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almat011 Feb 2019
Juicy, sweet, hot chocolate skin...black girls are black goddess
**** black girls For guys and men. The most beautiful, attractive, seductive, **** and exciting in African and African-American women is their sweet, juicy, chocolate skin color. Honey caramel mulattoes. Sweet brown chocolate color. And inviting, savoryly pure black-sugar skin color. This is the most delicious, beautiful, sweet candy in the world. You feel like a sweet tooth in a pastry shop when there are a lot of them around you. If you marry one of them and get her children from her, and live with only one of them all your life, and you will be faithful only to her alone. Your life will be the sweetest. Skin of black color and color of dark chocolate are the sweetest, seductive shades of sincere, hot passion. The skin of dark-skinned girls seems to be radiating the heat of ***, burning sweet, sensual passion, this color of temptation, attraction. There are drums of ethnic, traditional music, it's the sound of ***. . The black skin of a girl with which sweat and moisture is flowing, as if she still radiates ardent, hot, passionate, and a little stuffy *** in the sauna and her sweet moans are heard. This skin color is like a powerful aphrodisiac replacing ******
The skin of black and dark chocolate is the sweetest, seductive shades of sincere, hot passion.
The women of three races are beautiful: the sultry, torrid, hot chocolate of hot passion of the deep passion of black fire of love and ***, a paradise oasis of tenderness of the east, and snow-white, sensual pearls.
For guys and men. The most beautiful, attractive, seductive, **** and exciting in African and African-American girls and women is their sweet, juicy, chocolate skin color. Honey caramel mulatto. Sweet brown chocolate color. And alluring, relish pure black sugar color of skin. This is the most delicious, beautiful, cute candy in the world. You feel like a sweet tooth in a candy store when there are a lot of them around you. If you marry one of them and get children from her, and you will live only with one of them all your life, and you will be faithful only to her. Your life will be the sweetest.
Your skin is the color of one hot, unforgettable night, your libido is the word lava in your hot body, burning passion, only your photos can excite me, only your beauty turns off my brains, you have a ****, ****** tune in my head, you are like a hot bath after a hard of the day, like an ****** massage, like a soft pillow with sleeping softness.
Dark skin
The black skin of a girl with which sweat and moisture is flowing, as if she still radiates ardent, hot, passionate, and a little stuffy *** in the sauna and her sweet moans are heard. This skin color is like a powerful aphrodisiac replacing ******.
The skin is black and the color of dark chocolate are the sweetest, seductive shades of sincere, hot passion.
Dark-skinned beauties are a deep passion of black fire - this is a hot safari, a wild savannah, an exotic havana.

My new love poem, i hope you will like it.
For my dear light brown girls
Captivating honey caramel is like a shining dawn, life with you is like a sweet ****** dream. Juicy sweet fabulous fantasy beautiful. From your sexuality, the glasses of the captured ****** force in your eyes are sweating, this is the amazing magic of charm concealed in them. You are my depraved temptation ***** temptation. The sweet temptation of a tenderly roaring passion is a breathtaking juicy caramel berry, sometimes pouring with a picturesque modulation, tender sensual shades of red sunset, incinerated with the burning heat of passion. From your hottest, sultry beauty, the brain seems to turn off and faint from your sweetest kisses.

Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. 'as for those poets, only the perverse follow them. do you not see that they go too far in every direction and say things, which they cannot do?' (ash-shu'ara / the poets 26:224-226).

call them what you like,
the Huguenots,
for all i care...

   you always side with
the "heretics"...
  
   given that, "said" heretics
retain some cultural value
relativism of other cultures,
namely in the form of
depiction -

    since why would, "the word"
be deemed holy,
    ****-naked,
                rather than donning
a bikini of "iconoclasm"...
         when words... are at
the meat-market of copyright -
what with © coca cola?

                 sunni islam would have
never allowed sufism...
  but Farsi does...
  and will continue...
since no Iranian will bow
before an Arab within the schematics
of history...

          Sunni Islam, it's Wahhabi sentimentality...
so why persist in signing
the Adhan?
   why not speak in a honing like
drone sentiment of plain speech?
i thought all music was banned?
the current Adhan is a form
of music... isn't it? BAN IT!

    you never side with these Sunni
muslims, exploiting Bangladeshi labor,
you side with the heretics of Iran...
these *******, i can at least respect...
  
      no fast cars, convenient ongoing
cultural insurrections -
   Sufism...
       Afghan women's poetry,
and all that much closer to Hindu mysticism...
    
yeah... "islamophobia":
but only against Sunni Islam...
   but Shia Islam?
   no problem...
   i could stomach these peoples
like i could stomach the in-between
of the Turkish variant -
no ideology - simply, pure, power throttle...

i could make a great Janissary -
with a Turkish barber...
         for a great trim of hair and beard...
i'd cast a shadow on some
obscure chocolatier of Brussels
who thinks himself a politician...

     but there are certain aspect of Islam
i am willing to tolerate...
   what happened to the son in law
of Muhammad, namely, Ali...
was raw ******* kicking...

               promises, promises...
no promises...
           Shia Islam, as an European,
i can tolerate, Turkish Islam, i can tolerate...
Turkey is incrementally shy
of being treated at the 2nd variant of Iran...
at least with Iran, we share a history
via the insurrection into the ancient
texts through Greece...

  come to think of it...
whenever i listen to
matta's song echo babylon...
i start feeding myself goosebumps,
reminding myself
of Cyrus... Nebuchadnezzar...
and the dim-wit that was
   Belshazzar...

always siding with the heretics...
if not on economic groundwork,
then at least motivating,
rather than monetizing an idea...

and the Shia muslims are...
    one way or another...
   unlike the gluttons of Dubai...
the barbie dolls of postage stamp
"proof" of progress,
in size, and worth...

   Sunni Islam would have
never allowed poetics to remain
a viable form of expression -
the Persian tradition that is,
far beyond the western concern
for a comment section...

         Shia Islam allows patronage
of the arts, notably poetry,
without concern for monetary
funding, it, at least, doesn't prohibit it...
given the pride of the Persians...
Sunnis and their continual quest
for finding water...
    sure... poetry is pointless within
such restrictions of
existential concerns...
    but... given the current, civilized
establishment?
   sky-scrapers in *******
sand dunes?

         the qu'ran should have
forbidden the architectural ambitions
equivalent to the tower of babel
being erected, in environments,
that could never sustain said projects...

    and who originally spewed the term
islamophobia?
Sunni Islam...
        i never liked this strand of belief...
i hate the Sunnis like
a Shia partisan...

p.s. it's called patriotism is America...
but nationalism in Europe...
    you sure that's not a synonym?
Europeans can't be patriotic,
and Americans are never nationalistic?

...

   well: how could i ever convert to islam,
i do enjoy the adhan from time to time,
"sorry", but i do...
  i can't help it:
if i'm a sucker for pop songs,
i'm also a sucker for the adhan...
   crusader songs, templar songs become
stuffy after a while...
and last time i checked:
     there were the northern crusades
against the baltic people:
notably prussians, lithuanians...
with that cushion of: mediating the
escalation of war by the polacks...
coming from the east:
  last time i checked the mongols
didn't reach leipzig...
               buffer zone people...
and what of the ottoman onsalught
of vienna 1529: the ****** winged hussars
won the charge...

so, coming back to heidegger... aphorism 26
ponderings IX... how am i to not be
the historical animal?
         perhaps in german, in germany
i might become a non-historical animal,
to begin: anew, but with a terrible
past to hide, to negate...
   i could do that: if i were a german,
speaking german, in germany...
but i'm in england:
            i might have some roots in
Silesia, but it's "hard" to not be a historical
animal, an "animal" with a sense of time,
i.e. a future a past a present...
esp. under the english conditions
of: the biological animal momentum narrative,
like a tsunami, like an earthquake...
ripples throughout...
              i can't move forward with
the english championing darwinism every
single ******* step of the way...
why can't they hide darwin like the polacks
hid copernicus...
given the motto: copernicus -
who moved the earth, and stopped the sun...
why wouldn't i escape into history
if the current biological reality is:
(a) a yawn... the cruel nature of per se?
   the courting of pigeons on a t.v. antenna...
pigeons get rejected all the time,
lesson learned, he bows and bows,
coos... expands his tail feathers upon
the bow then folds them... she flies away...
repeat...
    (b) i can't escape being a historical
animal in the way that what the current
facts are being repeated have encountered
a whiff of Chernobyll...
              history is inclided to answer reality...
biology? not so much... not from what i've
seen and heard...
             truly a schizophrenics disney dream:
to walk among the newly insane feeling
like the only sane among them...
beau-ti-ful!
                   well... given the current criteria
of being bilingual as being synonymous
with being a schizophrenic...
           magic!
                    
   now the crescendo...aphorism 24
ponderings X:

              the word designates, the word signifies,
the word says, the word is (heidegger)...

i found that you can only write
"philosophy" with a neat, fixed vocab. regime,
clarity of boundaries...
    quadratic events in vocab.:

i.e. the reflexive: yourself, himself, itself etc.
and the reflective: your, self....
                       his, self...
                                  it, and the self...
                    ergo? atheistic scissors,
  the two articles, indefinite and definite
                                 a / the "self"...

i'm not playing "identity politics",
when i say that only two peoples ever managed
to sack Moscau... the mongols and the polacks
with the help of lithuanians,
"identity politics" only happens in
post-colonial society, akin to the english,
i'll speak the english,
but i will not be a cucked indian of
the former raj: i will eat the fish & chips,
i will eat the sunday roast,
   i will eat the english breakfast with great
delight...
            but i will not do what these former
colonial masters expect of me:
integrate at the expense of making my
mutterzunge into hubris!
stubborness contra pride...
                hard to tell the difference...

