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The robotic surgeon didn't blink
Smoke, swear, or fool around;
He was the newest design of science
His metal feet firmly on the ground.

Robotic surgery was the latest
Improvement over the manual kind
There were no variations in technique;
No reliance on flaky mind.

He was diligent and precise
Cutting flesh to invisible templates;
He never erred and he never missed
Never once paused, to vacillate.

Trusted beyond the regular surgeon,
Using his fragile, shaking hands;
The robotic surgeon could do anything
Because he wasn't just a man.

The newest miracle of science was hailed
As the end, to the older style;
But one day the program blew a fuse-
And he cut her head off, by a mile.
katewinslet Dec 2015
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Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
to willingly listen to some russian punk...
they call themselves:
Sierpień - well... Sierpien -
нь is floating around somewhere -
august... август....
perhaps the ****** word "rhymes"
with sierp (i młot) - sickle and hammer...
pień? trunk - stump of wood...
etymological fascination...
august where no emperor augustus
ever stood... unless a Kaцпer...
sier(p) - sickle
(p)ień - stump of a freshly cut tree:
or trunk...
hence the birth of a name
of a month: harvest the trees...
and we are talking about a russian
post-punk goth-punk band...
almost more congested and less
atmospheric the cure...
old kaц the hangover comes in and
says something with a mirror
and fog...
but i'm sure... living under the much
despised (ras)Putin regime would
never give you such music...
look at the people of the...
look at the free peoples of the western /
hinterlands!
no... thank god the view count is only...
what? 3,880 views...
it's an oyster affair...
Sierpien - Cмeрдит дo caмых звeзд (2016)...
people can still produce art of this sort?
is a (ras)Putin required? really?
democracy per se...
power-struggles from among
the populace...
ever hear the petitions of schizophrenics
in the western lands?
a holy grail status for some...
the "nuanced" *****...
or bilingual...
but this album current saved me from
a despair... a friday night is happening
somewhere... and i'm more than happy
to not be there...
i don't even know what's popular
in terms of music in the hinterlands...
the bellybutton of the world: London...
doesn't exactly spew out pointers
to digest what's new and pop with
the crowd...
how long did it take me to hear about
psy's gangnam style?
a good half a year... but then it was already
playing on repeat...
perhaps not in a way that...
once upon a time... Microsoft wanted
to use R.EM.'s it's the end of the world
(and i'm feeling fine)
for an advert...
and R.E.M. refused...
i can't exactly see any use of an advert...
but for the past decade...
perhaps... the outliers of dubstep:
distance, vex'd... burial...
10 years have passed and i don't even
know what music people listen to...
like i said... i'm listening to something...
only about 4K people also listen...
notably in Russia...
i'll translate...
śmierdzić do samych zwezd... gwiazd...
smerdit do samych zwezd...
10 or so years later i'm at this point...
there's no need to invoke Ms. Cмeрц
but it almost never figured for me...
ц somehow borrows from щ...
that's of course ч is related to ш...
to stink of **** up to the stars...
that's how the album name,
"sort-of" translates itself...
in the past 10 years...
this is probably the sort of music i should
be listening to...
i would somehow abhor myself
being the fully integrated western mongrel...
allowing my soul to die and
this language to dictate the fashionista
dictums "from above"... like a good puppy...
origins mostly focusing on...
Lebanon... the old Raj...
i honestly did think that: the de factor default
implication of the word: integration was
to speak the language...
this is not the great h'america where
you'd call it an alliance to a patriotism...
this is england... where people are not
exactly responsive to the word patriotinism...
and whenever it is used...
it's the ugly word nationalism...
so... this is not an extension of thinking
that can be "accomplished" akin to somewhere
in h'america...
this is england talking to itself in me...
or rather... me... looking at england and trying
to find the sort of footing for a tango...
born 4 hours shy of warsaw doesn't help,
either...
still... as names go...
no one was a cooler name for their capital...
come on... war-saw...
beats washington d.c. -
but... loon'don... that's mighty close...
all the democratic arguments aside...
i'm listening to these political commentators...
and i'm wondering...
what sort of music are they listening to?
i'm still looking for a playlist
i inherited that included bands like...
it's dire to even begin to name them...
the best i found are still...
demdyke stare... and that's not really
being pretentious... vomito *****...
but "once upon a time" music could make
a man stay up into the stillness of the night,
far beyond the night,
he might have sometimes glimpsed
a new unfolding as he would go to bed
from the graveyard shift with
some neglected words being seized...
i've just skimmed through u.k. top 40 chart...
i can't relate...
i can understand just having the vote...
but to have the vote...
and be left... in this barrage of...
i understand that man is a political animal
and somehow social...
but a vote is enough...
no wonder good culture hasn't "happened"
in the past 10 years...
i don't like being informed of culture
via the prism of: it's all or not political...
i don't like being
polarised i don't like being politicised...
all i have is one vote...
and i'm nearing 34 and seeing how...
since i haven't already used it...
it's pretty much a redundant affair...
as long as the status quo is there...
as long as there's a status quo...
and there's the shady bureaucracy cushioning...
but how can one expect to find
a tartar stake of sustenance...
when everything resembles an english
sunday roast: with the beef being over-cooked
over, way over well-done?
the meat is butchered twice...
once as the cow... second time as a piece of roast!
i'm not fond of criticism...
bad... i know as a foreigner but also as
a citizen... only the pakistani grooming gangs
are sacred cows in this, this whittle english...
past allegience to soviet russia?
because, what? russian post-punk takes
my fancy...
one! one benefit of a doubt...
justin bieber's jazzy interlude in:
love yourself... and that's it...
i decided for the: leave me alone button...
and for all the vitality of the western ways
i'm left either the window-licker prized oscar
nominee or some lethargic melancholy prone:
a decade on and a decade without
the better part of me...
i somehow own about 10 pairs of shoes
but every time i only walk in single pair...
until they are worn,
until i can almost imitate:
no borrow metaphor from the african
continent... my second mother siberia...
and the indo-europeans and whatever tag!
tag it necessary! caucasian and la la land...
this was political... before it even started...
even whether there was a demand for my vote...
the tide came, the tide went,
i wasn't given so much as a sniff of civil rights...
my civil rights had to be political rights:
in a redundant format best described:
as a vote... opinions first, vote later...
by then the vote is already a confirmation
of how many more ***** will sink
to this level of: humpty-dumpty...
a culture can thrive when power is clarified...
there's no culture when the only
despotism is the finding the lost
in the labyrinth of bureaucracy...
since i base my focus via Kant... yes...
these are idealistic words...
because idealism is - the already focused on
status quo... and again...
the status quo... perhaps even stasis qua!
- but i'm not listening to current music...
from a "certain" place that once could
salvage the rest of the world of bodies
with its beacon of soul...
not "current" as in: where meat is more mince
than steak...
it's all fine and dandy...
to have the provisions at your disposal...
