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zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

............
Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

................
SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

......................

.
IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
...............
PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

.............
OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
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kali ma Apr 2010
You are the rock stuck inside of  my sock.

You are drying off naturally after the longest shower in history, because you forgot the towel.

Like the string that is hanging off of my sweater.  I keep tugging it and

pretty soon it is short enough for July weather.

The person using the car horn instead of ringing a door bell.

The low battery symbol on my cell.

Pungent perfume from a co-worker, the grossest smell.

The **** that asks for the red piece from your package of sweets.

The friend who cancels five minutes before every time you meet.

The rap artist that thanks God when he wins an award, even though his

songs are just about killing.

Medical technicians milling about when your arm really is broken.

The chapstick left in the pocket when the clothes are in a dryer.

Dress pants for work that are so tight, you feel you must be riding a wire.

The friend's children that you think are rude,

Unexpected company when you and your lover were getting in the mood.

But I guess it is just easier to say, I just don't have a good attitude.
Carla Blaschka Jul 2015
What can we do once we are ordinary?


Mother Teresa an ordinary nun, just a woman.

Oscar Romero an ordinary cleric, just a man.

The Beatles an ordinary band, just musicians.

An ordinary office worker changed all of China when he stopped the tanks in Tianamen Square.

An ordinary woman changed the rules about ****** harassment in the American workplace, by accident, just trying to embarrass a Supreme Court nominee.

An ordinary housewife changed the world. In a peaceful way. In a non-violent way. Corazon Aquino toppled the might of the American-backed Marcos regime.


We need moms and dads, teachers and technicians, people who work and people who play.
Pearl divers and trash removers. We need ordinary people doing ordinary things everyday - like being a carpenter - to make our world an extraordinary place.

What can we do once we are ordinary? We can save the world.
Accessory poem to Death or Chocolate. You can hear it live at; http://youtu.be/0Z1tduHMnTY
jeffrey conyers Apr 2013
Many people remind us of the Lord.
They venture into places we dare not go.
It might be the ghetto or the wealthy side of town.
Where pretense is in the people you know?

They have the heart of the Good Samaritans.
Where assisting those in need?
Is there only agenda.

They mean no harm.
And many never seem alarm.
But more comfortable.

It's been stated many of us live in a comfort zone.
Surrounded by security from the real sociaty.
Where fear controls your every move?

These brave souls acts on reaction.
Always seeking a satifaction to the crisis.
They have the heart of a Good Samaritan.

Emergency Technicians.
They have the heart of a Good Samaritan.
Fire  personnel.
They have the heart of a Good Samaritan.
Law enforcement.
They have the heart of a Good Samaritan.
Counselors, charity workers.
They have the heart of a Good Samaritan.
All honorable soldiers.
They have the heart of a Good Samaritan.
And brave parents.
They have the heart of a Good Samaritan.
Especially when we see them stand up to those trying to be mean.

When others would avoid getting involved.
We must remember there are those that honorable in the eyes of God.
When people with titles refuses to fight.
They need to remember they walking in darkness instead of the light.

Comfortable in doing wrong.
Instead of doing right.
Fah Oct 2013
Only once you reach new frontiers
does the human mind decide they want to expand a little more
there is only
one

one love

one peace

one number that counts

when it comes to crunch time and you are lost in the dark where else can you turn to but you?

when there is government corruption and manipulaton of information

and there is no such thing as a truthful lie

expect

the worst they say , but come,  one is not the number i'm talking about

i'm talking about 0.

the halo , the magicians secret .

add a 0 to any number and suddenly, it's worth a heck of a lot more.

And my dear friends, fellow poets ...weaver of words....minstrels of sound , technicians of language - there is one very , very , very , very subtle thing that i reckon... we know better than any legislation paper or cop with gun to head or bomb dropped or whatever warfare you want to call this


is , the ideas in our poems are not always our own,

unknowingly... or to some perhaps knowingly we have connected each other to each other

string theory using words as dimensions.
Mitchell Jun 2011
Bone of the future lord enters his word and the way he handles his strangers is very tough, very real. You asked yourself the question of what it meant to be an "artist" and the shackles bore through your skin for' the night was young in both of our eyes, the streets never clearer we are alone now and yet you say not a thing from the way you move and the whispering phantoms of the clicking tombs with crumbling moss covered keldoscope membrane lobe counterparts BUT YOU KNOW NOT A THING OF THE WORLD screamed the fifty nine year old writer who's mother wrote better letters, held more wit for the coughing fit allowed death to TAKE HIS PICK lo' the experimentation of the HUMAN MIND, release oneself to technology for the dystopia is VERY REAL and we will of course TRY TO STEAL the thunder from the God's but they will clap and churn and spit ancient guts and fire brimming stone from world's unknown and mother and her eternal nature will smile because she enjoys it when it is nice and quiet and the foreign tides were never foreign to HER low and ye' fathers call thee to the streets, the crumbling yellow painted majesties of the artistic and culturally autistic evolution where form and forever are forced to live within the confines of the MATERIAL WORLD, the rambling retards of the revolution of lore is upon the meek streets filled with actors and technicians of their own human mind unable to dine at ARBY'S or DENNY'S for fear of catching the black plague of common middle class mediocrity. Tie the black tie tighter so the head of the "gifted" allows no more air within the mind so to cut him off completely. Last night was the night I fell in love and in the morning I awoke another man. Complete is not the word I would describe myself, I would say to a dear friend I am met. Naked was the night, dressed in an infinite white of dotted stars that I share with every common man that knows no age because He knows there is no such thing. We pass by the windows of the jewlery shop. She needs none of those silly materialistic things - he breathes vocally - at last the war of the ego is dead - but maybe I'll just take one. A shot is fired. A man takes her in his arms as the women does so with him; an afterthought of admiration for the glossary of grammar which, when blown upon, fumes up with grey and brown dust causing the one's who stand around it to cover their eyes indefinitely.
Eight years old or so
I'm condemned to a joke
but I never understand the punchline
I just figure it's all a hoax.
Padded cells and restrained holds.
Perspex acrylic windows
render my spit useless.
My captors are fully grown
but I've seen the breadth of their moral compass
They will fold on it shortly now, I know they will.
Though they never do.

I'm fifteen years old give or take
when I lose my first child.
It was never born, but I know I wanted it.
I pretend I am not sure because
there's a lot of heat and pressure
cooking my heart, engulfing my head.

Crying over the phone to my girlfriend
a painful necessity, something my soul needs.
We are too young, careless, reckless,
confused and surrounded by ogling eyes.
I haven't had a lump of hot coal in my throat before
but it sure feels like I have when I try to speak.
Especially with my parents.

Pause, rewind
I'm six years old,
my younger sister is four,
my youngest is two.
My dad enters my play room.
Proceeds to tell me he's leaving home.
He won't be living with us anymore
but he'll always be my dad and
I'll always be his favourite and only son.

Dry my eyes and fast forward, please.
A little bit past devastation,
we'll stop somewhere around reckoning.
It's right after desperation.
I am fifteen years old again, some time has passed
since my unborn child left its mother
as nothing more than matter and blood.
The mother has left me.
Probably because
she was in even more pain than I
and wanted to confide and find comfort
anywhere else but in me.
I never could heal the wounds I helped to create.

