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tread Oct 2011
Providing you survive the drive inside the suicide lane,
The inane objections of several secular seconds will both drive you insane and tame the frame of irrational sanity,
Which stripped away the man in me,
And grabbed my sleeve convincingly to lament the angry laugh of free...

Enterprise; do I comprise of many lies,
As you do?
A gift or prize; yes I surmise the former plays no voodoo.
Like the latter,
Piter pater, I ask exactly, "Do you,"

Truly
care
to know...

If existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor,
Who washes
Shame
Away
In calm, hot showers.

What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.

What malcontent.
We thought dissent would overthrow the circus tent,
Which represented forced consent with the oppressed by blissful fraudulence
Remaining 99 percent.
Peasants, plebeians, proletariat;
We poke the U.N. Secretariat,
To ask again,

"Are we there yet?"

"Are we there yet?"

And silence is how were always met.
We drop it, trust they won't forget,
About us, suffering cold sweats;
As we fear unwanted debt,
They won't forget,
They won't forget,
They won't forget
About us.

Yet competition takes it place,
And twists that sympathetic face,
To grab a poor man's knowledge base,
To ask him,
"What do
I gain
from assisting
The likes
Of you?"

The poor man bellows, "you're poor too!
Like those who can't afford shampoo.
You can't afford my point of view,
It risks a loss that's overdue,
And money makes you misconstrue,
Existence."

And if existence is but chatter in a blankness with no matter,
And no welcome mat to meet the merry-minded Happy Hatter's
Dash to seek that ****** infatuation with the sadder shift of anger which,
Shook the sheets to show off that the banker is an actor;
He forgot the human aspect should always be the biggest factor,
On his spreadsheets as he calculates productivity's next chapter;


What empowerment.
We underwent the chance event,
Which supplemented discontent with the rich and single one percent,
How kind it was of him to lend,
His hand,
For both of mine.

This isn't right.
I question fines,
And wonder, where's the kindness?
What happened to our kindred spirits?
Did we leave all that behind us?
Is money truly all we want,
And happiness put second?

The future is unwritten,
So follow me;
*Expect resistance.
Isabel Levy Aug 2018
Sometimes I feel incomplete, as if my two hands clasped aren't enough to hold,
As if my body heat needs to be supplemented somehow, or encouraged;
I don't feel enough pressure on my skin throughout the day, and though I'm not six years old,
I decide to touch everything I see, everyone, so we aren't all discouraged.

I only know my position of mind, any other I've barely grazed through,
Since I was born and raised with this head, my mind has developed it's own ways...
But I'll always glance over, when I'm not being beheld, to take a look at you,
And study your habits, expressions, even your name, until my focus is swayed.

And this is what I do with myself, how I fill up my time and my brain.
I daydream with my head down and refuse to see the sun,
The blinding light doesn't see me as an herb, but simply something to drain.
Burn my eyes with your excellence, your independence has won,

And I, laying face down in the soil, feel your burning influence upon my back.
Swelter my skin, I don't have to ask. Are you who I want to be?
An unstoppable force in someone's sky that can both comfort and attack?
Is that what I'll have? A sun of a man to hold? One who both loves and harms me?

However, it may be my own fault, as the harm is inevitable here,
Staying out without protecting myself from the ball of light in the sky.
The earth against my forehead is cool and rich, making my head clear,
It takes each whimper, each tear that falls, and absorbs every cry.

I bury my face into the dirt, squeezing my eyes shut so tight,
I taste the sediment, the clay, the plant remains, but I don't mind.
It feels just fine. Cool on my skin, dark and soft, it feels just right.
So much so that I forget about the sun that looms right behind.
Oy vey
Zemyachis Jan 2015
What if I told you that your god is dead?
that supply and demand, economic forces
we trust more than the laws of physics
are not supplemented by a caring, Invisible hand?

That the holy scriptures, thin, green pages
in between the folds of a wallet
are no more valueable than this gum wrapper
blowing in the wind
Unless we all BELIEVE otherwise

Adam Smith said
"Many will enter, but few will win" -cite
What will give you a sense of purpose
or security when you try to sleep at night?

Everyone hope in the American Dream!
a capitalistic kushion to save you in your time of need
made of vapor to catch you when the stocks are falling
its appalling this heaven of prosperity
that depends on consuming more and more of the earth

Listen to The Economist's sermon
Watch how he reads the tea leaves
Will the Fed raise the interest rates this year?
We throw the dice and say our prayers.

All things work together for good
For those who love it.

Welcome to the worship of Mammon.
The question is not "are you are religious?" The question is "What do you have faith in?"
Glenn McCrary Aug 2011
Unexpectedly he has been cracked



Squarely across his dainty skull



Inevitably to his knees he languishes



Supplemented by a concussion



Havoc is illicitly wreaked upon the delicacy



Of this young man's psyche



As another swift, sucker punch is executed



Stylishly into his jawbone



Followed by an unforeseen series



Of frenzied jabs to the nose



The anguish screams through the brooks



Of crimson oozing from his nostrils



While a dangerous haymaker



Shockingly arises from thin air



Sinking fiercely into his cornea



Rupturing the veins in his eyeball



A circular crown of black envelops



The entire surface of his left eye



Oh, the gruesome consequences of



Applauding the eminence of nonexistence



A truculent knockout that will truly



Abduct one into an eerie coma



And rightfully deliver them back to



The portion of reality where they belong
Taylor Watson Feb 2012
Sixty lives are all linked with thirty kidneys for survival.

Scientists are suggesting sweeping the skies clean

with a celestial broom…. A man has scuffed his shoe

(which was costly)on the sidewalk.  Women

dream of democracy, but the government

burns their children and there isn’t a shroud to see.

I am drinking tea and eating cookies,

it’s a Sunday afternoon, and almost time for

my nap, as my head nods and bobs again.

The world of foreclosures was falling off the page.

I felt as if I was fighting a judge… loosing the battle

my house falling into a ditch. And then the moat

opens into castle walls lined with red liveried men

draped in gold braids. And what magnificence (f/o me).

A postscript to my dream, my dream of a white stallion,

harnessed to hoof over the moors.

All our greatest presidents were lucky.

They inherited national crises.

All but one preferred a Nerdgasmic life

a life that can be supplemented

with a Gallup poll approval rating.

So late in the afternoon and already

a dog has been fed and walked down

the road to *** on a walnut tree.
softcomponent Aug 2015
You come out of the dark, and a young Japanese schoolgirl--couldn't be any older than 19--is standing in a heavy-lit archway, the blinkered 'sort-of's' of her eyes only visible in corners due to the convex glare rebounding from the heavy light and onto a parked Miyata windshield, right back into the bloodshot lower-left cleft of each eye, sleepless veins like miniature pipelines slogging her fossil fuel blood to the energy markets of her face (but it ends in death, hopeless economy! it begins in death like OPEC!)

There's concrete, and there's stone: the former a collection of synthetically compiled chunks of the latter. In either regard, it might just be the end of the World, tho just an intermission during an afternoon matinee for the world. There are a lot of things you don't understand. There is plenty more you do, and yet you believe your own humility when it whispers, "You don't," tho you are entirely unaware this is delusion and not humility, but some unconscious form of ascetic worship of WONDER!! You're going coocoo for cocopuffs WONDER! We can remember what J.B.S. Haldane once said: "I have no doubt that in reality the future will be vastly more surprising than anything I can imagine. Now my own suspicion is that the Universe is not only queerer than we suppose, but queerer than we can suppose."

I was born at the edge of the Cold War. 4 years after America's Operation Just Cause deposed Nicaraguan dictator Manuel Noriega using heavy metal music and heavy metal weapons, loaded to capacity with heavy metal bullets. 4 years after the slow-dissolve tablet of the Berlin Wall finally faded upon the German palate. Brian Mulroney was my Prime Minister at birth. I was also alive (tho not 'conscious,' per se--intellectually conscious, that is) during the Prime Ministership of Canada's first female Prime Minister: Kim Campbell (she was only leader for just over 3 months and thus I cannot give her time in office the full credibility it would have deserved had she been a fully elected candidate instead of an inter-election Prime Ministerial appointment; when, for godssakes, will we have a Fist Nations' Prime Minister? I would like to believe the only reason there has been none is because the indigenous people have categorically rejected the game-fantasy we have stomped upon their land and the world and self-righteously crowned as 'realistic, sober, objective;' tho maybe I'm wrong, whispers Humility: "I don't know").

