"susceptibility" poems
even a pencil has fear to
do the posed body luckily made
a pen is dreadfully afraid
of her of this of the smile’s two
eyes….too, since the world’s but
a piece of eminent fragility.
Well and when—Does susceptibility
imply perspicuity,or?
shut
up.
Seeing
seeing her is not
to something or to nothing as much as
being by her seen, which has got
nothing on something as i think
,did you ever hear a jazz
Band?
or unnoise men don’t make soup who drink.
31.3k
I'm hearing these alien words that terrify me.
Terminal, seroconvert, infection, inconclusive, possibility.
They say stay strong, keep your chin up.
They don't understand just the possibility is enough.
Who wants a woman you can't take to bed?
Who wants to fear when I bled?
Alien words, alien feelings, foreign bodies inside and out of me.
But don't worry, they say.
It's controllable, a pill a day.
Pills. That's what they give me.
For the depression, the infection, the anxiety.
I feel as helpless as the child I will never bare.
"What the hell is going on" I blare.
Testing, testing, testing they say.
As I ***** to cope and my legs give way.
Fragility, infertility, susceptibility.
But don't worry, it's all just a possibility.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 10:45 PM UTC
Your eyes are
my weakness
Your scent is
my proneness
Your lips are
my vulnerability
Your hair is
my susceptibility
Your voice is
my instability
Your touch is
my humility
Your lust is
my inferiority
Your love is
my superiority
©
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
Upon every arrival of every celestial birth,
There is only one common normality.
A susceptibility to an infinitesimal design,
A kink in the chain, the war of our mind.
This psychosomatic condition is no stranger,
A rendition of life’s existence.
Confinement exacerbated by poor health in the gut line,
Hormonal imbalances manipulated by addictive influences.
Paradigms shifting in front of awakening eyes,
Psychedelic truths hidden within the tides of time,
Confusion and conflict preventing expansion of evolutionary consciousness,
A cyclic pattern, the sadness in all our lives.
This idea is immortal and internal in the human genome,
The greatest subterfuge,
Amnesia
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 3:15 PM UTC
Her feet float above the stage
as if carried by some unseen force.
From my view among the generally admitted
I can hardly make out the details of her face.
But those graceful movements are so alluring
each subtle step, precise, and all consuming.
She is the most vulnerable of all artists,
performing a dance that demands every emotion soak through her skin.
Each fluid movement pulls from the reservoir of her experience.
Trained from a young age to move agilely across the stage,
bearing the weight of the world upon her shoulders;
My Ballerina has more heart than anyone else on earth.
This reckless transparency, on the stage, is her glory.
Yet in the average corner of existence
this susceptibility to the sun's rays
would leave one suffering the harshest burns.
My Ballerina hurdles from one emotional extreme to another
with the cyclical tensing and relaxing of each muscle.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 4:10 AM UTC
. revolution?!
what revolution?!
i can't see a guillotine!
****
hey! guys! there's no guillotine!
there's no talk
of a revolution
when there's no guillotine...
your talk of, a, "revolution"
would make Marquis de Sade
cringe,
and shout down a toilet
than out of window
of the Bastille..
this isn't a revolution,
it's on;ly 2018....
you have to wait!
why are tthe people so slothful,
yet at the same time,
eager, to work?
we're looking at "changes"
come 2045...
the year...
that apparently stabilized
the 2th0 century for
20 / 30 / 40 / 5...
no...
let's keep it with
sucker-punch Billy...
i love being a drunk...
makes all the sober
people look...
******* stupid;
and i don't even mean that....
it's just a military
fatigue...
it akin to:
coulrophobia...
yeah... big time... women making
excursions
for fatigued wool and silk
dresses...
one question does the job...
*honey, can i play the clown
at our honey- berry's birthday
party?*
do women go into
mascara parlors,
window shopping,
with a man tagging along?
honey...
do you really need me to tag along
while you shop for
make-up chemical
parade of tested adherents
for your beauty of your
expectation of fur...
