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Nat Lipstadt Sep 2017
~~~

~for Leandra from Alabama~  

hope is less a point,
more a sash,
a honorable stripe, a path,
a tightrope designed for slipping,
a struggling, indeterminate journey
requiring a self-granted passport


<|>

long ago, time ago,
when the plate of despair,
was passed round and round
my table unceasingly,
served always piping hot,
my unordered,
but can't be refused,
'main course'
~
yes, I took it,
some say,
thrived on despair,
as despair
symbiotically
thrived on me
~
my unfair share
some say,
was given more
than deserved,
so what,
you took it and cried out
so what
~
so for
forty years wandered in
an unemotional desert of distress,
from which escape
to hope
was deemed,
inhumanly impossible
~
now in my descending, trajectory finale,
years post the wastage, the waste of ages
that sustained, that pain,
sent away, postage prepaid,
no return address
~
once more,
I accidentally taste
the cries of
les enfants terrible,
here @ HP,
the babies speaking so easy of

the utter aching of the young

for it is in plain view,
in almost every other poem here stored
~

I thought:

no mas, no more,
I ne'er, can't,
stop, nay, even slight stop, stoop,
to read and bear
these slights, these desperations so loud,
that remind me too well
of my days of unwellness
~
but one, ******,
renders me, strips me asunder,
drags me down under,
compulsed to respond,
so I tender now
to whomever can read
through mine eyes,
hard bought wisdom of seven plus decades
~
before you can believe in hope,
and its prophecies,
know this:

hope is less a point,
more a sash,
a honorable stripe, a path,
a tightrope designed for slipping,
a struggling, indeterminate journey
requiring a self-granted passport
~
but with the understanding that this
hopeful trip is
itinerary, devoid,
for final destination,
in advance, already well known,

for from the very beginning,
the self-same place you began,
a circuitous, lapping course of
expectorating unexpected high speed crashes,
for the ****** of self voyaging
upon the sea war-waters of
self-examination
is both
infinite and finite,
this traveling travail,
this trip is the work
forever in process
~
Hope
is your only cargo that time cannot decay, spoil,
even under twenty fathoms of brine,
cannot be refused,
must be transported
~
you gotta believe in
yourself,
you just gotta,
accept that the mere breathe of thought,
confirms the unique, unbelievable spark
the worth of you,
that source code unique,
born and then borne within,
to find your purpose,
only recognizable by you,
its place holder
~
dig as deep as necessary,
but no quitting, till you are smoking
hot, bonfired, cause that's how you can knowingly
know you've grasped that you are,
hopefully
just that much closer to being a
mission accomplished
~
hear you say,
so easy to say
so hard to do,
in brief,
there is no relief
~
let's walk together,
amidst woods and shaded country lanes,
grasp arms in the certain serenity,
of my poet's nook,
sit beside me,
young ones
~
leave your castle, cross the dry moat
so assiduously you built,
dug out from daily anguish, crapped-on dirt piles
~
come listen with me to
Bach's Air Sarabande,
you know it, though you think not,
journey upon the music
to the places so so patient waiting within,
where soaring, is the only option,
calm reflection, the only language
~
come let us reason together,
help you to deduce,
process the conclusion inevitable,
your very aching implies
your residual
crushed but uncrushable belief,
in relief,
in the inevitability of
hope
for you are worthy
~


July 11 ~ 22, 2015
posted at last, on
Sept.20, 2017
Reach out here, anywhere,  let's walk and talk together.  Been sitting in my  files and... today, it came and asked,
Please, release me!
~
https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwiElOWWzrTWAhUi6oMKHdA_BK0QtwIIKDAA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D-ZEgYptdjCU&usg=AFQjCNH48BJ71Z-dtF9Zi4MlkyL55QfM8w
Seher Seven Dec 2014
reality is
that plants and man
go hand in hand
that plants mans
right hand man
that mans hand
is strengthened through
plants.
plants blood
feeds man.
mans bones
feed plants.
no plants no man.
the relationship is
symbiotic.

reality is
freedom is a birthright
of all born.
freedom to do as
one yearns, pulled toward.
concrete somehow tricks
our feet into believing we are free.
though we do not hear
the message of the beat
the tune of the heat
emanating from the earth.
we miss steps, tricked by concrete.
our egos need a check.

reality is
all are symbiotic relationships.
no you no me.
I only see me because
I can see me next to you.
same with plants.
life is not linear
or clean, the dirt you sweep up
is meant for you to breath.
vibrissae deal in exclusive ways,
only allowing nutrients
and B12 in.
mysophobia is a dis-ease of the mind.

reality is
we are cut off from our home.
from our air
from our dirt
and our plants.
they too miss us.
the wisdom of life is long
the proof to **** linearity.
the trees call us to honor our bond
to sound the alarm
calmly, in the dream state
so all touch the vibration.

they call to us always.
their dreams need our ears
our hands release the inspiration
of us, together, symbiotically
creating.
Connor Smith Feb 2013
Let us lay in endless greens, and symbiotically allow the day
A simple spinning about the omphalos of heart’s creation

I want to feel the rapturous entanglement of our atoms
Bursting in fruition as melismatic chiming sighs

And in this becoming, vernal musings with parameters repealed,
We glimpse an eternal oculus by sapid lips shared


In this essence chased through time and captured by the instance
Your quantum passion yearns toward the receptacle of prophecy

I, the oracle form a forecast in rhythm’s *****
To find that the plexus of forever pulsates beneath your skin and mine
Angela Rose Nov 2023
Being the sun in your misery is dimming me
It’s parasitic
I used to see us symbiotically, I used to think we balanced each others sadness to reach mutual happiness
I was incorrect

Being the blood to your vampiric nature is draining me
It’s bloodsucking
I used to see us as co-unit, I used to think we were an equal part to each others madness and in turn we could reach sanity
I was mistaken

Being the floating device to your endless ocean is sinking me
It’s so heavy
I used to see us a lifeboat, I used to think we were carrying each other through the sea to reach the shore
You’re drowning me
and yet
I need you
a leaf a flower the wind
bring me back to you
you appear
you rise in my mind
suddenly
inevitably
unavoidably

and yet
the sun has risen and set
the flowers have faded and blossomed
without our voices
could recognize themselves
without our eyes
could fascinate themselves
symbiotically
united in another place

and yet
you were there
you are there
you'll be there
our lines confused and indivisible
oblivion
hopeless fight against myself
it is a perpetual magic
transposition of reality

and yet
I wait
I wait for you
in our secret garden
where only you can go in
just you have the key
where
silently
I love you
Raquel Butler Apr 2017
Just beyond the lapping water I lay
upon the sand
a book in hand
-of words much like my own.
Though style, thoughts, and construction unique
the form (poetry) is all so familiar and warm
like home.
How much ive grown
-from the days I’d only consume literature of tales I could dream of.
Now my taste has grown much more keen,
an eye for insight so far unseen.
Answers of which I doubt Ill find,
though nonetheless I value
like friends of mine.
And in this moment near days end
the wind is blowing
my hair on end
A shift I notice:
The way my skin gleams in the low hung sun
The way my shadow perfectly eclipses the soft sand
The way I feel so very content in the moment.
A shift I notice:
How the day has gone well
How I feel so so swell
How I smile for no reason at all.
And just for now I savor,
I see,
The world (and me) are rolling, crashing, upon the shore,
Symbiotically.
*things are looking up
today was such a good day.
MC Antone Mar 2016
Fear of it all,
Not knowing when to fall,
Working so hard for far too long,
To have it all go wrong,

Fear of alpha,
We Made scenes,
My ******* is biblical,  

I was flung from the clouds,
For clapping louder than thunder,
He casted us out,
For tugging at his crown,
Because we challenged a throne,
That failed to fold,

Here and now,
Hand selected or arrested whatever’s suggested,
As long as there’s a mic,
I’ll take the stand,
And play witness,

Groping the book oh so popular with hotel nightstands,
And before your bailiff,
I’ll promise my honesty,
Give you false hope, in my sense of loyalty,

Fearing you all
You believe I love to fib,
That’s what you teach your kids,
So do you see the guilt gushing beneath my skin?

