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zebra Jan 17
the seduction of eternity

ice house Shekinah
sad hag with a revolver
a carnival of skinned rats and bullets
during the blood soil days

pets left on the dark side of the moon
a deluge of morality in a palace of tears
structures of consciousness under compression

the tongue of eternity
a veiled Eros licking
blood shot distant moons
flickers a selfish dream serenade
pollen of discontent
like a pregnant superhero
dressed in a candy wrapper
treading a visionless ezoic brain

bugs; war zones of memes and genes

all matter is metaphor
near death objects
meteors of grinning spiked crowns

we are memetic plucked limbs, clawed minds
sulfurous dust
short lived bloated yolks
mice in a supermarket with tape worms
and a trade mark

we are something boiling
we are memetic plucked limbs, clawed minds
sulfurous dust
short lived bloated yolks
a holocaust in a supermarket
with tapeworms
and a trademark
we are something boiling
In the bowels of eternity
graves of meat and mud
crucifixes in a screaming

rabid belly of shadows
Paul Hansford Sep 2018
Many people write a "bucket list" of things they want to do before they die.  Now in my 80th year, I don't have the time or the energy to do things that others might aim for, but I have during my life visited many places, seen many things, and enjoyed many experiences that I would have been sorry to miss. There have also been some events that I would have preferred not to experience, but which have enriched my life in different ways, and which I remember with a kind of sad affection.  
Some of these are very personal to me, and would not be interesting to most people, but read the note if you wonder why I chose them.

Here then is what I might call  
                                                My Reverse Bucket List

Towns and cities – architecture & atmosphere
   Barcelona, Spain
   Venice, Italy
   Oxford, England
   Jerusalem, Israel
   Luxor, Egypt
   Varanasi, India
   Hiroshima, Japan
   Pompeii, Italy

Other locations
   Galápagos islands, Ecuador
   Great Barrier Reef, Australia
   North Woolwich, London

   St Paul's Cathedral, London
   Sagrada Familia, Barcelona
   Coventry Cathedral
   Córdoba Cathedral, Spain
   Blue Mosque, Istanbul

Other structures
   Taj Mahal, Agra
   Auschwitz concentration camp, Poland
   Royal Festival Hall, London
   London underground system (because it was the first, and I rode it for a long time).  Also the more splendid underground railways of Mexico City and Moscow.
   Avebury Ring, Wiltshire, England (the largest prehistoric stone circle in the world, and much more primitive than Stonehenge)
   Bayeux Tapestry 
   "Angel of the North" statue, Gateshead, England
   "Christ the Redeemer" statue, Rio, Brazil

   Messiah at Royal Festival Hall, Feb 1959, with the girl later to be my wife
   St John's night, Spain, early 1990s (?)
   Death and funeral of Diana, Princess of Wales, Aug 1997
   Oberammergau passion play, 2010
   Destruction of World Trade Centre, Sept 2001
I haven't added explanatory notes, but a lot of them are easy enough to look up, and if you message me about any mysterious items, I'll answer as best I can. There are poems in my stream connected with some things on the list, though not all are obvious.
Mystic904 Sep 2017
Chaos, demolition, destruction
controlled through supervised instruction
no end to slaughter, no reduction
have their own ways of seduction

On that throne, they sit and stare
The one which is called the 'chair'

Nation's green honour gone abrupt
you say, you're still not corrupt?
no one points at you, while you deduct
waiting for the world to erupt

Just about everything, you'll see here
Roots all clung to the evil chair

In which those so called governors sit
organisers, runners of this lovely bit
performing tricks for the show to lit
prepared for them is a special pit

Looters and criminals, all have a pair
Of gloves to keep stain off their chair

Don't believe their words, bark whatever
bamboozle us, truth from our eyes they sever
residing in those large structures like hever
could write three books upon their clever

Dreadful reality transferred heir upon heir
Criminals need not legitimate relations, just their ****** chair!
Didn't want to end it, but you know everything comes to an end at some point 'except' corruption. lol
Pat Broadbent Apr 2018
It’s possible to speak too much to remember what your words mean.
And so is the two-fold danger faced by writers.
Danger is to pace a hole in the floor.
Danger is to stand until you can’t move anymore
like when shallow waves **** your feet into the sand.