It's time for work experience, I'm sixteen soon.
That's practically an adult in the UK
I get to work Queens' College May ball.
Maybe this time everything will be okay.
Shadowing sound technicians.
Sneakily drink the free *****,
since I always look much older.
Sun rises, I'm drunk and my mouth is dry.
I think I'll walk home.

Mum picks me up, I don't even remember why.
My hometown is only five miles across
I've travelled the best of it and then some.
Yet my gaze never left the sky.
I want to escape myself so badly I leap from the moving car.
I'm crying in the car one minute,
I'm crying on a roundabout of a dual carriageway the next.
The police arrive and mum's crying now.
Begging never worked before but this time it does.
The police officer says something about section one three six
and I am taken.

Whilst I wish I could have realised sooner,
I think I get the message now.
Perhaps I was never meant to achieve great things.
Or ever meant to find happiness in my life.
It could be that I was never meant to be anything
other than what I am and what I am
is the embodiment of sadness.
Unhappiness is tangible around me.
You can feel it, touch it and see it.
I can taste it and smell it, I breathe it.

It's me.
Me and me alone, surrounded by faces but alone.
The thought of loneliness is lonely indeed.
When thoughts are just emotions' greed
and it's our own expectations of life
that make it harder to succeed.
I've travelled cold, a road with no milestones.
Only icy tipped hurdles that are mountains
and I can't catch my sadness,
and I can't catch my breath.
Sirenes Feb 2016
The creepy dental girls
That's what they called us
They gave us the same looks
As kids did when I studied Latin
But we were just technicians
Dental technicians

And why I ever gave it up
I cannot explain to myself
But the will is within my eyes
And the craft within
My fingertips
I smiled at the first crown
I had seen in more than a year

I know what you're made of
What build you
And what will break you
I know you


We always said:
You need to be all for it
And it will work out fine...
Other wise you're wasting your time.
***** you guys, I'm going home!!!!
Back to dentistry
Owen Phillips Jan 2011
I

I came to see The King originally for a favor
I was a troubled writer
I searched around my home and inside myself for some kind of cure
A trick solution... Basically
I didn't want to practice
Work hard and get better.
Try and try harder
No, it was more important that I quickly and easily achieved greatness
That killed me.

I want to take you inside the moment
Have you feel the real emptiness of me
As a HUMAN BEING
As a LIVING SOUL.
There is nothing there still.
Arrested development.

Loneliness

II

It overcomes
And I try to make the decision to better mysef
But this unbearable loneliness
Inhibits action.

This was The King's curse
The King's curse this remains.
And all of it my own fault

This is me now
Walking aimlessly forward on a barren canvas
Blissfully ignorant to everything
And everything is nothing anymore
And nothing becomes something to me
A crutch I cling to for my life
And all of this is just wandering
Without hope of accomplishment
Of even the
MINIMUM
Requirements.
Minimum. minimum. MINIMUM. mINIMUM

I know some people like to keep me blind
And they don't realize it
They don't understand
Where I have lost myself
The worst part is owing that they have an idea
The worst part is KNOWING that they KNOW
That they KNOW

Knowing is important
I KNOW this now
The important thing
about knowing
Is not knowing.

Being helpless becomes the fire escape
And as I climb down to escape my landlord
I encounter other tired helpless wanderers
Slumped all over the floor, blocking several ladders down
Before I push them aside
Alienating them too

I can't let myself be friends
Or even friendly or respectful or even
Decent and not unkind
With so many people
Because they can't let me let them.

I tell lies.
They can't make me let them let me become any of those things.
Not that anyone would want to

I want everything I say
To be known by everyone
And understood and not judged
And forgiven so that I can start over.

Because the past year has become
A wrinkle in time
I have found the Time Machine
The simple mechanism
Which brings down worlds.
The most dangerous invention.
The beast that slew the kings of days gone by
And if I were stronger I would fight the beast
But I am weak and bend to their will

I am a textbook example

I am the kid in the southern gothic scene
I am the overdramatized case of redemption
I am the same as everyone who ever went before me and
I am the one who nobody expected, but
Then in a way kind of did.
You know. The textbook example.

I am the one who dreamed too hard.
And dreaming really is the only thing I do.

I try to create some reason I should buck the system
But creation isn't possible with that attitude
The ambitious negate the ambition
In this world which is always
Counter to the will
And disposition

To be rewarded for a passive existence would be a crime
It's irresponsible of anyone to let me have my way
But I can't blame them, it's easier that way
I make it impossible for them to stop me
And my punishment is losing the audience

And the audience is the only thing I want.

AUDIENCE. YOU'RE THE ONLY THING I WANT

I present to you a string of drunken accidents
Expect you to justify it for me
And fly away and
Sleep forever
Which is all I want to do

SLEEPING FOREVER. YOU ARE ALL I WANT TO DO.

Most unhealthy most unhealthy
Just give me a chance
I'm Michelangelo drawing caricatures on the boardwalk.

No I'm not.



III

I can't start to consider myself better than you in any way at all

And now when I wandered through the jungle
I stumbled upon a situation
A guy was trying to **** a guy whose giant hooves were crushing me as I walked by
And I fought them both and beat them all.

And now somebody else
Hand a transitory period
A mind-expanding event
Did something good
Like I always want to.

I'm a kind of Don Quixote
But less good
More bad.

IV

Desolate, washed up
Thin and swollen face
Barely tell the difference 'tween sleep and wake
Pigeons and rats, dogs and cats
Late at night it's snakes and bats
I just sit there numb, unmoving
Happy with my new solution
Saw no use in concentration
Drugs just give me resignation
Takes the key from my ignition
A year from now the new expansion
Will see me as an aberration
And up will rise a league of nations
Dressed in all the latest fashion
Take my name, identification
Throw away my medication
I can't rise to the occasion
I can't understand the notion
I can't meet the expectation
I can't locate my location



I don't have your full attention

V

How can I catch up
When you dropped my body off at the beginning
And brought my mind all the way up to the end?

How can I cheer up
When I walk into a confrontation
With the obvious intention
Of losing my head?

How can I shape up
When the way to do what's right
And the way to do what's wrong
Are just the same way?

How can I come out
When my life has been the open file
That everyone has rifled through?

Easily

Easily

Easily

Impossible.

VI

...orward on a barren canvas
something something
mumble mumble
wimble wimble wimble
Blissfully ignorant of everything
The surface of Mars I wander
Walk
I walk forward
I take turns
I act as if
I have a destination
I take turns
I walk forward

On the surface of Mars

After a while I think about nothing
Think about nothing
Think about nothing
Rhythms and patterns help move me along
Move me along
Move me along
The sirens of cycle are calling to me
Calling to me
Calling to me
And anything novel is something to see
Something to see
Something to see
A lot of the time I get stuck in a loop
Stuck in a loop
Stuck in a loop
A loop
A lot of the time I get stuck in a loop

A loop

And then the loop
A loop
Becomes a ring
A loop
It wraps itself around my finger
A loop
And the ring rings out to you
A loop
Ring. Ring.
Wring ring
Of its ring
But observers are observers
And they observe me
And I am never sure of their intention
I know they care less than I know they do
But I know enough to stop them from knowing
Or at least, I know that
And I know it is untrue
I believe and disbelieve

VII

I wake up and look around
They've woken me from ancient slumber
Noises bright lights total confusion
I lash out into the blinding light
At nothing in particular
I look down at myself
See myself in this pure light
See the sutures and the scars
Scabs
All drawn on with pen and ink
But the flesh beneath is rotten too
Rotten in its shallow and unstable condition
Naked and afraid I lash out again
At nothing in particular
At myself in fact
But directed out at everyone
Nurses and technicians who monitored me in my embryonic tube
That is all anybody is to me
That is all there is around me
In this chaos I can see no option
But to relish in the madness
Bite the hand that feeds me, in a way
In fact, exactly, but...
Maybe it's about time it was bitten
No use deciding
Already biting
So I destroy so I may escape
But I escape and then I know not what to do

(inside the moment. Inside the moment of realization.
The sensational horror of staring off the edge.)