Witness to havoc,
The day we set Heaven ablaze,
In the name of Adam,
I promise your honor,
We fought for the liberation of Eve,

But that isn’t what Father preached,

Hand in the prosecutors,
With another on the switch, guess who the defendant is,
Decadence is looking for a conviction,  

The anti-Christ’s came before the Vatican,
He’s of your genetics,

It’s inconsiderate,
You even preached providence,
It’s inconvenient,
To find out your scriptures of full of ****,

Fear of it all,
I was on the sidelines,
And Casted out,

Knowing too much for sainthood,
I tinkered with the watchmaker’s minutes, and was flung from the clouds,

Envious of humans,
But opposed to walls in Eden,
I’ll caress scripture with my finger tips,
I’ll recited your rites of pagans,
And pander to a judge, jury, and all the slaughtered lambs,

He tossed us out,
For tugging at his crown, and falling out of line,

Just a sheep counted before sleep,
But we woke up,  
When we assaulted the Angelic Order,
For fear of it all,

From incubation to graduations,
You’ve been suffocated,
Socially lacerated,
Incapacitated,
By a genre of gimmicks
Governmental deliverance,
Poisoned pulpits of pretenses,
Symbiotically capable of lethally extorting martyrdoms
I watched him rip that rib
  
Fear of you all pulling the plug on me,

I’ve worked so hard for far too long,
To let you lower my corpse,
Beneath entitled toes,

Never finding unity,
Only your sensual weakness for a delusional *******,
Detrimental martyrdoms,
I challenged a throne that refused to fold,

Fear of Alpha,
He casted me out,
To where the brimstone never burns out,  

Foaming at the brainstem,
Unhinged with a taste for their *******,
Fear of you all,
Those that surrendered to bliss,

Now you get my fear of it all,
The day I set heaven ablaze was my ultimately reckoning,
Ignorant because being different required intelligence,
Only now do I see,
Only fools challenge divinity,

A keg stand takes three dipshits,
I challenged Alpha.
Of Beelzebub’s breed,
Falling out of line,
Feeling Gabriel’s heel,
Teacher’s pet had me by the throat.
you are the generative one
the seed of infinite aspiration
palaces are built in your honor
patterns of movement and measure
can never upstage your immobile empire
your nobility is inherited
its inherent in the smallest flower
its a form of dynamic retribution
for simply becoming conscious
is never really all that easy
so breathe and surround yourself
with memories of meteoric impermanance
the tragedy of seeking in your reflection
a relief from all this suffering
is symbiotically all-perceiving
that life is neither necrotic nor entropic
as every cell is erotically pulsing
and longing for its opposite
until it fully gives itself to love
Jade Apr 2014
What are we
Where do we stand
Is there a we?
Or is it just you, is it just me
Living symbiotically.
Arlene Corwin May 2020
This is long, but go through it.  It’s worth it.      it was originally called "Words That Changed Our Lives", being inspired by the  connection between pandemonium and pandemic.  

           Pandemonium

Words that show lives but a tribe:
There to scribe, describe our lives.
Words that come from health or sickness: mind and body:
Prowess, fearless, speechless, endless;
Dangerousness, selfishness, childishness - nothing escapes;
Sowing seeds of mental shapes
That come from mind-to-mouth.

Now’s come the time to learn some new:
Epidemic and Pandemic,
Plus another word to view: Endemic.
Just a few, but whew!
Hoping that it’s not titanic - the Titanic!
Let me help you.

First came epidemics:
Measles, smallpox, influenzas…
How to conquer, name and aim,
How could and could we control the sum?  
Sometimes.  Some.
Coming back to hit us all the same,
But vanquished?  Germs and viruses not dumb -
Survive  anti-biotically (the foe of symbiotically).

Year twenty-twenty,
Epidemic now pandemic,
Plentiful and more than plenty;
Too, too many - far too many.

Struck by the invisible;
Questionable, susceptible,
Humans daring not to touch,
Wondering, asking when will it become too much?
And thus we come to the last word:
Endemic: background sound
Though underground many a year
Alive and well and waiting for…
Pandemonium 5. 14. 2020 Nature Of & In Reality; Circling Round Experience; Our Times, Our Culture II; Arlene Nover Corwin

pandemonium | ˌpandɪˈməʊnɪəm |
wild and noisy disorder or confusion; uproar: there was complete pandemonium—everyone just panicked.
ORIGIN mid 17th century: modern Latin (denoting the place of all demons, in Milton's Paradise Lost), from pan- ‘all’ + Greek daimōn ‘demon’.
pandemic
(of a disease) prevalent over a whole country or the world.
an outbreak of a pandemic disease: the results may have been skewed by an influenza pandemic.
ORIGIN mid 17th century: from Greek pandēmos (from pan ‘all’ + dēmos ‘people’) + -ic
endemic
1 (of a disease or condition) regularly found among particular people or in a certain area: complacency is endemic in industry today.
[attributive] (of an area) in which a particular disease is regularly found: the persistence of infection on pastures in endemic areas.
epidemic
1 an epidemic of typhoid: outbreak, plague, scourge, infestation; widespread illness/disease; Medicine pandemic, epizootic; formal recrudescence, boutade.
2 he's a victim of the county's joyriding epidemic: spate, rash, wave, explosion, eruption, outbreak, outburst, flare-up, craze; flood, torrent, burst, blaze, flurry; upsurge, upswing, upturn, increase, growth, rise, mushrooming; rare ebullition, boutade.
adjective
a widespread occurrence of an infectious disease in a community at a particular time: a flu epidemic.
• a sudden, widespread occurrence of an undesirable phenomenon: an epidemic of violent crime.
Darbi Alise Howe Apr 2016
It was raining and it was morning.
They sat in the car underneath a tree, upon a hill, overlooking the vast cemetery below.  Clichès still have the potential to be beautiful, they know. Intellectual awareness allows for understood symbolism, the death of that which dies at a cemetery, the emotional downpour demarcated by rain, the interstitial distance of looking forward and down.
Silence and language working symbiotically as a stratagem to both hide and reveal vulnerability.  The clichè of their location works with the conversation.
He is sad. She knows.
She knows the emotional location he lives within, she purposefully disregarded his eyes, those eyes that have always stared at her from the mirror, her eyes. The eyes of those with hollow love for themselves. The selfishness of selflessness, the facticity of unfortunate neurological tendencies, the self-imposed limitations.
They speak. He speaks.
She hears him speak, she who is devoid of empathy, she reaches empathy through his words, she hears the thesis of her own thoughts, she cries. She cries because he narrates her perception of herself, through narrating his perception of himself, and she knows the meaning of it.
He cries because it is his.
He looks away.
He says I don't want you to know the things about me. The things that are disgusting.
She loves those things. It's not enough. She knows.
She talks to herself, she talks to him.
She takes his hand, they cling to the ephemeral union.
It stops raining.
They walk into the chapel, the ashes of those who lived resting upon glass bookshelves, behind glass cases. They sit upon a couch in silence. They collapse, against each other.
Two women observe the marble of the mausoleum.
They arise. The women are startled. The women didn't see them sitting; they were three feet away.
He takes her home. They fade into wordlessness during the drive. They look at each other with desperation at a stop sign.
She says goodbye. She walks away.
They walk away.
4/9
Trevor Blevins Jul 2016
You've grown on me very symbiotically.
You've entered my blood stream.
You've raised my heart rate.
You've shown me a crystal lattice of beauty in your eye sockets.
You've convinced me I'm so much more than the average emotional man.
You've shoved the silver spoon into the jugular vein of the patriarchy.
You've never seen your potential in any mirrored distortion.
You've heard my idea of the conceptual us while I was vulnerable and sitting in your car.
You've become my sentimental 3am worries.
You've taken on all my meanings of wonder.
You've absorbed your fair share of sunlight and in your kindness have shared it with me.
