would erupt into a volcano of misery
You played your violin on the rooftops
Listening to everything you had ever known and come to love, disappear
It spread like wildfire and soon your music was no more
Soon we lived in desolate silence
You and I
Spoon feeding the masses our hollow heap of endless lies
“Hush my people, everything will calm once more if you only do as we say.”
That night we all passed bitterly away
The cold overtook our shaking bodies
And curdled our blood like sour milk
My last sight was you
A sinister smile spreading across your chapped lips
“The end” you whispered, as you grabbed my hand
“Is here.”
Kam Yuks Jan 2013
Just like so far lost
let in from the outside
remain the outsider
pushed back and forth,
then out
           - again.

Fractal force[d] deeper inside this time,
bone endures and strengthens solitude structurally.
Somewhere within the sponge bone
light emits through its holes in a dark orange hue.
Proof of occupancy? Not likely.
The sign of a visitor - a miner.
An altar carved into the wall, surrounded by shadow and dim orange light, calling out to saddening self-hatred and naked personality displacement.

So cunning, so precise - a rapid cycling of self-doubt, confusion, and contempt. It's there to push me when I know better. It wakes me up when I need sleep. It breaks my will when I need hope.
The silent guide that drags me weeping...
an ancient force that makes me bleed.

Welcomed warmly and befriended willingly.
Bitter now, broken heart, reality clipped winged innocence.
Gather up the feathers and continue forward please.
No time to process this mess yet.

Now over emaciated files kept locked away.
Like a second hand gold claim - gold now gone.

Still...
I dig and dig and dig, more...
****** hands and throat sore
Crying deep with sounds like banshees
blood and tears combine in thick and dusty pillows of pain
cemented by the paste these two create.
What I've buried is so elusive, self-destructing, and sad.

Whats left is not worth the trouble: I was aware when I buried it.

But still...

I visit past traumas like old friends.
When I am especially dark, I unearth the remains and dust them gently, wrap in red cloth, and spend time in search of a lesson learned.
I've been told this is part of my gift to share but I hide it like sickness; I bump into everything I need and quickly scurry away.

Can I honor the past and  let it lay?
The pain I covet only serves to perpetuate old stories and the isolation only softens my brain to social interaction.  

The enemy I've chosen is always present but never within my reach.
Should have just let it go
thymos Apr 2015
‘Once fire is the form of the spectacle the problem
becomes how to set fire to fire.’
—Joshua Clover, ‘My Life in the New Millennium’

i’m back
back with a thunderclap.
no wait, scratch that.
back with a thunderous tone from the seldom seen soul
groaning lonely long sung melodies, if it please.
welcome to a kingdom of dreams
and agony.
a stone’s throw from here:
a face
Unseen.
and somewhere between(:) low
oceans rolling under the moon,
a storm approaching,
crazed wind whirling,
my sails unfurl, searching for the open seas of your gaze;
sick of being furtive;
i live and i yearn and i speak what i learn
and i know when i haven’t earned it,
too often too stern and i know you don’t deserve it,
i know everyone i know and too many more deserve so much more
and for them to have this i live and i yearn!
Justice!
for this i live and i yearn
on the turning earth that gives
no rest to the world weary
left alone
to burn out, i burn out, i burn out
i rise from the ashes
a phoenix grasping wheat and hammer in its talons,
seeking to pass out gifts and set fire
to fire itself, to sing Clover in the streets,
to render the helpless
helpless no longer.
i am (not) unbroken
like infinite waves.
friends fan the flames of my brazen heart
ablaze at three minutes to the midnight of my flagrant soul.
a toll on your life,
a tax on your poverty.
shouting: no more!
shouting: we will not settle for less than we are owed!
shouting: down with the dictatorship of the plutocrat!
shouting: down with the rich Man’s socialism!
shouting: …
in a fantasy, odiously
no more, doubt ridden,
not yet traversed nor even intraversed,
not yet reified, not quite versed;
apartheids’ unovercoming, voices atrophied,
walls rising higher, reception terse
and curse those bless’ed curses
transdescending themselves
in blessings through me!
they haven’t yet found me at my worst
so things couldn’t get worse if i hurt them.

my intentions a mess,
my effect bereft.