So I try not to stand when I write.

I keep a narrow tack
without too many big words
which pedants use to dig great holes in the ground
–moats to keep others out–
or make you think they think big.

But anyone who reads knows about Icarus
and anyone with aims must beware:
to shoot directly upwards is to strike your own head
when like fate the arrow
returns to source.

You’re only as good as your mind,
your characters only as strong as you are.
—at least, this is true in so far as you know.
True in so far as they speak.
For to test them you must torque them
and twist at their cores,
and make opposing forces meet–
but only
as hard as you can.

This makes writing a hill slick with oil.
Insecure. Potential energy.
Potential failure
in all of that grime
that cakes your toes like grease that coats
the teeth of great industrial gears.

So I try not to stand when I write.

But whether the better take comes when you plunge
and you slide and dissolve like so much ice,
I must say I don’t know,
the thought
seems nice.
But the same
It seems like those who let go
Are the ones
with the least to say.

I can't decide
either which way.

All I know about writing is
most sentences are punctuated wrongly.
The period is certain,
but writing is undecided.
It is the figuring-out, a quest-bound troop
that moves with all its own fanfare.
Question marks curl up—
invisible smoke on a summer coal fire:
heat twisting the air like irons in stoke
giving sign of the transformations there withheld.
For fire mediates matter,
so writing stands ever-between.

But I’ve spoken too much and I don’t know what these words mean.
And so I fold like there’s danger in writing,
while danger is imagined like borders on a continent.
Danger is thinking
I'm dangerous enough to keep silent.
Like shallow waves,
given way to sand.
So avoid letting voids form
where the mind dismisses confrontation to more capable smiths.
Writing is –at best– an attempt.
Even with shallow structures
in rhythmic din,
the silent breaks by force of pen,
and all because of the simple fact
that quiet refuses to bend.

All I can hope is my writing upholds these unknowns
while I try not to stand.

But you ask about writing?
Carter Ginter Jul 2017
As I drag through life on my knees, bleeding
I try to unlock the chains that pin my body down
And while I cannot find every key to free me from the weight
I have learned strength and endurance
and other tricks to ease my journey

Though the years I have hashed my blood onto paper
Smiling as my emotions bled into the clean sheets
Forcing the purity of the page to match my damaged and ***** soul
Yet I have never thought to cut out my darkest experience

Instead, it swims within my stomach's acidic pool
Remaining dormant until a thought or melody claws at its bones
Until it can no longer be contained

So I begin ripping through my lungs and intestines
Simply trying to locate the source of the misery
As it torments both my body and mind

And by my own hands,
The acid spills into the crevasses of my muscle and bone
Sizzling through the structures on contact
Until I no longer recognize the dead stare reflecting off of metal and glass
And so I destroy them by using them
To destroy whatever shambles of my body remain

As I sit in a puddle of blood and feel the air ticking away like seconds on a clock
I smell the familiar perfume of death, nestled with regret

I promised myself that,
if I somehow survive another night,
I will try to face the thickest chains that bind me tighter than ever before
Those that continue to stain the ground with my past and
Refuse to let me stand without fear

And so I begin
This is the first poem in a collection I'm doing about an extremely hard topic that I've never wrote about before but I hope writing can help me face my demons. Because poetry has helped me through so many other problems, I hope it can with this too
KiraLili Apr 2015
Industrial work camp construction
Where nothing is light and everything is heavy
Leviathan's and Titan's move rock and earth
Steel structures are stacked by crane like Leggo blocks
Grinding noise and flying sparks are everywhere

These are remote locations where men from everywhere work in the middle of nowhere
Trailers in geometric shapes serve as homes and offices
Handshakes and high fives are replaced by fist bumps
Gatherings of people in smoke pits stand in for water coolers