Zeno Wislocki Apr 2018
A never ending battle
Between two foes
Both undefeatable
Both bigger than any other
Both capable of immense damage
Over the mind I call my own

Two foes
Fighting for the right
To destroy me
An endless tug-of-war game
The prize being the end of me

One takes the title of anxiety
But is known in many different forms
Vowing to cut me off from the world
By filling me with fear and worry
Hoping only to drive me to insanity

The other titled depression
Priding itself on killing my hopes
Vowing to cut me off from myself
By making me feel worthless
Hoping to drive me to self-hate

Crying, begging with both
To just make some compromise
A deal with two devils
In hopes of lessening their pain
Neither will have mercy
Neither will make a truce
Neither will defeat each other
Nor will they be defeated by any other

Little do they know
By clawing, scratching
At each other to get in my head
They destroy me in the process
Symbiotically they unnerve me
Together they annihilate me
They simply don’t realize
How well they work together
How well they bring me to an end
who doth like 2 gab a boot
i yam no goth thick ****** villain frum a no vile root
boot kin zee writer iz 4 re:al - here my hand there my lil shoot.

ma gray matter nada mess
of 50 shades of gray more o less
2 impress
than sentiments for female passion i metaphorically express.

this me stir wordsmith viz Bartleby the scrivener
   wordsmith doth sit alone
   playing knick knack paddy whack
   please give this dorky, goofy,
   loopy, moody, nerdy, quirky
   n wordy proto simian artfully dodging
   the erstwhile shadowy bogeyman
   more'n a herring or sun bleached wish bone
communication skills daily he doth hone
awaiting 2 convey an auditory
   familiar voice message on the telly phone.

   i readily admit not 2 be a dusty huffing marathon man
   using me phallus as a leg like runner
hoping said golem like creature will
   (upon my stern request) stay
   nor does this generic guy participate

   in any competitive reindeer games nor sports
   type son of a gunner
who knows life doth newt always go this way
which wood prompt to snag the eye
   of one tiger esse to roar with a yay.

this self anointed beastie boy bard of schwenksville, penna lives
   just a rolling stones away
   from u2 and you know moody blue who
felt avaricious, chivalrous, efficacious,

   impetuous, spontaneous view
especially with...a gal 4
   ma doo *** motley crue
2 be earnest, frank and true

n would be ambitious 2 ply
   my cognitive, furtive, intuitive
sans this salient knight thee ma sought
   after queen kin ponder n rue
computer technical challenges

   that might bring out bovine prompting a moo
maybe absorbing symbiotically genius abilities
   from one imaginary asian figure named hu
or his identical twin brother mister ma goo.
wordvango Mar 2017
conscience
through every one of my lifes
accrued
lichens symbiotically
serve  as
a metaphor
I rely on organisms
they rely on
me
this me stir wordsmith sits alone
   playing knick knack paddy whack
   please give this dorky, goofy, loopy,
   nerdy, nippy nap noopy quirky
   and wordy proto simian dodging,

   erstwhile shadowy bogeyman
   more'n a herring or sun bleached wish bone
ambitious to experience
   auditory voice o'er telly phone.

the immediate reaction sans per
   using this reply might be to toss
   in circular file (perchance
   already bid good riddance
   with previous ******* o mine)

   such wordy response away
since mine hoop for reply per non-conformity
   chances = yar come me own nitty chest
   at least 69 oceans at bay

boot, the following bit of personal trivia
   merely meant to convey
an atypical manner from this older mwm
   with some follicles of gray,

who enjoys balmy spring time temperatures
   basking in the sun during warm
   (pine scented) months of ape purr rill
   and coveted dayz o may unless being chased
   by ferocious beast of prey,

   though, i readily admit not to be a marathon runner
hoping golem like creature will
   (upon stern request) stay,
   nor does this generic guy participate
   in competitive sports 'cept sea man of a gunner

knows life doth newt always hap pin his way
which wood prompt this tiger to go yea.
this self anointed bard of Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
   lives a rolling stones away

   from u2 and moody blue who
felt avaricious, chivalrous,
   efficacious, impetuous, spontaneous
   to be earnest, frank and stine true
value bull ambitious to ply cognitive,

furtive, intuitive skills to ponder and rue
literary challenges
   might bring out bovine prompting moo
goo pan a ply per this guy

   maybe absorbing symbiotically genius abilities
   from imaginary asian figure named hu,
or his identical twin brother mister ma goo
who joost happens
   to be exemplary anime portrait
   stick figures ma phalanges drew.

unsure if this written metier reply will bomb
or fly from an older scrivener,
who resides in perkiomen valley
   nestled analogous to hand held palm
housing this fella

if (the operative word) drafted with winning
   moost definitely cause for fait accompli
   to acquire nothing short of an hock cult following
   from alf fred meta for like qualm,

   your ordinary run of the millet harry, **** chain e
   or thumbing my nose at pained tom.
this aging boomer anglophile tends to go overboard
   with english vocabulary word

aspiring to attain apex of plaudits and praise
   as being witty n creatively superb
n pardon if i submitted a similar facsimile thereof
   sans the following blurb
which moost likely will (o perhaps already)
   goot tagged as absurd.

   i call myself the muster shake e spear
   n sigh ah bard from Spring Mount hills
stumbles along boulevard of broken dreams
   with other jack hammer sons and jills

donning penchant to feign being troubadour
   with faith nor more
   where words akin to virtual skein of twirls and trills.
sorry if my impulsiveness drain ya bob bing out of sync
with mainstream formality to establish a link,

this generally sane, sensible sober older fellow
   no matter, you might presume me
   to take one to many **** kin r drink,
boot in truth, this teetotaler
   shies against various amber liquids of the dogs
   evoke king mental green day n chooses holistic methods
   to rejoice than evoking that clink.

i matthew scott alias duyeer93@aol.com = knot a slob
   could moost certainly benefit from friendship
   with one or being part of a mob
hence this rather goofy atypical reply i lob

(while gently inhaling)
   imaginary ushered by hand carved corn cob.
anyway, this aspiring scribe/scrivener
   de jure shoe lee mastered his a, b, c's,

though during test time
   all learning seemed to freeze
oh and although the follow
   wing non-sequitur added comment

   moost likely irrelevant
   back in the day o me early boyhood,
   i passed initiation nail biting rite of passion
   tickling ivory black n white keys
while learning about human species.

Can I help you???
sanchit mehta Apr 2020
Pandemic
The word itself describes its art,
Lots of deaths, people leave with a scar,
Maybe you  think its effect is temporary ,
But don’t you worry, these pity days will haunt you
Till you are buried.
The life started so beautifully, cro-magnans and environment
Living symbiotically,
What happened after that, you all know, history of the earth changed,
When the man learnt to fight and take revenge.
You really think its all a particular regime’s  fault,
Well don’t worry! I guarantee you.
Mother nature was planning this since long halt,
And why not, after what damage has been done,
Maybe she just wants to remind us ,
That power is just a time’s rust.
So bury yourself in your glass palaces,
And promise to whatever you believe,
If there is even a slight chance that you aren’t preyed,
Then you will never  ever predate.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
you want to know the difference between
a poet, and a schizophrenic?
well... apart from the fiction prose oasis
& the desert of "hopes"...
       the poet engages with a recognition
of showcasing personnas...
a schizophrenic? he can't help "hearing"
the symptom of "voices", personnas...
and that's what's tragic...
      there's no pentagram equilibrium,
there's no sensual differentiation in
a schizophrenic...
   if at least their did make schizophrenia
a political term / excuse,
scapegoat... we might peer into actual
alzheimer's disease...
           i know i have personnas, i know
that i have certain narratives, and quake
in the realm of personification...
i am a miser version of an actor...
i'm a poet, someone who is the in lowest
tier of writing systematically,
namely? if the fictive narrative invokes
the puppeteer, and the shakespeare
the narrative limitation invoking a tirade
of characters...
             then poetry is truly akin
to the philosophical monologue of
the schizoid narrator...
            because? to be frank? not many people
can interact with themselves for so long
without asking a replenishing question
via a 2nd party...
      that's why i like my pet peeve,
my pet that's neither cat, nor dog, nor a rat
in a maze...
        i like the potential of schizophrenics
in guiding the theory, of the least potential sources
of improvement of physical symptoms;
schizophrenia? dementia in free-fall...