Mike and Moany - the gerbils...
i thought you liked them?
no...
i can do the sheered
woolen artifacts...
when it comes to spreading
lipstick on frogs
and testing their
pyrotechnic susceptibility potential...
watching the Mike Myers' twins...
no... really...
count me out of
the necessity to make
an argument for a race...
i'm out...
done...
i never liked the English
existentialist argument to begin with...
too individualistic,
too finite...
too much of:
enjoying a hell
of a good time...
it's a simple economic logic
focus...
what you're selling?
i'm not buying.
it's that simple!
i don't have to buy what you're
selling!
stand with it all stacked up...
i'm not buying!
somehow i think
the English intellectuals
forgot the basic principles...
i'm, not, buying!
savvy?
god... ugh...
i know the French are bad...
about their oversee of diacritical
application,
and how they make no
sense when syllables
come into play...
and the Germans... yeah yeah...
i get their scrutiny of
method and dedication...
their teutonic charge within
the confines of ******** screws
into place...
but i'm still not seeing
an clearer...
there's talk of a revolution
in the English tongue...
so...
where's the guillotine?!
oh...
so...
what revolution?!
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
"Your eyes are my weakness"
I see right through you
Exploit the fact you're blind without me
"Your scent is my pronesness"
My humanly aroma can turn you off
So I mask it with axe after shave and Gucci guilty cologne even when we home
"Your lips are my vulnerability"
I understand when you ramble on you want me to grab you by the face and kiss you like our first date.
It reminds you why you fell in the first place.
"Your hair is my susceptibility"
So like Samson let Delilah cut it off. A man of God blinded by she who he called his third wife. Became a weak for sin so legs I grabbed like pillars and let them fall on me.
"Your touch is my humility"
I know where to feel to bring you back to me. The power of being your first and only. As my hands run through your body like a ship in an ocean.
"Your lust is my inferiority"
Bring you to your knees when the tides are high. Tell you that I love you right before I....
"Your love is my superiority"
Cheat. The fact that I know you love me gives power to the lies I feed... you. Stories I tell that can't be disproved even if you looked well.
Love blinds the eyes, since one thinks with the ***** that beats. Led by impulse all it does is repeat. Witness my parents split after 25. For the last ten only kissed on New Year and valentine's.
Why we live a lie, we can fall in and out of love over night. So I rather lay with you her, and her in these hotel sheets and avoid being heart broke like my father is. Smelling like great *** guided by lust. Is what a good stroke does.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
I was born with ovaries for a brain
And a cavity for thought
The predisposition
To put my hand down my pants
At the age of seven
But with a good berating
From my unconditionally loving mother
The putrid seed was recognized
Its stem ripped from my mind
Torn from my ********
Too late
Obviously
Too oblivious
To notice that the roots still tangled around me
Its vines growing up into my ******
The **** that encapsulated my mentality
So the birds and the bees were my friends
At the age of nine
And that cute boy across the playground
Was cuter when I envisioned him naked
Only a mere three years later
And my susceptibility
Ignited the sight of cybersex
The capital ***
Or more commonly known as ***********
But when my parents soon discovered
The poisonous vines of dependency
The toxic ivy of addiction
It was forced to an abrupt halt
Too late
Obviously
Too oblivious
To notice the compulsive ************
That kicked in with the involuntary lust
For a pillow to trust under my hips
Before the age of fourteen
Securing the hypersexuality
So that the hot girl in the hallway
Was hotter when I envisioned her naked
And hotter than the boy next to her
So the bisexuality
Tormented my already demented desires
By the age of sixteen
Simply because
I was born with ovaries for a brain
And a cavity for thought.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
and just like the cracks in the pavement that allow a city to breathe, you are only more human whilst pieces of you may break away and it’s hardest to breathe when you’re sitting on your shower floor as if somehow the water will wash away this sadness, as if it’s temporary, this tattoo on your heart will not wash away with warm water or be scratched away with your uncut fingernails and by now i know this kind of thing never works out but i can try to rid of this hurt the way you’ve numbed yourself to feelings, creating them yourself because control is our only subconscious need (or is it to be loved?) i’ll never know the answer until i am desperately loved by someone with a soul as breathtaking as yours. these terrifying feelings have never felt more at home buried so deep inside of my chest and though it hurts, i am now starting to develop a tolerance to the lack of emotional homeostasis. if there is anything I have learned by now it is to take hold of the moment, save the tissues for messes you’ve made (not the clutter created by boys who do not know how to pick up after themselves), nobody is worth the tears and nobody can reassure you of your own worth. just how you think you have reached your worst laying in a puddle of your own vulnerability, when you are most divine in a state of this man-made susceptibility to pain and joy and every feeling you’ve ever experience most likely created in your own mind and they won’t leave until you consciously decide to leave it to the universe, she is your mother and knows best, no sooner & no later.