and why do i like heidegger so much?
i'm not into the ad homine arguments...
my grandfather, was, a communist party member...
so?
       i like heidegger... because he appreciates
poetics, i like that poets can share the same
values as philosophers,
thanks to heidegger: we have been requested
back into the republic...
if plato and islam didn't like us, hanging around,
some offshoot german thinker / promenade
enthusiast like used enough to,
i suppose: ban the theatre puppeteers...

i am not playing identity politics...
biological reality is not enough...
but archeological reality?
       can you really advance to counter?
i was born near:
Krzemionki Opatowskie, a Neolithic and
early Bronze Age complex of flint mines
for the extraction of Upper Jurassic (Oxfordian)
banded flints...
  personally? i don't believe in
the African genesis conundrum...
i believe "my" people originated from
the Indian sub-continent,
as, associated with the complex:
Indo-European categorization of language;
i'm still to see an African phonetic
encoding system, beside the hieroglyphics...

i, was, born, there! i'm not a displaced
post-colonial debacle between former master
and former slave...
i have: roots... i'm not ******* up to the fish & chips
brigade with a friday night's worth of curry...
i cook my own curry,
and by god: it is the food of the gods...
i'll give the blue indians that counter...
but sure as **** not the worth of mead
or whiskey...

if they only tolerated themselves,
sure, learn the english language,
but know this much:
           english is the modern lingua franca...
it's the language of economics,
forget the natives, too ignorant to learn
either deutsche or française:
island-folk...
                what else, what other attitude?
even the russians are like:
that land of the weirdos? the idiosyncratics?
yes, we know that land...
the only "thing" that shelters the english
are the h'americans, the south africans,
the australians etc.,
  sure as **** the scots aren't sheltering them...
and, mind you?
   if the i.r.a. really wanted to plant
a bomb?
   a real bomb? they'd revert from speaking
any english to begin with... resorting
to revising their usage of gàidhlig:
ga-id-hlig... gaelic...
   like the welsh, stubborn people, proud people,
retaining their Çymraeg...
celt: said kelt...
the glaswegian football team?
       Çeltic... not: keltic...
  borrowed from the greek: sigma (ς: cedilla to ****)...
   wow! all the particulars in the english tongue!
guess it would take an ausländer to spot them!

U-21 european championships,
england versus romania:
                           a magnificent match...
the youngsters playing better football
than the oldies in their mid to late / early 30s...

i'm trying to tolerate Islam,
               it's not in my nature...
            hell... i enjoyed visiting a turkish barber
shop, i still have an unflinching opinion that,
the turks are the best barbers in the world...
but...

              this quote, is going to **** you:
same aphorism / pondering (24 / X) -


*** fight videos - count dankula...
you know what i'd love to do to these little
snarky *****?
the french revolution isn't enough...
n'ah, them hanging, is not enough....
ever heard of the butchers' hook?
                 it's also callled close-up fishing...
imitation hang-man...
   you insert a fishing hook...
and you let the sweeney todd ****** dangle...
on a hook, rather than a noose...
lords of salem come your way?
i'd rather the snarky teen hanging off
a fisherman's hook than dangle
like some lynched ******...
beside the suffocation,
i'd like them with a fisherman's hook entombed
in their hard palette...
         i don't want them hanging...
what am i? a sadist?
  i want them on the fisherman's hook!
when suffocating without a broken spine absorbed
by the neck isn't enough!
  fisherman's hook gallows is a
masterpiece... of suffering...
  most certain...
  when cheap comedy is being towed...
making fun of bums, or homeless people...
the current society is so welcome
to bypass all the "adventures" of Loki...
but akin to the lords of Salem...
burn!? such a limitated imagination!

ah... right... digressing...
        the reflexive / reflective quadratic...
language - only if speech  has acquired
the highest univocity of the word does it
become strong (enough) for the hidden
              play of its essential multivocity
(as withdrawn from all "logic"),
             of which poets and thinkers alone
are capable, in their own respective modes
and their own directions of sovreignty.

we do live in a time of a lost sense
of dialectic, since we do not live in a time
of etertaining dialogue,
perfectly sensible opinions,
that's all we have...

                       if one of these snarky *******
came up to me...
they'd get a chance to experience a rubric
of 4, knuckles...
what's 189 centimeters in empirical?
6ft2...      oh!
                   see where imagination takes you?
and here i was: thinking i was without it!
butcher's hangman...
oh, not so easy...
                  
                fame by no association to fame...
just the tears of parents who raised their children
to be nothing more than rugrats...
annoying gnat like bothersomes;
and nothing quiet special to be associated
with weimar berlin...
     just, these,
   h'american mall onlookers
with pwetty-guy-for-a-white-fly-mentality,
as borrowed from californian
1990s punk;

re-used ****** losers.

mad-hatter's fraction: 10/6....
      0.666...
      well: to the given extent:
1.666666(7)....
     1, 0, /6,
no number is divisible by 0,
every number, divisible by 1:
is the same number...
    mad hatter's 10/6...

   re-used ****** losers...
i like that phrase...
        7 for every 6, 7 for every 6...
until the 0. fraction comes
a 1.: exponential serf of 0...
0 being the multiplier...
          
         i really am growing a beard to less
don it, but rather to experience
a relief from patience...
war robots?
the first non n.p.c. game...
i like that, very much...
      and when i did:

you know my first experience of
love at first sight?
the younger sister of my then girlfriend...
****** up ****...

love at first sight is a terrible phenomenon...
i was nearing 18, she was barely 13...
i was dating her older sister...
but it was love at first sight,
the trouble with: love at first sight:
it doesn't lie...
it tries to lie...
          but it can't lie...

   paedophilia? a bit... untouched bodies
though... bodies of people who were
never supposed to touch...
i once said to a fwend:
well wouldn't it be ****** up if i touched
her?
   she's a muse, which doesn't translate
into vacating her as a busy body
worth of a touch, does it?
     if only my old friend samuel said
otherwise:
sylvester "contra" tweety:
my first girlfriend...
but her sister?
         i was nearing 18, she was about 13...
love at first sight...
untouched, cradled, unscathed...
and so she remained...
   until she did what every girl would
have done...thank god she remained
a figment of my imagination...
   rammstein: rosernrot...
    
           i have seen love at first...
such a load of ******* that it had to be
the younger sister of a girl i was dating...
and the **** that i had to be 18 and see
was just beginning her teenage transition...
the world unfair i grant
the most justifications... as being
the (just - unnecessary adjective) arbiter...

love at first sight becomes a forbidden love...
love at first sight was always a forbidden
love...
           and the sort of "love" that achieves
a perspctive of change that doesn't
translate into old age...
love at first sight is soon translated
into a love of affairs closely associated
with middle-age disenfranchised
state of affairs...
i.e. to love again...
            how else to feel relief from
having lost both one's inhibitions
               as well as one's ambitions?!
in the conundrum of the mortal
"question" of the continuum being
preserved?
Margo Polo May 2014
Last night I
had a dream that
you died.
Everyone we knew
came, said their I’m-so-sorry’s,
and
left, filtering out the front door
slowly
like sand through a sideways sifter,
leaving behind pieces,
words and memories
and casseroles I
could not taste.

And the whole time
everyone was here,
you were here, too.
I could hear
you, smell
you, feel
you.
I could feel you
surrounding me like the ghost of the baby blanket
I once had and could never leave at home.
I loved you here and here you would stay, with me,
and now you would never leave.
I could keep you.
You were bound to me.

But the ties that bind are tight and you did not like me leaving.
You could not go with me and
you
accidentally
and without words
by holding, enveloping,
suffocating
you told me
that you did not want me to ever leave again.
So I stopped.
I stopped leaving.
And the calls stopped, too.
The invites. The lunches. The impromptu trips to town.
All unnecessary noise.
The people left. And then it was just you and me.

Until one day I saw what you had done.
Tripping
I glanced in the mirror and saw.
You had etched yourself into my face.
Dug with your nails
terrifying ravines
escaping the corners
of my eyes. Pulled down
my mouth and every
shallow natural valley turned to
deep empty bowl, hungry and wanting.
My eyes no longer held light.
I saw this, all evidence against you,
and I still loved you.
You had hurt me in ways you never had
while you were here – here – and I knew.
And I still loved you.

Slinking up the stairs
I called you to me. I felt you surround
faster than before and
closer, tighter, colder.
Suffocating, stifling and
so destructive in how you loved me.

Slowly but faster
I grew to know
I would not become you and
you would not become me.
We were stuck on other sides of the mirror.
I was so angry
at what you had allowed me
made me
begged me to become.
Realizing
I gasped and put
hand to heart
it hurt so.
I stood upright
how long have I been bent
took in one long deep breath of stuffy air
how long since I opened the windows
and called you to me
when have I last heard a voice not my own
called you to listen.

I felt the loss of everything else
friends
family
adventure
excitement.
Nothing was left of that here
and I was so angry
and I am so sorry
and I yelled
      I screamed
      I roared
why are you still here
why are you making me like you
why did you come here and
hold me
and keep me here with you
I am not the one who is dead
and I said
and I regret
and I am so sorry
I can’t have you here
go away
and
leave me alone

and you did.
You left me
all alone.

Why would you leave me?
judy smith May 2015
Tired of being called names and listening to complaints from your partner because you snore at night?

But more than that, it is important to keep a check on your snoring as an excess of it can be an indicator of many diseases, one of them being sleep apnea, says Dr Kaushal Sheth, ENT surgeon, "People develop sleep apnea when their airway collapses partially or completely during sleep due to various medical conditions. This causes the oxygen levels in the blood to decrease and can be potentially life threatening when it becomes obstructive sleep apnea."

Elaborating on it further, Dr Jayashree Todkar, bariatric surgeon and obesity consultant says "Snoring is an indication of obstacles in a person's breathing. When excessive fat accumulates around the stomach, the lungs do not get ample space to expand when we inhale oxygen; this in turn leads to obstacles in the process of inhalation-exhalation."