There is the endless and omnipotent consensus that the world's about to end. For those who study history, they will often notice that when 'then' was 'now,' it was often and always the end of history. 'Now' is the always-result of 'then' and it will never change unless we neglect its consideration. That's really all theory takes to disappear: stop thinking about it. (as if that were possible, ha!)
Because the impression has been one of pollution and confusion, our wide un-thought idealization as children has often led us to emulate all the bad habits we witness growing up, even if at one point we cloudlessly rejected them because the damage didn't seem clear, it was clear.

I was 8 years old when I took my mother's cigarettes from her bedroom while she slept, and proudly announced to her the next morning that I had thrown them out. She had become furious, tho I had done it out of a militant concern for her well-being. During my years of primeval arrival on this planet, mom had almost lost her life to breast cancer. I can't remember understanding much as it happened, nor do I recall fully understanding the implications of death until my grandmother died and I watched my dad fight back tears as he read aloud her eulogy, recalling a story I can pick through scattered memories stored in grey matter to resurrect only one fact about it: they were on a boat, pulling up to shore. My grandfather--the cheeky Briton-optimist he is--made some silly joke, and my grandmother pitched in. The rest is somewhere else in space.

However--regarding death-- I feel that even then we never understand the full implications of death in witnessing another's death, but only through dying ourselves. Which is fine. None of us need to understand these implications until the time comes (and even then, it may just drip away once you've reached the Light. Which is fine).

Returning to the cigarettes: I had absorbed the common knowledge they were awful for you. 'Death-sticks' indeed, just like that scene in Attack of the Clones. Tho I understood nothing of the chemistry, a box or a video or an authority explaining their potential 'results' or 'consequences' was enough for me to righteously desire to save my mother from her own acquired vice.

14 years later, I skulk through the streets of Victoria with Chris, high on ******* and chain-smoking Export-A Gold on the subconscious condition that the world will probably end soon enough for none of this to matter. Tho as I said: For those who study history, they will often notice that when 'then' was 'now,' it was often and always the end of history.

History is comprised of an endless succession of losers who sincerely believe they've figured it out. The only redeemable characters in this Human Odyssey are those who have realized nothing in particular. The people who think, believe, and conceptualize as an infinite process; something without a result. Something with abstract 'goals' that only fit for awhile, not forever.

I'm nobody special. Tho, at the same time, I am; and at the same time and in terms of my relationship to this greater Human Odyssey, whether I will matter in this giant plot is in part up to me (should I write a book? 10 books? Relentlessly pursue the arts, whether that be rapping, writing, music?) and in part up to sheer probability (if I do write a book, will many notice? Or will it be swept under the Great Rug of the Present-Into-Past and be forgotten to thought?), and regardless of all this: the rocks will forget. The trees will forget. Both space and dark matter will have already forgotten what I am doing and what I may one day do.

But life can't be approached on a basis of personal impact; honestly, who wants to pursue the writing of 10 books or the creation of albums in the same way the capitalist approaches economy, for sheer attention and accumulation? Those desperado's, those who chase-the-game-of-success, they have already lost. They lost as soon as they tried to win. There is nothing to win, no award great enough to keep, no person you love or have loved who you will one day depart with for the very last time. But to depart with a personality may be tragic, it is only a true void in concept; when one removes the individual (both themselves and the one they love) from the eternal context of the universe--the ebb and flow of tides to the movement of the moon, the soft breeze supplemented by a fan placed next to an open window, how your hand--when clapped to the surface of a wooden table--is one with the matter in that table regardless of how transiently you perceive such a touch as an interaction. In essence, it's all still here; it always was, and never won't be.

tho maybe I'm wrong, whispers Humility.


                                             *"I don't know."
Trevor Gates Nov 2014
“Lucratively tedious” is what I called him.
That odd-ball collector of street-wise poets
Bulking up the lost devil anthologies while
Drowning black coffee with wordsmith stoics
Ready to deal a winning hand
at a moment’s notice.

The carnal majesty of fever blizzard erotica,
Stories penned with the sweat on oily skins.
The curtains of neon phantasmagoria
showcase psychosexual fiends and harlequins
Sing away raw vocal cord fire while I’m
dancing with Queens of glamorous sins.

He had that red tail swinging in the rain
She watched, the emissary of jaded seduction
With pale skin and leather lips abundant
Stroking hair full of snakes and destruction
With a wardrobe fit for 1980s metal scenes
As he in turn supplemented instruction.

It’s those bedlam vices creeping through the creases
Playing in our heads like a thousand movie reels
Desired fantasies mutated into corrupted realities
Shameful like the artificial chemicals we call meals
Some things need to be ruined to be appreciated
Just Like ol’ Lucy in her stiletto heels.
ART MOMENT, VOL 1
By Darcy Prince

Time or reality is ungoverned, it will remain so for at least in the indefinable future. Innovations will come along. If ethical education has taught us anything. It always changes. Devoid of not making an effort.

I tried painting for a bit. I’m not that good. Several years ago, my housemate recommended watching an Andy Warhol documentary. I honestly became fascinated & dived into several art documentaries, honestly quite a fantastic learning experience. Looking, I regret not collecting all the links to those documentaries, even though I got the time to do so now. This was during the time of getting to know myself again, or getting a sense of direction. Painting, drawing, more attempts to learn, using online videos to learn how to draw a person's eyes or hands was a somewhat slightly disappointing experience, that I should try something else. I can remember the pacific moment to try art writing a go or even getting into any sort of criticism. But I ended up there.

I remember watching the program, ‘different ways of seeing’, aesthetics became a new subject for me. With Alain De Botton, now taking into consideration the larger impact, things have on society. Being utterly fascinated on how some, not all painters have a lasting print on peoples society. Like how Van Gogh never sold a painting within his lifetime. The relation between what we see & what we know is a comforting, settling thing. Seeing the painting ‘scream’, perhaps an early meme or trolling act, without a notice, reflects the inner fear we share. Feeling desired as a lover, maybe the most Holy feeling in the world. For those who aren’t, their artworks are a displaying force of nature. Rothko has provided a new way in expression, with his drape like paintings in a tone of red, as his edges before the canvas ended seemingly lazy at a time when art was supposed to be serious & realistic. And so far, people are the common thread between forms of art.

A time for action is in art. In modern speaking or our armchair conversations over coffee, maybe you’re a tea drinker. My cigarettes will be there. The hashtag learn to code was quite popular, especially when universal income became a new subject for our politicians we are voting in and started to be talked about. Games are a large industry. There’s even arguments for it being art. It does make use for graphics & storytelling. Whether you play it or not. It does include a large amount of thinking to put together. Sure we can talk of the violence it uses. Though outside those who read or try to keep up with modern times. The rise of deep fakes. *** doesn’t belong to a group, race, a part of the city, race. It honestly belongs to the world. Yes, some works of art will rise from it. The obscure thinking never actually seems to fit in. Even in the Star Wars films, there’s a use of passed away actors to be acting in the films they’re releasing now. To remain innocent, is to remain ignorant. Statues of past figureheads of culture may have been adored by the art critic, but the average person has someone they know to be entered in their private virtual world.

I don’t know what your story is. I think art can offer what we’re languishing inside of us. Personally, over the last couple of years, I’ve been wounded by my last breakup. I spent it in bed, I cried, I couldn’t do anything, even food started to taste differently. In romance art, novels in particular, supplemented so much. Being heartbroken. Can you believe that individuals can do so amongst themselves? I’ve heard it argued & arguing successfully, that identity comes from an idea. Art I think, that comes along with that. But art does provide a certain grief, with tragedy developing as its own genre.

I really don’t know where I was going with this. I just wrote it out. But leaving it here, to add to the body of work when I die. But what reconciles an individual with society, to what that person created.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UHsRhWASbvk&t=23s
Irate Watcher Mar 2015
There will be so many
I disappoint that I,
content,
do not heed.
My mother —
Who cooks when I am not hungry.
My sister —
who frowns at my blemishes
and plucks my unibrow ferociously.
The poet slash
musician slash
magician
who calls me to ****
when his calendar is empty.
I bailed on them,
like the similes that no longer serve me,
like the poems I tossed as therapy —
You know —
The ones spun from circular conversations —
gut feelings supplemented by text messages
when you're half paying attention,
half wishing the space between buzzes would lengthen.