******* bungee jumping...
    premature dementia, **** me,
what a gold mine...
             i still have to stress the "fact"
that i'm reading heidegger, following up on kant,
and at the same time acting "schizophrenic"...
i'm just wondering how long the acting
will keep me being "paid"...
     i remember doing a year 2 university
course in sociology at edinburgh university
with plagiarism systems in place...
what did i do? i plagiarised, used the thesaurus,
passed the sociology course? yep: with a 1st.
i was testing the "plagiarism" system:
evidently it failed, since i got a 1st, and all
i did was use a thesaurus... oops.
    well... **** happens...
   sometimes come the anti-architects of
cyber-sphere, and look what happens,
a person gets a 1st in a sociological essay,
having plagiarised an essay
  using nothing more than... a ******* thesaurus...
ha ha!
          plagiarism? it's an art:
you actually have to learn how to plagiarise,
to actually plagiarise; odd, isn't it?
but i know that i put on personnas from
time to time...
   i'm immune to the schizophrenic symptom
of not being able to control personnas...
the aimed at knowledge of putting
on personnas from time to time is lost
in schizophrenia...
   why?
       it's "senses", i.e. "hearing" voices...
i call schizophrenics wide-awake sleeping poets...
i have personnas, schizophrenics
have "voices"...
        schizophrenics are poets in the slouching
awakening of the function...
a personna? visually? it's like any mode
of acting... putting on a mask...
that's what's fascinating about schizophrenia:
this pathological dualism is too artistic
to be demanded as the precursor of
a demented, ageing mind, being extinguished...
hence the schizophrenic ingenuity,
a child reinvented, esp. due to the incursion
in late puberty... the child-child construct...
man? his own.
          i will tell you once again:
i know i have personnas...
          i experience drifts from myself into
a persona, for i have tested this drift with an active
ingredient, alcohol, and i know alcohol is
the most difficult placebo "fake" to ingest...      
it just takes walking down a straight line...
pretty ******* hard to miss faking ingesting it...
schizophrenia is a sleeping poetics...
    even though it will not exactly suggest
that the schizophrenic is a budding poet...
   but the dynamic is symbiotically-chiral in
how it can be best explained...
        i know my personnas in that i know
when i write as them...
a schizophrenic? he doesn't experience personnas
as i might...
      he infiltrates this abstract with
"hearing": hence the by-product, symptom?
                "voices";
it's not exactly a down-trodding of would-be
shakespeare hopefuls,
  but if i can attest to acting in the poetic (cognitive)
realm with personna(s)...
   i can only attest that i am mono-phrenic,
vector form...
                 going from (a) to (b)...
  the schizophrenic?
   well... going from (~a) to (~b)
                                   via the symptom of (c);
i ****** well hope i sound genuine in
my interest in this psychiatric condition...
in that? i hope i can overly visualise the symptom,
to alleviate the non-visualisation
of what could be worth an x-ray's worth
of creating a gram of ease...
after all... my ex girlfriend call me while
i was busy doing a roof on a construction site,
panicking, telling me: i'm hearing voices!
just ends up a piece of writing,
while listening to static x's cannibal.
Forlorn; bereft of golden
(slippered) opportunities I weep;
Three score and four years
replete with mailer daemons,
hence mindset adrip
with self denouncing expletive filled bleep
unwritten expressed recriminations
wielded upon figurative head of wimpy blip;
decades elapsed at light speed clip
as the world turned days of mein kampf

exhibited slow psychologically
torturous analogous intravenous slow drip
during emerging adulthood
approximately half life of mine,
when yours truly painstakingly
besotted with unrequited love
accursed extreme introvertedness
severely hobbled coping ability
gifted at birth with congenital weakness
mama's boy lacked ways and means
integrating himself among peers,

no supportive services to equip
shy lonely lad devoid of fellowship
palmar hyperhidrosis affected slippery grip
in tandem with being diminutive
aiming to experience childhood's end forever
son of a gun flailed with dating later in life
compromising, forsaking, and issuing
counter productively undermining
potential heterosexual relationships
invariably shooting from the hip.

Eight different prescription medications
allow umpteen combinations to yield
against bombardment that fate doth wield
delivered, signed and sealed
courtesy the grim reaper
able, eager, ready and willing
to maneuver across pitted minefield
accessing exiled soul whisking same
to idyllic place named Edenfield.

Oftimes methinks how cessation to breathe
spirit buoyed aloft, where garlands wreath
to escape hell on Earth,
where neurosis and psychosis seethe
within mine sixty plus shades of gray matter
symbiotically flourishing at expense of sanity
case in point being:
anxiety/ panic attacks
obsessive compulsive behavior,
schizoid personality disorder,

long in the tooth fellow
his sustenance similar to pablum
constituting imperial diet of worms
of the Holy Roman Empire -
called by Emperor Charles V
fit for grown baby,
especially when removing dentures
cuz he must resort to eat soft foods
unless by some miracle I teethe
for the second time.

Homegrown destructive force
muscles, tussles, wrestles,
et cetera within me
likened to (but separate from) Intifada,
(thus no insinuation this wordsmith
linkedin to any militant group)
grips mine soul asylum,
a recalcitrant doppelganger
within windmills of my mind
doth insidiously, poisonously,
and unpleasantly drum
palpably affecting writer
of these words to feel glum.

No respite whether I repose
in deep slumber or lightly awake
inescapable melancholic woes
haunts these lonely bones,
whereby system of the down
houses reticent persona constituent feature
characterized courtesy anhedonia
linkedin with passive suicidal ideation
accentuated when severe crisis erupt
analogous to smoldering volcano.

Fortunate for me the missus keenly aware
plus (despite every now and again
contention between us),
she makes crystal clear
communicating her displeasure
mixed with genuine fear
bantering deadpanning facetiously
gallows humor I half heartedly asseverate
gibberish spouting jargoneer
gravely alarms wife helpless to orienteer

conversation away from my demise,
thus figuratively switch horses
in mid stream and jockey
to calm her down
and lightening verbal exchange
by ******* from the waist down
revealing laughing stock of skinny legs
(easily mistaken for spindleshanks)
poking thru underwear
charging on imaginary steed

feigning being loco
despite NOT smoking ****,
energetic cavorting courtesy
nursing high test coffee,
nevertheless ineffective battling fatigue
despite flitting to and fro,
hither and yon bumbling along
(skeletal) joints of mine smoking hot
suddenly after sipping strong brew,
I temporarily shuck off lethargy

long enough break to out dancing
while simultaneously overtaken
to sing a song of sixpence
while wings flutter at the speed of sound
buzzfeed appetite for consumption
Ecclesiastical History of the English People,
one of our best-written sources
for early English history
authored by Venerable Bede.
alternately titled: tick tock runneth amuck
seconds elapse imperceptibly
leaving me dumbstruck,
how quickly fleeting tempus fugit;
ofttimes imagined as time thief.

Hence following vignette: quiet as a mouse lurks the time thief

The invisible hours hoarder stealthily steals precious seconds (like minute hors d'oeuvres) away during the dead of night surreptitiously and unsuspectingly robs and buries me alive by subtracting each and every precious second of my tender life.

As the world spins, the days fly by at nearly the hummingbird wings at the deathly hallow supersonic sound, this little elfin grot sized goniff (groomed by Father Time) monopolizes and usurps a greater role like some unwanted guest who overstays his welcome.

Mortality (visited by quick and painless demise) on the other hand would be an especial balm, relief and tonic to my countless decades long existential slog, which this model ’59 hew man cargo happens to be in sore need and want of that fairy tale genie in a bottle to grant me eternity.

How quickly the hands blindingly **** by instantaneously eclipsing memories from yesterday (when all my troubles seemed so far away) as I just barely shucked off the frock from today.

Meanwhile faint hints of tomorrow (albeit dark shadows creeping imperceptibly closer from the edge of night as all my children frolic in the summer of their blissful innocence totally oblivious to the galloping generational gourmand grandfatherly clocker) hungrily prowling on the outskirts of styx strewn groveling grooved globe.

Nocturnal creatures emerged from respective hideouts regaling in fleeting festivities (apropos to their species/ genus) before the curtain rises on another dawning day.