but you can't expect an annual supply of carrots...
or meat... to feed the mouth that neither
opens, nor bites, nor chews,
nor swollows, not ******* saliva
for the premature process of digestion...
you can't expect this most perfect supply & demand...
something has to be missing for
the soul to have... the realism of the fact
i am bound to a robotic / unconscious body...
what conscious decision do i have...
over the already calibrated heart?
the delusion that the brain... is somehow...
freed from what?
psychological metaphysics?!
i have an automated digestive system...
and an automated ****...
i don't exactly know when i'm going to ****...
but i do **** - and with so much pleasure so...
that i would forgo all homosexual exfoliations
for the mere pleasure of...
easing a **** out of that ******* bang hole...
than allowing a vaselined cockrel in...
quiet a disgust pecker of high ambitions...
when it comes to enjoying
massaging the prostate muscle when sitting
on the throne of thrones...
i am trapped in an automated body!
the only aspect of me agreeing to evolutionary
biology is to invoke the soul...
as something ex "nihil" in coprus...
from "nothing" in body (intact)...
hello intellectual safari of the thesaurus
and the synonym chasers...
from under the Iron Curtain...
once more... thrown under the Silicon Curtain...
but there is something in me that
allows me to escape the already well oiled,
this well calibrated body... shy of being
merely treated as baggage...
there's something that allows me to restrict...
when i will **** out a full bladder...
from time to time...
but this is still oh so mechanical...
the fickle nature of man's own self interests:
the only mirror i could find
to compensate the complexity
of deus ex machina...
i'll last 10 minutes with a swollen bladder...
until i give way...
that's when i know that i am rebelling
against the mechanical nature of this body...
- nonetheless the conversation run down
a different route...
i want to be, as i once was...
politically starved... give me the vote and lace me
with civic duties... minding culture...
don't give me this politico journo-*******...
this spare straitjacket of "opinions"...
opinions that do not hone in on a dialectic...
but a dichotomy...
while under (ras)Putin there was a resurgence
of post-punk... brutalism debauchery...
in the vest of the west...
do i really have to give gil scott heron over?
see? what power do i have?
i have.... a chance to glimpse how a culture
can thrive... musically...
no... oh no! no Vlad... you're not getting off
that easy...
Tchaikovsky - 1812 Overture...
tell me... as a cat might look you in the eyes...
and cats do... when you find it uncomfortable
to lie... a cat will look you in the eyes
when it knows the agony of you telling
the truth... too frequently...
now... tell me...
of the 1812 Overture...
how close was Tchaikovsky teasing...
plagiarising... la marseillaise?
oh i think: this close ||.
i still don't know: listening to classical music...
is supposed to make people,
"somehow" smart?!
- just like Beethoven hides / licks /
alludes to the crescendo of
ode an die freude that is to come in the 9th symphony...
lots of crashing plates and banging
templates of cooking vessels in between...
a crescendo is almost like...
but not quiet... no... it's never exactly a chorus...
but Ode an die Freude is revealed
in a subtle way somewhere in the vicinity
of the genesis of the 9th...
i'll ******* duel over this remark though...
if it takes blunt knifes and spoons...
so be it...
negate: Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture does
not allude to La Marseillaise!
*****, test me! i swear to god -
you tell me this russian кaцaп is not alluding to?
what sort of culture are to speak of,
as citizen... if we have to be...
worthwhile less the already invalid vote...
and more the sway-ghost-vote of...
ditto-heads and less and less...
i remember when i would start a conversation
with girls on the basis of: so...
what music are you into?
has... the don mclean prophesy come true?!
the only music is the democratic opera
of the inability to hush competing interests
of the less than homogenous, cerebral hive?!
wow! believe me when i state:
i would truly rather shun my state of being:
stunned!
to me... people have forlorn to "worry"
about petty, ahem... "petty" cultural worries...
this political transfusion, verbiage,
look... a broken arm of a word that used
to resemble pref-                 ending in
the loose limb that ends with 9...
scary language... informal language...
not exactly the english standard: terse /
whimsical... "way-hey-hey-ha-witty"...
hardly anecdotal: mein herr kapitan!
oh but this is certainly a cultural desert...
i'm still doing my best to shake off the 20th century...
what's it called... what's it called...
you are... ah! 20th century inheritence...
not that i'm by any measure a man
of the 20th century...
come the year 2000 i was still a mid-way
between child and man...
2020... 34... i am a 21st century man...
as i also have circa 10K of student debt to pay off...
but this is england...
a chemistry degree gets you nowhere...
i always fancied the Leibniz route...
a garbage man... perhaps "the librarian"...
the street-cleaner...
10K worth of pounds of debt...
paid? when one earns over 15K per annum...
bless ol' england... this debt will be written off
after 30 years...
i really wanted to find a job akin to being
the street-cleaner...
i wouldn't even mind... seeing as how i could
come home and write a rhythm
of a crooked guitar... perhaps doing some work
in the industrial sector...
the scottish widows' h.q. roof, near st. paul's?
i did that... well... part of the team...
industrial scale roofing...
whatever... this is not going to become
"yet another" autobiographical sketch...
a degree in chemistry led me nowhere...
some lucky fist-first-think-fewest landed
their english B.A.s and:
"the authorities" would never let them starve
having... their poo'ems better read...
oh i wish i could think without having
itchy fingertips and what words i want
to say when i however have to say the mundane
formality of the everyday...
i'm the sort of jack spicer *******...
that i cannot work with this lexicon beside
what's always greeting me with a welcome return
of surd applause...
i can't speak the everyday language
of the everyday -
even my punctuation is suspicious -
an *****-nilly I.R.A. bad device...
i can hold the hounds of bark, leash, girdle and muzzle
until they finally find the dog...
but not until i have feasted upon
the blank canvas that will never see any colour...
but this x-ray of hiding faint hues
working in the subtle grey-of-no-grey area
that comes with these words, these bones...
i have to drink...
to find these words... and an echo prior
to the cave... this being the cave after i heard
the echo... even among drunks i couldn't
speak such words, such sentences...
under them the drunks cower...
and... this is the better part of a friday night...
i best exclude myself to this page
of rummaging... because even if i drink...
i wouldn't find a conversation among the drunks
to compliment this! to compliment this
with an immediacy of a dialogue -
a shared experience...
better i write this... and wait for a delay...
better i wait for a delayed response...
in the quantum sense of:
when observed a wave... when not observed...
a particle.
science as this cohesive orthodox litany of
dogmas to undermine religion...
science is more vogue than religious dogmatism...
science is modern...
it will only and has only succumbed
to modern finicky... vogue... science is...
hardly a... blind sighted hive brain-drain focus
of the replicas and clone surds nodding...
this language... would never be spoken among
the drunks...
i hardly think it would or even does:
deserve a stage... perhaps only if i wore face paint...
if i were truly an entertainer...
but these words deserve more than a stage...
they deserve an: umbratempus...
zeitshatten... a time-shadow...
cień czasu... (время тень)..
regurgitate something to me, akin to:
T4T (oliver baez bendorf)...