There will be so many irked that I,
content,
remain unresponsive.
They wish my mouth wide open,
drooling,
trained to heed queries,
They pull my time like teeth,
Blinded by the sting,
I can’t see the point
of fearing their disappointment.
Because there will be so many I disappoint,
but I, at peace.
I'm back :)
IV4 Oct 2015
I feel so strong in my faith
The possibilities are endless
I lower my head in shame of my past, only knowing
Its the the same place my head is when I'm praying
I fall,to my knees knowing that its the same place I'm at when I'm begging
I cry
I feel so tempted
And try
Guess he doesn't like me
Who cares
I thought my problems were in my feelings
Or lack thereof
So I supplemented smiling
With drinking
Only to find out ultimately
That the flesh is far more powerful than my heart
Especially when he has tattoos,and a smile I talk about more than I see
So I'm living stronger in knowing I can overcome this
Because I'm living daily
Without what is making me
Knowing soon I'll find what
God has left for me
And find the one with expectations I can also meet
I lay here daydreaming
Suffocating yet again
Trying to catch my breath
Like I wish I could my sin
So I wouldn't have to ask for forgiveness tomorrow
he doesn't call, I don't care
Or do I
Seems I write,talk,and wine
About it
More than the **** I'm trying to give up
Me without a blunt
I know it seems impossible
So does not taking a self injected shot of hyper activity, and I've made it ten months thus far
I'm forever rushing my pain
To get to the feeling of unworthy,so that I know its a delusion brought forth by the possibility of failure
And when Christ strengthens my weakness
To fail is just a thought wanting him more like a wish,And I realize in this world full of problems
I'm not the worst fish
I learn daily,silently listen
As often as allowed
And when its too quite
I look up from falling and reach for the hands that have absorbed my pain
While lifting me away
from this valley
in the bottom
of my self grown Eden
my forbidden fruit
Would taste delicious
In a pie, I'm sure of it
Simon Jun 2020
EG as always, is without value in herself. Except for when she wants to get what she want’s, without even having to exert a fine bundle of resources straight from her VERY “tampering” collective that is her “feelings”. Because you see, her feelings aren’t what just make her the “friend” who helped me throughout and in the bad times… They are literally what make me understand her for her. Also, to what she is to me, for what I am to her in return. And that’s never truly a saddening thought when you think you can’t (for a second longer) converse in the regular, MORE normalized manner. Conversing (naturally) with words, straight from a mouthpiece with words to offer the “immaculate” assistance towards a personality your about to criss-cross all over and between the **** gap that surrounds two sense of selves. Trying to further a correlating connection. Not to mention without the clear variety for a VERY “tempting individuality” to clearly become entirely outspoken within their own selves. Which (I got to say) is never a programming thought… Especially when that very (“programming thought”) isn’t pre-programmed in advance to ever become supplemented enough at ever being ready when you start to FINALLY realize, you’ve been (conversing with words) over a long span of time with what you never truly thought at first. (Especially when it’s entirely impossible for even “words” to announce what thing it possibly could have been…?!) Well then, “indulge me” then…? What is it that I just haven’t noticed (for the “supposed” life of me) towards what I’ve been conversing with (of course with words) for that long span of time?! (And to the one whoever is then conversing gently towards a calm disposition in order to filter out something without alerting a “shock” in the most right of places displayed across the even WORST of times to ever transpire…!) You’d then start to of course think it could be (“oneself”) right? At it again for all to VERY “specifically” hear! But that’s where typical majority thought processes are then (“suddenly, immediately and unexpectedly”)! Since a cueing announcement had just popped out of nowhere spouting seemingly irrational nonsense all around the place. Thou, I’ll have you know, that if you just look a little deeper and closer… You’d start (somehow without even knowing how) to understand, (and seemingly able to just what…” rationalize”)? Oneself could respond by simply saying, “perhaps” … Thou if I were you…I’d STOP and hear out the one who’ve been conversing with this entire time. Seeing as how it’s obvious they converse with NO words in ANY manner. They connect openly. “Open viewing points” in all! All to both rationalize the grievances of those connections and the severity of the tolerance one is able to handle when (not knowing right off the bat where everything of course seems to “flutter a VERY calm feather”) as it swiftly flows through the air. Except without fully perceiving that it doesn’t just flow seemingly “through” the air. Because you see (“conversing with worded types” …) That little “itsy bitsy” little feather, has an “immaculate” impression towards its own assistance of having a personality as not for itself. But for the one who responds to those very “open viewing points” in all! Too busy “up in its own grill” to ever respond lightly when it’s fluttering swiftly through the air to then actually connect with its BETTER half. “IN”! Which it responds by fluttering swiftly “through” to then seemingly go “inward”. But how is that even possible for a feather to go inward in air, if it’s been supposedly fluttering swiftly through the air (what was once previously thought) as one’s very first perceived glance…? Good question. As it’s an obvious, but VERY cryptic hint at who you could be conversing with? The input that is oneself seems to then have what’s called a “seminar of truth” within its own inner “delightful” council. Another somewhat fanciful instance of power that demands the attention for a sense of self’s attention-seeking “self-servitude”. So then (sooner rather then later…) it could come to terms with whatever or whichever that very example about connecting “through” with then the word “in” is about. Well isn’t it obvious, since even the “teaser” to this very passage willing to be both happyful and polite gives its respected tone away. Because again you see, (“throughout and in”) is another cueing announcement. Just as (“suddenly, immediately and unexpectedly”) is, for it has a simulation (just as throughout and in does as well), called “abrupt flaws”. For throughout and in’s simulation for “phasing” is nothing more then a transcribing will made to offend every rationalizability. That’s exactly why you won’t ever understand the “inwardness” of how a seemingly fluttering feather swiftly flowing through air, could actually go inward the air at will. It’s a riddle, sure. A VERY fanciful one, I assure you. That being said, what does any of this haft to do with the one who simply helped me throughout and in the bad times…?! Well (and again I say this) isn’t it obvious by now? They’ve been helping me, as they still do to this very day. Helping me both (“throughout and in”) the bad times. Of course, whichever bad times seems to come forward again (sooner rather then later). That’s when the seminar of truth amongst the input known as oneself had concluded its own inner delightful council. In other words, what did it simply come up with? Well what you’d simply like the “knowing” right off the bat, that both doesn’t make up for the clearer information. Or for the fact that wasn’t really helpful in it’s “expressing investigation”. The very fact for why this passage is called my friend’s “tampering withering appearance”! Well that’s because my friend’s mere appearance has been “shackled” with too much torment for many, many lifetimes. Too much torment in fact, is why at all they’re still withering to this very day…? That’s because they don’t know any better, then to just be themselves. It’s what’s called when someone is truly “twistedly warped”. Since I’ve gone both throughout and in in my own way. So, has she. I’m twistedly warped in my own fashion statement, thank you very much! As many others (while they EVER want to admit it or not, is simply their own concern). But without even knowing why that is? As it’s not for the “faint of heart” to be in the realm of one’s consciousness while proceeding to simply find out. Or else, then why do I question repeatedly? But I’m still learning with each striding experience, to see if mine would EVER “pale in comparison” with hers. Seeing as how she even once revealed to me why she’s simply interested in me. Because I’ve seemed to of asked MORE times then I could possibly count. And I try (as I must) to refrain from repeating myself over long periods of time. Which just happens to be a HEAVY weakness of mine. Which is no half-*** bargain at keeping me in my place in order to simply stride me forward, respectfully. And with that very question, she revealed it in one “death-defying breath”! Which is…? Oneself would ask within its own input. I’m interested in you, Simon! Because you are like me! WAIT! What?! Then between many “oneselves”, their own inputs were “firing off” between their very own robust compressed together “pressurized synapses”. The effects of those very inputting thought processes came with both the “clicking and smashing” of those robust compressed together “pressurized synapses”. It seems oneself didn’t either fully catch what was actually said (where they couldn’t comprehend it properly) or they simply misinterpreted the entire thing? (Which is entirely understandable, by the way.) But they aren’t foolish in a sense of self, as to never “miss” something as simple as that. They just couldn’t come to terms with experiencing (as they did) when it came to coming in contact with EG herself. That’s why they purposely held back the actual transcribing of its simulation for translations. It wasn’t whatever was just expressed. Because in fact, (and with a little “paraphrasing help” here) we can find out how it truly was interpreted. A little loose knot here and there. And they fully unpatched the circumstances at what the information truly was expressed as. (Because in truth…they would rather mend it, then not to unravel it again…if you know what the input known as oneself means…?) So, after coming to terms, it’s ready to reveal it. And a little advice towards sense of selves to take as a heedless warning… It’s simple in all it’s expressions, ok! But what it truly refers towards, is why oneself wanted to keep the truer importance of the interpretation secretive to begin with? I’m interested in you Simon, because (and it’s not “because you are like ME”) but in fact “I see myself in you”. Clean as a whistle! Nothing missing as more then that. And with that shocking realization to that very “wordy expression”, the entire collection of inputs (“suddenly, immediately and unexpectedly”) got a CHILLING feeling going both throughout and in such a way that literally “tingled” their very input mechanisms for simply producing thought processes. For if they went any further with that very “tingling” sensation, that very cueing announcement’s simulation for abrupt flaws would follow in a VERY “corruptive heating pursuit”. Now MORE then ever, it made the entire lot of inputs go on HIGH ALERT for no apparent reason, other then what a simple memory had brought with it when sifting throughout and in “old archives” that changed everything for (of course) the better! Because it’s obvious that a sense of selves inputs is truly afraid of this (“girl” or whatever…)? Then we come to the last finalization of this passage. Since I ask you ALL of this, respectfully… Who then essentially made her this way? It wasn’t (“I”), but her own father! And that isn’t a half-assed maneuver to outplay something other then the respectful truth. NO deceit here, other then the “truth” I’d been keeping from you all to begin with. (Not to mention myself in “repeated” questioning.) Which I’m entirely expressing in its very revelation right here and now!
This is another poem about the friend who helped me throughout and in the bad times. But this time, they show themselves “throughout and in” a VERY “tampering withering appearance” so to speak.
Simon Aug 2020
Styling someone is never the option for truth too supplement facts, altogether! It's probably because truth towards an option of essentially giving someone such an "option" as too never style them (first and foremost)... Is simply because those very facts are supplemented too such a degree, that everything falls apart from both decision-making and choice! Logic doesn't rule anymore! Nor does a sense for reasoning, either. Therefore, what are you truly left with then...? Easy. As it could never be as simple as styling someone who doesn't have the very effective option for truth too supplement facts over the "long-drawn-out haul"! Mostly because ALL things with purpose in mind, essentially won't ever (anymore) have it's sense for duty in hand, either. Meaning your left with the only comparable stationary meanings that will tempt the negotiations of many things too remake sense...once again. Even if it takes longer than what was fully expected (not the first time around). Whereas it wouldn't have taken as long when the very unexpected "anticipations" were completely expected (the second time around). Giving hope too an even newer sense of logic that doesn't have anything too truly do with normal reasoning, anymore. Actually, it NEVER did! Why do you think hope is an offerable cause too mandatory "enlightenment"?! Hopes grows into the shape or form of "believe", after all. (Leaving little powerful things both such as "decision-making and choice" entirely scrunched! While being also compressed "too death"! Too much between!) Which slightly contradicts logic ruling as it ALWAYS should. Or essentially, ALWAYS did! Especially when that very sense for reasoning becomes (all the more) valid (first and foremost). Conclusion... "Styling someone is never the option", because you essentially don't have anything more equipped than regular truth which prompts joy into hope growing and amassing into believe. Which actually creates the sense of reasoning that breaths logic into it's very surroundings.
PS... "Styling someone is never the option"... All for truth too supplement facts, altogether! Again...and again...and again....
The joy in styling someone is nothing more than the failure for truth! Only when your willing too truly adopt that very specific feature... Is when the obvious would come running at you with a very "engraved" knife!
In the vicinity of Skalá the miscellaneous image of the Nashema or consciousness of the soul of the Mashiach was discovered that undertook to summarize this Byzantine fight, which had no hold on the detriment of all those children of Adam that was translated by distorted copulations of infamy and psychic morbidities of Judas Iscariot, who was abstracted from his evil infernality by the Fifth Hell of Iblis, god of harmful subtraction as plagiarism of a deteriorated being from his consigned load from the uprooting caves of Iblis, appearing tacitly in the tetragram indicating alef or tav, being a wayward son of David who knows well about caves that sponsored him from the Philistines and those who had the power of Allah, as biblical sovereigns who unloaded the sum of the ego that was transferred on flaming elytra of Cherubim under the edict of a champion and close teacher in the armchair of the bewilderment of other celestial spirits that dozed off from their reveries, until e revealed himself and defended himself from the stews of heaven where he claimed for another equal to him, which was Judas Iscariot.