However, there are many myths surrounding snoring which is a very common problem. To sleep better one must get rid of the myths that surround snoring and only accept the facts, says Dr Viranchi Oza, BDS as he gives us a lowdown of some stories around snoring:

Myth: Everybody snores, therefore it's normal.

Fact: Snoring is not a normal condition. Labelling it as 'normal' diminishes the seriousness of the condition. Snoring is not just about annoying your partner, it is a sign that the body is struggling to breathe properly during the night. Snoring on a frequent or regular basis has been associated with hypertension and can also be an indication of sleep apnea (pauses in breathing). Sleep apnea sufferers have been reported to have diminished gray cells in their brains, most likely due to the oxygen deprivation of untreated sleep apnea. If left untreated, sleep apnea increases the risk of cardiovascular disease over time. In addition, insufficient sleep affects growth hormone secretion that is linked to obesity. As the amount of hormone secretion decreases, the chance of weight gain increases.

Myth: Snoring only affects the health of the snorer.

Fact: Snoring doesn't just negatively affect the health of the person snoring, but also the health of the person lying next to them in bed. A typical snorer usually produces a noise that averages around 60 decibels (about the level of vacuum cleaner), but with some people this can reach 80 or even 90 decibels (about the level of an average factory). Sleeping with a partner who snores during the night has been shown to increase the blood pressure in the other person, which may be dangerous for their health in the long term. Snoring also causes the partner to have fragmented sleep and lose up to one hour of sleep

every night.

Myth: Snoring comes from the nose, so if I unclog my nose, my snoring will stop.

Fact: Having a stuffy nose can definitely aggravate snoring and sleep apnea, but in it's not the cause. A recent study showed that undergoing nasal surgery for breathing problems cured sleep apnea in only 10% of patients. Snoring vibrations typically come from the soft palate, which is aggravated by having a small jaw and the tongue falling back. It's a complicated relationship between the nose, the soft palate and the tongue.

Myth: I know I don't snore, or have apnea. I am fine.

Fact: Don't ignore your wife when she tells you that your snoring doesn't let her sleep. When a partner snores it is very difficult for the spouse to sleep. There are people who snore excessively and suffer from sleep apnea, but feel absolutely normal. However, snoring increases their risk of getting a heart attack and stroke. The only definitive way to prove that you don't have sleep apnea is by taking a sleep test. Screening questionnaires like the GASP or the Epworth have shown high reliability in identifying patient risk for sleep apnea.

Myth: If I lose weight, I'll cure myself of sleep apnea.

Fact: Sometimes. It's definitely worth trying, but in general, it's very difficult to lose weight if you have sleep apnea. This is because poor sleep aggravates weight gain by increasing your appetite. Once you're sleeping better, it'll be easier to lose weight. This is the one ingredient with many dietary and weight loss programs that's missing or not stressed at all. It's not enough just to tell people to sleep more.

Myth: Health problems such as obesity, diabetes, hypertension and depression have no relation to the amount and quality of a person's sleep.

Fact: More and more scientific studies are showing a correlation between poor quality sleep and insufficient sleep with a variety of diseases. Blood pressure is variable during the sleep cycle, however, interrupted sleep negatively affects the normal variability. Recent studies have shown that nearly 80% cases of hypertension, 60% cases of strokes and 50% cases of heart failures are actually cases of undiagnosed sleep apnea. Research indicates that insufficient sleep impairs the body's ability to use insulin, which can lead to the onset of diabetes. Fragmented sleep can cause a lowered metabolism and increased levels of the hormone Cortisol which results in an increased appetite and a decrease in one's ability to burn calories.

Myth: Daytime sleepiness means a person is not getting enough sleep.

Fact: Do you feel very sleepy even during the day despite the fact that you had a long night of proper sleep? Excessive daytime sleepiness can occur even after a person gets enough sleep. Such sleepiness can be a sign of an underlying medical condition or sleep disorder such as narcolepsy or sleep apnea. Please seek professional medical advice to correctly diagnose the cause of this symptom.

Myth: Getting just one hour less sleep per night than needed will not have any effect on your daytime functioning.

Fact: This lack of sleep may not make you noticeably sleepy during the day. But even if you've got slightly less sleep, it can affect your ability to think properly and respond quickly. It can compromise your cardiovascular health and energy balance as well as the ability to fight infections, particularly if the pattern continues. Lack of sleep has also been associated with road accidents (up to 60% of road accidents involve lack of sleep) and air crashes (Air India Mangalore plane crash in 2010 was due to lack of sleep). Sleeping for less than six hours a night is equivalent to legal levels of alcohol intoxication.

Myth: Sleep apnea occurs only in older, overweight men with big necks.

Fact: Although the stereotypical description does fit people in the extreme end of the spectrum, we now know that even young, thin women that don't snore can have significant obstructive sleep apnea. Sleep apnea begins with jaw structure narrowing and later involves obesity. It's estimated that 90% of women with this condition are not diagnosed. Untreated, it can cause or aggravate weight gain, depression, anxiety, diabetes, high blood pressure, heart disease, heart attack and stroke.

Myth: Snoring can't be treated.

Fact: Have you given up on your snoring thinking that it cannot be treated? There are many different options for treating snoring.

Some treatment options are rather drastic, possibly requiring surgery or prescription drugs, but prior to exploring such options it would be wise to first seek out alternative treatments. You must visit a sleep specialist to get the right diagnosis.

Myth: Extra sleep at night can cure you of problems with excessive daytime fatigue.

Fact: Not only is the quantity of sleep important but also the quality of sleep. Some people sleep eight-nine hours a night but don't feel well rested as the quality of their sleep is poor. A number of sleep disorders and other medical conditions affect the quality of sleep. Sleeping more won't alleviate the daytime sleepiness these disorders or conditions cause. However, many of these disorders or conditions can be treated effectively with changes in behaviour or with medical therapies.

Myth: Insomnia is characterised only by difficulty in falling asleep.

Fact: There are four symptoms usually associated with insomnia:

- Difficulty falling asleep

- Waking up too early and not being able to get back to sleep

- Frequent awakenings

- Waking up feeling tired and not so fresh

Insomnia can also be a symptom of a sleep disorder or other medical, psychological or psychiatric problems. Sometimes, insomnia can really be a case of undiagnosed sleep apnea.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses
Genevieve May 2014
Burn incense to block out the smell of death and self hate
 that lingers in your room
, as you sit up
 at 3am 
thinking too much
.
(your mind is
 never at rest)

Because the musky scent and stuffy atmosphere
, will breakdown your thinking pattern
 and leave you mellowed
 and able to sleep
 for a while…
Aaron LaLux Oct 2017
Comfort Over Fashion

Making the Stuffy Suits nervous,
uncomfortable under all their outerwear,
which is ironic because we’re the ones underdressed,
because it’s still comfort over fashion and function over form,

so I guess it’s not that ironic,
that I didn’t iron anything I have on,
honestly these words speak for me,
I don’t have to say a thing as I sit in the front,
row of the show with a girl as good as gold,
I don’t have to prove anything to any of you,
never let your perception,
of their perception of you fool you,

better yet,
never let,
your perceived perception,
of their assumed perception,
fool you,

it’s not our fault that they feel uncomfortable,
we didn’t commit their sins for them,
we didn’t those two stiff shoes on their feet,
they chose their own clothes and decided to wear them,

we didn’t place them in their own insecurities,
so don’t let their insecurities make you feel insecure,
you’re not obnoxious it’s the sausage that they ate,
stuffed their face now they feel nauseous and awkward,

it’s not your date that’s making them nauseous,
it’s the sausage and the conscience that can’t be washed quick,
so stop this feeling awkward because they feel awkward nonsense,
just stop it and let us be us because to be us is an honor,

let you be your self let us be us,
and let them just be their uncomfortable selves,
all overdressed with all their uncomfortably stuffy stuff,

and we can just continue to make the Stuffy Suits nervous,
uncomfortable under all their outerwear,
which is ironic because we’re the ones underdressed,
because it’s still comfort over fashion and function over form…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

@aaronlalux EVERYWHERE


Kitt Sep 2017
Faces that pass along in the stuffy summer night
See right through me
Though I fight to be seen, to be noticed
Acknowledged as a living breathing entity
I walk along, waiting to be picked up for a second
Inspected for usefulness
And put down again
Expiring my helpfulness again and again

And then I see the shining ray of glory
She steps through the crowd of gray
And addresses me by name
And I lead her down winding paths of Gold and Silver
And she kisses me with her eyes
She makes love to me with her words
I feel her in every depth within me

And then she's gone
Leaving a vacancy in my soul.
Nora Agha May 2012
It’s too hot
and stuffy.
The blanket holds me in
holds me down
I’m suffocating.

I toss and
I turn.
The blanket is tangled
between my legs
I’m trapped.
I fumble and
I fidget.

I lean up on my elbow
to look out.
My arm is numb.
The CN tower.
Can you see it?
Can you see it?
Is it behind the fog?

It’s too hot
and stuffy.
The blanket is tangled
between my legs.
My arm is numb.
I fumble and
I fidget.

The blanket holds me in
holds me down.
I’m trapped.
I toss and
I turn

I lean up on my elbow
to look out
I’m suffocating.
The CN tower.
Behind the fog.
Behind the fog.
I’m still in Toronto, right?

It’s too hot
and stuffy
I fumble and
I fidget
I toss and
I turn.

Can’t sleep while suffocating.

Open the window. It’s freezing outside, let it in.
Tuesday Pixie Nov 2014
Hurry now, it’s leaving soon
Car door slams, gravel underfoot
And from the boot
Grandmas lil helper is lifted
Oh! Where did it go?
Wind twists scarf to snake
Released from frames captivity
I stoop and tug
Under your foot, Gran
She shuffles,
Ties it firmly around tiny shoulders
Bright colour against delicate skin
Paper thin, both,
One for beauty, one to hold the blood in
And may it hold the blood in,
Just a little longer...