see! i knew нь was floating around...
it comes... back... full circle.

   PSA: Poetic Service Announcement - written 05/01/2017
                                              
   Please feel free to share with established and future
   authors on FB.
********************­***
.
One of the toughest decisions, an author has to make, is the selection of a reliable publisher. With more than six months of personal experience, I have painfully learned that PBP (Published By Parables, headed by John Jeffries) is NOT one of them. For decades, I’ve listened to ministers tell me that “Mediocrity is not a hallmark of Christianity; it’s halfway between success and failure.”; and yet, the shoddy workmanship of transforming my manuscript into a usable PDF (that would produce the book) failed to even reach the level of mediocrity. I extend an apology to those, to whom a premature recommendation of PBP was given by me. Don’t repeat my mistake! Please. You’ll be grateful and thankful for heeding my warning.
.
This company engages in deceptive practices and doesn’t operate with complete transparency. For example, it advertises that it will publish your book for free. While this is technically true, you will have to make an initial payment of $185; $35.00 for the copyright and the $150.00 for the ISBN-Barcode. In addition, John will subtlety lecture you, regarding why he won’t cover this expense and why you should.
.
Before I began writing poetry seriously, I acquired 30 years of IT experience and 20 years of desktop publishing experience; so I understand conceptual ideas, the need for high standards and the importance of having a solid, but flexible framework. In addition, I was taught the criticality of working with a mindset of excellence- a topic taught by most ministers. One example is Titus 2:7-9, which states: In all things shewing thyself a pattern of good works: in doctrine shewing uncorruptness, gravity, sincerity, sound speech, that cannot be condemned; that he that is of the contrary part may be ashamed, having no evil thing to say of you.
.
Computer templates, used in today’s bookmaking operations, are not meant to be static; rather they set an initial foundation from which work can begin. Given the style of my writing, PBP had agreed to modify the template being used, as to minimize the impact of my having to change my writing to accommodate the shortcomings of said template. I understood that this would possibly extend the timeframe to get my book constructed. I was okay with this and never rushed PBP in its efforts.
.
With each iteration of manuscript changes, new random and unexpected problems began to appear; so I was blamed my project’s lack of progress, since the errors arose from PBP’s ongoing modification of my manuscript’s template. It’s unimportant to realize that ALL modifications to the template were made solely by PBP. PBP never reviewed an updated PDF before sending it to me; therefore, it became my responsibility to identify issues that resulted from the technical incompetence of PBP. So what if titles lost their boldface attribute, while the text of poems were inadvertently made boldface. So what if poems were displayed to the left of the left-hand margin, pages numbers were lost, or randomly displayed in boldface, or that page headers would be missing or cut in half- it was my fault for desiring a template customized to meet my personal need. So what if the page numbers were corrupted within my index of poems, from PBP inserting new pages into the beginning of my manuscript. So what if I was concerned that the index’s format was changed from the way I desired. Stuff happens and I need not concern myself over such details. Apparently I was delusional in thinking that I was responsible for the vision of my new book.
.
And if that wasn’t enough fun, PBP would ignore some of my changes, such as inserting the occasional blank line, as well as making unauthorized modifications that included adding, replacing and deleting PBP graphics. One graphic I was fond of, PBP removed because its intended purpose is meant for “internal company use only”. Guess I’m just an unruly rebel for wanting to use it. Since he originally inserted it into my PDF, using it must have been initially okay. This incident is one of many that shows John’s lack of attention to detail.
.
In addition, I was unreasonable for wanting my legal name displayed properly (so I can differentiate myself from the other “Joe Breunigs”; no offense guys!) That correction alone took John SIX MONTHS to address; my book’s title also created angst for PBP, since it contained an ellipsis. Twice I e-mailed instructions on how to insert one because he misplaced/lost the first correspondence. And so I was unreasonable once more, since his option of using three consecutive periods was deemed unacceptable by me. An ellipsis is my favorite punctuation mark; if he couldn’t handle my previous instructions, he could have COPIED IT DIRECTLY FROM MY MANUSCRIPT.
.
John constantly complained about updating the template and the slow iterative process of making my book. At one point, John made the remark of how he had published two other titles during the timeframe my book was being worked on. As Christians, we get in trouble when we compare ourselves to others, since everyone’s journey is unique. So it’s clear that PBP’s intent was to manipulate me into feeling bad, regarding PBP’s lack of progress. Supposedly I was out of line for suggesting that he remember James 1:2-3, which teaches us: My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience. In discussions with PBP, I indicated that I have 15 complete and unpublished manuscripts of poetry. In addition, I stated that we would have the most hiccups during the creation of my first PBP, since we had no experience working together. Nor did PBP understand that this process of creating a personalized template for my work would save time during the construction of future titles- both for me and other poets. Should I apologize for forward thinking?