wake me from my slumber, let be the aching of my chest;
let the heaviness of my heart be the weight of solidarity;
let be! the political is personal to some, life and death to some:
that’s why i’m so glum, chum,
they’re killing quicker than i finish another straight ***…
****.
and on our own soil too – see, it’s partly not for oil;
blind to land grabs and assets stolen, our toil exploited – that’s what’s up.
can’t handle serfdom? physical, mental, or spiritual health problem?
abject subsistence and misread decisions not assuaged by some other ***?
unconditional basic income?—say what?
choose starvation, hypothermia, suicide, fear—
it’s a numbers game
and every loss is a ******,
it’s ****** up.
state cuts ****, zombie banks ****, transnationals ****, TTIP will ****,
our heroes are experienced
as torturous humiliators and mass murderers in other countries,
it’s ****** up.
and reactions to shock and awe, pollution, imperialism and stolen raw materials be the chorus.
and i hope the NSA and other such state ***** hear clearly what i have to say.
and always from the pools of blood,
money trickles up.
structurally omni-parasitic,
-cataclysmic, -containing
an unlucky lucky one formula;
“profits today, **** tomorrow!”;
a system of mass extinction and violence;
cultures of hate;
distain for compassion;
secret social cleansings;
privatised gain, nationalised pain;
a plaguing absence of understanding;
sanction fetishes;
rational genocides;
wages; ***; television; grumpy cat; death drive;
armies of invisible slaves and pillaged unpeoples,
and sordid crowds of visible ones in denial or denied;
and an honest and patronising pastiche poet!
to not even begin.

but a promise shall be a promise.

weeping won’t get it done.
i shall muster my forces even before four horsemen,
the long attricious charge toward a universal freedom from fear
and hierarchy shattered
under banners of equality axiomatic sworn.
my wingbeat shall be adorned with thunderous applause,
it shall disclose smokescreens and it shall cleanse you of opiates
and not just those you have in mind.
watch me soar, join these skies;
rise above the immoral laws and their warped economic concord;
be aware of where the wealth is hoarded;
don’t concern yourself with lies,
concern yourself with liars and who they’re lying for.
be wary where your desire’s from.
there’s still longer than a long way to go
but your sense of urgency is needed now.
the shadows of the Bomb and of ecological catastrophe now grow longer
than the shadow of death
in any old sad song in history
in scarcity, surrendering abundant potential for post-scarcity
to strings of the superego, demons, conductors, controllers
and orchestrated outrage!
and i know we have more to lose than our chains.
but the view from the night of Terror is of the far off tranquil stars
and the moon never brighter!
bind, unbind, entwine.
i will not leave behind only wasted time.
find yourself, find the source, give out your hand
to dance, to share, suffer, fall—
find the hand of another, there find recourse—
and consider the Call, and consider the Course.
Julian Delia Mar 2018
The fabric of human life,
An elixir of strife –
Passion is everything and nothing.
Passion
Is the sweat on my palms
Whenever I behold you in my arms,
Passion
Is the breathlessness I feel
Whenever my lips delicately caress yours,
It is the hunger inside
That I can only feed
Not with steak or fries
But, exclusively, with one deed –
The deed
Of opening up
Like a fresh pack of cards,
Exposing everything,
Concealing nothing.

I wish
It could be that easy –
I wish
A thin film of plastic
Was the only thing
Separating the cards I keep close to my chest
From your gentle fingers.
But,
It is not –
Beneath that spark of passion
Lies a great inaction
There is
A layer of cold fog
Swallowing everything up whole
And the only thing I can see
Is you, desperately
Trying to understand
Extending your hand
Into the void.

Sometimes I wonder
Whether I should build a dam
Instead of letting my river of emotions flow –
BUT
Your touch, your presence
Infallibly bring me back to that feeling you get
When watching a pyrotechnical show.
Spending the night with you
And waking up regenerated, anew,
Brings me towards this question:
“Who goes there?
Who
Is bold enough
To venture into this cave
This structurally unsound mess
This tavern of stress
That is my soul?”
The light of my heart intensifies –
Feeling, thought and action
Are easier,
If for just a while.
If you could only understand
How difficult it is to reconcile
All the anxiety
All the pain
With what I experience in your presence…

Imagine
Being in an art gallery
But being unable to see colour
Imagine
Being an unsung, fallen hero
A spent life, ended with no valour
Imagine
Having the mind of a genius
That is trapped in a minefield of anxiety, unable to speak.
All of this –
It is a mirroring of what I feel
Of who I am.