The train awaits,
Monstrous,
Steele stark against surrounding bush.
Matt has a sausage,
Mum bothers about tickets,
Both fuss and fizzle,
I press lips firmly together
Deciding then and there
Never to let entertainment turn to stress;
It’s more than it’s worth.

We’re to be in the engine room,
The rest will be left behind -
As something faulty.
Matt lifts Gran up;
She’s tiny,
She’s flying,
She’s in.
And then we’re all in.
Crammed.
We stare longingly through grimy glass
At empty carriages
Can’t we be in there? It’s all a bit stuffy.

There’s a fire along the track
But we don’t go any further.
The smoke streams out over forest.
And jerking and bumping,
Dipping along,
We reverse back to whence we started.
Petrol fumes and smoke fill our tiny cocoon
Here, let me help you*
Passenger to passenger,
Fellow human,
Compassionate eyes.
Gran has a seat;
She sways while we lurch.

Deep within
Railroad country
I make believe
I know something
Of the girl
Of the Plannies;
That sacred connection
To land and sky,
To Native country,
To Golden Macrocarpa

I stare over hills of tree ferns,
Kawakawa, Wheki, Punga
And, knowing no other,
I feel this land
Majestically
My own.
"The girl of the Plannies" is Janet Frame, New Zealand author and poet, and a huge inspiration to me. Her autobiography taught me so much and made me truly realise my connection to New Zealand.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i don't know why i found redemption in the tetragrammaton, sure, my mother cared for two elderly jewish ladies, one escaped the Holocaust (surname Roßhandler) and the other of established English rooting (surname Rockman... thanks to her, upon completing my g.c.s.e. exams i got a complete collection of Bernard Shaw's plays) - but i find it there, ping-pong salvation every time, translating it akin to arithmetic: 1 + 1 = 2 is very much akin to Y              H            W          H, which i started calling the perfect chirality - chiral meaning non-superimposable:
                                       A                      &                  E, i too ventured to call the double H dualism a déjà vu - but i know see them as vantage points, more electrons and quantum physics than protons and neutrons - well, it ****** well fits the schematic: sine (M) and cosine (W) - sure, crude, but i'm not looking at the geometry of the mouth... language on the base of pure optics... and no, not necessarily adjective noun compounds for emphasis to argue a point, just easily an easily accessed point of reference...     so quantum physics calls it the non-independent ontology of electrons: a. particles (Y, centre 0 on the x, y, z graphs - apart from the heliocentric and the geocentric models, here's another one of similar causality)... and b. waves (W, the formerly stated trigonometry suggestion) - and hence the two vantage points bound to H... apart from Adam and Eve lodged in between... which suggests that the geocentric analogy of electrons is bound to electrons behaving like waves... while the heliocentric analogy of electrons is bound to electrons behaving like particles: microcosm Copernicus blah blah; well, more like pseudo-Aristarchus of Samos.

20th century literature is, quiet literally
something akin to the cave paintings at
Lascaux - big brother isn't watching -
nor is the publishing old guard -
i just find it unreal that so much rests upon
the internet these days, the people have no
idea what power has been granted them,
they petty the use of the internet with
their earthly squabbles of a marketplace,
while, running parallel: the lost infatuation
with democracy as necessary organisation -
turns out it's unnecessary organisation:
because we ain't go anything better -
hence political disillusionment - rampant in
what western society deems the pinnacle
and the Libra of a fine balancing act -
religiously? that famous: "mystery of lawlessness"?
that's the internet - imagine a time when you
could bypass some publisher, some adherent
to a state doctrine, when you could turn poetry
into physics, not the waffle of metaphysical Keats
waiting for a kettle to turn into a volcano
or a whistling horse, but to turn the dial to
point at the reality of things:
quantum physics (derived from quanta,
a variation of datum: particularity of input
energy) gave poets breathing space,
metaphysics became shadowy, Hades like
learning, obscure and all the more necessary
to build-up its strength while puritan physicists
lost their sway of power with the fears of
the atom bomb and all things quantum -
so while the physicists became dazzled with
all things quantum, the metaphysics took off...
entombed in an apathetic (without pathos)
subjectivity: a calm heart, much more than an
embracing heart - yes, i am aware that i have my
wacko moments of feeling, but this ticker is
made of stone - and that usually means a chaotic
thinking process, spontaneity being the key
in involving yourself with real-life narratives
then never suppose a character study: what you see,
is what you get: my sanity plateau?
talk about music rather than make poetry musical,
it's a pale shade of red or blue when you
have guitars and orchestras and the poet,
a voice in the wilderness - nothing but pins dropping
to exemplify the talk... i don't understand
the need for poetry being a kindred of musicology,
i don't understand rhyme, i don't understand
being conscious of poetic prescriptions of technique
very much akin to language's artefact minded
grammar: noun
                                v. poetry's pun
grammar's verb
                                       poetry's metaphor... etc.
my deviation? being an adherent toward music,
and returning poetry back to its true purpose:
puritan narrations - not conscious of what's
expected, or what defines the art,
very much the beginning of cubism and later
innovations in art, i just can't stand rhyming poetry -
it's too conscious of itself by what it's defined by,
we have learned of a new subjectivity:
the unconscious - we might as well exploit it
while objectivity gets crushed into bewilderment
by quantum physics -
thus said: i feel like i'm a dervish spinning
counter-clockwise in a chaos of tornadoes spinning
clockwise while listening to two songs:
tool's *right in two
- and muse's stockholm syndrome:
i can't be bothered translating the feelings
entombed in these two songs with a rhyme...
poetry should be less stuffy than it already is...
it should be a statement of the supreme effort: freedom.
all of this? spurred on by rereading passages from
Jung's gegenwart und zukunft (1957), alter:
          the undiscovered self (1958) -
it's seemingly odd (but not too odd) that books
written by psychiatrists are more popular than
philosophy books in the anglophile culture -
as already stated, i can't read philosophy in english -
maybe this is why psychiatric literature is so easily
accessible in this tongue, what with the self-help
movement, it the grandest prescription that no pill
(unless it's a sleeping pill) can be prescribed -
i'd say, if you want to read philosophy in english,
i'd start off by reading a book from psychiatry -
Jung is by far more adaptable than Freud
(Freud's for the rich people who have ***
written on their foreheads in permanent ink -
        and: daddy didn't care, mama was
                                     struggling feminist who
     forgot to breastfeed me) -
       but of course the 1960s Scottish superstar
(who drank, rightly so) from Glasgow: Laing.
well, sure, the Hungarian Szasz (shash, not sas,
or zaz... shish kebab... it ain't the difficult) -
impromptu deviation: what's funny about Heidegger?
he says: you need to study Aristotle for 15 years
to get him... and that's very much true for him also...
two years... TWO YEARS it took me to read his book.
that's what's interesting about this book,
a literary anorexic, in at 79 grams (pages) -
the interesting point? in physics, there are things
that are not independent of observation -
i like that conundrum, the mere idea of it is titillating -
running joke for the past two years: ***** ***** tat for tat
months later -
                          well... i'm not the one trying to
dress you up in a straitjacket with a label: this is poetry...
can't see **** for miles with how i write.
so there's a purpose, some things are depending on
being observed - which is a good thing, which means
that this world could not be independently sustainable -
its dependency on existing lies akin to our
desire to be independent of it - so all the religious
blah blah means something - even after 3 years
of rigorous studies in chemistry i come back into
humanism with a furore of agitating religious paraphernalia -
mind you, i do have a scientific approach toward
language - grammar and algebra combined -
meaning? certain words have become post-grammatical,
i.e. algebraic - not categorised as nouns or otherwise,
but as algebraic signatures: primarily because no one
really knows what to do with them, apart from
church yoga, standardised: e.g. x = god,
            i = y                  and the                  world = z,
predictably transcending the casual use of language
when shopping for cheese in a Parisian grocery store...
err... je ma'pel gorgon, avoir vous fromage?
nope, took to English too much - i was learning French
in primary school, but i had an existential crisis
aged 9 or 10... my brain refused to learn another language
after having just learned one from scratch -
                               the mute in class soon turned into
an avaricious reader... so parallel to my life, i now hear
stories about children being diagnosed with depression...
try being thrown into the deep-end of the pool
with your former development using a language
automatically, into having to learn the language without
no major influence of a teaching authority...
                                  no wonder the accent game
   sort of imploded and i started speaking sometimes tosh,
sometimes posh, and sometimes east London oh'rite?
                             ale casem tes jak rolnik -
                            owszem, czasem jak mieszczanin też.
stargirl Mar 2015
the beatles on vinyl,
the bright sun shining through our silk curtains,
***** clothes scattered about the room,
our skin sewn together in messy stitches,
your cologne adding a favorable twist to the scent of stuffy-room air,
the buzz of your hum flowing lightly with john's vocals.

she snaps her fingers in front of my face.

blink!

back to reality.
we've all had those moments...
REAL Sep 2015
Stuffy nose
Stuffy head
Feel like my mind is breaking down
My lungs are pushing out this phlegm
Maybe I should quit  ciggies
But the ciggies won't quit me

Staying high makes me feel better

But the stuffy nose
And constent blowing of it
Makes me lose my breath
And it won't stop

I love to bike
I love to be outside

Congested feeling

Oppressed feeling
David W Clare Jan 2015
Thailand ******

Can read my mind
See my desire
Feel my pain
Siam Halloween in nana klong toey
Thai delights even the ladyboys look good tonight they know how to **** over and survive using a cheap disguise
Hey forang you wanna **** me?
1000 baht short time curiosity.
I prefer real ladies with juicy butts
Flavored with beer and sangsom whiskey *****.
Take me home beat me with your
**** asian Treats
Make me lick your ***** feets
Asian women are my lust filled desire
They sit on my face until I can't breath no more
Than make me pay for my ***** laundry
Soap me up and knock me down
Bangkok Thailand is my home town
I slither along the Sukhumvit soi 11, devoted to the ***** I'm in 7th heaven...
Her **** smells better than stupid blonde Suzy the airhead girl next door boring rubber doll
Asian toilet scrubbers turn me on the never heard of boring old vain Beverly hills ugly rodeo drive full of stuffy old hags high on ****** pills
Sad drag Beverly hills I lived in that phoney fake berg I love the ancient town Bangkok where my face gets slapped and hurt!
*** is a weapon.
****** are mans desire
Zeus fell in lust with a Greek goddess than expired?