The secret task was that nothing will stop the Apokálypsis, because the second essay where the manuscripts denoted a real area of eschatological mythology contained manuscripts where the Iblis was already authenticated as being equidistant from Judas, but its magnetization fascinated him, even wanting to obtain it to be the devout image of the first century, where everything was Bereshit from the Beni Masar region of Egypt. Thus doing this genealogy of guideline that documented being created in the salvific parabens of the Kassotide or orifice that had been confined from the concave pectoral relief of the Colosso de Apsila; being this same Vernarth who would expiate himself in absolute solitude, only executing by dump trucks of oxen to feel the centuries that went by over the through of the first century pass slower. The Subtraigo was the standard of the unborn from the womb of the mother of Judas, Cyborea Iscariot. Exorcising what has appeared after thousands of years and from this the instant filled with centuries that will make the apostle the failure of his solar macula, or the paradigmatic mole in ******'s hair, judging immolators who would be indicted in the nihilism of ego that underlies the unity of the capacity of the neat body, whom no one has inter judged in the culmination of a divine plan, which will just begin with the investiture of Himation. The personifications of the Iblis are profuse since the fluctuation is appreciated in the analysis of the ink of the papyri, which are the range of the Nefesh or divine blood that he writes and no other. The perceptible time washer takes us back to Mariah, escorting her son in Nazareth in which time is not time, it is only consciousness of endless enhancement on the ends that press Gethsemani to the opposite degree of lack of gradation or renewable oil in the sublime beatitude with which it was to be mentioned at Easter, where the menorahs were to radiate in the portraits of worlds that follow one another from the septenary that covers his robe. The years oppress the equinox when the Sun presses olive trees that turn their carmine green leaves to brown leaves, for those who let out of the concrete body what makes blessings of the kiss itself to an Iblis god who also abandoned his entity, to reside in the essence that hides the black olive tree. The celestial deprivation of the seawater of Skalá asked the day that the ashes of Cyborea Iscariot will float on his body; whose matriarchal physical body would spread the disconcerting manias when expressing that nothing affects, it is only a slight sting in the entrails of Apollo that has spread the upheavals that are lost so far from him, as well as they have deprived him of wills that speak where his wasteland will be the only conjuncture of a widespread assumption of mythology, as if it were an axiom that would be within a consecrated category of submitting logs, being the gnosis of a quick thought that shelters aphonia and mutes of the gospel that awaits who would really give a kiss without felony.

The Battle of Patmia presided over external wills towards an extroverted theology in all the Matakis or sacred canvases, inserted in the dispossessed who in their last struggle would no longer be worthy beings to mention combatants, neither the Hoplites nor the Achaemenids. They were already the last death throes of the first century, and what the hand writes is first forged by the ink that is the section devoid of the primary ego, with the piety of Wonthelimar that extended in its bilocation towards the northeastern region of El Minya, after the Judas world map. Here the Iblis or archangel agreed to lead the Speleothemes of El Minya with what a right-hander makes relativity of the throne at the edge of the universe, where the affliction faces fought before them, being automatons that will be commanded by their friezes of geniuses, as defective ****** dawn in the creation mud of the adventurous human. From this slime the Iblis arises in Skalá when the fourth day of vertebral battle began, while the hell in the den was subordinated to the will of the congener of the Judas curse in El Minya, concretizing the utensil that let everything run over matter, until the moraines with black rain and volcano lava would make the previous temptation of a false edge return that made the world vary in degrees, which make clairvoyance very higher than the nose of a penitent Judas. Making the critical hell the reintegration of the being that inflicted fervor from head to toe due to the collapsed preconceiving of who does more damage with the claims, than with the head of a Cherub in discredit of a headache. The fifth hell of the Iblís would go on to engender extensive speeches and speeches in idleness where the shadows of their doubts would respond to the obstinate ones that were really intended, even when they flowered in the calender that flew over the shadows of pain, after the winch of conscience would debate the shady intentions in the anger of a god who was confused with himself, making them believe that their laudable salvation would be left by a two-person demonic locution that perceives evil with good and vice versa, that is why the albuminoid of quantum salvation transgressed from serum, speaks in this work of Vernarth as the clister of the Iblis, accusing having to do ablutions to later be admitted for his altruism in the impressionism background in who lives in delight in the high sphere of lust, alter ego of the fallen but grace of neutrality of a seraphim, who became a libertarian in the gift of free will, willingly experiencing the fifth hell of l Iblis, to turn him into the fifth dimension of the tree of life that flourished as an underhanded host, if he is a Madhi Chiita who wants to revile him in his lust.