.
Given the problems I was forced to face, doubt became evident in my selection of PBP; so I decided to ask more questions, to step up due diligence on my end; NONE of my follow-up questions were ANSWERED. I had the audacity to ask for a contract, how much I could expect to earn per copy sold, why PBP didn’t request my SSN and other questions of concern. I wanted to understand how to stop PBP from making unwanted changes or ignoring the ones I desired. One would like to think that a publisher would be appreciative of a proactive author, seeing that I have one title already. At one point, I had the false hope that my book could be completed by December 2016, but not in time for Christmas. Now we’re into May 2017.
.
Nor was I ever allowed to see the prepared book cover- FOR MY BOOK! I was informed that I couldn’t be allowed to see it because the image MAY need to be re-sized. IMO, this is a ridiculous excuse. Since I never saw the cover, I was unable to either review it (for mistakes) or critique it. Supposedly the cover was made three months earlier; since I’ve not seen it, I must assume that PBP is not lying to me. And it was crazy of me to imagine using the graphic (OF MY BOOK) as a marketing tool to create excitement and interest in my latest title or possibly generate pre-order sales. When a publisher intentional decides to play games like this, does anyone else see this issue as a “Red Flag”?
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Caught between his impatience, unrepentant attitude and ability to be easily offended, John refused to apologize for his technical ineptitude and unwillingness to press forward; instead he chose to hide behind his spiritual authority (which I do not fall under); he essentially demanded that only I had the onus of forgiving him. After a weak and failed attempt to bully me into accepting substandard work, he later announced that he was quitting my project. In a phony letter of apology, John even implied that I needed to accept responsibility for the failure to get this book made, since I HAD CONTACTED PBP. In addition, he reiterated that PBP is a ministry; if that’s true, then why didn’t he demonstrate patience, perseverance and humility towards me or ensure quality of effort… as unto The Lord? Should PBP want to dispute my account, John should be reminded that I’ve retained a copy of various PDF iterations of my unmade book with the aforementioned issues.
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I took no pleasure in composing this PSA, but felt that it was my duty, to share my poor experience in dealing with a difficult publisher, to my writing communities. This notification could have been prevented, if John had repented, swallowed his pride and pushed forward to get my books made. Instead he chose to become an irrelevant part of my journey as an author, which is sad, since he acknowledged that I have a gift for writing poetry. IMHO, we the writing community, must be willing to stand up to publishers, since the responsibility (of the vision for our books) lies with us. We should be able to freely ask questions and have templates modified to suit the individuality of our books. Let your voice and concerns be heard. Please share this message with the writers you personally know. We should not be forced to accept shoddy work! John can be reached on FB at https://www.facebook.com/john.jeffries.33; the PBP website can be found by searching its full name. Please feel free to share this PSA on John’s page, so he understand the ramifications of his actions.
.
judy smith Aug 2016
Ten minutes is all Sabyasachi Mukherjee has. “Can you keep the interview short,” I’m asked, as the announcement of his participation in the finale of Lakme Fashion Week’s upcoming Winter Festive show is made. Is ten minutes enough to recap the 14-year journey of this master of colour, cut and construction, I wonder. But I realised that Sabyasachi in rapid-fire mode can make ten minutes seem like twenty! Excerpts:

What is it about LFW that made you return?

It’s here that I first made a mark as a designer. I’m familiar with the format, and know the people. It is like a homecoming. The good thing about LFW is that everything is taken care of – from building the set to inviting people. So I have the freedom to focus on the clothes. It is like putting together a complete show, but doing only half the work!

Finales are a challenge – given the expectations of people in the fraternity, profiles of attendees and the intangible themes created by Lakme for interpretation into garments…

Well, it’s not at all difficult for me. This is my fifth finale at LFW. Once the make-up and hair are set, it is easy to imagine the look and what the girls must wear. I’m way too senior to worry about pre-show stress. My biggest pressure comes from whether I will like what I create. Beyond that, even the critics’ reaction doesn’t really concern me.

Will this line too be about Indian-ness?

Whether I do Western, Eastern or a combination, I always use Indian handcrafts, and all my clothes are handmade. Traditional textiles, block prints, weaves and embroidery are a constant in my collections. The theme being “Illuminate”, this line is about red-carpet clothes with a strong shimmer quotient.

Sunday was National Handloom Day. Considering our diverse range of homespun textiles, do you think everyday must be celebrated as handloom day in India?