Nasty ****** in Thailand make me hard
I become 18 again nothing else matters but fun with that wanna be ******...
Mmm sexxxy thighland!
Emily Feb 2014
The sheets were soft and crumpled underneath my back and my mind was wandering even though this wasn’t the time for that, and I thought about how much I always loved the feeling of bare skin against sheets, year round, even when it was far too cold for it to be a reasonable thing to do. There’s something **** about just being naked, as simplistic as it sounds. With only his skin, my hair, and the sheets touching my body, I felt exposed but I also felt strong, which was an interesting mix of emotions. I knew I should have been more fixated on what was going on (he certainly was) but I always feel somewhat disconnected from my body and having someone else touch it made it feel even more foreign. It wasn’t unpleasant to have his hands all over me, maybe just a little disappointing and I suddenly wanted to push him off me and go for a walk outside where the air could fill my lungs. Stuffy. It was stuffy in his room, I thought. The distinctly boyish smell of deodorant and sweat mingled with the fake perfume of the candle I remembered to bring and it was was suffocating me. Outside, I could hear his little brother playing loudly in the yard and I wanted to be a little kid again but instead I was inside in a darkened room doing things that seemed too adult for my body and things I used to tell myself I would never do. I liked his brother; he was a sweet kid and last spring I took him to the park a few times when the older boy on top of me had work at the bodega down the street. It felt ***** to hear his childish yells and I wanted more than ever to leave, but the strange more-than-friends relationship with this boy meant that he wanted this once in a while and I liked him more than I had admitted to anyone yet. The cracks in his ceiling were familiar to me by now and once, after we--******? made love? I still didn’t know what to call it-- he told me that the first night I came over, drunk and crying, he had to run to peel off the glow in the dark stars that had still been up, a remnant from his childhood, and I found this endearing and I had kissed him again for that. One of his hands was running through my hair now and I stroked his chest, which was leaner and tanner than my bluish-white hands. In the back of my mind I thought I might love him but it could have been his body between my thighs. I could never be sure.
Paul Butters Aug 2018
This muggy, sultry sun is no fun:
Longest sustained heatwave for over forty years.
Suffocating Sahara with Death Valley cracks
In the dry arid soil.

My electric fan shattered with a power surge
Into fragmented plastic shards.
I so miss it now.
It’s oppressively tropical,
With volcanic heat
And Pressure bearing down on us.
The clammy mugginess of a sauna.
Not the clean dry air you find abroad,
Yet still that remorseless torrid scorching,
Roasting and toasting.
Just too much.

Hot air clothed in humid moisture,
Stuffy and sweaty,
Steaming to a haze
And later
Thunder storms.

I long for a cool brew
To freeze my throat
And quench my raging thirst:
Ice cool, ice cool, ice cool.
I’m sure not talking
Of tea.

Paul Butters

© PB 6\8\2018.
Hottest heatwave in the UK since 1976.
Book Thief Sep 2017
You hold echoes of a shift
so plaintively
against the swell
of midnight summer rain—
within the roar of the planes
on cold faded glass
the stuffy air at the airport

There was no way around it
that I could see—
the world still kept its spinning

You lock your stare here
and how I wish
I was packed up too,

snug heartbeats in your leather briefcase.

© BT
Sam Hain Oct 2014
One autumn day in Providence
   I opened up a door,
And entered into a stuffy room
   Called "Edgar's Nevermore",

A curio shop with things forbidden,
   And things bizarre and perverse,
And obelisks of ancient books
   Occult, arcane, and diverse.

I poked around the pint-sized potions,
   Inspected a petrified eft,
But made no purchase; and empty handed
   The merchant's lair I left.

Returning home, to my surprise,
   Like one who'd broken the law,
I found I'd taken a good unpaid for:
   A little monkey's paw.

It tightly gripped, with fingers curled,
   A flap of baggy sleeve;
And there it stayed, upon my jacket,
   When I hung it up at eve.

For many days it didn't move,
   And seemed the perfect pet;
But never trust a monkey's paw,
   Or this is what you'll get:

I went to bed a drunken evening,
   And slept as though I were dead;
And I didn't hear the monkey's paw
   As it crept beside my bed,

The monkey's paw that had bided its time,
   And waited, still as could be,
To choose this night to strangle it—
   My voodoo doll of me!

(Why did I have a voodoo doll
   Of me, you ask? Well, I...
Well, let's just say...well...I can't tell you...
   I'd blush to tell you why...)

I awoke (with bleary, blurry vision)
   To the monkey-****** grip,
Then died without a single curse
   To swear upon my lip.

And in my town I'm still remembered
   As that quintessential loner
Who died alone with a mangled throat,
   A creepy doll...and a *****.

O.O
Pyrrha Aug 2018
There is a bus stop I stand by everyday
Around me is every person who has ever hurt me or let me down
They stand here with me day by day
When the bus comes I'm the last to get on every single time
I stand awkwardly as all of the seats fill
As usual there are no empty seats left for me
I must pick the lesser of my evil's and choose one each day
The heaviness of the fear and panic sink into my core
As I place myself beside one of them once more

Today however as I stood with the others as I stand everyday
I felt their hollow eyes burn into my back
As the bus arrived I saw it load with all these people that detest me
With all the memories that they carry
All the memories that weigh like dumbbells on my being
And for once I just stand there
I do not get on
And I watch as the bus full of all these things I hate
Drives away as another appears

It stops before me and the door opens as the driver beckons me to get in
It isn't my bus, but I still drag my feet forward
As if pulled by an invisible force like a magnet I can't pull myself away
When I enter I see other passengers
Not all of the seats are full, in fact many are empty
But it still feels full, yet not stuffy
I feel welcome as I stand in the aisle of the bus
I'm dragged down by a brown eyed beauty
And I feel like for once I've found my place
Within this bus filling with the things I love, with people I trust
I got this Idea from a dream I had
ZacharyBaca Jun 2017
I'm alone and I'm feeling stuck I feel the weight of an elephant sitting on my chest and  the pressure is unbearable. I'm in a different place but I feel like I see the same faces. I feel like somebody is after me and wants to **** me but I feel like that person lives inside of me. My stomach hurts because the pressure is building so I let out a yell from the very bottom of it. I can feel a hot rush to my eyeballs as my brain decompresses. I can feel the pressure agai Yelling is the only thing that helps. Still, I grab the first thing that I see and I throw it, it just happened to be a backpack through a windshield with a laptop in it. I want to hurt everyone who's ever hurt me and then I realize it was me hurting myself this whole time so I inflict another wound upon myself.



How did I wake up in prison again today when in last nights dream I got so far away. I love running away in my dreams because though I know I should be tired I never run out of breath so I'm able to cover quite a bit of ground when I run away from this place in my dreams. I also like to  breathe underwater. Right before I went to prison I was still flying freely in my dreams I could literally run and jump and fly from place to place but after three years in, I can't seem to get off of the ground. I'm wondering if it's some subconscious thing going on.



The guards yells "stand by for chow!" With elongated syllables and his voice travels down the run with purpose. This old prison has the classic looking Steele prison bars you see in cartoons and movies growing up, it's actually quite eerie. I throw my sheet over my bed and tuck the blanket into the edges so it sits tightly around the mattress and fits snugly in the 6 foot steel soap container type mattress frame that is attached to the wall in a way that you can for this frame up and ******* to make your 6' x 9' space a little bit bigger . I only do this after I put my books in a stack at the end of it because they were spread out with no organization like sub group of war refugees. I turn off the TV, click the desk lamp,  press stop on my tape player, but I let the fan still run. I fold up the drawing I was working on into my dictionary of symbols along with a couple of the poems that were simultaneously being worked on - it's like I have to work on 10 different things at a time to keep my mind occupied. I'm stuck in the cell 23-24 hours a day with ADHD and I was the type of kid to wonder the city for 16 hours on my bike.  I like it because I feel like I'm getting good at 10 different things at once and though I know i it's pretty much impossible to focus on more than one thing at a time I set aside small focuses for each thing in bits and pieces and then go to the next thing, it's quite refreshing to be honest.



I throw some water on my face brush my teeth and I comb my hair back  after I put on a fresh T-shirt, some new pants and my new shoes . Even though I'm wearing all orange I want to look the best I can because it makes me feel good. On the walk to the chow hall we have to go down the stairs and central unit in Florence, Arizona. We all squeeze shoulder to shoulder on the tight run of cells and have to walk Down five flights of stairs and everybody is in a rush but still acting like there just walking casual it's pretty funny to see people do casual speed walks. Everybody's cracking jokes and excited because   Tonight we get pizza and we only get it a couple times every six weeks for they have the menu on a six week schedule. It might taste a little bit cardboardy but who cares it's been years since we've actually had a real slice.  And if you bring some salsa with a little bit of your own cheese you can actually fix the pizza up to where it's quite delectable.  