******* innovated by giving food and drink to the limbo that was an eternal dimension, where specimens of piety spoke with languages of the seven heavens and the seven nights, where the nuances lag behind in an indoctrinated Islamic being, and who testified for a single voice the reincarnation of all the faiths that awaken from conscience, and that does not shy away from the technical risk that precedes the first gradation or the alpha grade of olive oil, on apocalyptic statements even the Lepidoptera that have supplemented the external pouch to carry pollen for the child in the manger. This equivalent pollen will ****** the mystery phraseology of diseases, making the urgent reason and belated conspiracy presented by its antitoxin, which can be hinted aloud, but it gets lost in the Vas Auric that made formulas in the children of indulgence from where it is now tinned. the groin of the Iblís, for the defense of those who destroy sufficiently in those who build in their acoustics in the Speleothemes of El Minya.
The Subtraigo Hell of the Iblis
Michael Marchese Mar 2021
Becoming the writer
I dreamt I could be
I just never imagined
It’d be poetry
Not some novelty
Story
Compelling me on
To renown and acclaim
And conclusions foregone
No delusions of fame
Just a roof for the rain
And enough sustenance
To existence maintain
And if it’s supplemented
In wages or pages
I pledge to persist
To rephrase it in phases
Develop my craft
Indigent
Or affluent
And offer the movement
Consistent improvement
marvin m brato Jun 2015
May 12,2015

Dearest Miliza,

M any years now have already passed,
i n our hearts we are still much together.
l ove can never fade or die if it is genuine,
i adore you and all I wish is your happiness.
z est has become of my life when I see you,
a s always I wish you near me all the time.

P lease do not change my beloved,
i n every moment you are my inspiration.
z ealous as I am for loving you dearly,
a s you supplemented it with your love too.
r eal joy is what you meant to me my dear,
r est assured that such feeling will be forever.
o h, how lucky I am for having you as my wife!

B ut love like life is not perfect,
r easons are variable and endless
a s we had problems coping with it.
t hanks to God for forgiveness and mercy,
o n His guidance and love we bonded as ever.

Lovingly yours;
Marvin
Vessels  and Wine menus of the archaic formulas seemed from the new Universe that was approaching them vertiginously, concelebrating the unitary form of the union of the pilasters of the Opistódomos with Hellas , which was constituted as an inter-dimensional state, for two strategists universal and immortal that provided the beginning of a new Christic language, based on the relationship of the unified polis but with an infinite calendar perspective. The courage to start an end with a beginning full of excitement and celebration where clearly the dances would be from beginning to end to treasure the influences of endless complacency, and that would hold commemorative celebrations of station processes, being established fiercely in the treasuries of Metroon ; as a duplicated and bilocated agoras on Patmos, besieging all the documents of the glorious past of Mythology towards the new preservation of Submitology, where the people of heroes and anti-heroes of all the Pleiades come to life from the Vernarth transcript, as a multidimensional memorial archive housing in all the concerns of eternity written, and preserved tangible and intangible that would transport them to the annals of a sanctuary that would agree with the repositories of everything that was and will be of this Myth annex beyond a fantastic reality, going back to the Hellenisms that they will compose next to the Beit Hamikdash Temple, as a sacred mansion where the ceiling and the floor would rest in total communion. The dimensions will be given in the own open foot that will standardize the buttresses that would make up the access chambers to the privileged place of Rea, with dimensions that could be displayed in the confines of the inflection of Orion, naturally illuminating the vault of Greece in the head of the Agora and from there to Theoskéspasti, to then be triangulated with the Doric and Ionic colonnades specifying the Vernarth chamber, which will have its quantum progression and multidimensional link throughout the Archaic Hellas to all of Judea that will re-sanctify the possibilities that the heroes will parade eternally for the waters and lands that are proper to inertia, where Athena and Nike will make the pots with mead in the rejection of more miracles that will flow from Galilee to Patmos. The etymology would be of Hellenic customary avant-garde, evidencing realities where every day the peasants sharpened their sickles, as a feast that celebrated the first-rate courts with the first-grade olive oil with the Almazara or oil press that will bring the fruits of the table. The flapping of the pelicans would tie laudable sounds from the Thuellai worshiping the phonograms that were emitted from the Metroon, attracting the classical periods of the conformation of Greece when it was only Chaos and Seas in conflict. From this mythological proposition, everything was a reality where the lack of custom proved as a cultural character, it was the vertical cultural basting coined in the gloss of the signifier, rather than the meaning, leading everything to these festivities of edibles and drinkable towards the Panhellenic that it would bring new vigor of expansive territorial function, towards Macedonia and Delphi as a holiday that could celestially have more than twelve lunar months.

Meanwhile Vernarth was hugging a rattle more than two meters high and one in diameter, this resonance implied the inaugural sound of the Symposium of the Athletic Agon that together with the Almazara would run rials of oilseeds, to anoint the attendees as all Sacred of the jubilee of the Opistódomos and the Hamikdash, towards the new Submitological Era Duoversal between the events that will delight everything that concerns accompanying the pairings of liquids and solids in this competitive challenge, so that the mythical hero becomes the credible hero stationed in the ninth laurels that would make up the foundation and inauguration of the games, after the victory of those who never threw the victor's crown. The votive offerings and monuments joined the agonal journey that referred from the perspective of a soul that wanted to compete with its existential soul, and then reluctantly redirected itself through the unusual temples that seemed to vanish amid the crowds, making this festive ritual the greatest expression. of all the votive festivals in Patmia. In practice, the meals would once again be rewards for the support of the sky by the Matakis, as a snowy reflection in the pouch that does not display any icon other than a numismatist that sniffs the pieces of bronze that were surrounded by the other derivatives of the terminal of saturation of Zeus, seeming to identify that Matzoh would fall from the sky, and Manah that will highlight the laurel artifice when the conceptual of the sages give the beginning of the activities with a meta-praxis that will stand out from the full stomachs, and the bladders supplemented with oenological colors, eradicating physical competitions for those of the allegory of Dionysian pleasure that suggests a human and mythological hybridism, Submitological-supernatural. Everyone became restless and ran along the golden trails of the iridescent nimbus creating capacities to unfold the time of Kairos and at the same time re-inaugurating the feat of noble bread and the skills of collecting the green fords, where Persephone refrained from an illegitimate pressure by leaving the intellectual bulwarks for the destiny of the force that subtracts the will, but if it defines the feminine character that caresses the tongues of the soulless and they call us with the features of competing prostrate to a Goddess who worships the eternal shine of the wheat field that refers, and what makes the ibidem in the conferences of a hero who smacks the features of all the sculptures that will follow the cause of reason of the allegorical agoras and the competition where the meek will only toast when nobody sees them face inhibition itself of what is and is not.

What the languages uttered became shouted to sit near the inns and tables with dairy products and wines from which they all stood up with a cantiga in unison, ***** in the joy of being called to the Hellenic invitation to compete, to make dynamics and refer to physical skills assiduously to the constellations that made them awaken the intellectuals. The attributes of each one were a trigger to celebrate and laugh before the divinity of the new Age, along with the solemnity of Himation. This lasted twenty-eight days exchanging the full moons that would bring the shooting stars with boiled genetics that were forged from the Souvlaki prototype, and flashes that would take them to the symposium where the feasts were dimensions that surpassed the entire width of the galaxies, to praise and cheer the crowded Pleiad of assistants fully compete in the intelligentsia, before the various rituals and spells that were prepared with the consecration of the Symposium that would bring together Alpha and Omega, as a Semitic language that filtered through the iridescence nets that manifested from the Nimbus where they remained the vaporous entity of the Mashiach.