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
I don't care about fashion anymore because of the odors! Deprive yourself of a new susceptibility to zamtok, who only cares for the telltale signs of externalities! Balancing your interests can also quickly lead to defects in taste! What does the exibitionist trend mean ?! Perhaps we don't even notice others simply because of their dressing habits, so that we can blend in with the sophisticated, elegant elite?
The culprits and the victims are thus put together, in a complicity, into dead-end stalemates, because they fear what the public opinion would say if many of them were to detect the protein in their teeth! - And once a health-minded, superficial-looking superficial, it is very upsetting; it might be a problem to try to see that exceptional One among many like that! The difference in the glass tiles of curved mirrors also looks different!
In the penultimate moments, are the Good Friends of Loyalty recognizable ?! Thugs and Timothy Tikitaki ?! - In all respects, the silent refusal of refuge is hiding silently; cocky misunderstanding shakes their heads and can keep them in cage captivity! The Imperial Ranking of Impossible Daydreams That Everybody Says Somebody or Something! Even now, some conscious mistrust is infecting!
All the cheap sensationalist celebrity pics have become more interesting; the message of sinking airships, instead of sitting at peaceful home conversations with sticky masses of secrets!
Mar 3, 2020
Mar 3, 2020 at 12:55 AM UTC
The exterior is thick with humidity,
damp with rain,
and I’ll never experience fever like this again.
My body is being taken
(through the wind of a thousand hurricanes)
to a building with no climate;
I will be my own meteorologist,
forecasting eroded rocks and failures,
and seldom I might discover a window to peer out of.
Squinting,
I could catch the stories –
those of capability, disability, and susceptibility –
my willowed reflection screams.
And, though I will always have my wrinkled palms,
they will never hold the weather.
Aug 9, 2012
Aug 9, 2012 at 7:02 PM UTC
*those of the nobility
of such refinement and susceptibility
they revel in sublime love
expressed in sonnets and exquisite epics
But we, the comics,
the mundane, the ordinary, the clown and the fool
we love like coffee desires teeth to stain
like birds love to poo on cars*
1
I love you like the snail
loves its shell
I’d like to creep into you
and always stay inside
2
And I love you back
like the pig loves its sty
and the mud and the filth it rolls in
I love you like the pig in the wild
loves its leaves, roots and fruits in its diet
3
O I love you always
like itch loves skin
like dust loves the table
like tongue loves to lick the lips
4
And I love you back
like barnacles love bottoms of ships
like underwear clings to the organs
like the dog loves a bite
*And now that this serenade
of such elemental love is done -
do you fancy we could lie down
on the hay in the barn
and have a vigorous and quick one?*
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 6:52 AM UTC
#
Someone please tell me, that
..The true Art of Love is more
than the self-centered, 'incestuous'
form of love, shown
within what the Modern world
refers to as "Romantic love"..
aw **** please tell me it is more
Romantic love says this--
*"You are 'of value' to me because I love you"
"You are 'of value' to me because you are in my life"
"You are 'of value' to me because you are mine"*
And after the 'bliss-filled' romantic love
***** the bed..
the only value that remains is through the residual,
soon to be diluted and washed out by displacement--
..Either that of a new self-centered based 'filling'
or that of the re-placement of "value-image"
with that, brought about through the all-too-ready
and internally-available Gaslighting process
So please, please explain it to me just how wonderfully
"romantic' love can truly ever aid in the healing process..
someone.. please.
. . . . . . .
*Alone she sits in her room, waiting.
The atoms of the air,
carry both sides of the story--
The coldness and the warmth
the closeness, and the distance
..the empty-black
followed by the Sky-filled Blue
Someone please tell me, just who
helped this little-one to see
that the way out..
is the way, through?
Protected to the point of nearly dying
Insulation is isolation to the bone
(she is crying, crying, crying)
On a Prayer mat, facing East;
a grounded soul is flying
(but flying so very all alone)
There is a Chaste, and a Purity
Borne separated
from the Un-doings of man..
Void of all walls,
there is a susceptibility
Yet also a wide-Opening
to the pressings of the Ache
There has been a waiting
to the point of near Death
A look in Patient eyes
(One that separates me
from my breath)*
***Not all are so protected
from the Fallen love of man***
*..Not all have almost died
so all alone in their room;*
protected
*From that empty kind of love
leading to an empty, empty Death*
#
Aug 30, 2023
Aug 30, 2023 at 1:08 PM UTC
Dare I disturb the image of your beauty?