Absolutely. It is mandatory at my stores. My staff wears only handloom saris or kurtas made of hand-woven fabric. My Instagram hashtag says ‘Wearing handloom everyday.’

Social media plays a significant role in promoting tradition. Smriti Irani’s ‘I wear handloom’ campaign on Twitter and the 100 Saree Pact are recent examples. Isn’t it time designers too found new ways to promote heritage?

Yes. As more and more Western brands enter the market, our designers must first establish an identity of their own. The Zaras of the world are bringing active prêt into the country, so it is important for us to revive the market for Indian clothes. Reinventing tradition and rethinking marketing strategies are critical at this point.

Has the hustle of today’s business taken fun away from fashion? How do you strike a balance between creative expression and commercial viability?

Oh, that’s very simple. I set my own rules. For instance, this year, I had too much on my calendar. I didn’t do ramp shows, I only had a showing on Instagram. Established designers must create new templates that suit their creativity instead of allowing the market to set the pace for them. Because, at the end of the day, only if you have the time and space for creative expression, can you create beautiful clothes that determine the durability of your brand.

If you were to spell out two major problems faced by the fashion world, what would they be?

Lack of originality. Lack of self-belief.

Fashion has evolved into a glamorous industry, and today, many youngsters want to be part of it. But most of what we see on the ramp and in the retail space are risk-free repetitions.

Well, for designers to evolve, the market has to evolve. But the mood is changing. There are designers who are willing to push boundaries and clients who are ready to experiment. Facebook, Pinterest and Instagram are changing the way people see and respond to fashion. The horizons are widening. This is a wonderful time for young designers to launch their labels and sustain their inventiveness.

Very few Indian designers have taken the effort to document fashion. What about you?

Yes, I will at some point in time get down to writing about my brand. But for that, I will first have to find the right publisher!

Many corporate players are keen on collaborating with designers.

I receive so many proposals for collaborations that I refuse one every day! I am collaborating with Asian Paints, Forever Mark and Christian Louboutin. Another huge one is coming up – but I will not be able to speak about it at the moment.

Do seasons really matter any more in the world of fashion?

Global warming is making designers understand the importance of season-defying clothing. And people too, I feel, don't shop for seasons any more. They just want beautiful clothes.

Can you update us on your forays into jewellery design and interiors?

I have collaborated with Hyderabad’s Kishandas & Company to create some iconic pieces that are hugely popular — and of course, plagiarised! I have a line coming up for Forever Mark. As for interiors, I wanted to design homes, but people did not seem to have enough confidence in me! (laughs) So I ended up doing up my own stores. I have also done up the Cinema Suite for the Taj in London. Celebrities who have stayed in the hotel have appreciated it. A significant collaboration in interiors is happening in October.

Your suggestions to keep traditions going…

People need to be educated about handmade textiles and crafts. A time will come when China will lose out to India because as people become aware, they will only want to support products that are ethically sourced and foster craft communities. Surprisingly, the new millennials are in favour of luxury that is completely handmade. I see that as a positive sign.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses
Perig3e Jul 2015
Marvelously Mentored

In mind
I guide my wheelchair
forward through the valley of death
and fear rises as if lachrymal dew
But I take heart knowing
there is a private way,
a fusion of mind=body,
my tao

Out of this valley
the way is paved
with slippery tempting templates,
Sirens songs,
a lyrical playlist cunningly self collected,  
but I remain mindfully resolute
caped in electric blanket and birthday suit
my 3D hero is me, Marvelously mentored,
sans copyright.
JA Doetsch Dec 2012
This poem is reserved
for the love of my life
Its lines are only
placeholders
templates
for what is to come

There is no meaning right now
so don't go and search for it
These are cold, emotionless words
ready to be replaced with fire
when the time is right

This stanza will be filled at a later date
This line will be about her laugh
This line will be about the look she gives me (you know the one)
This line will be about the spark in her eyes
This line...mmm...will be none of your **** business.
It's a private moment
It's between her and I
The one with the reservation
to my heart

One day this poem will mean something
One day these lines won't be empty
Someday

But not today
JP Goss Apr 2014
Morning:
My taken place at the faucet, a peer
Staring into eyes, not sworn to me
And I was standing, looking in the mirror
Speaking as my reflection
Spoke back to me.
I was shocked when he took my hand
Starting speaking about identity
I was shocked he knew so much
More of me
Than I.
He talked about my too-long hair
Or how good I looked in green
Or how messy my morning face could be
Or whether I was feeling smart or lean.
He knew it all:
I’d go so far to say more of me than I.

Evening:
Look to the east! A sun set
—Bravo! At least consistent and THEN gone.
Me? I’ve no such liberty
I couldn’t even tell, bereft a mirror,
The thing I like to call me.
Walking the roads, lined with lights
Bustling, living,
Lined with sights
Constituting the parts of me, invisible
—Added to nothing, they’re indivisible
Closed, exposed, fall and drizzle
Without the gall keep hold
From doors and boughs
In the windows—I’m there now
And THEN I’m gone.