Although an unseen yet palpable grim harbinger (per prescribed existential allowance) precedes, and allocates finite years sans spontaneous birth of life, the daily hubbub finds this introspective individual self-absorbed in gloom.

Thus, he infrequently finds himself conscious of that eye popping, jaw dropping, mind boggling sheer speed of light flash representative of his passing life. Where in the world did those days, weeks, months, years, and decades go? Try as one might to catch the robber baron of ages, he/she also appears to be at least one second ahead.

These immeasurable micro moments appear to leap ever faster as one inches closer to that average length of longevity. Odd though, that these indiscriminate discrete constituent parts of being consciousness well nigh impossible to isolate, yet recognition prevails at cradle to grave cycle.

I feel utterly dumbstruck at diminishing residence on this planet now while walking along the boulevard of broken dreams. An indistinguishable blur (akin to the brushstroke of an artist across blank palette yet to be covered with an unpredictable product) the only evidence that tempus fugit.

Now as one crotchety curmudgeon contemplating cumulative chapters of mein kampf (from childhood to doddering sexagenarian senescence), nostalgia for yesteryear like a parasite symbiotically festering inside for unrequited liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

The second these minute, gnarled, bent arthritic fingers manage to lay hands on that bleeping son of a blank, hours and days will be like one endless months long week-end without parental supervision.

Throughout mankind's awakened consciousness
elusive abstract notion
identifying past, present, and future
adopted as avuncular personification;
Father Time an apropos sobriquet
impossible concept to grasp
within the mind of one Finnish huckabuck,
whose clodhoppers get mired in muckamuck
analogous to quicksand yours truly stuck
markedly challenged, hence
mission scuttled when attempting to zuck.

Ever since the advent of civilization
contrivances crafted to measure
days, weeks, months...
years, decades, centuries...
analytical “gifted” anonymous minds,
wrought ever more sophisticated inventions
to divide existence into manageable units.

Now twenty first century **** sapiens
technological atomic clock work mechanisms
markedly catapulted by quantum leaps
immense degrees of precision  
extremely accurate types of devices
linkedin with state of the art electronics.

At this fleeting instant
(approximately 8:18 AM
September 13th, 2022)
ever so briefly wedged between
what elapsed and future events to arise)
impossible mission to isolate
that illusory present,

not only cuz the herein now
flits away at light speed
(or greater - you're right quite dubious),
but also everywhere within
cosmic space/time continuum
infinite microscopic and
macroscopic events occur.

As an amateur thinker
I feel baffled when pondering
that crude convenient schema
whereby greater minds than mine
devised devices to measure passage of time.

Yours truly can barely articulate
his farfetched dumbfoundedness,
me merely a simple brute
(shortish but not so nasty),
whose permanently creased
furrowed brow courtesy
his scrutinizing noggin
encasing fifty plus shades of gray matter,

whereby one percent bonafide Neanderthal
deoxyribonucleic acid explains
atavistic predilection issuing primal grunting,
when foraging for small (lame) game,
cuz feeble minded twenty first century
run of the mill garden variety **** sapiens
amuses himself (mentally)
toying with Einsteinian paradigm.

Though barely able to fathom
mind bending and boggling concepts
theoretically linkedin if an object
subjected to travel speed of light
(particularly an objet d'art - ha

think The Persistence of Memory
series of clock paintings by Salvador Dali)
mass becomes infinite
as does energy required to move entity.

Obviously the ability to wrap one's head
(or hands for that matter) around,
humongous (super sized) material essence
filling subsequent seconds, minutes, hours...
defies feasibility to grasp,

neither could ways nor means
allow, enable and provide
any semblance to hold (tangibly) as solid
something so abstract
as a singular moment, yes?

The above (ambiguously stated) thought exercise
equally as challenging where to locate
beginning and/or ending point
upon Möbius strip.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
you want to know the difference between
a poet, and a schizophrenic?
well... apart from the fiction prose oasis
& the desert of "hopes"...
       the poet engages with a recognition
of showcasing personnas...
a schizophrenic? he can't help "hearing"
the symptom of "voices", personnas...
and that's what's tragic...
      there's no pentagram equilibrium,
there's no sensual differentiation in
a schizophrenic...
   if at least their did make schizophrenia
a political term / excuse,
scapegoat... we might peer into actual
alzheimer's disease...
           i know i have personnas, i know
that i have certain narratives, and quake
in the realm of personification...
i am a miser version of an actor...
i'm a poet, someone who is the in lowest
tier of writing systematically,
namely? if the fictive narrative invokes
the puppeteer, and the shakespeare
the narrative limitation invoking a tirade
of characters...
             then poetry is truly akin
to the philosophical monologue of
the schizoid narrator...
            because? to be frank? not many people
can interact with themselves for so long
without asking a replenishing question
via a 2nd party...
      that's why i like my pet peeve,
my pet that's neither cat, nor dog, nor a rat
in a maze...
        i like the potential of schizophrenics
in guiding the theory, of the least potential sources
of improvement of physical symptoms;
schizophrenia? dementia in free-fall...
******* bungee jumping...
    premature dementia, **** me,
what a gold mine...
             i still have to stress the "fact"
that i'm reading heidegger, following up on kant,
and at the same time acting "schizophrenic"...
i'm just wondering how long the acting
will keep me being "paid"...
     i remember doing a year 2 university
course in sociology at edinburgh university
with plagiarism systems in place...
what did i do? i plagiarised, used the thesaurus,
passed the sociology course? yep: with a 1st.
i was testing the "plagiarism" system:
evidently it failed, since i got a 1st, and all
i did was use a thesaurus... oops.
    well... **** happens...
   sometimes come the anti-architects of
cyber-sphere, and look what happens,
a person gets a 1st in a sociological essay,
having plagiarised an essay
  using nothing more than... a ******* thesaurus...
ha ha!
          plagiarism? it's an art:
you actually have to learn how to plagiarise,
to actually plagiarise; odd, isn't it?
but i know that i put on personnas from
time to time...
   i'm immune to the schizophrenic symptom
of not being able to control personnas...
the aimed at knowledge of putting
on personnas from time to time is lost
in schizophrenia...
   why?
       it's "senses", i.e. "hearing" voices...
i call schizophrenics wide-awake sleeping poets...
i have personnas, schizophrenics
have "voices"...
        schizophrenics are poets in the slouching
awakening of the function...
a personna? visually? it's like any mode
of acting... putting on a mask...
that's what's fascinating about schizophrenia:
this pathological dualism is too artistic
to be demanded as the precursor of
a demented, ageing mind, being extinguished...
hence the schizophrenic ingenuity,
a child reinvented, esp. due to the incursion
in late puberty... the child-child construct...
man? his own.
          i will tell you once again:
i know i have personnas...
          i experience drifts from myself into
a persona, for i have tested this drift with an active
ingredient, alcohol, and i know alcohol is
the most difficult placebo "fake" to ingest...      
it just takes walking down a straight line...
pretty ******* hard to miss faking ingesting it...
schizophrenia is a sleeping poetics...
    even though it will not exactly suggest
that the schizophrenic is a budding poet...
   but the dynamic is symbiotically-chiral in
how it can be best explained...
        i know my personnas in that i know
when i write as them...
a schizophrenic? he doesn't experience personnas
as i might...
      he infiltrates this abstract with
"hearing": hence the by-product, symptom?
                "voices";
it's not exactly a down-trodding of would-be
shakespeare hopefuls,
  but if i can attest to acting in the poetic (cognitive)
realm with personna(s)...
   i can only attest that i am mono-phrenic,
vector form...
                 going from (a) to (b)...
  the schizophrenic?
   well... going from (~a) to (~b)
                                   via the symptom of (c);

i ****** well hope i sound genuine in
my interest in this psychiatric condition...
in that? i hope i can overly visualise the symptom,
to alleviate the non-visualisation
of what could be worth an x-ray's worth
of creating a gram of ease...

after all... my ex girlfriend call me while
i was busy doing a roof on a construction site,
panicking, telling me: i'm hearing voices!

just ends up a piece of writing,
while listening to static x's cannibal.