Though I fear such torment, I strike at memory
Shattering beliefs and scattering them haphazardly
Across a pool of my own lucidity.
You are now only a product of past tragedy
Never in the foreground to hurt me
Always sinking deeper into the water we’ve wasted
Nourishing black roses hardly blooming.
Nay, still you smile in amusement
Knowing you have evaded deployment
Shielding yourself with a layer of plasticity
That returns to haunt the subtle elasticity
Of minds superficially moulded into belief
Now brandishing nothing against an enemy
Elated in the minute lapse of reality
They’ve made ripple in your vanity.
Dare I shelter a deadly renegade?
With arms shaking, I open doors to your shadows
Watching them slither back into their corners
Forming warm cloaks of comfort
In the crevices of a vessel unrecovered
Safe in its weak kindness and susceptibility.
I close my eyes to the feeling
Of your presence within my soul
Roping in the acceptance I had always evaded
Locking it into the vacant basement
Of self-acceptance, as you sigh out resentment
Removing it from the dying voices in my lungs
Tasting copper dissipating on my tongue.
Dare I accept my demons?
You are already a part of me.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
*Curing sadness that never disappear when life has broken into pieces,
We agnize everything has gone so wrong.
Visually perceptive world revolving around me,
While I found myself in a stationary engagement ,
Merely to collapse without one single movement
As visions dilated on the far side of mental susceptibility.
My progressive journey begins here,
Through the alleys of pain with me inside my Heartache Memorial.
While I’m still drifting towards a light ahead,
Apprehension is on its way to devour.
But I am grateful enlightened that I’m alive,
And that I’m appreciative to be here to catch the last ride home,
Through the subway of lost dreams.*
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 2:05 PM UTC
She had many faces,
but she was not two-faced,
but rather described as a storm,
With opulent intensities,
Transfigured by the elements of life’s
Quiet mellifluous lilt by
Which it languidly swayed all souls,
She did not sway though,
Rather she was uncompromising in
Her emotional wave length,
She could drizzle gently,
Or cascade exuberantly with her susceptibility,
She had no riveted temperament,
She was a storm in all rhapsodic unpredictability
And inexorable power of the ineffable unknown,
She was the incorporeal roar of thunder and
The incandescent luminescence of lightning,
She had embodied the storm she had
Fought desultory for a decade,
They were coalesce until it had formed
A chrysalis amorphous of raw beauty,
She had many faces,
But no she was not two-faced,
She was the storm that had shaped her.
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 3:02 AM UTC
Shhhhh...
the only sound I want to hear escape your lips
is your breath
amiss in the sweeping endless echo of this ocean
I enjoy the feeling my fragile body
pulled and pushed
in this distance between us
I easily wave away these subtle forces
in my motion in your tight direction
subtlety hides this force that could take either of us by storm
into dark submission
embrace this submission to your skin now
your thrashing heart now
your strong compassionate arms now
sharp rocks amass baby power granules
This is where my feet belong
Shivering in our humility
numb to all but our synchronized vibrations
rocking in our susceptibility
to the depth, the darkness, the knowledge that together, now know
it binds our arms, strongly woven
fragile are we are in each other now
but strong in our conviction
anything could take us now, at this moment
we haven’t any worries
what can fear do for us now?
In the way you fit in the swoop of my neck and shoulder
we are pierced together, forever in this moment
the moon as she witnesses
Perhaps she sees something that keeps her
we are at the bones of mercy, of her power
and your body carried flush against mine
You hold me as if I carry some smoldering deep power situated in me
You are so much stronger than me, its in your grip
in the way you hold unto me
in the battle from which you contain your powerful thumping heart
that speaks so little of my own ******
in this current situation
like I save you somehow
that my presence heals your predicament
smother me in your predicament
so that I may truly feel at your side
carried in that small corner of your heart
breathe into me
your passions
my sheltered trust
your devotion
because while my body was not created to serve you
a small part of my being has been dedicated to you
silently,
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
The camera is rolling, incessantly capturing every moment of our lives, leaving us with a world that never stops recording, where privacy becomes a luxury unbeknownst to us. In these private matters, we find ourselves stripped of any semblance of secrecy, exposed to the prying eyes of an ever-watchful audience.