VIII

Sometimes when I'm
Crawling through
Alleys, over
Fences through
Drains under
The streets

I start to experience moments of lucidity
At times I am not lost and I'm not incognito
And at times I would be safe even in the wide open streets
At times I realize just where I'm going
And I can look with clarity and laugh at all the comedy
The desolate dark comedy of errors called existence
And if I wanted I could sidestep my own mask
Just tell the world that I've been kidding
Just limp away with a chuckle and a wink
Just gather up the pieces, start again, I really mean it this time
Just forget what has happened
I already have... Why couldn't anybody else?
They already did... What's the problem?
They can forgive, perhaps forget, but never will their respect return

And anyway I still crawl through
Alleys through
Fences through
Walls.
In secret
And I'm sure
The authorities
Still know where I am
I'm sure that
To be discreet
Could be the secret

And accusatorily I'm followed
And later punishment slips past
Looming overhead,
A hawk-like creature
Many biting heads
Head 1 is Guilt
Head 2 is Shame
Head 3 is Pain
Head 4 is Doom
Head 5 is Fate
Head 6 is Nature
Head 7 is Justice
Head 8 is Mercy
Head 9 is Man
Head 10 is Woman

Fearsome talons
Talons of words, forces, actions, feelings
Even in escape I have to fear for my survival
With so many threats around me there are no safe bets
Particularly when I try to get away
And in the struggle try to knock The King's curse loose
It's happened once or twice or even four or five times
But every time it finds me here again, again





IX

Now indebted to The King
My waking Hell now worse than Nightmare
The curse is pulling all the strings
My conscience is empty and bare
Violence, violent times I live in
A living extrapolation
And in a way it feels like Heaven
Drenched in much more exploitation
Create a monster of myself
To rid the pain of being man.
My life is nothing like this anymore (thanks in part to this poem)
mannley collins Jun 2014
that's how callously compassionate and vainly godly
humanity has become under the Oligarchy.
nice men and women of all five colours,
sitting around comfortably in alcoholic stupidity,
with their thumbs up their bums,
trying so hard to keep shtum,
about the undeniable fact that
they cant drum up a drop of ***
between them.
Seriously babbling religiously godly nonsense,
wreathed in smelly Tobacco smoke mimicking incense,
abandoning pretense at conscience,
hating empowering commonsense,
lacking all  but nonsense.
with the mien of morticians
and the mendacious psychobabble of politicians
and the inspired madness of medical technicians
making badly placed cerebral incisions
and worst of all supporting
oligarchy inspired decisions.
About the "end  of  days and nights"
being put up for offers on the  "free market".
Dedicated to Democratic and Non-Democratic Govts everywhere
and their frothing at-the-mouth supporters.
anastasiad Apr 2017
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Patrick McCombs Nov 2016
Poets are assassins
Words wound and ****
Cut open arteries
Spilling life blood
Sharpening and refining words  
Honing them to a killing edge

Poets are sorcerers
Words; their incantation
Grammar; their arcane ritual
Sentences turn into spells
Transforming you into someone else
Teleporting you to a distant place

Few poets are prophets
Gifted and cursed with visions
Vessels to be filled
Conduits waiting for lightning to strike