____
i'll listen to your byzantine chants,
i will,
and i will: gladly...
i'll even pour hot wax into
my hands,
and say:
of those born from dirt,
i call unto you,
to claim being also born from
wax!
blood cult....
how much difference is
there, peering into
a candle-flame,
than what Thor,
becoming Prometheus came....
bringing down
lightning,
in the variant of fire via
                electricity!
i will listen to your byzantine chants...
and i will also add...
"inner" and "outer" beauty,
and the socratic warning...
he said, didn't he?
'it doesn't whether i'm
beautiful, or whether i'm ugly...
i hope my personality lifts me up.'
did it?
      em... last time i heard...
he was poisoned publically!
fated with such horrors of the natural
world...
  not wonder, then,
that people look up to
the aesthetically pleasing!

         wasn't it a psychiatrist that tried
to insert a memory regression
into me?
         i was.... abused as a child?
yeah... i was...
i taught myself how to *******
aged 8, finding a pornographic
magazine... in the catacombs
of a newly built church...
    and conrad's mother...
who pushed me into a gaping
black hole of a well...
       too many people have tried
to **** me, i'm bored of waiting
for death...

            but these minor, "instances",
attempts, at my life?
they bore me...
       i am only thinking
about griding the people
     associated,
their bones, into dust...
     what's worse though...
a psychiatrist would dare, dare!
to implant false memories into
my mind!
sure, my grandfather was
an alcoholic, he has now succumbed
to critical dementia,
he still buys me cigarettes...
he was the one who bought
me a book collection,
spanning aristotle through
to kołakowski...

               in the realm of the 5P's:
poets, philosophers,
               priests, prostitutes,
psychiatrists...
    i'd trust only the prostitutes...

         this, is, england,
                         i'm only a schizophrenic,
because, i'm also bilingual...
                            and what's the difference
between someone who's schizophrenic
and someone who's bilingual?
       em...          the division of having in
"excess" a second language?
            why wouldn't i be angry?
i will still listen to byzantine chants...
        Αγνή Παρθένε....
            really?! seriously?!
the greeks / the geeks are attempting
to implement diacritical markers?!
what for?!
                 tell me,
what's the difference between ή and έ?
             eh?!                             Ǝ E?!
the greeks should have never been given
access to the knowledge of diacritical
markers, they over-did-it...
they... exaggerated...
                     what, between the moving
trojan army from rome through
to london,
not picking up the "scents"?
and with the greeks making excessive
demands in the orthographic realm?
and the moving troyans
not implementing, at all?

                       of course anything outside
the comfortable norm, will have to be deemed:
schizoid...
     no arm-chair comforts of an easily
ridicule i.q.,
           i'm not exactly tripping on
l.s.d., but my mind,
is convusling,
perpetually pulverising the status quo...

i hate pandering to the greeks...
         like they "think" they're the new arabs...
what "knowledge" of diacritical
application, prior, to this, observation?
none! even the russians
do not own diacritical orthoraphy!
what's their best, e.g.?
й, yew,
          ё, yew (fake, invention of the 21st
"revisionism")
        oh, look, a grapheme (ч): ch-atter...
   akin to æ...
       hard sign: twardy znak (ъ)...
it can't even be as eloquent as tilde,
upsilon, etc., it has to follow up
on the letter, ******* up the spelling
rubric...
  объект... eh? ob-ject?!
      this some sort of "neu" punctuation?
j "=" y?
                     well then...
                        soft sign: miękki znak (ь)...
so the russian trinity:

        ы
                  ъ        
                 ­             ь

щ? szczypta soli (pinch of salt)

i'd love to see russian memes,
akin to ю (u)       я (ya)
           ты  бюдиед, я, бюдиед -
ю: skew and parabola the rest of "it",
harasho?

                  пeппeр рaппep...

but still no chuckles or jays...
dzin                or                jinn...

          ­                         hey! it's language...
it's bound to, it's actually supposed to,
look, "ugly"...
                          no borders,
                           no concern for the awaiting
testimonies of transcendence...
                these days?
     you safest bet?
              is to join me, in the least
of all the desired expectations...
      i'm not asking for polymaths,
or polyglots...
              just the new threshold...
       two tongues...
                                   at least...
                        and then, at least a phonetic
encoding knowledge of two more.
KG Mar 2020
3
You succeed.
In laws of three. You will find the peace you
Wish to believe exists but for now is hidden under heaving fits of painful death, a test to draw out that which never minds rejecting the demands of other beings
Hammer under nail, no compare to restless privy minds slowly counting time until the new tragedies arrive.
Release your hold of pieces calling out for pain to pair once treasured memories. Now staring out with infectious longing, ready to be looked upon smirking and expectant the turncoat thoughts revel in the task at hand. Their assault starts as soon as the thought is called
Aftermath
Released to the gravity, by themselves they fall apart
Into place, covering flesh torn with sympathy
Released from beasts that grit their teeth in painful defeat, as, yes,
you rise to your feet, Torn to pieces, yet completely at peace, distant memory terror dreams distort to bring chaotic memoirs of cataclysmic merriment.
You utilize the pieces to assure your release from pains prison to pleasant pastures. Please just remember never obey the masters. Create sarcastic narratives pledging senators to heretics. Don't trust fantasy banner ******* brand name Promoters. Lœsers leading children to sheep eye machîne, specially crafted master adapters hard wire minds to the one percent agenda, intuition driven minions giving men to temptress, hoof to fenthris, dope to misfits, coke bottles to **** maker accomplices driven awkward and subsequently dove off for bottom place.
Freebie

I mote it. Be recieved with sight conscious of that which truth and wisdom delight.
Everfolding hands coalesce in geometry of design, symbols to be applied to help those who can't live. Honestly.
A prophetic glance manifests what this prophet percieves within this mess.

This species will mirror the mentality of the dust
It's depths a source of nourishment and plenty to us, the rust
Will we find the hero to navigate the puppetmasters collective cluster conglomerate commissioning commonwealth copperpot penny peasantry meat, footwoorkin the fleet floggers, ambushing citizens in the streets with collars, brainwashing caverns codependent on caging the masses like sheep to slaughter.
"But if we'd known we'd scream and holler! I'd rise to protect my property, my guns, my freedoms, my rights!"
Right, no, I'm sure you'd fight, you'd obviously gather friends to your plight, indigenous rage at the thought that the night would defend those evil shadow people encroaching on your ability to reason.
Shut the **** up, what the **** have you done to avenge those innocents of fate, unknowingly recollecting secrets of the state
Hate not flaking over city lake waters like mirrors hiding secrets well obvious.

Money & public resources alleviate proof of collusion simple doors of power hold new potential outcomes timed each revolution the little hand dares to travel. that of a sacrifice, willing or not, to help scare the sheep into buying as much of their stock, if your worried please do not, the flock will forget what they saw as soon as the image and story are gone.

Gotta be.

A solution so fitting it belongs in the movies, but that's how we forgot how to think, outside
For ourselves,for them, or the others
Rebelling as one towards sisters and brothers
*******, I need show my true face
Walk calmy down the streets,
Calm sure pace.
Talk macabre to the one's who own the fleets, spread the sheets to occupy the godhead, sift the merry morning stocks press against the current sea, then bust out enough to make me n mine a new currency.
Probably
Not so sore plot B soars blotting lenses before but not training more thoughts to war forescore before plot thickening remorse runs it course.
A new day in gotham city means unity throughout forgotten realms of hypocrisy. A cure-all demonstration that revels insanity for placid reasonably dressed persons composed, unfearing conversations of dominating resolve, stoicism spinning round professional mannerisms focusing on abilities that take the core of our rotten hearts and heal the waste, now it stays, hurting less sounds okay away from the corrupted hunting of weak willed pumpkins jumped over plummeting suns, all for one's been a worn out joke, once well spoken juxtaposed to unholy notions unnaposed sides take thrill **** maxxing to disastrous uprising in past the warcasters
Talked with the enemy over tea and brunch of tables shared only with tokens of luck, fliping thrice indicates which squadron lots gets iced.
Word gets out and like fire it don't take much for a war to sprout in the bogs of ire, but before it's allowed, the dog rise together finally to figure **** out, creating together masterpieces on earth to reoccur annually until our home is brought back to a state we continue symbiotically.