I am an individual
That loves the world and life itself
But walks through it warily
A shadow
Walking in the plains of the living
Aghast at the thought
Of permanently becoming darkness.
Stealthily
I am creeping out of this nebulous underworld
A process that will take time,
A tunnel wherein the light at the end
Is not yet visible –
I yearn
For your tender touch,
For your warm presence
To be there
When I finally crawl out
When I can finally walk
Steadily, on my own two feet
A man made of solid steel
Who will bend his knee to no one.

Despite my misgivings,
Despite all this maddening rage
I have towards the world
I also think of things like old age,
The crumbling temple of our youth –
In truth,
I do not see myself settling
I am investing
Not in a house or a bank loan
But in a better world for all
A sacrifice
That will only lead to immeasurable yet the noblest of hardship.
But,
Until then,
Until push comes to shove
And I am still willing and able to feel and love
I will just content myself
With waiting, and hoping
To see you again.
Deep from my soul, from me to you.
mads Jan 2014
From afar I stand structurally sound,
No large gashes or permanent pinkish slashes,
But wind your way closer and peel back your eyes
The rust begins to show,
Climb inside I'm slowly eroding,
And collapsing.
Most feel it's better to partially admire
From behind a series of cement structures
Only glimpsing at my strength and stability.
So tired, so done
Saint Audrey Apr 2017
Honestly, I've never felt alone
My thoughts keep hitting a depressing tone
Light in life, keep it light
Fear the dark, keep it right
People make me lose my ****
I've long since had my finger on it
There's something to be said about solitude
Mental gymnist mindset feud

I've been fed too much too long
Now its all I can taste
Fall in line or fall apart
The choice; voicless restless ill never make
Structurally sound, yeah maybe so
The footing never lets me down
But walls I cannot abide
Living life or letting die

Can't have it both ways
Shameful
What a **** shame
So ungrateful
Sitting bankrupt, linen table
I won the world and still feel
Like someone somewhere owes me something
Take the second
Grasp it
Something you would have sooner wasted
Self reflect
Can you taste it?

It might not be up to you
But either way you get to choose
Its like three in the morning
Samuel Alexander Aug 2015
That forgotten ache, that bruise faded yet still sore to the touch, the shoulder that was never quite right after the fall from that tree...
You are none of these things, no, you are a knife in my side, exactly where I pulled out the one I put there two years ago, you're my hand on the stove top, held stubbornly until the heat is too much to bare, you're the insides of my cheeks torn to shreds by my own teeth to keep me from voicing my thoughts.

You're memories I buried,
Concrete confidence and steel-infused smiles,
Structurally unsound with your sudden excavation.
You're my knuckles, ****** and raw, striking concrete again and again and again and again and again... And a few times more.
You're nights spent stirring, shifting, sleepless.
******* you're a ghost!
You're a clouds shadow!
You're nothing, a name and little more!

...and yet you're a face.
A face I forgot to forget, a face I saw today, after two years and... you're still beautiful, you're so beautiful and I hate you for it!
I saw you and I almost smiled, I almost smiled until you looked straight ahead, avoiding me with your eyes, blank-faced and silent, like looking at me would cost you, I wonder what the cost would be...
I hate that I wish you'd payed it.

So here I am, two years on and my first sight of you since...
A sighting and I'm back writing poems about you once again, how cheap the accommodation of my mind.
Kate Apr 2014
i knew from the beginning
that the home we built was not structurally sound
but when they said it would cave in,
i simply laughed my most self-assured laugh
and squeezed your hand a little tighter

the day you punched a hole in the wall
was the day i slammed every door
and i suppose we hadn't built it strong enough
the roof fell on our heads
and the walls crumbled so quickly
by the time the dust had cleared
i realized i was standing in the rubble alone
you hadn't stayed to help salvage our belongings
or to see how my head was doing
you just ran with your bleeding heart
and your hand still balled in a fist
Ignatius Hosiana Apr 2016
I missed your poems and their beautiful eloquence
their smooth touch penetrating the walls of my conscience
I missed how they mutely speak and silently shout
out answers to my puzzles leaving me without a doubt

the numbing vividness of your darkness and light
the harmonic tone that steals every plight
your touching free verse like the owl misses the night
or like the sky in the night misses the pride of the kite