Poets are codebreakers
Deciphering life's enigmas
Translating experiences into words
Skilled technicians
Finding the right words
For exactly the right moments
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2023
502 Bad Gateway
(a work in process)
~~~

poetry
is to be found easiest, lying fatal-fetal amidst
the sewage of the blessed daily profane~mundane,
enslaved within the tyranny of everyday indignities,
encrusted within the indignities of diurnal tyrannies,
in the catch basin of sew-aged treatment  pools,
living as a perpetual unpublished draft,
locked behind Five Hundred and Two
Bad Gateways,
Emma Lazarus-yearning
to be free…

502 is an even number, the internet sages confirm,
equitably distributed with no regard to
pronouns,
disrespectful of any age, all creepy~seedy known gods,
equally unconcerned by the laws of **** poetica,
succinctly informing you to f*k off  with the elegant
sparseness of technical brevity,
a la vie moderne boulder,
repeatedly *****-fussy pushing back on you,
as we push a poem uphill

<?>

The road to good poetic intentions is human-paved;
a utile fact,  so continue to insure-shod be thy feet,
when shedding writings of poesy, lest the hot asphalt of
low inspiration yet get the better of ye…or the gates
or the bad gateways,
502 in their number, lock you out,
and carry the day, have their way, and
fracture well honed words
into bits & pieces of letters, scraps of scrap,
“pebbles and ******* and broken matches and bits of glass”^

that all the king's servers and all the king's technicians couldn’t put together again coherently, your words but conscripts in a
vast wasteland of eternal drafts^^

      <?>

well you know this story, that one that has being asking
you to writ it/get rid of it/tell it finally,
a couple of times daily,
that poem, this be that one,
an amorality tale of rejections,
a precision guided
error message,
a HIMARS missive miserly
missilery projectile
rife with hidden %#&”postulations,
of the “what’s wrong with me”
garden variety

think of life as a series of serious, independently linked moments, cherish-able, composting  usurping cursing phrases
distinctly worthy
of re-sharing unto the befouled upper atmosphere,
directly communicating the texture of your experience^^^

Ah Goodbye
Hello Poetry,
rejection is thy middle fingered name!*

this befouled poem
was
begun: many years ago
completed: Jan 4, 2023 @2:11AM
^James Joyce’s words
^Tevye
^^^ unknamed professor
Paula Swanson Jun 2010
There was a time when my oldest was young, we thought we were going to lose him.  It all started with recurring headaches he would have.  These headaches became more frequent and intense over a few months.  Next, tremors started to acompany the headaches.

After countless trips to the Doctor and many days of having to leave work to go get our son from school and help him thru these episodes, I blew a gasket.  I demanded a CT scan.  I think that the only reason the Doctor agreed to it was to shut me up.  But I knew in my Mother's gut, that these were not migraines.

The day of that CT scan, they had my son lie down on the table.  They injected a tranq into his I.V.  The CT started.  I sat in an area where it allowed me to see my son and hear the technicians.  At first they were very chatty with one another.  One tech said, "He is asleep now, we can proceed."  They spoke in general terms about this and that as the scan continued.  Then the dread words were said by one ...."Oh ****!"  the tech said.  After that, silence.  No more chit chat.  Nothing.  My heart dropped.

After the scan was over, I was told that I would be hearing from his Doctor in about 24 hours.

Two weeks later, I recieved a call from the Docotors scheduling nurse.  "Why haven't you come in to see the Doctor?"  She demanded.  I explained that I was told that the office would be calling me to schedule an appointment.  The she exclaims..."You need to get in here right now.  Don't you know how serious this is?"  
WELL I DID NOW!

Long story short, he had an arachnoidal cyst.  The left temporal lobe of his brain was not there.  In its place was a large fluid filled sack.  The pressure was causing all the symptoms he had.

After more visits and much gut wrenching, the surgery day arrived.

It went well.  He has a tube implanted just under the skin that runs from his skull to his belly to let fluid drain.

But the place I want to guide you to now, is in the Hospital room.

There was our son.  Lying in the big white hospital bed.  he himself, almost as white as the sheets.  his head bandaged, tubes everywhere.  In the room with me were two friends from work and our younger son.  Two years younger.  So he was 5.

As our son started to wake up, his first words were.."Where's my brother?"

His brother flew to his side.  "I'm right here!"  he said as he grabbed his older brothers hand.  Very weakly Jess was able to say   "I love you Mike."  Mike in turn said  "I love you Jess."

That was the one and only time I cried during the whole ordeal.

Jess made a complete recovery.  No Problems.  The rest of his brain had taken over the work the temporal lobe was suppose to do.  A miracle.

What I found so amazing was that I never once shed a tear during the lead up and the findings and the aftermath.  Not untill I heard those words expressed by my sons to one another.

Most children would want their Mother or Father at a time like that.

Nope!  My boys were joined at the hip, so to speak.  Those few words spoken to each other confirmed the special bond I knew they had, that has never wavered.
True life is so much more compelling than fiction and verse.
Jonny Angel Aug 2014
I've been sent to this place
not on my own volition.
I am a case study for
an advance party
of skilled technicians.
They have harnessed the atom
for deep interstellar space-travel.
I have to hand it to them,
some pretty smart beings they are,
quantum physics
is Mickey Mouse to them.
But I do thank the lucky heavens
they've never heard of Donald Duck before.
They'd come here
to **** that up too.
And, I love that funny duck.
Martin Narrod Dec 2014
We are the wild ones, so curious and superb. Hyper-expectations, mainly magic and its' feral treasures, we all welcome aboard. We are the technicians of the sky, messengers of the infinite moons. Inside the scythes and harpsichords, explosive reiterations of gravity and inner body magnetic yearnings.

We are stacked and galavanting in stockyards, whips at our sides, leather roughening its unstitched oiled calf hides up the hands onto these ethereal imaginings of utopian unicorn, walrus, and seahorse.

We represent the catalog of diversity. You are not as hidden as you think and you must not be. We of the wise wrestling candles off of our staffs, we count the mountain rich mountainside. Red, clay-capped, snow and hidden saplings adjusted against the rows of the peaks and plateaus.

We are named for our perversions of nature, our tolerances towards myriad injustices spanning our existence's time-sensitive minutia. We may be the kings and queens of Lollibellum, our flights have landed, our hands filled with duct-taped newspaper wrapped packaging and knock-off designer bags, a cardboard box with a few books that survived the burn.
Never believe all you see
or all that you've seen
It's just images on a corporate screen
placed behind your eyes
and as you look out
all you see are the lies
that they feed you.
But believe this,
they read you
like a print hot off the press
they mess with your mind
in the end you won't find
reality.

What is it you see
what programs are showing
what are they snowing us with
today?

Lies all lies
the business screen dies as the lights fly away
who pulled the plug and do we really care?
There's a real world out there
somewhere.

In a something of nothing where nothing wins out.
A shout from the sidelines
forwards to better times.
And in a field far away technicians at play
rebuilding projectors
connecting connectors
and we'll all be collected
as directed
by the
protectorate,
the welfare state
which never gave a ****.

A real man wouldn't stand for it
would never get bogged down
by the fantasies
in the screens he sees
behind the pale blue of his eyes.
But that's more lies we're being fed
and we're fed
'til we're dead and then it doesn't matter any more.

The door that's marked exit and toilets to the left
is the one we will leave by
and by and by we'll all believe
in the magic
of the lying screen
and nothing that's out there will ever be seen
by the likes of us.
Sumit Ganguly Feb 2017
How tall and stout were those who wore big armors?
I wondered at a museum of heroic ancestors.
In self hypnotism I look through future.
find machines are giants, people- pygmies,
products outnumber their creators,