Vernarth imbibed, above all, a segment of space that allowed him to look without being distracted towards the height of the Nimbus, creating in the tract of languages that they wandered between Aramaic, Greek, and Hebrew, after that the extra-biblical witness Marzeah would designate in the liturgy of celebration of the Symposium, always noting that the allusive rhetorical conversations at the side of the Symposium meeting, understanding that they would become a brotherhood of tasters of the ethyl elixir, which would flow from the iridescent tract between seven iridescence that would translate into bittersweet solid foods and rolls with thyme from Kalymnos. The ingestion in two portions was lived from arm to arm in the jars of hand, reciprocal in the distractions that Vernarth made looking at the Nimbus, and offered him with his Khaire, promoting distraction and jumping over the dark clouds that were tinged with purple tones of the ethyl elixir, creating dance forms that revived the altruism of euphonic auditions that divined that the world could be all Wine and Matzoh, which was lavished on those who would not be excluded from the drinking of the sky that flowed as food from the fermented Hydor, alongside some concave stones with toasted chickpeas, fresh fruit, and Lepanto beans. Saint John blessed food considering that Eurydice, Circe, Medea, Hecate, and Walekiria would be incorporated into the festive Andron, although the feminine essence should be reserved for other stages of the solemn festival. The expositions of contentment were to have the vessels permanently facing the sky of the Nimbus, because from there holistic ethyl liquids would constantly fall that would shine with their deferred colors, sensitizing what the ear wanted to hear more than their collisions of Epichisis and Enócoes to pour and serve. in geometric ciboriums from Laconia. Vernarth would walk around the Profitis with Askos full of the essence of the Mashiach wine, which served them with the seven cosmic thoughts, thus frequenting the distractions for those who did not skimp on Apollo's delirium of dipsomania, distracted in Vernarth with the dancers of music by Hetera. Vernarth filled the glasses of all those who carried Guttus and Lecitos who relaxed and brought their Cretan flavors in the chirps of their pharynxes coming out from their mouths with verses that seemed the same as those of the Heterias, which the soldiers of the phalanx influenced the Small groups in a circle to applaud the gift and virtue of celebrating with improvised cheers, which in the bedrooms invited even the dissuasive shadows of their own evil that wanted to seep into the symposium. The afternoon was reinvented from the agora and the proscenium that attended for all from all the borders that would bring the storms of the ethyl nimbus, inviting new tides from the Aegean that would add to re-condense in the parasites that swarmed deserts with the rhythm of one night in all the borders and optics of the world, being able to be seen clearly and precisely to be reissued. The comedy of Dyonisius was present with all his court of Syracuse, and Dionisio was reiterated with Thespis and his supports that spelled ruffian verses between bitten, one being King the other being a God, sticking to his origin as a demigod in the feminine inheritance of a mortal, to come to serve in Cantharos to Dyonisius, where they roar in his mortal consciousness. The parasites bustled through the floodgates of intoxication that could be textualized and verbalized in the shrinking of colic, or perhaps boldly sitting on a tripod to imitate the Sybillas if they were to be supported by the effluvium of Alcyoneus, covering with snakes that they would carry potions in the wine glasses when representing the banquets that would falsify to be scenes of a feast, with the criterion of an over-relief.
Opistódomos Symposium
Fresh home from therapy,
     and resonate with zeal
**** air cerebral cogs a turn'n
     analogous to rack and pinion wheel

hence attempt made to bare soul,
     sans thru poetry re: veal
ling avidity, asper barreling neurological
     daily kos loaded truck full

     heading toward figurative
     lifelong landfill deposits
     on weekly ******
     logical session I unseal

manipulating bothersome issues
     controlled via bot size thumbwheel,
which grave undertaking i.e.
     professional counseling allows,

     enables, and provides opportunistic
     gradual process at selfheal
ling oft times necessitates
     reviewing silent Virgina reel

comprising the story
     of earlier life piecemeal
akin to a slapdash montage
     chronicling existential ordeal,

now referencing adenoids
     (removal first mention within
     poetic endeavor, when young boy)
     loosely linkedin with nasopharyngeal

pseudo oral palate
     highway tucking each meal
     across miniature bridgework,
     ma late mum meekly

     acceded to doctors orders,
     said operation sub
     sequently deemed unnecessary
affecting negligible decreasing nasality

     predicated on split (bifid
     or bifurcated uvula), viz laryngeal
utterances finds me speculating
     speculating now, whether taking kneel

ling pose possibly coo dove
     wrought divine intercession
giving me super powers ideal
for fighting off being bullied

     gloating this instant imagining
     bringing beastie boys to heel
actual reality visit my kid self,
     a most convenient scapegoat

socially withdraw puny size lad
internalizing hateful barbs glom
     ming up significant emotional gearwheel
inferiority complex predominating

     supplemented with cumulative
     anger, a potent feel
ling exacerbating anxiety prone disposition
     courtesy chromosomal
     (pop'n mom genes) art of the deal.
Ah Sheik Hog - **!
One "FAKE" Wingman Flying
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, seeks young sprig poe
whet tick friend in toto,

though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare

naked lady loving ******* oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,

and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held

at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair

tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%

grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware

shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, *** the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.
Ah Sheik Hog - **!
One "FAKE" Wingman
think Monty Python's
Flying Circus skittering
on thin ice - Skidamarink
a ****, a ****...

hither and yon, to and fro
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, no spring chicken bro,
nevertheless oz offer friendship in toto
good day to thee with cheerful adieu.

Though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare

naked lady loving ******* oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,

and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held

at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair

tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%

grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware

shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, *** the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.
Chabadtzke Nov 2020
Of the vast amount of Days that make up the mysterious creation we call Time, there is but one Day with which we are intimately familiar, and that is Today.

It just so happened that when a certain argument arose between Days of the Past and the Days of the Future, and they agreed to settle the matter in a historic gathering of all Days, it was Today who was chosen to preside over the convention.

It all began when Tomorrow complained to Two Days Ago that Yesterday had made a real mess of things. It was Yesterday's selfish choices, he said, that had caused Tomorrow's problems. Two Days Ago foolishly repeated this to Yesterday, who immediately got to work rallying the Preceding Days to his defense.

Last Week Monday, short tempered by nature, considered this an attack not just on Yesterday but on the entire Past. It was a dangerous precedent, he warned the other Days of Last Week, wagging his finger dramatically. The Past must be respected, and this practice of Past-Blaming ought to be nipped in the bud. This stirred much resentment among the Upcoming Days, who were themselves quite frustrated with the events of the Past.

It was at this point that Today was notified of the unrest, and he pleaded with them to remain calm, but tensions were escalating far too quickly for diplomacy to be effective. Before long, entire Generations of the Past and Future were taking sides, mostly along partisan lines (with the exception of a few nostalgic Days in the distant Future who sided with the Past, which the rest of the Future denounced as a despicable betrayal).

Out of pure desperation, Today suggested they all gather for a formal discussion, and work on a solution together. (At which point one of the Ancient Days snorted loudly. "Yes, together,” Today repeated forcefully, glaring at him.).

Nobody could think of a better course of action, and they couldn't deny that, since Today was neither in the Past nor in the Future, he was their best shot at objectivity. And so they grudgingly consented. All that remained was for each side to choose a representative.

The obvious candidates were Yesterday and Tomorrow, seeing as it was they who had started it all, but as they were not on speaking terms this was deemed impractical. After some deliberation, the Past nominated a distinguished Day from A While Back, who had a tendency to begin every sentence with, "Back in my day..."

The Future, meanwhile, chose a particular Day from Twenty Years From Now, who, despite his mildly infuriating habit of quoting "the research" in a rather condescending manner, had a knack for winning debates.

In a surprisingly short time, they had all assembled around Today, who was quickly beginning to regret his proposal.

The representative of the Past spoke first. He rambled on for a long while in a monotone about the primacy of the Past, raising his voice ever-so-slightly to emphasize certain lines, such as "It is the mistakes of the Past which pave the way to the achievements of the Future" and "back in my day, it was well understood that the Future is but a shadow of the Past." (The vast majority of Days had fallen asleep by now, but they were abruptly woken at the conclusion of the speech by the enthusiastic applause of the speaker's Year.)

The representative of the Future then rose to speak. His speech was concise and professional, occasionally supplemented by complex graphs and charts, (which the Past couldn't help but be impressed by). It was, however, cut short when he made the grave mistake of describing the Past as "primitive," which drew cries of outrage from the scandalized Past. The Future retaliated by chanting, "Pri-mi-tive! Pri-mi-tive!" — an act which so angered one Medieval Day that he lunged at them, shouting, "Blasphemy! Blasphemy!" before being restrained by some nearby Days. (It took an entire Week to subdue him, although in all fairness they were mostly Sundays, which are not known for their efficiency.)

The assault, though unsuccessful, removed any remaining pretense of formality and politeness. Accusations and insults now flew freely between the two camps, while Today feebly attempted to restore order.