I missed the sumptuous confidence you portray
while questioning why it's the good people that life does betray
the little twists and turns, highs and lows
the scalds and burns, sarcastic arrows and bows

I missed the vocabulary which makes me scratch my brain
the pattering fall of letters dripping down my screen like rain
and the exceptional comic yet saddening stanzas
of structurally constructed pieces like paintings on canvas


I missed the flow of your torments on paper
tear after tear, weaving a mat of fury without losing grip
year after year, serenely reflecting the turbulent vapour
rising out of your heart pen ward pen ward and lip

I missed your pieces like the a refugee misses home
fatigued and desperate in foreign lands while they roam
physically and emotionally shredded,dead at heart
loathing, resentment coming thrown at them like the dart


I missed your art like the sand misses foot prints after waves
like those gone lie lonely forgotten in their graves
like lovers torn apart by destiny miss their kisses
I missed you,and your raw honest pieces
Apachi Ram Fatal Jul 2017
hair dashing vision deploy sud featherless\
motion in active taste bud slipped on eternal\
tip of my tongue whistle lunge internally\
**** drizzle dripped seating scampi intestine\
grip swung intensity hitting uvula grump\
the bedroom slippers pajama snap running\
throat hiccups stuck doll sitting smudge crap\
pat tack in scratch mouth I due alley loop mucus\
packing trunk wood you irritate stove chappy baker\
hunk the lock spinning the sling cling on schnapps\
surviving by the beer Craving Peace of ear confession minding\
the sake of better judgement intrigue maleficent impression\
spite traditional contraceptive contradict hypocritical Kitab rewrite\
Ktab inducting paschen arrange friction pronounce tissue adjudicated\
hit or miss mission issue clevis tension ******* metabolism buoyant crevice\
sullied virginity abolishing hip ripping meat window damp moist cherry\
fur confined steed Structurally Mounting **** transcoding soil instrumenting\
matrimony ring band regent gown slapping *** crack Larry the Cable Guy wed\

Din Din Baby Fat Naming like/
be Naming Baby Shat Chat/
bei spin nozzle creek up/
drift bottleneck swifty/
dream line bleachers/
above the body top/
under tummy tuck/
wackbush stroke/
c ******* broad/
honey i blew up the kid
emma Nov 2013
Welcome to the
******* asylum
Where dreams are made
Out of shards of shattered aspirations
Glued together
With outcasted tears.
She told me once
That the Golden Years
Only come to those with
Gold in their pockets.
Angels lose their wings
Within the walls.
Structurally unsound,
Shuddering with false euphora,
A tangled mess of anguish.
Marigold Mar 2012
Stop me right here if I am wrong.
Let's not just continue on.
Yesterday felt different to today.
Everything is stationary and everything is static.
Not the least of which resides inside a cranial vault.
Locked up tight beneath a skull.
Held up high on a spine which just longs to rest.

And those bricks felt cold against my skin.
At least no one threw them.
At least, structurally, I am still whole.

But you never did take me for serious when i said I loved you.
You never thought maybe i wasn't lying when i told you, you were my favourite.
The only one to listen,
Just another who wouldn't believe.
nicoarty Jul 2015
Found; a dying *****,
Plays an off-key tune,
It's muscles are all torn or missing,
Has a hole the size of the Moon,

It's tubes are shredded and ******,
Has no Rythm to it's pounds,
Just lays on the floor barely moving,
Unsafe and structurally unsound,

There's evidence of attempted repair work,
Covered in stiches and staples that ooze,
Patches and droplets of salt crust,
As well as the faint reek of *****,

There also seems to be a label,
That someone has recently tried to remove,
Appears to not be surgical precision,
But that fact still has to be proved,

What is decipherable reads as,
"Please call if found"
I tried, dial tone, "number disconnected",
Seems no one wants it around,

Was left this way before Tuesday,
In the skip of apartment block 4/2,
No one has noticed it's missing,
There is nothing more that I can do,
(12/03/15)

Found; a dying *****,
Left alone, not wanted around,
Desperately needing stiches,
In hands where none can be found,
(15/03/15)