most inhabitants follow train of thoughts
set by  few scientists and technicians,
brains control sentiments as machines monitor hearts.
The stance is broken as the closing-bell rings.
Slowly I walk out of the empty hall.

1st. Feb. 2017
David Ehrgott Jun 2016
I had a conversation with my
fence the other day.
And hear now what it said
Never worry about the things that went
wrong yesterday.  There is no way to make
up for it.  But, always learn from it.  That
is what mistakes are for.  Mistakes are
part of the learning process.  That is
why we make mistakes.  So that we can
learn.  Learning by error.  That is what
humans do.  They/we err.  We/us make
mistakes so that we can learn.  Learning
is good.  Ergo erring is good.  If we don't  
err we won't learn.  Technicians err.
Scientists err.  Doctors err.  Leaders err.
Teachers err.  Editors find typo errors.  If we
never learn, life would be bliss.  For
ignorance is a happy place or so they say.
Whoever They are have never learned, or
they wouldn't be so **** happy.  I see
them all the time.  Laughing.  Smiling.  Happy.
I've learned so much.  I am a miserable son
of a *****.
LJW Jun 2014
vaguen
(Samuel Beckett, notation on MS of Happy Days)


I
Fire comes bouncing in from the
desert a threat to houses Here’s
what we do says the King to
Rudyard Kipling who is visiting
Stuff wet rags in the eaves throw
the silverware in the swimming
pool And my letters Rudyard
Kipling is thinking will you be
pressing my letters to your
breast as we skid towards
the car Truly diverse people
the King and Kipling one or
the other was always getting
his feelings hurt Above them
a strip of once blue sky now
dark adust


II
Nowadays there are technicians
of despair you can work at it
Going to the Buddhist study
group I pass a thin crumpled
man at a wall his face on the
bricks Behind him another big
black city legs wide apart roaring
Say you aren’t stupid then why
aren’t you happy


III
New guy at the Buddhist study
group Eyes cut to bits I want
he keeps saying So I don’t get
so he keeps saying A bunch
of sage grass has blown onto
his head and grown down into
his mind He shakes hands with
everyone over and over again
at the door


IV
I had previously been to
the Old South Thirty minutes
into the faculty dinner a man
to my left drops his eyes and
his voice says he murdered his
brother with a shotgun when
he was twelve The other diners
appear to have heard this
before On the plane home I
sit across from a vet with a
falcon on his lap It observes
the other passengers severely
Drinks apple juice from a
cup with very small silver
lips


V
At twenty-eight thousand feet
above the uncarved block of
NY state a cricket jumps onto
my coat Vaguen it says






Anne Carson currently teaches at NYU and will publish a handmade book called NOX in 2010. She is the author of Autobiography of Red, Plainwater, and other books of poetry, non-fiction, and mixed genre.
Saint Audrey Aug 2017
Protecting the carcinogen
God bless this anomaly
Who they choose to protect
Intravenously a sight to see

Saving this misstep
Blight of justice, repetition
Six million people left to vet
Each one with tunnel vision

That's the view
Who
Is right
Wrong
Death and disorder
Tagging
The walls
Of the holy manor

Then **** them all
Inside and out
Violent, volition
No one truly knows self doubt
Ventricle technicians

Each coat of paint
Is closing the space between the walls
Halls closing in
How much longer before you fall?

---------------------
Oh god, I'm still alive
Please, someone **** me
I shouldn't have to go through this
---------------------

It's funny, ain't it
Fancy feast for the whole congregation
My words aren't an open book
A buffet for crooks run amok
On ground up horse hooves

Frowning down I pout
I'd **** my ******* self to put their fire out
A brisk shower of intuition
Intention of slowing mass emissions
Eating ***** in
Filtration organs

Go vegan
HATE. hate.
Dune not be bashful, grumpy, leery
   or any other contemporary dwarf man
even countless less well known dwarves
   (that never got a chance
   to play a bit part) such as wham

bam
thank you ma'am
linkedin with emergence
   of Internet and poetry slam
opportunities availed by Uncle Sam

which characters (albeit fiction)
   nonetheless, helped spawn a quiet yet free
   global, radically riotous,
   totally tubular transformation

   affecting a societal and human specie
but not credited contributing
   to paradigm seismic shift that garnered tree
mend us plenti fully birthed,
   impacted and transformed how wii

(more particularly many gifted minds)
   bridged geographical distance
(encompassing all four corners
   of the Earth) to enhance

what came to be called the world wide web,
   digital strong armed lance
information super high,  "Cyber Revolution",
   etc allowing  one to prance

and essentially transcend reality to brook
   commanding, commingling, communicating, hook
   line and sinker, et cetera
   with an excellent access and out look
reaching the most distant cranny and nook.

This (bit a bing chitty bang)
   manifestation toward
exponentially faster processing capacities
   more powerful than pen or sword
(based on principles of Moore’s Law), reward
electronically solidifying
   binary unification swiftly tail lord

engenders greater dependence and reliance
   figuratively shrinking the drinking gourd
allowing far flung aliens, family,
   friends, et cetera to ford

great distances via sophisticated electronics
   courtesy of super smart mother board
enabling ever more complex
   electronic contrivances
   the generic **** Sapien gibbon could afford.

Analogous to Medieval Age
this quiet ***** riot creation
   vis a vis Internet did un cage
actual overcoming physical barriers
   ushered Hall mark gauge
marked by Computer/Digital Age odyssey),

   especially sharing pixillated page
at light speed, where the ordinary individual
   could keep in contact )
   albeit with every now and again
   a bit torrent rage

and in some instances tapping
   smarts of a preschooler considered a sage
which kindergarten lad/lass
   commandeered a handsome wage

whereat the parental figure did cajole, wheedle or beg
their wealthy progeny promising
   son/ daughter of a healthy nest egg
stored money in Swiss bank accounts or hollow leg
perhaps christened jpeg
or if an avid weekly reader of Moby **** Queequeg

who felt incorporeal storied power
   of Herman Melville as zen unseen aid
instructing hypothetic rich kid to drop out of school
   before his/her first grade
coz of all the money he/she made

which affected modus operandi rendered obsolete
   child worker laws
   and no sweat of brow getting paid
people used bitcoin (or other online currency)
   additionally making purchases
   with scant keystrokes to complete a trade.

As with any major dramatically novel scheme
light bulb idea scribbled on napkin
   scrap of paper
   via cheesy or whipped cream
originating as a flash in the pan
   aha eureka moment, or dream

as rough blue print subsequently
   underwent beta testing,
   before declaring pc innovation supreme
whereby outstanding persons in the tech industry
   clamored to join Kidde team.

Whether seventh day add vent
   hissed or other religious creed
powerful binary processing
   impacted near
   earth shaking incarnation indeed
and ramifications in all walks
   and talks of life sought expert need.

Coven chanting children murmured Luddites be ******!

Thus spake Zarathustra (cue the opening scene
from Planet of the Apes)
   upon witnessing as if king or queen
(in reality father or mother)
   didst get immediately

   dethroned thus, increasing mean
average positive
   effects on society, especially lean
microchip i.e. integrated circuitry

   miniaturization "green"
technology (and eventual
   attendant affordable price)
   viz said trappings

   unleashed upon global market
   invited absolute zero dust, a must clean
as a whistle work space,
   and manufacturers laboratory be microbe free
   hermetically sealed vacuumed "clean".

Countless portable machines
   unbeknownst soon epithet florid hack
   coining impromptu called cyber crime
especially as majority proportion of population
   didst purchase these dime,

a doze in countless "end users"
   snapped up these smart machines
   excitedly keyed away indifferent to gunk
on unwashed hands
   plus bits of food particles

   eventually caking hardware with grime
(eventually necessitating technician
   charging gobs of moolah
   sans to unstitch in time.

Gooey glop getting suctioned out
   technicians venting expletives
   emphasized obvious
   NO FOOD OR DRINK rule to abide
cuz suctioning tower

   or laptop presented vulnerability
   plus unforeseen downfall against fried
food and greasy hands ended up hide