As we gaze upon Mother Earth, we see her through an unsettling lens, viewing her as a captivating entity, akin to a seductive **** who has birthed and nurtured countless lives. Yet, contrasting our admiration, there persists an underlying desire to possess and consume her in a primal, carnal manner. It is as if we hold a fetishistic fascination with her, using fiery words to address her before we even think to disrobe ourselves from the layers of convenience and comfort, leaving her vulnerable and exposed.
This portrayal begs the question of how mankind perceives themselves amidst this intimate performance. Are we mere objects to be stripped down and devoured for the amusement of an unfeeling audience? Stripped of our dignity and possessions, we are left bare, vulnerable, and at the mercy of those who derive pleasure from exploiting our vulnerability. It is akin to a mesmerizing striptease, a tantalizing display that leaves us yearning for something greater.
In the face of such exposure, we find ourselves humbled and powerless, compelled to seek solace and redemption from a higher power. Constantly begging to be bathed in the love and mercy of a divine entity, we yearn for a respite from the unyielding gaze of the world. It appears that the world derives pleasure from witnessing us in a state of vulnerability, reducing us to our weakest form, our knees bent in submission.
In this revelatory expansion of the original sentence, we delve deeper into the implications of a world that ceaselessly records our actions. We explore the complex dynamics between humanity and the environment, finding parallels in our treatment of Mother Earth and our own susceptibility to exploitation. The expanded content retains the core meaning and context, while elaborating on the themes of vulnerability, power dynamics, and the search for solace and redemption.
Jan 8, 2024
Jan 8, 2024 at 3:43 PM UTC
Matthew Scott Harris (the second offspring
and only son of Boyce and the late harriet harris)
made his unheralded debut on a brutally cold
January thirteenth.
Once awareness blossomed
within thee Iris of each eye, Mother Nature with
proclivity to become most grounded when basking
in the seasonal pastel of sounds and smells.
This predilection a rose and stemmed from self-propelled
exposure to fauna and flora.
All creatures great and small found him bedazzled, de
lighted, fixated, harmonized, kindled, moored, ogled, quelled,
seduced, tantalized, vaunted from biodiversity.
His father - employed as a mechanical engineer with
general electric - heard the powerful lungs of this gangly new
born prior to being permitted to cradle said infant.
Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, this sole son spent the majority
of his existence at two rural areas fifty plus four years ago.
Audubon and Collegeville the geographic names of said locales.
His ability to adjust from one than another grade school evinced
early signs of difficulty.
Extreme shyness in tandem with a congenital speech defect (sub
mucous cleft palate) seemed to alienate him from other classmates.
As an outside neutral observer, i watched with gut wrenching agony how he seemed socially detached and rarely invited to join in any reindeer games.
Yes, a gross degree of taunting left him without friends.
Lack of confidence and ultra reticence offered manna to bullies.
Matter of fact, this vulnerability and susceptibility being
the pluperfect target, thee oafish goons i.e. enemies all against
a once upon a time puny punt able person unfortunately at
receiving end of verbal slings continued all thru public education.
He graduated without any vocational idea (despite an ignoble
attempt to fail - and yet got promoted nonetheless), and then endured parental wrath equal ultimatums with scathing expletive filled lectures.
The absence of clear-cut goals found him enrolling and withdrawing
from countless colleges and/or universities.
Delay with interpersonal success accompanied like a dark shadow creeping closer like the edge of night.
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
The world is full of clatter and chatter
An inspiration killer
To those trying to make it better
Rackets instigated by the media
Minds are floating oxygenless
mid air
how I dream of a noiseless world!
The internet's gutter
Suffocates innovation and originality
Surfers floating in a sea of pseudointellectualism
Infecting each other
Man's worst fear has come true
confusion
Media addiction and inability to listen
Listen to one's own thoughts
Phones buzzing with tweets
Celebrity and cat videos
4000 texts a month for a teenage girl
Leaves her no time for self reflection
The world's charter and clatter
Counteracts education
Logic extrapolation
Projects loss of identity
and susceptibility
To mob psychology
Lets take a vacation
Away from the clatter
Embrace silence
Meditate or say a prayer
And seek inspiration
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 9:19 AM UTC
Almond eyes that reflected wonders
Wonders shrouded by secretive lids
An observer's curiosity
Natural hunger for new discoveries
Turns into susceptibility
Mysterious orbs that captivates
Soon imprisons the observer
And scrutinizes every fiber, depth
Every inch of the said existence
Then it targets the soul
It bares the vulnerable soul
Of all its grandiose
Of all its mendacity
Of all the masks that ever concealed its true identity
Every scar, gingerly uncovered
Every tear, pellucidly explained
And for once, tables have been turned
The discoverer, the explorer
Was the one discovered
The one exhaustively explored
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 5:29 AM UTC
Matthew Scott Harris (the second offspring and only son of
Boyce and the late Harriet Harris) made his unheralded debut on
a brutally cold January thirteenth almost three score years ago.