Night:
The stone church’s door where
The righteous moor their souls
Piety flows
In its golden veins
And I’m there no more.
Their God does hate me
Without presence in the
Pews; I’m dross
Since the saint I chose
Was Saint Me beatified
Confirmed from the sinner Laity Goss
—So I turn
To the school affording play in my words
And a tact therefore
But rejects
All but their templates in blue shoes
Who sleight my for company
Only when within them
Or drowning in *****.
—So I turn
To the wilderness
Blooming in virginal grapes
Disrobed save the skin
Unfamiliar,
Self-aware but only on a whim
And whirlwinds that blow
Ice and shrapnel and
Exile me to the country
Where not but dearth may grow
In a single season of mine
—So I turn
Too afraid of that winter
So much more the fall
And me in the mirror
Knows it all, knows it plenty
A casual drop in a casual chat
About identity
—So I turn
Back to the mirror
Back to it all
With showers and pictures in its wall
Staring into eyes, sworn not to me
Speaking as my reflection
Speaks back to me
I was not shocked he knew so much
More of me than I,
Since he strides alongside mine
And only in a certain climb
Telling me
It’s almost time, I’m almost there
But it’s not clear in which direction,
Or where.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2016
To Incorporate Institutional Effectiveness into
                                 Our Everyday Language**

)/)/)/ is updating our assessment plan for
Instructional units beginning this fall
2016 semester. After
Visiting with /)/, our SACSCOC
Consultant and Dr. /) yesterday
About our assessment process, it was
Determined that it is in our best interest
To clarify, verify and hopefully
Simplify the current random selection
Assessment process. Therefore, in lieu of
The use of the random selection process,
The plan for this semester and moving forward
Is to assess all students in all sections
Of courses used in the assessment process
And to report data on all students,
NOT just assessing or reporting data
On a random sample. In order to provide
Appropriate artifacts, we will choose
Representative samples (examples
Of great, fair and low achievement artifacts)
To be included in the artifacts
Collection for SACSCOC reporting. However,
We do still need to collect all artifacts
So we have those in the event they are
Needed. This will give us a better picture
Of how our students are performing.  

I know that we are changing directions
And I ask that you be patient as we
Navigate through this process and determine
How best to collect, assess, and use the data
We receive to make continuous improvements
For the good of the students and to
Incorporate institutional effectiveness
Into our everyday language.

Thank you for your willingness to assist
In this process and determining the best
Ways to help our students. Stay tuned as we
Look at and develop some additional
Templates or formats to report the data.
Please share this information with your faculty.
Ann Marcaida Jul 2012
I buried them in a shallow grave

outside the sunroom where their cage hung

rain washed their bones into a deep earth cellar

Where I descend by night with my lone candle

to find them fixed in strata, yet not fixed

scaled claws striking Jurassic dragonflies



My shadow flickers and dissolves

as I sit at the sunroom desk

Tiny scaled claws strike my head

Pinioned dervishes scold:

My suit of black and white feathers

my smooth hands and my scientist's smirk

my two-finger typing and opposable thumbs

my missing wings and manifesting teeth




We dinosaurs live on, incantations of ancestral rebirth

templates used, discarded, and used again

as our sphere cycles on, now warming, now cooling

the uniforms change, the costumes evolve

but the sudden-death scrimmage is eternal.
I wrote this after the death of my parakeets.  Dinosaurs and birds are no longer considered separate lineages.  Birds are simply living dinosaurs.
Tim English Dec 2013
Fleeting glimpses, hidden senses, past imperfect future tenses of improbable possibilities, infinite realities in a collective unconscious field of myriad potentialities, this causality is undefined, aligned with variables in a chaotic matrix of questionable and unknowable theses, a vortex of what the **** is he talking about, anyways? Many ways to the center, but once you enter where's the exit? Go on and make your query, hurry, it's not like you have Eternity to figure it out, oh, wait, you might, for after the body dies the Soul takes flight & slices through the cold dark Night to meet the light of Day, or so they say, I wouldn't know, I haven't been there in a while, the last time I died I tried to leave but got stuck when a man and a woman ****** & I got ****** back down in to the womb again, a child of sin who just can't seem to RISE and leave this world behind, THESE ******* TALKING MONKEYS WARP MY MIND, so, anyways, here I am, ******, a spirit trapped in blood and bone, a witness to the End of Time, as human history's final lines are written in blood in a book none shall read, there ain't no sequel *******, this is IT, get your **** together or face NEVER understanding the complexities of existence & the necessity of negativity for for the possibility of transcending the human understanding of the positive/negative frameworks of perception, or, in other words: **** happens, get over it, it makes you stronger. But the longer we agonize the more we demonize the opportunity to learn and grow from our adversity. Everything has its place, in time and in space, & as the quantum fields realign to allow potential probablities to manifest, our tests are revealed as stepping stones, part of the path on the way Home. This time here is only temporary as our souls are tempered in the fires of Purgatory, but Infinity awaits, and godlike, we shall rise into those skies of heightened perception & unlimited realization to take our places among the faces of the Eternal, it's on to the STARS, galaxies and Universal templates await construction, the essence of Creation, & how could we understand it unless we'd been THROUGH it? Maybe this time we'll get it RIGHT, 'cuz we've been leaning to the left this time around & it's about ******* time SOMEBODY did SOMETHING about all this *******, let's recreate the pattern in such a way that pain and suffering have no place, and there's not a single ******* trace of injustice, a new paradigm, a Paradise, wouldn't that be nice, a place where everything's all right, and our sight is restored to be able to truly SEE the Light instead of only clawing at the walls of this darkened dungeon of filth and misery & hellish reality, LET ME RISE into that bright and familiar Light that so long ago let me go to Fall without ceasing in this neverending Pit... GIVE ME BACK MY ******* WINGS, I'M OFF TO BETTER , BRIGHTER THINGS.
RKM Mar 2012
she lived on the only street
in Rattenberg, the smallest village

in all Austria. because it was all
she knew
and all she loved.

in the summer, she lived in the
kitchen
away from the flies and
the itching glow of the sun

sketching designs of glass crystal
and playing records
her father played from his armchair
when she was young.
the blinds closed, the shadows

of pedestrians drew sloping
templates of bodies large and thin
she guessed their faces and painted
girls with small noses and round chins
and made the men look like him.