ding in hardest to reach locale
   on circuit board no matter how expert pried

yelling out gratitude
   to geek squad member helping
   before he/she went out side door
eagerly awaiting

   remotely controlled self driving vehicle
   transporting techie guru home
   to an obscure gated destination,
   an uninterrupted distant, yet pleasant ride.

eventually amateurs encouraged
   to tinker like an apprenticed tailor
   akin as raw troubleshooting recruit
   oft playfully feigned to be soldier spy

pretending to repair bowel of computer
   when in truth visiting supposed shadowing dark side
   which lined illegal benefits of labor saving devices),
the sound of silence
(written on the subway walls)

though heretics opposing
   latest technology and felt sinister chill
(just ask Punxsutawney Phil),
the Internet ranks as greatest dog sent rill

lee where wiz kids ranked
   chatting killer apps with grateful dead
   information superhighway as heavenly manna
   with artificial intelligence street cred
since introduction of white bread
and powdered milk biscuits baked by Ahmed.
David Barr Dec 2014
The malfunctioning soul is likened to a carefree catastrophe, where myriads of mechanics and technicians strive to direct inoperable machinery.
Are you aware, that I can see the depth of your pupils and feel the gyrating rhythm of inhibition as it cautiously lingers on the edge of an ophthalmic funeral?
It truly is possible to have sight, yet to have no vision.
However, if we legitimately manipulate the energy within our sphere of influence, then we shall fornicate with unfathomable depths of shaman sight.
Like a rock which bakes in the desert sun, we must remember those cold and starry nights where perception is personified by the nutrients of plants.
I love those goose bumps upon your skin.
Baroque is the fullness of sound, when the classical guitar strikes a chord with the folly of presumption.
Dawn King Sep 2014
Lie on covered cushions
That whisper years of dreams

Walk to odd doors
Fashioned of steel and oak
Hinges that hiss convoluted messages

Find forgotten ponds
Riddled with casual curiosity
Reflecting what is to become

Fear listless empty technicians
Doing their work in sadistic industrial boxes
Generating designer promises

Discover forgotten forests
Satiated clay bound creatures  
Splattered with red watery inks

Long for more of what
Leaves the mind’s eye in quiet confusion
cuz...well...this cerebral cortex lacks
ability to comprehend anything
   more complex than playing jacks
aware his severe cognitive ability hacks

away at such juvenile gibberish
   and most likely exacts
a prediction my intelligence
   on par with bracts

very much aware that
   without recourse to contrivances
   delineating the passage of time,
   wherever said out
   standing invisible essence
   which moments lapse just now ago

Now!
no just a moment ago Yaw
that, this or another instant
   did without so much as a wow
lapse, and lucky

   21st **** Sapiens to vow
and lay claim thee or thou
aware the amorphous ether
   one can ****** as a sow  

or any other animate or
   inanimate direct or indirect object re:
yule lie zing
   any analogy, metaphor, simile,
   et cetera a poor substitute to pre
sent every second, minute,

   hour...that doth nee
dull our attention akin
   to banshees, or comparison
   to something else
   totally tubularly off the wall lee
ving without a trace

   only prompt a feeble yet apropos je
ne sais quois, yet even then any primate a he
than (if individual couched in this free
to believe in any religion country, and cre
may shun versus burial predicated

   adherence to idea of a soul aie...aye
how write with frustration struggle to affix bye
and bye, some nebulous notion, that doth defy
tis a futile effort to codify, fortify,

identify abstract concepts, whose high
arc key eludes pinpointing a per jai
guru dev, place or thing (ha)
   even scrunching brow
   defeats and doth be lie
this one measly mortal well nigh

tuckered out on par with calculating pi
  
tangential to asking if and/or
   how i can access
   fullest potential...say to write
about with the aid of symbols

   i.e. letters to expound on an idea trite
or one that confounded mankind
   many millenniums or quite
sum indeterminate orbits 'round el sol,

   no ability within this mite
ova reproductive happenstance (yes me),
   whom ye could tell go fly a kite
for inducing confusion,

   but the nature of this har re: beast
   with a little insight
gripped, harangued, rankled,
   et cetera, thus communicates
   hello or goodnight,

which understandable
   simple words may not excite
as quotidian oft repeated philosophical
   mental challenges
   i didst expend effort to cite,

which mind exercises offers
   no exit, ouch that doth byte  
and if subjected to  a brain scan
   would blind technicians
   and set alight

frenzied uproar amidst **** Sapiens
   via intense thinking to induce blind
ness flailing at feeling trapped
   asper being teased at find
ding no beginning

   or end like a mobius strip
   analogous to space/ time continuum
   that little effort could
   blow a fuse in the mind.

adieu: from matthew scott harris
hook halls schwenksville, pennsylvania
hiz home tow win.
Sirenes Mar 2016
I sat at the workshop
Two hours on scanners
And milling
I've been through
The theory before
All this new technology
Is a touch of someone's genious

I felt the brush in my hand
And the gentle caress
As it touched the surface
I felt the craft in my fingers
And the joy in my gut
The technique...

I looked over at her
Known her since highschool
Another lost cause
There's a technician
Inside her too
So then what happened?

We follow the same course
She's my best friend
My colleague
And school friend
We did everything
Around each other
She was a good technician
And I, I know I was too

A representative included my name
In the list of promissing technicians.

Then what am I doing?

Granted I have nothing to regret
My current job will get me closer
But why the detour?
Then I saw it
As I looked over
To one of my teachers
Who had showed up
For the same course

If you never build up
Your students
To believe that they can
They can indeed
Achieve anything
Then you will see
How they get lost
And hopefully found

That's how you lose a talent
By telling people
That whatever they do
It will never be good enough
You do not raise fighters
Because to fight
You need to believe that
The cause is just

You need to believe
That you can win.
We were never taught that way.
That's how you lose a talent.
And maybe the trick is
In the balance
Of giving balanced critisism
To point out the flaw
And to say
"You'll get the hang of it"
In order to get the highest potential, one must believe that it's there; however high or low it is. That's how you raise a fighter.
It's never all the teacher but it certainly isn't always all the student. We need to build each other up to get stronger.
above named orthodontist
   crowned specialist
   exemplary de jure by this dad
sans perfecting offset dentition

   of me daughter – shana – who had
quite noticeable gapped teeth –
   just the opposite when i was a lad
and pro bono courtesy

   of above named orthodontist –
   worthy of a regal pad
(okay perhaps i exaggerate just a tad)

performed prestigious dental skill with her band
of admirable merry technicians,
   who possess grand
ever so agile and gentle
   to affix and/or adjust with each hand

after countless visits
   viz number of years shifted closed spaces
   re: wide spaces did stand

brackets wired together where
   squarely rooted choppers stood askew
the completed effect = a priceless smile
   tooth thy punim – a beau
tee full young lady (this comment
   unbiased from me – math a ewe)
biological father of thine lass in question,
   where time flew

while transformation
   her dazzling smile grew
a changed ****** profile –

   admirable how maxillary masters did hue
artfulness to align mastication via calculus
   sans perfecting her bite they knew

thus this papa feels ever so thankful
   for prettifying mine offspring
with courtesy service per each appointment
   thee progeny i did bring

no matter that brackets broke loose –
   yes in some cases from chew wing
gum or eating hard foodstuffs  - fear of a skull ding
never occurred, whereby
   anticipatory anxiety expended 4 naught ting

mortis rigors of extraction,
   x-rays affecting dental precision
would be impossible without the decision
for the supreme doctor –
   who owned a schooled vision
to envision
vis a vis what provision

and necessary measures
   to manipulate dentition
   toward per mission
whereby maybe a minor revision
made to witness brilliant

   megawatt smile giving admission
of heightened sunny disposition