We pass through the old metal doors and you could fill the air blow from above where the door fan is. As I walk into the chow hall, I can feel tension among the other inmates - it feels like when the lowest frequency on a sound scale with a bass comes in really deep at the bottom of your stomach and a high pitch of the top of your ear that is out of tune and doesn't sit well. You can always tell when something is about to happen because everybody gets quiet and you can feel it in your stomach it's almost like the same feeling of fear and anxiety because the guy who's going to get gotten never knows it's him. I give the guard my last name and I get in line to get my pizza. The food trays come out of the hole in the wall  pretty fast -  inmates that work inside of the kitchen have this down to a science and their muscle memory and pattern recognition is that of an expert sous chef.   Pizza corn jello and a cup for the potent artificially sweetened juice they give us. I'm going to sit down in the middle tables because they have the tables sectioned off for people of different color the white boys sit with them white boys the black people sit with the black people usually closest to the door. The paisas (Mexican national)  sit with each other, the Chiefs have their own tables among  the Mexican Americans. I never sit closest to the wall because if you sit at the back table closest to the wall that means you're striving to have prison political ties and that is something that never interested me because though I am doing five years that is still a temporary stay and I did not want to join a prison gang. But when you're on the higher yards like central unit everybody is pretty much down for the cause so sometimes I will sit back there with homies. Once seated I grab my squeeze cheese from my right pocket, bite a  small piece of the corner off the packet and and squeeze it onto my pizza. I  also apply  some hot sauce and I get o have my friends pizza because he owed me from last nights 49ers game with a bet he lost. This story was probably believable up until the point I said the 49ers won.



while all this is happening in the back of my mind I know something is about to pop off because I could feel it in my stomach. once you know you're good then you're good as far as not being the one about to get stabbed or stomped on but there is always a lingering thought in the back of my head like I hope it's not me that they're about to get. I know it wasn't going to be a prison riot because we all would have known we all would've been prepared with knives ready.



I started eating. Yup cardboardy. Now a little bit faster because my gut told me something was about to pop off and about 3/4 through my second piece of pizza I heard it.



Attacks are usually really quiet in prison usually you hear the stomping of feet, grunting and groaning or slamming against walls so you can feel the wall shake. unless the person that is getting attacked by anywhere from 1 to 4 people starts screaming for his life and begging the guards for help.



This particular attack started with hoofbeats feet on the ground and punches landing and struggling breathing heavy and grunting. You never really want to look directly at what's going down because you don't want to draw attention to the situation or yourself if the guards aren't  paying attention. Attacks like this committed in the middle of a chow hall typically indicate that the person being attacked has to go and is no longer allowed to stay in the general population with us.



I'm Going to say which particular race or who was attacking who because specifics can get a little bit sticky if you are journaling your experience I would hate to offend any particular race or be considered a snitch. three men were stopping another man and it happened really quick. I didn't realize that they had knocked him unconscious and he was breathing really heavy and snoring as if he were dreaming of a beautiful place and had a stuffy nose at the same time.



In what seems like is forever or at least a really long time only just a few seconds have gone by before you hear the guards rushing in. four now eight now twelve guards with fire extinguisher sizes Mace cans, Spraying the men on the face both attackers and victim.



It's crazy because when you're in a room and they use those mace canisters on one person in the whole entire room gets clouded with Mace or Pepper spray  and everybody goes down on the ground and  starts clinching their throats and gasping for breath. some men cannot bear it,  though they typically don't die it seems like they're right on the edge of their last ****** breath.



I just felt bad for the person who didn't get their pizza in time because they're  going to be hungry while we're  all locked down until  the situation re-centers itself. then again the other part of me was a bit jealous because I'm sure the Mace served as a hot sauce and they got to enjoy a little bit of that.  



As I lay dying, I put my face in the ground in my arms and take the smallest breaths possible because it feels like I can survive these breaths and when you breathe deep it stings so bad that you can't help but to gasp for air and cough and perpetuate the struggle.



  I drift off to the beach... Here I am with my feet in the sand at the ocean. I hear seagulls flying above overhead and their calls are panning from left to right like the cleanest headphones you've ever heard. I can hear the waves crashing in and I can feel the sea breeze on my face.  it's one of those days when it's not too hot out but you feel good in the sun with the cool wind on your skin just enough to add A balance. Kind a like a sweet and salty sensation. I love this.



I'm really thankful because last time they maced the whole group it was inside of our living space and we had to sit there for 2 hours and cough but it was only the first 45 minutes or so that felt unbearable. The first time I got maced or actually experienced mace in a really bad way it was when they maced my neighbor inside of the shower because he didn't want to get out of the shower and I thought I could be tough and not feel the effects that much and I was eating crackers while I could smell the mace entering my nostrils. A few seconds later I was on the ground holding my throat because I felt like I was going to die and I couldn't even swallow the crackers I was gasping for air and hating God for this pains existence.



Now again we rise  up on our feet moving back to the run  where our cells are located and I can tell that a lot of the people who have been in prison for a long time who are not in the political movement Are really upset by this because they just want to do the rest of their life inside of these bars at peace.
refresh mesh Jun 2015
we were small children when we grew up

wishing our parents would talk to us about the beloved Constitution,
not at us
wishing our parents would decide to quietly invite themselves
into our ideas, questions, our favorite novels
instead of constantly quoting their own favorite parts of The Bible
instead of complaining so fervently about Islam and poor people

wishing instead of asking
scrambling instead of composing
Do you remember anything?
You were small, and barely talking
But always laughing with me, listening
pointing and nodding

we were orphaned for 3 months as toddler and tiny girl,
while they were mobilizing in Saudi Arabia,
we were stuck with a violent guardian from the family, and I remember
her biting my arm, and pushing her chair
onto mine to crush my fingers when she was mad, and I remember
mom screaming at her over the phone when she found out, and I remember
she loved to kick our dog and sleep in their bed and I remember
deciding to say nothing when I saw this
and how she never saw me watching, the narcissist that she was.

so by age 5 my parents now knew that I was certainly old enough to pay close attention
and when mom and dad were deployed to Egypt for 9 months and 6 months, respectively,
they orchestrated a sequence of 3 live-in sitters trading off every 2 weeks, periodically,
we were stuck in a cyclical round of stuffy, busy au pairs
and I was the host
and I kissed dad's picture because he would call us almost every day
and mom would not
yet it was her I remembered the most
yet it was dad that you actually forgot

When we had them back I realized
I wanted to forget him, too, sometimes.
I hated worrying about them. I remember when I was 7 and our dog died
His heart was so debilitated for months.
Soon after he was able to fling our replacement puppies
in a fit of rage, just once
He retired first, that year, while mom was shipped off to Kuwait
Soon we found out he had no friends, she was his only mate
We felt sorry for him
We ate tv dinners every day and night for 6 months
And although I do have small handfuls of memories
with his hands suddenly on my throat and me on my knees
They always end with him apologizing and sobbing
And me, unscathed but shaken, glowing but glaring

by ages 8 and 10
we were reciting the bill of rights and criticizing welfare
but still could never understand ?
competition or war or cosmetics or long hair

I would always march, I felt like a boy and a girl
and also felt like neither one, I would always twirl
I was taught early on that accomplishments
are more
valuable and profitable of an experience
than forming,
with no meaning, such fleeting relationships

I've ending up simply not comprehending courtship
I might be a light, empty holster that you cannot equip.
I've never sensed the fond feeling of an honest liaison
Except at funerals where I'm free to imagine my own expiration

there are those of us who found kindness by insight
while we were taught to play the offense and be glad to fight
Yet intuitively we knew this aggression has a cost
so we harbored it within our frontal lobes, where we became lost
Some of us have been fighting demons since
our own hearts could breathe and our own eyes could rinse,
And the real reasons we did bad things
were simply too boring, too excruciating

these children fear, then assume, their best friend won't want to play
having discovered that having daydreams may be impending dismay
these are all the people who I haven't ever gotten to greet
they echo my certainties that there are other stories to meet

we were children who always imagined being a squib
keeping faith that wizards and wands were real
they'd take us away from this place to another glib
world of feasts and friends
A house consistently without parents, a house in which we could heal
guardians will fuggya up
Thomas Newlove Jun 2012
A jet-ski, jetty bound, disturbs the waves,
While not too far away, on the seabed
Lies the hungry blacktip and hammerhead,
As a nurse explores the undersea caves.

Harvey wouldn’t capture Marlin here,
Just a glance of turtle, seaweed green,
Gasping at the stuffy air, marine,
Gazing at a sunset he should fear.

The sharks hunt for prey in mere hours.
A flock of ching-chings squawk away,
As mosquitoes come out to play,
Darting between darkening flowers.

Through mosquito nets I take a peek,
In oasis that I realise,
Snuggled in a palm tree lies
A curled green parrot, sound asleep.
Blacktip, hammerhead, and nurse are all types of sharks. Harvey refers to Guy Harvey, a famous painter of marine life, most noted for drawing Marlins. Ching-chings are a colloquial term for blackbirds. Green Parrots are indigenous to the Cayman Islands.
Genevieve Jun 2014
Burn incense to block out the smell of death and self hate
 that lingers in your room
, as you sit up
 at 3am 
thinking too much
, because your mind is
 never at rest.
The musky scent and stuffy atmosphere
, will breakdown your thinking pattern
 and your thoughts leaving you mellowed
 and able to sleep
 for a while…

Somedays every feeling and all my thoughts bombard my mind like a hurricane

Bashing against the walls of my skull wanting to be spilled all over the page
.
like ink in a fountain pen.