Days worked are measured in shift weeks , sounds smaller
Schedules drive the pace and weather fights the progress
Overtime is daily, it's just a matter of how much
Everyone here comes for the pay check inflated by the locale

There is only one answer people say to one question
No matter how often they are asked,    " how are you doing?"
Tired eyes always raise and one things ever heard
All is said is , " livin the dream..."
When I opened myself up to you
you were so gentle with the things you said
you didn’t know that you were saying the wrong things.
Tightrope walking is not an art that anyone can perform
it takes so much practice
with one wrong move you fall.
Dropping the ball and hurting everyone around you.
I’m so sorry I dropped it too early
sorry that you weren’t ready
that you don't know what to say
that i don’t know how to explain.
My depression is something I can’t control.
Some days I just feel hollow.
My numb is your bored.
My anxieties are biting your nerves.
Your anger kick starting my worry.
You saying “Why are you so sad.”
“If you don’t know then it’s not a big deal.”
"Don't be so mad."
“You can’t let yourself think this way.”
“It’s all in your head.”
You don’t understand that it is all in my head.
Giant thought structures made of lead.
My brain chemically organized to make me feel dead.
When I tell you I’m wishing for death
don’t make me waste my breath.
Welcome home.

this show
is like compassion .

the high king
of hiking ...........

flows indigo
like companion

this is everlasting
even so I seem to be crashin'

I’m out the hell hole but listen
I still hear the bell toll
**** sings wisdom

̥̫̩̩͓̘ͫ̒̒̊͡Aͦ̄̕P̸̰̅ͣ̎͛P̰̪̆ͨ͝L̠̖̭̣͋ͩͦ̌ͦ̐̓͟Y͖̻̼̜̻̌̾ͣ͛ ̨̭̔̐ͤ̊Ǎ͇̻̹͓̪͇̠͛̐̑ͫ͜L̥̹̯͇̇ͤͨ̑Ẇ͊̊A̘̟̔̀Ỹ̩ͧ̏͐ͧȘ̞̣:̻̳̞̲̇:̥͇͙͉͉̆

r­itual tool
ritual crew
rippin' through fools nihilism
like that Rick and Mort to

Ȃͣͪͥ̇̀̐ľ̒ͮͬ͑ͦ̌l̏̎͋̄̃̓ ̈̔͒ͧ̾t͗̊͌́͒h̓̅̔ͮ͌i͂̾͌s͊͆̾͒̅ ̆́̏͗s̔̋͐ͬ̄ͣhỉ̍̈́tͬͧ̓̀ͥ ̾͆̿̈m̀́̊͐ͩ̒e͛aͧ͋ͦͮͪͨń̂ͤͥͪ͂́s̉̄̐̏̃ͤ̚ ͧ̋͐̈̔̏͋sͧͫomͦ̄͌̃ͯeͯ̾̈́͂th̑ͧing͑.̔͐͑̚

Society structures rigid rules
based in ethical clues

.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚But.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚the.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚waters.­̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚still.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚crash.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚upon it..̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̚­̔͐͑.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̚­̔͐͑.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̚­̔͐͑.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̔͐͑̚.̚


through these two teeth, 2 hands, 1 pen;

reality peaks through as the morning does through the dew.

With the pouring of this cup the sacred drain true

you can question everything
but still the g̵̖̞͇͓͕̔͗̈́̽̌̈́o͓̬͉͕̟͐ͯͩ̃͢d̳͈̰̣͔̉̍ͦͦͥ͒ḥ͙͈̤̙̔̀̓͂ͮͧ̾ë͚̜̯͚́ͬͭ̇͒͗́åͦͤ­̖̜͇̊ḏ̌ͮͣͥ̓͒ͨ́ speaks you.