primed to embark on successful
   lip smacking dating expedition
anointing shana aubrey harris –
   who completed the biting inquisition.
Big Virge Sep 2021
So What’s Happened To Thinking... ?
Cos’ It Seems To Be Sinking...

Into Holes Filled With Fools...
Whose Schooling’s Not Schooled... !?!

It Seems More Like Confused...
And Fuelled To ABUSE...
How Thinking Should Be Used... !!!

Cos’ It Shouldn’t Cause Feuds...
It Should Surely IMPROVE...
The Way Humans Move...
And Should Now Embrace TRUTH... !!!

Instead of Breed Thinking...
That Is Now DISMISSIVE...
of... Critical Thinkers...
Who Do NOT Wear Blinkers... !!!

UNLIKE These Politicians...
And Their Submissive Minions...
Who Deal In DIVISION... !!!

So What Is The Mission...
of Modern Day Thinking... ???

To... INFLATE RACISM...
And Technical Visions...
of A Future That’s Driven...
By Robotic Technicians... ?!?

And NEW Gender Groups...
Who Get Angered By Views...
That... DON’T Fall In Line...
With Their New Gender Vibes...

And It Seems Now That Tribes...
of Various Types...
Are Living Some... BIG LIES... !!!

When It Comes To The Cliques...
That They Choose To Move With...
Who Deal In... HATRED... ?!?

Do They THINK About This...
Before Cashing Their Chips...
With NEW AGE RACISTS... !?!

Whose Thinking Enlists...
Using Negroes Like CHIMPS...
Or Yeah That’s Right Monkeys...
Who’ll Sell Souls For Money... !?!

So They Can Run Their Mouths...
Just Like Puppets And Clowns...
Whose Thinking Is Pulled...
Like Strings That Are Used...
By Puppeteer Crews...

Are These People So Weak...
That Their Thinking Now Speaks...
Just Like Human Sheep...
Or Sheople Who BLEAT...
Like... Sheep In A Field...
of Sheep Dogs That Creep...
To Affect Their Psyche... ?!?

Is FEAR What They’re Thinking...
When They’re Out ACCEPTING...
Societal Deals...
That Then CONTROL Their Speech... !?!

Because What I Now See...
Is Thinking That WREAKS...
of Speech That CONCEDES...
To Much That’s... CRAZY... ?!?

New Thinking That’s SHADY...
And Clearly Quite Lazy...

When It Comes To Music...
And Creative Movements...
And Those Who Are Linked...
To This... INDUSTRY Biz’... !!!

Where … Entertainment...
Is Still Making Payments...
To Heads Who Are RACIST...

Whose Thinking Breeds Statements...
In... TV Locations...
As Well As News Stations...
Where Lefties Are CLAIMING...
Their Nations Hold Greatness...
When Racists Are Stationed...
In... Whitehouse Locations... ?!?

And Let’s Not Forget...
About Modern Women...
Whose Thinking Is Driven...
By... STRONG Feminism... !!!

That’s Driving A WEDGE...
Between Women And Men...
That’s Causing PROBLEMS...

When Men Now CAN'T Speak...
Or Just THINK... Sexually...
WITHOUT Their PERMISSION...

Is This New Feminism...
FEMINIST CHAUVINISM... ?!?

While Transgender Women...
Are Making Transitions...
That Now Have Them Winning...
Awards That Were Meant...
For WOMEN TO GET... ?!?

Does All This Make Sense... ?!?
When You Take Time To Check...
New Thinking That’s Set...
Some Very Strange Trends... ?!?

And Of Course We Have Wars...
Now Waged Between Hoards...
of Young And Old Thinkers...
About Our... Traditions...

That Are Clearly OUTDATED...
To Young People Claiming...
That Old Heads Are Hating...
And Just Need Replacing...

Well Thinking Does Change...
And Progress In Ways...

That May Well Seem Strange... ?!?
To Those Who Have Age...

But I Have To Now Say...
That Thinking These Days...
DISMISSES Brain Waves...
of... Common Sense Ways... !?!

And Many Young Minds...
Have Been Bred To DECLINE...
... Common Sense Lines...
And Thinking That’s WISE...

They Can Hate All They Like...
But In Time They Will Find...

That OLDER Opinions...
Are Driven By Living...
That’s Created WISDOM... !!!

It’s WISE Heads Who LISTEN...
To Thinking That’s Driven...
To STRENGTHEN Positions... !!!

Rather Than Be Submissive...
To Thinking That’s Sinking...
And CONDITIONED To Shrinking... !!!

Cos’ It’s Now On A Mission...
That Should Be FORBIDDEN... !!!

REJECTION of LOGIC...
And Common Sense...

....... “ THINKING “.......
Thinking will always change, and progress.
However, it doesn't seem to be progressing so much to me nowadays.....
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2018
-
     ****, turns out i'm good at
                                              fanboy lit.


or what i should rather say,
                           the beast
that constitutes
            the sound technicians
at music feeds studio,
even with a cheap
                   SoundMAGIC
headphones
           inserted into a samsung
device...
        nirvana...
      notably with the following
track                ghost's
rendition of their song ritual...
otherwise the burned
       version by 22valkryia's
channel...
           yet there's a more subtle
point,
             i never really appreciated
metallica...
            because the rhythm
guitar section almost always
overshadowed
        the cushion underpinning
of employing a bass guitar
    to make a drummer
      less pots and pans
        and actual drums...
so...
   i could never pick up the bass
notes in their music...
      well, apart from devil's dance,
but... that's hardly an
argument...
                    if i can't pick up
on the bass guitar presence,
       i don't know why the music
has to lean so much on rhythm guitar,
rhythm guitarist's megalomania
i suppose...
               it's still amazing
to appreciate the golden ratio
   element of how to synchronise
   all the instruments, with the vocals,
condensed into a bite
              rather than just overblown
concernt hall orchestral suites...
          golden ratio interpretation?
   the following schematic:

                                d:v
                                  =


              with instruments in between
    the extremes grinding teeth,
  i.e. synchronised flow,
                   d? drums
                             v? vocals...

              if drums are in synch. ratio
to the vocals,
         authentic melody can
                                    "rummage"
between them...
                          
             always the missing bass line
in metallica,
      overbearing with rhythm guitar...

i'm not surprised why
              9,260,609 people have
listened to this track
             at 01:47 sunday march 4th...

and to think that
something like https://oeis.org/A060707
    (the online encyclopedia
             of integer sequences)
                        exists...

and here's me,
                      a pauper with a poem.

             i have absolutely no idea
what motivates me to write these
                        bites into a blank canvas,

just today i "discovered" 4chan.
                      little help did it do me,  
                         arthur scherbius
   and his antithesis
                              alan turing,
and now this:
                          users,
                                     content creators...
   if i were to make my bets:
         i'm collateral (in the adjective form)
         but hey,
in the meantime there's the remaining
whiskey,
           and this track
   of music
                 that's infuriatingly good
in the capacity to cause
                                              a shiver.

                       in the memory of: martyrs.
Simplistic skills targeted for termination
Out forms a new creation
Technicians replacing the common mechanism
Manual turns into machinery
Got **** how could this be such a falling society
Giving they hands to an unknown entity enemies be
Lurkin' spells circling minds gargling from the all this knowledge sparking
Off my brain cells **** I'm.broke physically but my spiritually
Made from much monetary seems folks quick to rush to the cemetery
I see the alcohol drugs education at a fall rise of oppressions
Keeps everyone guessin' while y'all stressing they signing lessons
Plan hope you innerstand demons put on this land
To confine everyone to a purpose failed at being a conformist
An opportunist look at as ludicrous but then again I planted a fist
Punching out bull hockey topics I'm a lost prophet
From.the tribe where we all get vibe and slide
Me five across the back
Of.my.hand let's break this plantation
Souls monetize to capitalize off the government's tax rise  
Trump ain't nothing but a mere delusion
He only represents the the confusion
Taught in the America only to be loosin' who ya choosin'
Is the devil or the Gods abusin'
Our every day instincts scared to blink
Cuz if I do they might come for you
And get the Kennedy ride
Or Malcolm X or Martin get the partin'
Split up yo anatomy off to the deaths amnity  
Not too many
Come back alive folks claim they real.but uncover jives

Embrace my Ology

Since I took the steps off wisdom it's hard for me to slip
Still spittin' fire from my mouth without burning my lip