her sister, from the neighbour town
called in the winter months, when
Rat Mountain devoured the sun and left
Rattenberg in day-night. she invited her
on walks, said it was not good
for her complexion to live in shadow

unmoved, she
preferred instead to pace the only street
in the welcome midday greyness
and smile quietly
at the pale faces she passed

when plans rumbled of a
contraption of mirrors to steal
the day's shine from her sister's town
she prayed to the moon

he would let them leave her alone
in the shadow of Rat Mountain
a child of the night

the girl who preferred the dark to the light
the lady-moth determined to stay in flight.
Chris D Aechtner Nov 2021
BLAST   —   direct focus on a terrorist virus
that swims in breath and touch,
in globules of spittle and ssnot see,
waiting to plant roadside RNA bombs
in nostrils—from flesh to newsflash fantasies

with

a Fear-O-Meter Lockdown grip
of Crisis Management Economics:
Gaslit Fiat economy crash test dummies
tested within psychosocioschizological
experiments of the psychobacteriological

transfer of power, control, and wealth—

stats data for thinktanks and simulations:
which strategies are best to get the peasants  
to willingly offer up their lives for an illusion
of safety and protection, what causes people
to remain compliant or to become renegades.

Capitalism, the revolutionary meant to usurp
Queens and Kings, corrupted into a negative
Technocratic Corporatocracy: a Royal Trash
death cult that feeds on its young, sacrifices
its youth to scams, wars, and stolen futures:

a Technocrat Herr Doktor drug pusher
that plies the skin of trial control groups
for the venom of Warpspeed fangs—wraps
its coil around a bundle of willow switches
supple with youth, its victims kept alive

as a fuel source to burn in the corporate engine, and kept weak enough to require another fix "For the betterment of the whole."

(Gaslighting fills mandated shower-coops:
"Trust us, you're sick, and it's your fault.")

Pollute people into isolation against an enemy that has never been truthfully isolated and purified—
an Orwellian leap of faith that breaks:
a crusher of foundational laws,
a crusher of critical thought and bones.

"Destroy (transform) your dreams, milestones, and livelihoods for your safety and protection. We are doing this for you. We care about you. These numbers, these awful numbers are your fault! You're to blame! It's all your fault!"

"Make sure to vote for me come next election."

As much as North America is a globalist,
the New World is also its own experiment.
Fortress North America: the Eugenicist Manager founded upon colonialism and slavery that outsources its crisis economics—
highly contagious, bit with its own snake oil,
an experiment observed to show symptoms
of AIDS, North America attacking itself
in many ways, symptoms of having been
grazed and groomed for decades

in contagion-based sociopolitical templates
that result in acquired bipolar autoimmune
disease: past enemies and geists attained
boosted immunity to defend, adapt—learned
to deflect Sun Tzu's Art of War into itself

with its own momentum. "Unrestricted
Psychological Warfare": a process of confusion and doubt that leads to the demoralization and dehumanization of the target enemy via the subversive tactics of propaganda plowing, cultural memetic warfare, the infection of economy, politics, military, scientific and educational institutions and systems—
cybertech and media espionage and warfare,
all of it leading to symptoms of extreme

polarization and social moral tribalism—
a decades-long psychological, physical
and spiritual draining of the enemy
into a weakened, toxic state, barely worthwhile to conquer fully. The enemy does the rest,

finishes itself off with:

Acquired (Red Auto)ImmunoDefiency Syndrome

Red CONtroll COVID-19 debt slavery—
pandemic crisis, CoVfefe crisis, energy crisis,
population crisis, climate crisis, racism crisis,
market crisis, war crisis, terrorism crisis,
ISIS is is cry sis in crisis and crisis
in crisis debt slavery to the State: Toadies

for the "New Normal" Big Pharma-Big Tech
mechanical heart engine that thrums
with a beat that Zooms in on, Zooms out from
false-positive test results amplified

and distorted into AIDS:

Amplified Information Distortion Syndrome

and

an Acquired ImmunoDeficiency Syndrome
in conjunction with a near-infinite number
of variables and determining factors—
an Auto-ImmunoDeficiency Syndrome of
body, mind, soul, and political systems
cruising along an acquired, contagious loop
of a negative-sense RNA socialist Autobahn—

highly contagious, highly experimental in
unprecedented moments of crisis and mirrors: reflections of reflections of reflections
amplified and bent
in sleight-of-hand misdirection and deflection with the virus holding a mirror's face outwards

while

an mRNA 'treatment' infects human cells
to conquer and command them to become
bomb making factories that create
SARS-CoV-2 S-proteins—yes, yes, "inactively" teach T-cells with double-think McCure-all bandAIDS to 'help' identify SARS-CoV-2 RNA. Understood. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction

(for the Terrorist within)

"Here's a fast-tracked vaccine that supposedly boosts the immune system that you're being commanded to weaken."

GMO sleeper cells and non-celled sequences
that can attain causality and symbiosis with
drug and antibiotic resistant organisms,
are sold as the cure that ills

and

misdiagnosed and misunderstood symptoms
of anything and everything
in-between that we've known and seen
are blamed on a laboratory Chimera:

the scapegoat terrorist virus designed
to be highly contagious and gentle to its host
for vaccine programs: Mary's Monster attaining the flame of life within
its Promethean host.

Who made who?

Who knew that the FDA NIH CDC
WHO-Fang North American China Flu Clan

flew the fear and media spread. "Wait for our
next update." Live TV, live virus

with billions of shortsighted treatments
adding ripples to an overflowing soup bowl
of trillions x trillions of RNA particulates,

inactive/active — off/on — negative/positive

Switch:

Spin PCR in the Petri dish:
One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish!
What a lot of fish there are!

This one has a little yellow star.....

("Mission Accomplished")
1 17 2021
brooke Feb 2013
I remembered the name,
one morning in the frost
after Neighbours where
fibrils of wet snow made
dewy gossamer templates
on my gloves, but I could
not turn to the next person
and tell them that, because
who would believe that I
had never met the Winter
until then?
who?
(c) Brooke Otto
Malia Kay Lewis Apr 2010
Being on your own
being intimate with oneself
in silence
and still...