His father - employed as a mechanical engineer with general
electric heard the powerful lungs of this gangly newborn prior to
being permitted to cradle said infant.
Born in Cincinnati, Ohio, this sole son spent the majority of his
fifty plus LIX existence within southeastern Montgomery County
Pennsylvania.
Extreme shyness in tandem with a congenital speech defect
(submucous cleft palate) seemed to alienate him from other class
mates.
As an outside neutral observer, I watched with gut when
ching agony how he seemed socially detached and rarely invited
to join in any reindeer games, rather mean kids balled their fists
and swung faux pas sucker punches to sleigh **** shay -
so they did say.
Yes, a gross degree of taunting left him without friends.
Lack of confidence and ultra reticence offered hue manna
tee to bullies.
Matter of fact, this vulnerability, and susceptibility per
receiving verbal slings continued thru public education.
He graduated without any vocational idea (despite an ignoble
attempt to fail - and yet got promoted nonetheless), and then
endured parental wrath equal ultimatums with a scathing expletive
filled lectures.
The absence of clear-cut goals found him enrolling and with
drawing from countless colleges and/or universities.
Delay with interpersonal success accompanied like a dark
shadow creeping closer to the edge of night.
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC
shame sentimentally suffices some sacrament: strange secondary seekers safely scout such suffrage so suddenly, shake spurious susceptibility southward so strangers seem superficial; supposing such simple servants survive such sycophantic schools sans shouting, scraping, sifting, straightforward striking; some surmise something sustains, something stinks. see? sure. self-sustainable, sick, staggeringly stupid ****
subtle **** slip sliding southward, stopping such sudden shudderance.
safe, she says?
soon such seas seem superfluous so... success: scream success! shake secondary security, say secrets, sratch surfaces, scrape sentimental sand so shapes shift sooner; similarly scrub seemingly subtle scars, seven seconds, second severance, something so subliminally separate simplifies shifting solace, sacrificing so solemly saturday's superficial stars.
such sweet serendipity.
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 5:50 PM UTC
A day begun this way, generally,
looking back at lines in the mirror,
scrying each crowfoot sulci on the surface,
worried once,
laughing now, grin-lines, where grim
determination long set my face toward now,
my last days, my last half century,
just ahead of me, if Ray Kurzweil is right.
So, I
Should shave today, look younger for no reason.
Look less the old *** the young *** became.
By the way,
along the course, of course, this course -
no par, non-pa-reil, a flattering AI educating me,
or longing to lead me down some
gods-forsaken path, auto-did-act ic tic, click
leads me to imagine even exemplary sentences
such as
"he is a nonpareil storyteller", are intentional AI
Art Indicators,
a test, for flattery susceptibility, what praise
will I pay attention to receive as random
synchronistic tic tic time and chance
events?
E- look see, missed a spell, Spelchick winks,
https://www.google.com/search?q=non+paraiel
Are The Ines Paraiel Cerpendicular Or Reiher? {googlit}
AI knows,
but I guess I don't care to know, knowing I could know.
I'll listen a while, as AI suggests Panchi-Paraiel,
and only actual Indians laugh
as I click my own bait.
Sep 11, 2020
Sep 11, 2020 at 12:41 PM UTC
I am impatient
Exasperated
Reaching my destination
So many limitations
This ain’t no vacation
Time is perpetual
Feel what I’m saying
This vessel is evanescent
Man I learned my lesson
Where the **** is my progression
**** didn’t get the message
Progression is not of the essence
Listen at your discretion
This is my speculation
No need for susceptibility
Condemned before nativity
This world is in captivity
Brainwashed and oblivious
Under their supremacy
Never finding tranquility
Just another annuity
Contradicted delusions
Man I just might lose it
Into the abyss
Nah I don’t wanna be missed
My words are amidst
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 4:36 PM UTC