Yet there are days
I cannot even think

of words to say
,
when you ask me

what's on my mind
or if I’m okay.
madeline may Jul 2013
you sat on the piano bench
and i sat on the floor
we talked about our fathers
we shared our lonely childhoods
broken bones, broken hearts
i decided i could listen to your voice for hours
you told me you wanted to be a pianist
and i offered to teach you guitar
i played stevie nicks for you
and you said you didn't sing
but your voice is beautiful
and i wish you'd sing for me
you told me about the songs you like
and i went home and made a playlist
it's four months later and i have every song memorized
in alphabetical order

you told me you didn't believe in love
but i know real love and i know forced "love"
and i know i've loved you since that day in september
when you told me i had beautiful handwriting
and i'll never forget how you looked at me
instead of the paper
when the words drifted through the stuffy third-floor air
and i didn't even know your name

so for now i listen to your songs on repeat
and look forward to tomorrow
i just wish i'd kissed you
that evening of the recital
on that ****** piano bench
i haven't written a poem for you in months
i want that night back because it's a side of you i haven't seen since you told me you liked her
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
from a point of ignorance, or perhaps from
a point of common sense...
  listening to
                  jan lamprecht talking
about apartheid in south africa, and how,
apparently, the idea was to create
      a poly-state solution, or what would
have been a federation, akin to u.s.a.,
   now, i already said, from the point of
ignorance, or perhaps from a common sense...
let's not read too much at this point
for the sake of argument...
           if that was really going to happen?
that there were white states, and there were
black states,
       but somehow, they managed to work
together...
         i'm looking at the map of south africa
right now...
          now...
            in europe, you have countries
that are land-locked, and we just call them that...
but i'm looking at the map...
    and the apartheid beginnings, which
would rather seem obvious to the eye...
    wouldn't apartheid have been stalled
             once lesotho & suazi emerged?
surely these areas weren't the spartan 300
akin and never being colonised...
     it's a "poem", it's not a history book,
                   i don't feel like i need to be right
or wrong, or need to constantly rely
on precision of facts to write, constantly making
references...
            i'm working from: word of mouth,
from someone who was there...
     but i can't really imagine either lesotho
or suazi being so ****** resistent to british
rule...
           to me, they were the beginning results
of the apartheid project to create
      the s.a.f.      the south african federation,
federation meaning: there's already a whole,
now we need to cut it up, but retain the original
whole...
         united states?
                                 how would you establish
that, if not through a civil war?
                     it's still a federation,
the f.s.a.         ha ha, imagine the chants...
    f.s.a.!                f.s.a.!      no ring to it without
   there's a federal bank, right?
                    federal this that and, of course,
x-files & federal bureau of investivgation.
            like i already said, i'm not going to look
into the origins of lesotho & suazi,
       as other than from the project apartheid...
and i'll only cite one realiable source:
  jan lamprecht...
          it's the tongue on the ground (boots too),
         and if he doesn't know what he's talking,
how can some historian, in a stuffy library in
england tell me what is and what isn't true?
Steph's Corner Oct 2013
So I turned 32 today.
Penniless birthday,
almost.

Howling rains
woke me up
and I fell back asleep.
And the cat respected my
birthday.
Did not claw my lips like
my usual feline alarm.

The birthday flowers
in the morning
were vivid.
My mother bought them,
deep red and
deep yellow.

I requested
for birthday lunch
my mother’s
home-cooked burgers
and fries sprinkled with
iodized salt.
And I filled myself up
with them hot and crispy
fries
and didn’t care if they
stayed inside my guts
until 2014.

I never really liked cake.
Opted for a dozen original glazed.
Heavenly donuts.
Two of them tumbled down
the escalators.
The first birthday flaw.
Like a bleep in the
grand scheme of
birthday things.

I brought them to a Greek
restaurant.
My mom and dad
and two sisters.
Not really hungry.
Just hungry
for a different taste.

The salad had candied
walnuts among the greens
and the reds.
Progressive Greece.

Then a classic lamb dish.
Classic Greece.
And the waiters
in stuffy white
bellowed a birthday
greeting, dropping the “h”
from my name.
Belted out a non-Grecian
birthday song.
No Grecian dance.

But they gave me
an ice cream treat.
Lighted a solitary
blue candle, which
balanced on the semi-liquid
hills of vanilla, caramel and
walnuts.
The small ice cream hills
illuminated by
the dancing
birthday light.
Jazzy Lake Oct 2013
I sit here, gazing into my cup of finished coffee, the foam still at the bottom, slowly disappearing. I can't bring myself to look away from the foam. As I look closer, I seem to be falling right off my seat at Starbucks, and into the coffee cup before me. Falling through the foam feel really weird. I decide to check my phone. It's 4:59. This is the most unimportant fact in the book of life. Time is very interesting. Without time, I don't know. Finally, I land on my **** in the middle of a corn field that turns slowly into a very cold and stuffy room filled with pianos. I suddenly realize I am now a boy because I feel my ****. From the weight, I can approximate that it is about 9 inches. That's pretty big for a white boy of 12. I have been writing music my whole life and have always wanted to play piano.   I have never played before but I know how to write music. The room that I am in is filled with the sound of a grand piano playing. I have no idea how I know this since I have never played piano before. But I follow the sound to the back of the shop where I see an old woman with grey hair all down her back. She is hunched over a huge grand piano and she is playing is though her life depends on it. Her ***** stamp reads: "Where there is will, there is way". There is spelled "they're". I push my horn rim spectacles up the bridge of my nose, suddenly realizing I aspire to be Percy Wesley. The glasses I am wearing are totally fake and don't even have lenses. I look in front of me at the woman again. Her fingers move across the piano keys like spiders, her hair blows in the wind that is not there because we are inside. I can't stop thinking about two things. The first thing is that there is something important in the briefcase I am suddenly holding, and the other is the woman's ***** stamp. Deciding that my brief case in more important, I open it up. It is filled with countless sheets on music that I have written for piano. I wonder what they sound like because I have never played piano before. I reach out to tap the woman on the shoulder, and with baited breath due to nerves, I tap her. The music stops. The piano store suddenly smells increasingly like coffee. The old spider like woman begins to turn around until she is looking at my fully in the face. I finally see that she is not a woman but a man. She is actually me when I am 99, the year when my psychic told me I would pass on. I place the piano music before of my future self, feeling very nervous. He smiles at me like he knows my whole future. As the room begins to smell more and more like coffee, he begins to play the music sheet I wrote. It sounds like everything I have ever imagined. As I begin to float upwards, I ask,
"what does the ***** stamp even mean?" "I reply to myself, " stay in integrity." I am no longer a boy. I am looking deeply into my coffee cup, trying to figure out what to write, as I listen to the piano playing through the speakers above me.
Owen J Henahan Aug 2018
On an Ohio vacation, we got the call.
Dressed in a navy t-shirt, and stiff boating shorts
(plucked fresh off a J. Crew shelf just earlier that morning –
        I wanted a darker grey)
My mother and I parked by the open grave.

The visitation was packed with strangers.
Stuffy, suffocating almost – I tugged at the new shorts,
coarse, rough-feeling, no time to break in yet –
        fibers still unset –
My back hugs peeling wallpaper.

My mother's tears stain my shirt, the salt stiffening fresh fabric –
Baptism. Each tear carves fresh wrinkles, crossing her face like rivers,
slicing into her like canyons. Her hands are childlike upon my shirt,
grasping blindly for anything, her vision blurred, her breath short,
her heart broken.

I peer at the uncovered casket and look at the woman's face.
Thin halo of white hair, skin pale like alabaster –
She is stiff. Eyes fixed, blood cold. Her hands clasp tightly.
Her black cardigan holds her like a piece of glass,
stiff, hard, yet so fragile, threatening each second to crack,

and the sounds of its breaking my mother's muffled cries,
and my hand's rhythmless consoling pats upon her back.
This poem is inspired by the death of a very prominent woman in my mother's upbringing, who she in turn referred to as her second mother. I had never met her before, or if I had, I have no recollection of it.

I could feel my mother's profound sense of loss, flowing off of her like waves, washing over me. I felt an emptiness, a lack of emotion, and this combination of empathy and indifference struck an interesting chord indeed.
Samual Hidden Nov 2020
Oh stuffy how you are so soft
So perfect and held aloft
On your soft cushion of stuffing you sit
Even as i age and grow my first zit
Oh stuffy how you are so great
So perfect and the size of a plate
The perfect companion
Through the treacherous
Canyon of age.

Never let me enter the haze
For i shall be lost in a daze
Waiting for the phase
Of being old to slowly encroach.
Never let me enter that haze
And remind me of the days
Where books ended in rhymes
And we played in our minds
Never let me forget the time
When time simply forgot to tick
Stretching between naps and noms.
Reminding me of my first tooth
This is an ode to youth
= ) smile
Ruthie Jun 2014
I can only imagine your body on mine.
Our heat in that stuffy apartment.
You're perfect.
I'm an amateur.
You make it so easy..