Fate to be

**** it all, the last of my regrets was all reasoning needed to keep breathing.
Something other than this wretch that I am
Existing for no reason but to help others pass the seasons with my singing
Michael Marchese Nov 2019
Don’t know where I’m going
With this one at all
Just put pen to the paper
And let the words fall
Scrawling what’s second nature
To me
Easily
And since I can remember
Congenitally
Have I been
Symbiotically linked
To the ink
Synchronized,
Deep inside
It divines what I think
And I guide it
To keep reading my
Peace of mind
As it glides like the tides
On the shorelines of time
With the grace of a pianist’s fingers
Through chimes
With melodic  
Methodically
Hypnotic rhymes
It designs
Then decides
Every subsequent line
As if stars
In a perfect night’s sky
We align
Vital signs
Intertwined
In a quest to describe
What alive and a lover
To die for
Implies
Kurt Philip Behm Mar 2021
If being and the world
are one and the same
Then thinking and thoughts
are together to name
With freedom and consciousness
semantically fused
All judgment and will
—symbiotically cued

(Baldwin School: March, 2021)
Ryan O'Leary Nov 2020
The windscreen wipers on Irish
vehicles are not symbiotically
in ratio with the rhythm of rain.

It's only at cow or rail crossings one
finds sufficient time and vision to
read what has been index fingered
on the backs of mud splattered trucks
while they were stopped on the RED.

Number protruding license plates are
already illegible, brake lights and tail
lights dimmed by that friendly dirt that
sticks like a stray dog would to you.
Impossible to discern which are which.

Indicators, but for flashing, could
be those of a Sacred Heart lamp.

    "Mobile Library Rural Service "

Elevated enough from the road to have
escaped the back wash of tandem axle'd
wheels with tyres treaded sufficiently to
pass the warrant of fitness thus capable
of ejecting sullied slime high enough into
the air to efficiently tarnish at least a four
car tail back on the medieval roading system.

At least, there was a piece of graffiti, or be
it moving art (albeit unfinished) to read.

                   I tried to join Men-
            -sa but my Haiku was a
                      wee bit too lo
Ryan O'Leary Jun 2020
The primary art of posing
as a living statue is being
able to conceal breathing.

Of secondary importance,
is maintaining a position
without falling off a perch.

Being coupled symbiotically
these are two inseparables
the ultimate co-dependents.

Therefore it is impossible
if one is not permitted to
breathe in and out freely.

Which means George Floyd
will never become a living
statue for this basic reason.
Preface: Lilya is a bound soul, a human being whose soul is tied directly to a demon. The demon and human live symbiotically, each acting as a protector and extension of their consciousness.

The air was ice cold, making Lilya's breath fog in front of her as she sat up. It was nearly pitch black in the room, save for a few stray beams of moonlight through boarded up windows. She held her breath and listened intently for any trace of life. To her relief and dismay, there was none. She had hoped for the familiar sound of Soryn's breathing but the room was silent, save for the creaking of floorboards elsewhere. Her mind felt fuzzy, like she'd been drinking. She felt a sharp pain within her mind as something pried it's way out. Jayda's voice screamed in Lilya's head. "LET ME OUT!!!!"
Lilya flinched and attempted to calm her, "Jayda whoa! What's going on?"
Lilya could feel Jayda's conscience relax, "Oh thank the devil, I'm finally out. When you got knocked out I got forced into the back of your mind, and I couldn't break free. I think we may have been drugged or cursed temporarily."
Lilya nodded, "Do you have any idea where we are or what's going on? Where's Soryn?"
Jayda shrugged. "I wish I knew, my senses aren't working right. I think we're really far away from where we were."
Lilya frowned and tried to reach out her conscience to find help, but to no avail. She could barely extend herself ten feet ahead of her. She panicked slightly and traced a rune over the back of her hand, the same one that Soryn had on his. To her relief it glowed a dull purple. "He's okay. Thank the devil."
Lilya glanced around as her eyes adjusted. The room looked like it was part of an old house, close to a hundred years old. The walls and floor looked well worn and much worse for wear than should be possible. Detris and debris were scattered around haphazardly. A thin layer of dust was on a lot of it, showing signs of abandonment, though there were fresher tracks leading to Lilya. The tracks didn't belong to her, but it looked as if she'd been carried into the room and then her carrier had vanished, as there were no tracks leading away from her. There was a black hallway in front of her, and beyond that was uncertain. Lilya swallowed hard and felt the hairs on her arms and neck stand on end.
She could feel Jayda's efforts in keeping Lilya's heart beating slowly so as not to attract anything to them. Lilya put a hand down to steady herself and found her palm resting on the grip of a gun. She blinked as she gripped the cold steel and lifted the gun into view. No dust. This had been placed here alongside her deliberately.
Lilya instinctively pushed the button on the side of the gun, dropping the magazine into her hand. It felt heavy, fully loaded. She guessed she had about thirteen shots before she was *******. She dismissed the thought of her impending demise as she slid the magazine back into place. Lilya could feel Jayda's apprehension colliding with her own and she shut her eyes. "We may as well get moving. Dead or not I can't just sit here."
Lilya carefully stood up, trying fervently to make as little noise as possible. Now on her feet, she took a moment to check her pockets. To her surprise, she still had her phone and her lighter, though she had the feeling she shouldn't use either of them frivolously. Jayda echoed Lilya's thoughts as she said, "Any light will more than likely attract unwanted attention. Deadly attention."
Lilya thought about how to proceed. She could just charge blindly forward, stumble across some trap or hazard and die foolishly, or she could be methodical, choosing each step carefully. She decided to rely on what little area she could see with her extended conscience to guide her. At the least it would keep her from tripping over debris or running face first into a wall.
Lilya took a deep breath and took a confident step forward, shifting her weight slowly. The boards creaked quietly, accepting her cautious steps. Lilya focused on the darkness ahead of her, her senses on high alert. The hallway was barren as far as she could tell, save for a few scraps of paper she wouldn't have been able to read. The hall was roughly fifteen careful steps long and took almost the same amount of time to traverse.
As Lilya stood at the end of the hallway, she heard a sinister reptilian hiss somewhere in the building. She held her breath as she heard soft thudding beneath her. She thought to Jayda, "Either we're on a high level or there's a basement."
Jayda remarked, "Either way, I'm not looking forward to meeting whatever that was."
Lilya turned her attention back on finding her way out. She glanced to her right and listened carefully as wind rocked the house slightly. she could sense another hallway leading to her right, deeper into the darkness. However, as she took the first step down the corridor, a single flame ignited at eye level, as if it were a candle springing to life. She froze, was someone holding it? It didn't seem to move at all, only the flickering of the flame.
As Lilya took a step forward, so did the flame. She realized that someone was holding it, perhaps someone else trapped here? She couldn't be certain but she stepped forward again, aiming the gun just above the flame, where it's carrier's head should be. The figure stepped forward simultaneously, it's motion as cautious as her own. Lilya grit her teeth in fear and determination as she stepped forward again. The flame flickered again and now lilya could see the bearer. She froze as she saw a mirror like image of herself illuminated by the flame of a lighter. Her lighter. Lilya's hand crept to her pocket, feeling the block of metal right where it should be. The lit face blinked in confusion and glanced around, as if not seeing Lilya in front of her. At this distance, Lilya should have been lit up, if even just slightly. Something seemed off, and Mirror Lilya opened her mouth as if to say something but turned away, as if startled. Lilya stood deadly still as she watched her mirror image turn slightly, the flame arcing around horizontally around her. Jayda was oddly quiet and Lilya asked within her mind, "What the hell is going on?"
Jayda stifled a response with a simple, "Sshh!"
Lilya looked again and saw that her mirror image had turned back towards her and had taken another step, nearly directly in front of Lilya.
Lilya held her breath and kept the gun aimed at the person in front of her. Confusion crept through Lilya's mind as Jayda pointed out that the mirror hadn't reacted to Lilya or the gun. Lilya looked closer at the doppelganger and focused on a mark across her chest, like a faded scar crossing from the high sternum to the inner arm. Lilya bit her tongue as she reached up and felt the same scar crossing her own chest. "Is this really me? What the hell?"