Scriabin, born in Russia in 1872, was a gifted pianist whom at a young age was drawn to philosophical and spiritual avenues. Early on he was considered a “mystic”— a man with the desire to find harmonic correspondence with the ethereal worlds. In the years that led up to the social, cultural, and political explosion that was the Russian Revolution of 1917, the brilliance of Scriabin pushed the rich Russian musical tradition forward. Held by the pillars of Tchaikovsky and Stravinsky, he began his exploration in his ambitious first symphony by writing every single note based on the sensation of color, light and ‘time’ that was found in the blood and bones of our common human anatomy. He believed in the completion of Mystic Conquest of the 20th century the human enzyme; that the body itself was a complete harmonic system that responded to specific tones and specific colors in a very organized and intelligent way.
Dan Filcek Apr 2017
a lasting attraction may result from opposites,
or through sharing
strength varies considerably;
In general, strong bonding is associated with sharing
attraction may be seen as the result of different behaviors
Although these behaviors merge into each other seamlessly
so that there is no clear line to be drawn between them,
the behaviors become different
as the character of the bond changes quantitatively,
In the simplest view
the space between comes not from
the reduction in attraction of the two    
Instead, the reduction and hence instability  arises from the reduction in energy
These bonds exist between two        
and have a direction in space,
allowing them to be shown as connecting lines  
If one or more  are unequally shared  
Bond results are often much weaker
the bonds that hold together must cease
If the structures that result are not both strong and tough,
In a simplified view the bonding is not shared at all,
In this type of bond,
one has a vacancy which allows the addition of more
These newly added potentially occupy a lower state
than they experience in a different  
more tightly bound position
Not being part of any given bonding may be seen as extreme
a large system of bonds is ideal
This type of bonding is often very strong
more collective in nature than other types,
and so they more easily reform,
This results in malleability  
This bonding reaches far,
stressing the character of the combining  power,
and cannot be said to belong to anyone exclusively.
containing more than one    
Sometimes, the possibility
of bond formation is completely neglected.
It is thus no longer possible to associate
This is a situation when the bonds are broken
They continue to be attracted to each other,
with a significant  luster
But are repulsed by each other.
National Poetry Month 2017 - source
Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which washes stony structures clean with radiance that laves.

Deserted streets, once dense retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with  faded words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.

Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes...
They frame a frail forgotten tale,  in carved unwritten runes
with symbols hung like halos strung in lifeless, limp festoons.

The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.

A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.

Stilled chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.

Stray footsteps swarm  through church no more (apostates that profane) -
their echoes in the nave ring thin, while chalice cups maintain
a taste of brine in altar wine decaying in the rain.

No face will come with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, or beg lethean balm.

Six steeple towers, steel and stone, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in melting tracks.

Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across a cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, with no one left to fete.

Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep... a clutch of clammy clouds.

No breath will come  'cross jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.

The castle clock, unwound, defrocks! Those peerless speechless spokes
unfurl the blight of reigning Night by spinning off her cloaks,
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now voiceless things on phantom swings, like statues made of clay,
mark marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.  

The sun-bleached bones of those who've flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).

The terrors wrought by conscience fraught once stalked and lurked nearby
to rip the shrouds from  curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky –
now wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.

And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears  in sheets of shallow gray.

Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
exhale a gust of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a *****.

A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane,
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.

No souls will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.


Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
pluto Dec 2018
Secluded behind the walls of glass structures,
Bleeds time within its ruptures,
For diamonds vanish as its sands continuously fall,
As trapped souls rapidly add dents to it's fractured wall.
"They ran out of time"
Ellen F D Mar 2
The mainstream is changing,
Do you hear it’s call?
Structures once accepted,
Now begin to fall.

The mainstream is changing,
Do you see it form?
Conversations never had before,
Now become the norm.

The mainstream is changing,
Do you feel the flow?
Look around and look within,
And learn to just let go.

Let go and float wherever it takes you,
Let go of the stories told to break you,
Let go and allow the rapids to wake you.

The mainstream is changing,
Do you sense it too?
All there is to do is let go,
And the journey will find you.
Ylzm Jun 3
             I am,
             contained and
             compartmentalised in

             of self similar structures
             with fractal dimensions
             at various scales,
             from the unseen cells
             to the whole person, that I am;

             permeates all of me,
             constantly cycling, in and out,
             the breathe of life,
             in the blood.

But where is the Fire?
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