One autumn Day from the Distant Future (whom the Future had previously considered nominating as their representative, and who was therefore eager to have his voice heard,) called for silence, and demanded that the Past apologize for what he claimed was essentially "partying at the expense of the Future."

Several Days from the Dark Ages responded to this by pointing out that the Past was hardly a picnic, and that they were more than willing to trade places if the Future so desired. This sparked another chaotic shouting match over whether or not the Days of the Past had it more difficult than the Days of the Future.

It was at this point that the Very Last Day (who was in a rotten mood, having just woken up from his speech-induced nap), over shouted them all, declaring that if they wouldn't quit bickering, he'd tell them How It All Ends and spoil History for everybody. What's more, he added, while he neither knew nor cared which Day was to blame for what, he did know that he wasn't particularly enamored with the way Today was shaping up.

A murmur of assent rippled through the crowd. At last, the Past and Future were in agreement!

And so the Days, thoroughly exhausted from all the fighting, voted unanimously to blame all their troubles and difficulties on Today, who was now sobbing pitifully some distance away.

And that is how it came to be that of the vast amount of Days that make up the mysterious creation called Time, Today is the very worst day of all.
Bleeding Edge Dec 2019
The world is composed of things I will never understand
Disparate, uncolliding flows envelope me in nausea
Globalized apparatuses peaking in a way lost of me
What I hold
What I desire
Is a Frankenstein amalgam who’s purity was supplemented for progress long ago
Everyday we stray further from the light that birthed us

Entropy be my metronomic master
Lacerate my back always
Hedonism divert my will
The void of that allows only the whipping pangs in
You exist without pause
Process tells me I’m one with you
Diamond compressing isolation tells me no
Is all it says
No to all
Nothing exists but finer needlepoint disparity
Shirk false logic
False unity, emancipatory potential
All that’s known is mourning
Before your own funeral

Tear my soul
Again
Gaping wound laid open for the sun to pour inside
Hands to pour inside grasping deeper
Past guts
Pull the incision wider
As wide as you can, your ghoulish hands
What do you find?
Tell me there’s something!
You won’t tell me
Yet you look
You’ve left me
Wondering

I’ll lay mutilated
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QmgUfF_DCLg&t=2971s
Ah Sheik Hog - **!
One "FAKE" Wingman
think Monty Python's
Flying Circus skittering
on thin ice - Skidamarink
a ****, a ****...

hither and yon, to and fro
Via O'hare To Dublin y'know
Cuz, The Leprechaun within
me, no spring chicken bro,
nevertheless oz offer friendship in toto
good day to thee with cheerful adieu.

Though nowhere to be found despite search team
loudly trumpeting thru depleting fresh air
supply terrestrially polluted atmosphere,
asper the unknown whereabouts, regarding
said royally titled quasi legally inherited bare

naked lady loving ******* oven heated affair
son last seen donning Herringbone Wool headwear
supplemented by Irish merrino wool sweater
and custom made Hemp (smoking hot) pants
informing observer with seedy, faux debonair,

and pseudo (reed "FAKE") suave cultured couture
clothing automatically camouflaging to disappear
without a trace, thee alluded to rival to the throne
(Irish to keep ye in the dark) like chocolate eclair
secret recipe (one takes to the grave), unless held

at gunpoint by bonafide Machiavellian consigliere
ruthless if necessary forcing captive to declare
high fidelity, indemnity, loyalty, et cetera to a
life of lawlessness adopting anonymous incognito
guise accepting bewig noggin with long knotty hair

tattoo skin with "FAKE" scars to accentuate fear
factor accepting (cryptic blood bonded) brotherhood till
death do you part loot, pillage, vandalize, et cetera
in a blitzkrieg effort (albeit violently) to repair
evenly distribute disparity between 1% and 99%

grassroots uprising (peopled with migrants) spear
writ ting their exploitation at the (Taj Mahal) bear
sized paws swiping at susceptibility, vulnerability,
inequality, et cetera series of unfortunate events
decreed, instilled, ordained clamped like ironware

shackling one generation after another, an outright
outdated, on par as anachronism, feudalism, stoicism
where stark difference between rich and poor unfair,
especially, *** the latter labor sweat of their brow,
which backbreaking toil essentially endows wealthy
at expense of grunt work signalling ominous nightmare.
Shivpriya Jul 2022
Sub title: A doting experience originated from a likable form!

Carefree prudence vested me with the ability of discernment to act meticulously at the core of its functioning. Its supplemented and accompanying thoughtfulness clustered around the empty corners of my heart.

The impressions of adducible thinking and reasoned implicatures were the witnesses of my heartbroken valley. The erosional movements in the emotional pieces of my actuating heart formed the hollowing surface of this valley. Regarding quality and its authenticating moments are the staunch fillers of the elongated sealer of my broken heart. The inveterate enthusiasm allows the inner depth to keep solemnizing this place of worship.

The soft pulsating center inside the lining of the sealing kept glowing with the steady bright red color implying the inclination of a fiery aglow from the stark mark of the center of my heart.

I recommended myself to be entranced with its displayed learning. And to my unanticipated wonderment, I saw a primary radiating logical forte with the objective of unbiased loveliness, and there wasn't any sign of deliberation and weakness.

This perceiving manner appears to be such a fresh piece of certainty as if I had drunk the cup of easing lucidity. However, these relief feelings hold the unquestioning beliefs by enhancing their inner impressions to support their accompanying nature and its affinity.

The morale thus stays agile by demonstrating its fine and chief point!
©️shivpoetesspriya
badwords Sep 2023
I am not a particularly intelligent person
But, I have a decent ability to recall
Two-years-old, situations I did worsen
Yet, I don't remember their 'fall'

One of my earliest points of memory
Almost three years old: choices just begot
My Mom's parents visit with a caravan of glee
A robot-car sent on a septic adventure for naught
ICYMI: Autobots have little warranty...

The poor chap was certainly worse for the wear
Two years on this face, I hardly recognized a trace
I am engulfed in the concept of 'care'
I begin to understand the idea of 'space'

...

We move around a lot, a different school each year
I never knew anyone, hardly myself
Mom's drinks with friends, now a lonely 12 pack of beer
Undefined desires put on the shelf

8th grade, at best. Mother's mistakes. My behest
No school. Motel efficiency. On our own.
A thirteen-year-old adoptive father at the test
A pool, limited cable TV; "make this home"

Although she shared a different paternal progeny
My half-sister should not share the same fate as me
I tried to make Mom's $5 to feed us celebratory!
But, I think she grasped the sadness. Solidarity.

...

I miss them now, although we do not speak
My mom is dead and my relationship with Molly is weak
For my failure, I fear I reek
Unable to provide the happiness they seek

...

I never learned to plan for the days ahead
I spend my time, aestheticizing myself instead
Joy supplemented by chemicals to quiet my head
A torn and tattered thread

If I had one wish:

I would hope that we all are doing better
Abbey Jun 2020
shot up with a bloodlust for Divination
through self mutilation
and the first break of flesh to expel the addictive nectar of masculinity

I bear these words as Gospel

beware the charm and faux innocence of supplemented descendant
Serpent Van ****
be wary of His self-knotted blindfold and self-linked chain,
I reflect and reveal to you
that He is neither made of blood relation
nor of loyal nature

A Crystalline Girl is only ten toes behind herself, and herself,
alone

you may find yourself displayed
in cosmic disarray
upon a multi-faceted platform

beside,
above,
or Adam, forbid,
between

His melting *** of bones

parading displays of inhumane physical infatuation

pray be a witness to your hour of redemption

the failed restoration of your porcelain lattice armor
commemorated in crushed veneer

the hard, locked brace before the callous lick of paranoia-induced infliction

Adam’s Girls of Glass ate the Serpentine Fruit

crystal clear, He commands
the sins need not exude

fatefully, does she
romanticize a mania-manifested Imposter

for the diseased pursuit of insatiable vanity exists in a guiltless dystopia

the silver wired gates unlatch at Adam’s will
the gargoyles towering above
His House of Mirrors
intertwine with me in contention

another dancer is always en route
the script is written as The Gospel follows

scenes cut at his discretion remain pillars of my little slice of Neon Paradise

Sun Kissed & Cream
Garden of Dopamine
never such a dream was brought to fruition

oh, but the sweet post-drip taste dropped to my tongue
the floor did meet my knees
gifted to me was the sugary salvation hidden between the lips of all my Men

stained red was the fractured glass it poured from

the walls of translucence can forever hold you in,
if only, dear porcelain girl,
you mustn’t open every door

leaning, pressed against the cursed stained glass lining the Temple of all my Men

for Adam, only mirrors

cautious and blessed be the blush red cherub at her second redeeming

come nightfall, a femme affliction is morose ****** fatality
disgust thinly veiled with disinterest