Lost; a dying *****,
I stopped trying to help it survive,
It's been a while, and no one has claimed it,
Now it belongs in another life,
(10/06/15)

Lost and Found; a dying *****,
A vital one so it now seems,
Went back to the skips yesterday,
Found; a dead girl, late teens,

Found;  a dying *****,
Singing an off key tune,
Her muscles are all torn; One's missing,
Left a hole the size of the moon,
(27/07/15).
10/06/15 an important day to me.
Hope it wasn't too strange this time.
Yenson Mar 2019
This is partly because of a communications network called NEON (New Economy Organisers Network).
Neither affiliated to Labour nor Momentum,
this organisation has been working hard behind the scenes to train left-wing  experts, community organisers and activists
in direct action peoples power
Corbyn’s anti-Semitism crisis  and the proliferation of the extreme left factions proves one thing:
The old Stalinist gang is back in charge of Labour

Those people, whose lives were fundamentally shaped by a Labour government determined to keep them out of the UK because of the colour of their skin, might be surprised to hear the claims in recent weeks, from different quarters, that Labour always has been or was an anti-racist party.


This is a label people in Labour have long claimed. And to prove it, there are particular facts they point to. The introduction of the UK’s various Race Relations Acts all happened under Labour governments. The Stephen Lawrence inquiry was established in the early years of the Blair government – crucially, though, after years of campaigning by Lawrence’s family. And even though it was often met with a frosty reception, there is a rich tradition of anti-racist and anti-colonial organising within Labour;

A little over 10 years ago, New Labour politicians were describing children whose parents were seeking asylum as “swamping” UK schools, running a campaign that declared Labour as on “your side” and the Lib Dems as “on the side of failed asylum seekers”, treating people of colour as not belonging to the nation, defending colonialism and overseeing policies that made asylum seekers destitute. And then there was the post-New Labour “controls on immigration” mug under Ed Miliband.

If we allow people to misrepresent the past by erasing the racist politics that have caused pain, economic degradation and treated people as “other” because of their skin colour, religion, immigration status or “culture”, then we won’t see racism – including anti-immigration racism – as structurally embedded and systemic. These fraught histories are ones the left, within and outside the Labour party, can learn from. Declaring yourself something doesn’t mean you are that; it takes work.
Allen Robinson Jul 2016
You stand alone
as a beacon to
every ship that
crosses your path

Structurally sound
with a powerful
beam atop your
shoulders

Life saver, house
and part monument
your historical
presence is solidified.
Jamison Bell Jun 2016
There used to be this hill upon which I would sit.
I'd watch the stars every night I could as they waltzed across the sky.
I watched Apollo mount his chariot and Ra he did the same.
My favorite nights were when the gods would battle with swords of fire off in the distance.

I thought about that night the night wept.
She was alone, as if it had just occurred to her.
She didn't look at me when I sat on the bed next to her.
She embraced me and cried. It wasn't the "I just found out Tiffany bought the same shoes I did" cry.
It was her heart. The pain was too much to bear.

Forever upon this hill were my four horsemen.
Pestilence, Famine, Disease, and Death.
Steadfast in awaiting my orders they heed in limbo.
And when the day comes when I've had enough.
(ok so the horsemen were just four trees in close proximity but it's my ****** hill so they're horsemen)

I used to imagine being able to walk on the clouds.
Not those whispy ones. Obviously not structurally sound.
No, those big puffy ones. Climbing over them as if they were albino boulders.
Taking ***** on my enemies. Because so would you.

I fell in love three times on this very hill.
And as many times as I paced that ****** hill.
Wouldn't you know it? There was never any love to be found.
In all fairness though. I'm not smart enough to recognize it either.

I never liked the wind upon my hill so high.
Oh sure, every time it got windy the blades of grass would break out into this impromptu synchronized dance montage.
It just had a way of distracting me from my thoughts.

I still think about this hill. It sits on high upon a sill.
It's there this hill must stay. Upon this sill so far away.
I go there in my mind you see. To bury my thoughts or set them free.
I'm taking you there one day too soon.
Don't make plans that afternoon.

I wrote those lines up on that hill. Words like that don't rhyme at will.
**** it and **** I am getting off topic!
This is worse than when I wrote that biopic.
Focus kid, I know you're high. Just make it look pretty and say your goodbye.