Slow sips I take off the holy brew chilling with my crew
Me myself and I for my De La  soul I'm outta control
Institution growing swole far from bold mad men old
From the berretta that sails overseas fighting the enemy
Who got just as much melanin than me ya see they really black sons
Of the holy father I'm gettin' deja vu from these spiritual venues
That guide you each and everyday hard to look away
From all the slay soon to see world wars America living in horrors
Political correctness still manifesting problems in this society
It's just another focused tactic to make more slavery
While y'all fightin' over who's wrong or right they at the flight of taking more rights
See the deals made before the hands shake earthquake
Tryna to play God buts it's too late to shake the fate
Brimstone being casted soon to burn turn every.human into rubbles
Times is troubled I see the bullets coming ahead
Soon on fled deep into the mountain and still countin'
My spiritual gifts chillin' like.a King
Along with Moses Elijah and my beautiful Queen
Sean Hunt Jan 2018
When someone’s pain just stays
it just won’t go away
and everyone is waiting
with baited breath
for the coming of the dawn of
the day of death

Technicians with machines
fill the blood with morphine
So they can **** the pain
for the people by the bed
and the one who’s nearly dead

In silence now remembering
all of the bad and the glad
many years and months
many days and minutes
all falling through
one funnel

I never saw a sadder scene
where laughter was against the law
small ranges of expressions
funneled through a narrow place
of few permitted faces


Sean Hunt Jan 16 2017
Tom Shields Nov 2020
Corporate society, the paradise no one asked for
Everyone works for us, toward us, generations of sheep
Shepherds few, gathered around our executive table
They’d love to knock down our door
But they’d have to know to look in such exquisite places, their eyes have never turned so high before!
Aha-ha! Grace those who know their stations, serve and toil dutifully
I love to see them work their life away, the loyalty to big Energy, it brightens my day beautifully
Which brings the Board to the matter of Jonathan E.
Bartholomew, Chairman of the Energy Corporation, seated in Houston
Just handed the task to inform one Rollerballer that his career is done
Announces a televised special, featuring Jonathan’s career in multivision

Did you catch Houston vs Madrid?
Who are you trying to kid?
I haven’t missed a game yet, I wouldn’t now if it was the last thing I ever did
There’s rumors in the air, rumors on the street, propaganda floats from open leaks
I hear Jonathan is going to announce his retirement on a big show in a few weeks
Now, this lavish retirement package is all set, all you’ve got to do speak it to power
Jonathan listening, a bunch of hot air in a suit talks for five minutes and says as much in an hour
The two seem to have crossed a wire,
Butting heads when he refuses to retire
Maybe you should have said why, sir
He also requested to see his ex-wife sir,
She was reappropriated by a corporate executive who wanted her,
Perhaps if this goes much farther, she can be a messenger…

Savvy of their ways, he can smell a coup for days
Knowledge, that’s real power, so it doesn’t strike him as strange
That he finds all books on corporate history have been changed
And hidden in the memory vaults of their supercomputers, at protected locales
Jonathan can’t rightly figure out why they’re so shook about the best Rollerball player in the world
Neither can an Energy executive he asks for information, just one of his old pals

Well, he’s not keen on playing by our rules in our world
We’ll go and change his!
Semi-finals, Houston vs Tokyo, no penalties, limited substitutions, multiple deaths, broken bones and contusions
Fractured skulls, comatose players, ****** bodies wrecked and left wrung out with a broken neck
We raise the stakes on the track, crush their knees, break their back
His best friend claimed in the senseless slaughter, and another irreversibly vegetative
Jonathan, Houston wins, and he manages to live
The doctors pressure him to pull life support, his disrespect, defiant and tall
His teammate is braindead, they cite the rules of the facility, no family, permit me to **** him please
There aren’t rules. There aren’t any rules at all.
Even a plant senses life. It turns towards the sun. It’s alive isn’t it?
Talking to the bedside body in a Houston hospital,
He will dream he’s an executive, hands on all the controls
Bartholomew wishes him sweet dreams, and he will wear a gray suit and make decisions
But you know what, all the executives dream about behind their desks, reversed roles
That they’re Jonathan, with muscles, bashing in faces, their enemies give in
And they skate free; all that unrestrained barbarism and he only has to score goals

Post Tokyo bloodbath, the board reconvenes
The truth behind the threat of a Rollerball champion is revealed behind the scenes
The finals pit against each other the New York and Houston teams,
More importantly, Jonathan, who defeats the purpose of the game
By standing out he establishes individuality, they shouldn’t even know his name!
The entire point is to exercise the futility of individualism and satisfy bloodlust
And with a people’s champion at the helm of the sport, the answer is clear
No penalties, no time limit, no substitutions, Jonathan will die or lose; he must!
All in favor, no accidents, no sabotage, through natural defeat he will not live?
Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative. Affirmative.  

Zero, the central supercomputer for the world in Geneva
A repository of all human knowledge, which seems to be a
Bit off by quite a bit of data they hate to admit and let’s face it
Is there much surprise that the corporations bank of knowledge is a disgrace with,
Seemingly senile tendencies, their computer misplaced the thirteenth century, even the technicians can’t explain, but the bulbs are lit
Uh, yeah, I don’t know sir, it just seems like it’s not up to the task, what’d you want to ask?
He’s just a man whose career is a team sport revolving around getting a ball to a hole,
And they talk all this jargon, blow smoke and say nothing, he just wants to know how the corporations determine their goals

A final offer, by form of his former wife comes to try to talk him out of the deathmatch that is to come
In her eyes she is sold out, she’s only there to do bidding, an insult to his stirred mind that only hurts
I’ve been thinking, people had a choice between having all these nice things or freedom and we chose comfort!
But comfort is freedom, it always has been, history will show that poverty is an enemy of civilization, we struggled against need
No, they appeal to us, placate us, give us cards for our complacency to own us with our greed
They want me to quit, and she shudders, urging him on
That is why I came here, you have to, and he sees through it all now
Did they tell you if you got me to do it, that you’d have to stay with me? Are you my prize to be won?
Jonathan didn’t want to hear another word,
Disgust and rage, they turned her into a reward

New York is little more than a gladiatorial battle
Death on wheels, you can hear the blades scraping
Around and around they go
Hell on wheels, fires explode from the motorcyclists
The brutality erupts in spurts of blood, all players dying
Burning and broken and splayed and destroyed and screaming and crying
And twisted and contorted and smashed and ground and ripped and torn
No semblance of mercy for a moment is shown, no humanity in the war is born
It is ******, ten players on each team, down to three,
No scoring game, New York with a biker and a skater up
And Jonathan disrupts, the bike erupts, right in front of Bartholomew so he can see
He takes the ball, heavy steel, holds it over the last man’s head, his savage ******, mercy interrupts
And he leaves him laying, thankful for his life, two men out of twenty in one game survived
As he skates, blades scraping, fires crackling, flames taller than men stand by
It is so deathly silent in the arena that you could hear a dead man sigh  
The maiming and death and deception, the ice cold, exhausted look in his eye
He raises the ball overhead, where the crowd can see it up high
And scores one point before he goes around,
Slowly, arm in tatters, blood across his face and uniform in splatters
He throws his helmet and his glove down to echo in the silence, little clatters
He comes around again, the whispers of his name start to build to a chant
The champion! He just has to win! The roof comes off, they’re roaring now!
Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan! Jonathan!
write
please read and enjoy

— The End —