My daydreams are getting out of control... Forgive me.
samuel ck Nov 2011
ol king crab kingo the highwaymen**

cumma walking down that hallways street
oll king crab king o the highwaymen
he got swagger boom swagger
he got boom bap pow
pow
pow
-
i seen im runnat comb through his hair
i seen it move back
i seen it glitter-glisten under em bright lights
onna ceeling
-
i seen im touchin
mercury aphrodite
i seen im touchin onna ladies
hera n persephone
he been touchin onna ladies
backadatruck
backadatruck
back seat
pull em uppa cliffside
pull em uppa cliff
bring em inna that backseat
5 minutes in heaven baby
you know it
-
ol king crab dont go to school
he appears
he come-and-go
touch-and-go
in-out
he just visiting
dont need no work
dont need to work
get nuffa that at home
-
ol king crab drop out
not too much trouble
he never drop in

get a job drivin a truck
aint no better way to live
then watching those glitter-glisten lights
on that highway
run that comb through your hair
do it one more time,
do it for us king crab

yeah, just like that
-
down that road he go
b back l8r
b back
b back
down down down
hot stuffy old car
dice onna mirror
just like a movie

luck pair of dice
such a lucky paradise
inna truck

down that road

fulla nuthin

fulla nuthin

fulla NOTHING.
-
Ol' King Crab he *****
he chew
he *****
that how to live
that how to live?
yeah, son.
in back o tha gas station he *****
back inna gas station he chew
tobacco gum tobacco

he take em ladies by the hand
them ladies aint outta worry
king crab outta worry
watch whose hand you take.
-
Listen.
Don't let him take you by the hand.
Don't let him TAKE YOU.
DON'T LET HIM TAKE YOU BY THE HAND
-
ol king crab gettin
****** inna back of the gas
station
pullin outta driveways
and outta women

watch whose hand you take on that open road
you lose yo head
Scott T Sep 2013
I saw the germ seed of civilisation
In the metro today
Between Châtelet and St. Michel
It was stuffy
And the ones already in
Made it hard for others to get in
We formed a barricade
Made it look more stuffy
Than it was
Then tutted
Or rolled eyes when others tried to get in
There was a brotherhood
Even though all we had shared
Was the journey
Between Châtelet and St. Michel
Quiet Apr 2014
today i was hidden behind change
behind little things like
nail polish and a hair cut
(everyone says the hair cut is a big thing)
but tomorrow what can i hide behind
besides lies and a china doll grin
and sunglasses to hide when my eyes
get watery from feeling too much
and i can hide behind my bangs and my hands
but i am still there
and i can still be found
i can hide in the ceiling because someone in it cares
for me
but i am hidden behind a wall of demons
of sins who keep people out
of my heart and soul
and mind
oh my mind
if anyone found the true thoughts in my
mind
they would send me away
again
and i would no longer be hidden
i would be in white
not in the darkness i call home
and all the time people would stare at me
and poke and **** and pull and push
like that man who hides himself
in a stuffy room
in nightmare ville
that place that smelt like the ocean when it rains
and blood and sweat and insecurity
and sounded like sniffles and muffled shouts
and screams but only i heard those
and it tasted like sadness and fear and electricity
and it felt like a blanket a wet blanket
that suffocated me
they'll poke and **** and push and pull me like
the man who hides there did
if i come out of hiding
so i wont.
i will stay hidden
i am hidden
except for now. now i am showing, but now i am leaving.

r.c.
Genevieve Apr 2014
Bright light in my eyes,

The suns heat
burning
through my skin.

It’s getting harder to breathe;

Stuffy air,

Filled with dust,

Loud music,

Screaming in my ears.

I can’t keep my eyes open

For long enough.

Hiding under blankets;

And coats,

I’m not sure where this is going,

But I know
I’m far away from home.
Ottar Aug 2013
We are fluffy
      not stuffy,
we are bright,
       not dull,
we can be
      the lull,
before the storm.

More on that later, after the news.

Reflecting white light and we become bright,
pile us on one another a collective of light,
and airy, we don't take our selves serious,
we are much lower to the ground than cirrus.

Please don't let what I have to say cloud your judgement in anyway!

We are piling up to be the top of the heap
want recognition for the sunny day, around noon
living it large looking the part too,
we are the flat bottomed cotton *****.

We are the fairest of the fair, but beware as the day advances,
we may get bigger, darker taller and you take your chances,
to be about and about, there may be a change in the atmosphere,
how is that anxiety about thunder and lightening dear?

From cotton to solid rock tall,
from mole hill to mountain,
thirty thousand feet is all,
hope you don't mind if we take turns
blowing through, easy to find us
no fuss, look for the Jekyll and Hyde
you know the Cumulus Stuff.
arin Aug 2018
I am sick.

My nose is stuffy
My throat is sore
Headaches & fever
Loss of hearing in my right ear

But there's more than that.

My stomach begs for food when I do not feel hungry.
I shiver and curl in on myself and say that it's alright.
Lies spill from my mouth like a waterfall.
This body is home to more darkness than this world has ever seen.
I am unsure how to ask my doctor why this is happening.
When asked before why my dress size went from an 18 to a 14 so quickly, I could not give an answer.

This is my last year of high school and I know what is safe to have.
How much orange juice to have without going over 100.
Where I can sit without my friends finding me.
Who to give my food to that won't ask questions.
Classes to miss because sometimes, it's too much.
I know who keeps an extra jacket all year round.
Which bathrooms are okay for shoving my fingers down my throat.

But I still don't know how to type a report on this illness and explain why I did not have any sources cited.
How to tell a teacher that the quotes are from me and other people that I had gotten tips from.
A group chat full of screaming teenagers who are all just dying to be thinner, to go down just one-two-seven more sizes.
Instagram accounts full of inspirational pictures and advice for the caption, occasionally posting a check of themselves.
Websites that have been deleted by now that I had spent hours looking at and writing rules from.

How am I supposed to tell a teacher that....
My report was so well written because I was my main source of information?
I can't look at foods and drinks without seeing numbers?
I can't look in a mirror without wanting to cry?
I view food as poison to my body?
I sleep in class so often because my body is lacking the nutrients it needs to keep going?
I have been like those screaming teenagers for years and as much as I say that I'm better, I will always be like them?

How do I explain to my teacher I'm slowly killing myself and I can't stop it?

At least my report was turned in on time. That's all that matters to them.
I had to study eating disorders and mental health issues for school and it didn't go so well and I ended up writing this...
ATC Apr 2015
Sitting in a stuffy blue room with my counselor,
she speaks quiet words
to guide me to be gentle with myself
explaining that my feelings are heavy things,
I hear my fathers voice float through the air
from the time I was a child,
speaking for me to stay softhearted
as I tried to hide my tears with my baby blanket.
I suppose I am still learning.
st64 Aug 2013
sweet-dreamin'
a whole life
the world's a stuffy place
keepin'
lv...away




Down the street you can hear her scream, you're a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?

Against the door, he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green

And so castles made of sand fall in the sea, eventually

A little Indian brave who before he was ten,
Played war games in the woods with his Indian friends
And he built up a dream that when he grew up
He would be a fearless warrior Indian Chief
Many moons past and more the dream grew strong until
Tomorrow he would sing his first war song and fight his first battle
But something went wrong, surprise attack killed him in his sleep that night

And so castles made of sand melt into the sea, eventually

There was a young girl, whose heart was a frown
cause she was crippled for life,
And she couldn't speak a sound
And she wished and prayed she could stop living,
So she decided to die
She drew her wheelchair to the edge of the shore
And to her legs she smiled, you won't hurt me no more
But then a sight she'd never seen made, her jump and say
Look, a golden winged ship is passing my way

And it really didn't have to stop, it just kept on going...

And so castles made of sand slips into the sea, eventually*





st64, 24 augussy 2013 ... a mild ole (still-time ...) saturn-day
smasher-lyrics...cool song!

James Marshall "Jimi" Hendrix (born Johnny Allen Hendrix; November 27, 1942 – September 18, 1970) was an American musician, singer and songwriter. Despite a limited mainstream exposure of four years, he is widely considered one of the most influential electric guitarists in the history of popular music and one of the most celebrated musicians of the 20th century.
In 1961, Hendrix enlisted in the US Army; he was granted an honourable discharge the following year. In 1963, he moved to Clarksville, Tennessee, where he played numerous gigs on the chitlin' circuit.

In 1967, Hendrix earned three UK top ten hits with the Jimi Hendrix Experience: "Hey Joe", "Purple Haze", and "The Wind Cries Mary". Later that year, he achieved fame in the US after his performance at the Monterey Pop Festival. The world's highest paid performer, he headlined the Woodstock Festival in 1969 and the Isle of Wight Festival in 1970 before dying from barbiturate-related asphyxia at the age of 27.
Inspired musically by American rock and roll and electric blues, Hendrix favoured overdriven amplifiers with high volume and gain, and was instrumental in developing the previously undesirable technique of guitar amplifier feedback. He helped to popularize the use of a wah-wah pedal in mainstream rock, and pioneered experimentation with stereophonic phasing effects in music recordings.



sumtime-entry: gonna come cryin'

playin' you my mean ole axe
gonna be whippin' up a crackin' storm
come on, you sweet thang
hand 'em smiles to me
hackin' them steamin' strings with me teeth
and rakin' these nails 'cross your back...ooh

you gonna come cryin' to me, sweetheart o' mine
and layin' your body over me
my flickin' fingers gonna find you
yeh..mind your hidin' away

(hey, fry me up some brinjals...while I make some coffee)

oh, I gonna be wipin' them tears away
and you're gonna come flyin' my way
don't cry none
don't you fret none
world, she is crazy

we gonna go ridin' em purfling-waves, too
'cos I'm-a madly in love with you!






Jimi Hendrix - Once I Had A Woman
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LVUlzNXxljg&list;=RD02W3JsuWz4xWc
Jimmy King Sep 2015
I felt biking up hill today fairly alive
And then I sit in stuffy dormrooms or walk through hallways
I crouch at desks to copy and paste old thoughts
I jog from toilet to shower to make it to class on time
And still I am three minutes late, like I
Wrote in my little notebook that “I have to stop
Letting my desire for something supersede my feelings for the individual people in my life”
But even as I wrote it
Pissingdrunk against the side of my friend’s pink house
I didn’t know what I meant, scribing only
So that I could figure it out later:
What the hell I meant by ‘desire’
What the hell I meant by ‘something.’

I felt biking up hill today fairly alive
And then I’m called upon to have opinions,
To finish my homework
To take out the trash
Or
To define ‘desire’
To define ‘something’
And then to flip the supersedence around,
Yes I am called upon by myself and myself only
So I’m not gonna finish my ******* homework today.
I’m gonna let the trash continue to rot.
I’m gonna define ‘desire’ as a product of rational society
And I’m going to define ‘something’ as the oppressor class
And I will fly past these nets
Like a proud and bold Icarus to
Sit on my bike

Remaining and lingering
As I move through temporal space.

And then I will love.
I will be loved.
I will be subject.
I will be humanized.
From an axiological point of view,
Anyway.

— The End —