Lilya didn't have time to ponder an answer as the person in front of her gasped and dropped the lighter. As the flame fell, Lilya could see a fistful of razor sharp claws clutching the mirror's heart. The body slumped and disappeared from Lilya's view as the flame extinguished on the ground. A strong chord of fear reverberated within her as she imagined what beast lay just in front of her. She dare not light her own lighter for fear of attracting the same fate. "Jayda. What just happened."
Jayda hesitated before responding quietly, "I... I'm not sure how to explain it. But you just saw yourself die."
Lilya frowned, "Well... Yeah but. Was it me? Or an illusion? Or what?"
Jayda was quiet again. Lilya queried again, "Jayda?"
Jayda's voice was delicate, as if she were afraid the information may hurt Lilya. "It was another version of yourself. From an alternate timeline if I had to guess."
Lilya frowned, "So in other timelines I'm still stuck here? And why was I able to see her... Er... Myself?"
Jayda sounded agitated, "I'm not sure. This is a first for me too. But one thing is for certain now. We are not alone here."
Lilya nodded, "And we know not to use the lighter."
Lilya took a step forward, half expecting her foot to collide with a body. To her relief, her foot was met with hardwood floor. The next few steps were agonizingly slow and the tension I'm the air was only growing. Jayda squirmed inside her as she screamed, "STOP!"
Lilya froze in place and held her breath as Jayda guided Lilya's gaze to her right, where the faintest shadow was cast with light from a nearby window. She was at the mouth of a large room, possibly a living room, and something large was moving in the center. She could faintly hear a lapping sound and the slight pattering of liquid on the wooden floor. Jayda squirmed even more, "Oh **** oh **** oh **** do NOT ******* move for the love of God. That's a ******* angel."
Lilya frowned, "I thought angels were supposed to be like, divine benevolent beings or something?"
Jayda scoffed, "**** no! Angels are brutal, heartless killers. They feed on the corpses of their victim's to keep fueling their sick bloodlust. You ever wonder why angels only ever show up in the Bible when someone needed to die? They're monsters."
Lilya swallowed and took a deep breath. "So what do I do?"
Ryan O'Leary Oct 2020
We have inverted snobbery
there is reverse psychology
sometimes optical illusions
occasionally mirages often
chameleons messaging via
subliminal advertising and
a host of other methods all
designed to conceal delude
or deceive for political and
government control of the
unquestioning masses who
are proven receptacles for
believing virtually anything
because religions proved
this worldwide for centuries.

How about this as an example.

When the rice Vietnam* farmers
were walloping the ***** out of
The Americans and coffins were
coming home by the day in dozens,
the government decided that it was
best the population did not see this
so, the deaths were cranked down
(This is an opposite you must note)

During the first wave of Covid 19,
the governments did the opposite
to the Vietnam example and cranked
the numbers up. People sat at home
and saw coffins being hauled away
in hundreds, statistics splashed across
screens and news papers and that
according to licence paying viewers
had to be true because the Government
said so and besides, why would they
be faking it?

Do you recall seeing an asterisk * up
the page and wondered why I put it
there?

Scroll back up and if you can't deduce
what is going one here, then there is
no hope for you.

Ps.

I have decided that Conspiracy is the
antonym of Propaganda good cop bad
cop stuff, but unfortunately most people
support the Governments and call people
like me Conspiracists, that is because we
are the minority and do be aware that the
majority are always wrong, always, that is
why democracy works on the principle of
two wrongs make a right, as in two cigarette
lighters, one has flint and no gas the other has
gas and no flint, but symbiotically two wrongs
make a light. So, as you see with elections, every
four years the wrongs get a chance to right, all
a game for the sheep who are herded from one
pen to another, same dog, same shepherd only
the field is different and all they want is enough
grass to keep them happy, make Brebis and Bah -
versus being alive
predicated victory videre licet lunatic
if Trump ******* Kamala Harris
and stole 2024 presidential election,  
(whereat Musk bribed
significant number of voters
handing out wads of cash)
courtesy underhanded modus operandi
and devious and sinister schemes.

Forlorn; bereft of golden
(slippered) opportunities I weep;
Three score and five years
replete with mailer daemons,
hence mindset adrip
with self denouncing
expletive filled bleep
unwritten expressed recriminations
wielded upon figurative
head of wimpy blip;
decades elapsed at light speed clip

as the world turned
days of mein kampf
exhibited slow psychologically
torturous analogous intravenous slow drip
during emerging adulthood
approximately half life of mine,
when yours truly painstakingly
besotted with unrequited love
accursed extreme introvertedness
severely hobbled coping ability

still reeling after being scammed
gobs of greenbacks
approximately sixteen months ago
gifted at birth with congenital weakness
such as being gullible to ruthless conartists
mama's boy lacked ways and means
integrating himself among peers:
no supportive services to equip
shy lonely lad devoid of fellowship
even as grown man
lost in space whereat

maximum head room cramped
with obsessive compulsive thoughts
social services slated for chopping block
if Project 2025 implemented
and if father or mother
were alive they would flip
at the course of political divisiveness
sowed by MAGA
onymous nasty brute,
where palmar hyperhidrosis
affected slippery grip

in tandem with being diminutive
aiming to experience
childhood's end forever
son of a gun flailed
with dating later in life
analogous to psyche
subjected to fracking
compromising, forsaking, and issuing
counter productively undermining
potential heterosexual relationships
invariably shooting from the hip.

Nine different prescription medications
allow umpteen combinations to yield
against bombardment that fate doth wield
delivered, signed and sealed
courtesy the grim reaper
able, eager, ready and willing
to maneuver across pitted minefield
accessing exiled soul whisking
vis a vis grim reaper same
to idyllic place named Edenfield.

Oftimes methinks
how cessation to breathe
spirit buoyed aloft,
where garlands wreath
to escape hell on Earth,
where neurosis and psychosis seethe
within mine sixty plus five
shades of crumbling sheet rock
think scree ming atrophying gray matter
symbiotically, dramatically,
and alphabetically flourishing
at expense of sanity
case in point being

anxiety/ panic attacks
obsessive compulsive behavior,
schizoid personality disorder,
long in the tooth fellow
his sustenance similar to pablum
constituting imperial diet of worms
of the Holy Roman Empire -
called by Emperor Charles V
fit for grown baby,
especially when removing dentures
cuz he must resort to eat soft foods
unless by some miracle I teethe
for the third time.

Homegrown destructive force
muscles, tussles, wrestles,
et cetera within me
likened to (but separate from) Intifada,
(thus no insinuation this wordsmith
linkedin to any militant group)
grips mine soul asylum,
a recalcitrant doppelganger
within windmills of my mind
doth insidiously, poisonously,
and unpleasantly drum
palpably affecting writer
of these words to feel glum.

No respite whether I repose
in deep slumber or lightly awake
inescapable melancholic woes
haunts these lonely bones,
whereby system of the down
houses reticent persona constituent feature
characterized courtesy anhedonia
linkedin with passive suicidal ideation
accentuated when severe crisis erupt
analogous to smoldering volcano.

Fortunate for me the missus keenly aware
plus (despite every now and again
contention between us),
she makes crystal clear
communicating her displeasure
mixed with genuine fear
bantering deadpanning facetiously
gallows humor I half heartedly asseverate
gibberish spouting jargoneer
gravely alarms wife helpless to orienteer

conversation away from my demise,
thus figuratively switch horses
in mid stream and jockey
to calm her down
and lightning verbal exchange
by ******* from the waist down
revealing laughing stock of skinny legs
(easily mistaken for spindleshanks)
poking thru underwear
charging on imaginary steed

feigning being loco
despite NOT smoking ****,
energetic cavorting courtesy
nursing high test coffee,
nevertheless ineffective battling fatigue
despite flitting to and fro,
hither and yon bumbling along
(skeletal) joints of mine smoking hot
suddenly after sipping strong brew,
I temporarily shuck off lethargy

long enough break to out dancing
while simultaneously overtaken
to sing a song of sixpence
while wings flutter at the speed of sound
buzzfeed appetite for consumption
Ecclesiastical History of the English People,
one of our best-written sources
for early English history
authored by Venerable Bede.

— The End —