My lushly green haired knuckle cocked up from the ground.
It's where you find me should you need me. But that's it. You'll never need me.
Don't worry about it. Because she's up here with me.
And there are no questions. Just laughter.
This poem was brought to you by Isolation. Put it on a sandwhich. Clean grease off your lamps. A useful substitute for play doh or ******. Find it today in the "***" aisle of your local bazaar.
Michael Humbert Nov 2015
A skeleton structurally unsound
Every bone vibrating with
The echoes of *goodbye
Seher Seven Nov 2015
I know I create what I see.
It's why I see the beauty in you.
Your shine reflects the glow.
Your grace encourages the flow.
I, bow in your honor.
Knees secure in the grit.

The eternal replenish,
The consistent persistence.
My heart beats, regularly
Checking for energy tweaks, alerts.
New moments of now.

Now I know
Each person I see, I see
Vibrationally, scattered about
Until erratically we meet.
Once eyes link,
That instant relief, the unwavering belief,
To see, everything is ok!

Stumbling, tripping, running,
Pacing home.
Structurally prepared to carry the load...
Alone or aligned with the unity previously established within.
As She prepares the family bed
United at the head,
The heart, the hands.
Take my hand, lead me,
Don't stand still,
Walk with me, get lost in
The divinity of perfect.
Of just is.
Of what is.

Emblazoned, enlightened
Our cells call out,
"Stretch far out! Spread your self thin,
A layer of embrace,
Press upon those in reach,
Force the message of unity!"

Spread out thin,
Hold close my kin,
Join again,
Force the message of
One.
Poetic T May 2017
My Poetry brings all the readers to my ink  
and there like
mines better than yours,
linguistically its better than yours.
I can verse for you?
but there is a charge.

I know you want it,
the syllables conjoined, making them read mine not yours.
Their lost in my metaphor,
ways I lock them within my harmonious chorus.


words are like milkshake
different tastes imbued within

aromas differ


My Poetry brings all the thoughts to my page, 
and there like,
mines better than yours.
Structurally its better than yours,
I can word for you?
but there is a charge.

I know you want it,
the morphology, making them read mine not your.
Their lost within my visual acuity,
ways I lock them within my syllable verse.

aromas differ
different tastes imbued within

words are like milkshake

Welcome to my ink-shake,
its like a taste that others will like,
woven in thought.
But my ink maybe not to your liking,
my tastes differing from yours.
But enjoy what I pen hopefully I'll enjoy yours
Arthur Bird Feb 2016
#2
These five plums
Are here for the week
Treat them well,
Said Clarence Benn-Bell.

The depiction of listening to 1845
Makes him feel more unborn
Than alive.
Makes him feel under milky water
Makes him feel porky and flat.
Makes him weep for his nation
And the late Mr. Drepple's Thursday hat
Has arrived at last at its destination.

His breakfast combines six morning sources.
James cannot form four of those.
Agnes took 18 historical rejects,
But the death table of April 1819
Was between a grave of kites and a stained editor of physical mouth types.
Whilst the dreaded Evidence Garden is structurally within St Autumn's torture night.
Biz Aug 2018
I can’t hold up my body anymore. It has been melting down my spine since its existence and now I can’t keep up.

My eyes won’t reach the ground. They stay elevated, as if unable to acknowledge what lies melted on the earth. As if doing so would take away their sight. As if doing so, would mean that the pain isn’t real.

I would never ask you to stare at my feet. You’d miss everything. You wouldn’t be able to greet people who walk past like you do, or see how beautiful the world can be. You would be trapped. Your eyes would be scarred. They wouldn’t be the color brown that I love— they would be strained with something I fear.

I didn’t know that what I was doing wasn’t healing. But how should I have known, with a soul so tender she can be broken with one breath out of place. So I hold my breath. Promising her I won’t break and all the while knowing that it’s a promise I can’t keep.

So I watch my body melt. Melt with broken promises and a failure to recognize the support it craves. Because it wants to pretend it’s filled with steel when really, it’s hollow.

You want to hold my body up with your hands. Your weight, you say, is strong enough. You promise to fill my hollow walls.

But you’re not the first, and that’s something you have to know. Many have taken their hands and tried to push my soul back together. Fill my walls. But not one has been structurally sound. Who gave you permission to surpass them? Who gave you the strength not to leave?

— The End —