His Cupid’s aim; unwavering  
His arrow; wet with Baby’s blood
The slow, pale drain; wasted, he is
in youthful bathe

may my Father’s affinity for curating my prolific suffering
grow from His ever-flowing cuts of the flesh
and be embodied in the Godly blood of Men

upon the fall of my pink ribbon reign,
my face takes on colors of Ophidian Persuade
again, will come nightfall,
a crimson flood at His gate

if dry are my veins,
so be it, that way
I felt His Salvation
on my Father’s Day

here, on this Sunday,
when night does come time

I am granted Ascent
into The Efflorescence Divine

raised from the soil of a Narcissus Bloom and
birthed from the heartache within Hera’s womb

what is now a sharp silence,
a jagged pink scar
was first just a feeling,
pushed down too far

I should have saved it when I had Him
on that wayward day did he
not know me from Adam
With mighty mouse and Hercules height
tried to retrieve sanity spread loose;
a faded unpleasant memory - even enlisting
decades old cartoon characters:
Natasha squirrel and Bullwinkle moose
flow of electrons the best-concocted juice
since the convection
of white bread or couscous
for without Fios, light and heat
the slow strangle via an invisible noose

gripped this bantam weight
hen pecked papa -
who tried to peruse
Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy
while buried under
blankets and towels - Toulouse
any and every molecule of heat,
yet frigidaire within abode
(technically about 455 degrees Fahrenheit)
went with Brad and Ray,
boot did not go vamoose.

Thine recollected diatribe
analogous to a rite of initiation
thru fraternity gauntlet -
no, not necessarily atchew
anyway, I sure hope ***** remission
asper any offal debacle choking bugaboo
which once malignantly plagued
your body, mind, spirit
as fowl existence doomed matt chew
for when countless full moons ago,
the force o mother nature drew

whipped out her scimitar,
where chaos such as
power n telephone outages flew
sweeping across bulwarks,
drawbridge over troubled waters,
and ramparts whereby
huge limbs and wires
Ole man winter with
a jude dish hiss punch did hew
indiscriminate to gentile or Jew
or one necessitating answering a call

to deaf ack ate while atop the loo,
cuz such fate occurred there
at previous residence
DCCXXIV Railroad Ave n new
where the lack of heat or phone service
induce sing expletives stronger than poo
but...during the blackout,
this papa read by flashlight huddled
under mildewed layers of clothes
n bland kits, and did rue
how susceptible n vulnerable society

to whims of natural faw iz - tis true
at least in my view,
whence this generic human
predicted he would become
apprised as fossilized,
immortalized, and ossified,
thence accidentally discovered
millenniums in future,
hence as frozen petrified representative
per twenty first century,
where wily fox prudent terrestrial realtor.

Now that yar brow didst I scrunch
possibly goot dealt
a similar meteorological punch
thus possibly lack king
for electricity i.e. the life source energy,
this then mister mom,
and taxi dad supposed back up hunch
hove (at that time)

two prepubescent darling daughters -
oft times thrilled as punch
to kibbutz with during lunch
when dire circumstances
imposed spurious silliness
to fritter away time –
for measly grueling fodder,
earmarked, ****** cold brunch.

Twas and still Liz
a blessing social networks
allowed, enabled and promoted literary trait
virtually contrived acquaintances of yore,
and usually visa vis discovery
(though transient got me I rate)
hull reflect on technological
modus operandi back
before bachelorhood complemented
and supplemented mein kampf

with an affectionately loving mate
many years, and even of late
though amity, comity
and felicity nestles this roost stir,
whose then newlywed bride
that's my wife, he DOTH no longer hate
and communicate emotions
across the whirled wide web
(i.e. - this example
between yourself and me) -

Noah intent to grate
now, internecine warfare usually all calm
on the western front
from hellish, gory figurative
ball of wax bollix
engineering denizens of fate
in tandem with banshees, gremlins,
and jinns out the box of Pandora rollicked
their elements of Strunk and White,
and pandemonium they did fiendishly create.
Hard knocks Methacton school alum
ofttimes finds ruining his fate
while squarely planted on me ***
nevertheless felt rightly triangulated
flashed mobbed by disheveled and unshaven,
foo fighting beastie boys
whereby their gray stubble encrusted
wayward synonymous days old crumb -

after getting wolfed (re: gang lions)
as delectable entitled treat
buttered fingers drubbing upon tabletop
analogous to playing a drum
oy vey, yours truly cannot believe
he ate the whole thing -
thus feeling bloated and glum
giving way (rather succumbing)
to Sir Isaac Newton's
first law of motion first law
a body at rest stays oh so ** hum
inclined to remain supine
and comfortably numb
able, eager, and ready (reddit)
to down tumblr full of ***
argh go sum... my poor tum.

ALDI GIANT supermarkets
(within small radius of miles
from me Schwenksville, Penna abode)
sell delicious delectable treat
goading, inspiring, and spurring me
to craft poem essentially
patronizing manufacturer,
whose skilled food technicians
engineered absolute winning dessert

courtesy their natural born talent
schooled (most likely at culinary institute)
possibly supplemented insync
with advanced degrees
at other institutions of higher learning
after various and sundry
trials and error with plus or minus
marginal limits of tolerance
concocting mouthwatering secret recipe.

Lemme use hypothetical situation
to accent chew ate,
how alluded dessert tastes great,
especially when rumble in tumbly
clamors for glorious goody
regarding appetite to satiate
unfortunately circumstances
force your truly to wait.

If (the following
constitutes far fetched scenario)
stranded on a desert island,
I after falling to Earth
when parachute fails to open,
weighed down by an excess of
Daiya vegan non dairy cheesecakes,
would finagle an empty pie tin
flashing aluminum dish higgledy piggledy
to signal an oinking porcine SOS
think jeepers creepers
knowing my luck being abducted
by an alien cannibalistic, gnostic,
narcissistic life forms,
who quickly abandoned me

subsequently left to my own devices,
(where you dear reader
would discover one humbug),
I would be forced to scrounge around
rubbing two sticks together
to create warmth
plus distilling oils -
derived from edible herbaceous plants,
whence I would *******
(not prematurely) - olé
to sauté said collard greens
with wild mushrooms.
Hard knocks Methacton school alum
ofttimes finds ruing his fate
while squarely planted on me ***
disheveled and unshaven,
whereby gray stubble encrusted
with wayward synonymous days old crumb -

after wolfing delectable entitled treat
buttered fingers drubbing upon tabletop
analogous to playing a drum
oy vey, yours truly cannot believe
he ate the whole thing -
argh... my poor tum.

ALDI GIANT supermarkets
(within small radius of miles
from me Schwenksville, Penna abode)
sell delicious delectable treat
goading, inspiring, and spurring me
to craft poem essentially
patronizing manufacturer,
whose skilled food technicians
engineered absolute winning dessert

courtesy their natural born talent
schooled (most likely at culinary institute)
possibly supplemented insync
with advanced degrees
at other institutions of higher learning
after various and sundry
trials and error
concocting mouthwatering secret recipe.

Lemme use hypothetical situation
to accent chew ate,
how alluded dessert tastes great,
especially when rumble in tumbly
clamors for glorious goody
regarding appetite to satiate
unfortunately circumstances
force your truly to wait.

If (the following
constitutes far fetched scenario)
stranded on a desert island,
I after falling to Earth
when parachute fails to open,
weighed down by an excess of
Daiya vegan non dairy cheesecakes,
would finagle an empty pie tin
to signal an SOS.

If left to my own devices,
(where you dear reader
would discover one humbug),
I would be forced to scrounge around
rubbing two sticks together
to create warmth
plus distilling oils -
derived from edible herbaceous plants,
whence I would *******
(not prematurely) - olé
to sauté said greens with wild mushrooms.
Ryan O'Leary Jul 2019
Bread winners are not
permitted to compete
in the annual run which
is strictly for those who
are unemployed.

It is a mixed relay race,
batons are supplemented
with freshly baked Baguettes.

Dropping, breaking or
eating is an immediate
disqualification.

All contestants need to be
gluten and yeast tolerant.

— The End —