...enables the monsters to emerge from their shadowy places,
to egress from their hidden agendas,
from their porcelain, painted masks...
out into the free air to indulge in one's fresh flesh...

much like monsters who hide in closets.

And you'd call Mother and swear and swear
you could see, hear, smell them in full
in that ****** dark thing
with the creaking door...

but when you implore Her to look,
she finds nothing
but a fluffy stuffed pink bunny...

But O She leaves again and there they are.

Ready and salivating to reveal their evil templates
and in all their glory watch you squirm over the knowledge.

And they watch you, tell you things about yourself-
things you've tried to ignore all this time...
kenye Mar 2013
One must suffer for beauty
But not in this self-destructive fashion
Maybe after we put ourselves out there
They'll worship at the pedestal
Some skewed mindset of what glamour highlights

Re-invent yourself
Not innovate another's identity
We're just templates
left to be traced by another
Who wants to be the photocopied poster child?

She just wants out
You can't blame her for exploiting herself
This was after the *sext
messages
Sent to his phone
forwarded to all his friends
sent to all their friends
inevitably the internet

Girl's got a sickness about her
She wants to go viral
Starving for attention
Starving herself for perfection

Caught somewhere between ascension of ego
and descension of the soul
She's lost like a lighter in a smoke circle
Won't somebody spark the way?
I was channeling an anti-heroine

...Happy Women's Day?
katewinslet Sep 2015
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It's really a procedure or simply technique with time has shown on its own to always be quite as good as each and every techniques or possibly methods that which you were using for you to do identical things. You are able to state that this is the most beneficial approach an individual, your current crew, or perhaps your institution found to do a specific thing. Why do these people problem? Recommendations happen to be priceless because they're typically the psychological means -- that "secret sauce" -- that can assist agencies continue to be extremely affordable. It truly is best to be able to institutionalize suggestions in order that most people comes after all of them. You can feature him or her straight into procedures, practices, and/or over the internet undertaking service platforms. You notion may be to develop a best rehearse databases who some people have access to simply. You don't wish which treasured info to end up being underground inside of a data display case this no person knows all sorts of things concerning. That utility area may just be inside of a database, on your Web-site,

yet another hugely seen electronic and digital and geographic location. Greatest training repositories can easily a great deal limit the unintended effects for attrition within the corporate entity's mental resources, which is often damaging. When anyone leave as they end, leave the workplace, really are fired, or ended up being merely non permanent skilled tradesmen at the start, transmit mail "brain trust" wholly is gone on their way using them unless their particular expertise has grabbed generating offered to some others. In summary, by way of saving Double zero hindsight incrementally along with making it into Double zero understanding, you will definitely enjoy much more long-term achievements in comparison to happily ignoring or possibly forgetting trouble, or perhaps merely by moving forward to when a assignment or even venture comes to an end.
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Leah Riley Mar 2012
blind promises lead to
a bruise festering beneath
stifled utterances and apologies
prerequisites for templates
of things never meant
but nevertheless
permanent

charred ochre and Prussian blue
churn into an acrylic wound
cringing
mesmerizing
all the ways to gouge into silence
just to purge verses that sound like
Not next time, I swear
I guess this is what they meant by
abstract

I should’ve listened
when I heard from a backdrop
that perfection is silent
behind clouds of luminescent cataracts
gushing
scorning
what has yet to be illuminated

but all this talk of perfection
makes me want to burn at the stake
there must be something
to ruin or save
because sacreligion isn’t free
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2009
Thought about the values
That stipulate the way
You hold yourself in public
And play your cards each day.
Those building blocks of character
The templates in your psych,
The friction points of weakness
That wake you in the night.


Thought about the substance
That binds you to your way
The strengths and the failings
That motivate your day.
Enigmatic factors,
The quirks in your soul
Which endear you to some
But leave others quite cold.


Thought about loving
And loathing and pride,
And the great depths of sorrow
We carry inside.
The reluctance to face
The resentments of sin
With selective amnesia
We nurture within.


Thought about birth
With it's promise and joy,
Thought about death
As finality's ploy
Laughed at the memory
Of your smiling face
And squirmed with discomfort
In an old lies disgrace.


Thought about leaving
But decide to stay,
Thought about praying
Buy what would I say ?
I decided to sit
And contemplate life
With it's myriad fantasies,
Pleasures and strife.


I Thought about you
With a smile on your face,
So I'll ponder awhile
In this pleasant place.
I'll sit and remember
The happiness spared
In that thin whisp of timeframe
That mother fate shared.


Marshalg
@theBach
19 July 2009
Asa D Bruss Oct 2014
This isn't a poem
this is just to make you think it's a poem
really it's just a few splurs of verbiage
thrown onto a template
and then you probably wonder what kinda template I'm using
and then you probably google poetry templates
and then you might think to yourself
that's bullox
you can't make a template for poetry
and you'd be right
cuz I'm lying.
Pete Badertscher Oct 2010
IF I wanted to move on
I would.
IF I wanted to forget
I would.
If I wanted to know all of your opinions
I would ask.
Be pleased with my false sincerity.
Be pleased I genuinely care
That you feel I’m “happy”.
You don’t want the truth.
You want an easily believable lie
So your conscious feels at ease.
I’ll give you what you want.
I’ll burn the fragrances of my soul
On the embers of your altars.
Don’t hand me re-dreamt petals,
Templates of what I should do.
You know nothing.
Chris D Aechtner Nov 2021
Empire caused "Meek" and "Warden"
to become lost for the people divided.

The ancient etymological root intent and
definition of Meek: A person who is trained
and experienced in wielding the sword
who attempts to keep the sword sheathed for
as much as logically possible.

State and Church are cut from
the same cloth, designed to divide,
denature, and disarm on many levels.

State, Corporation, and Church (snot to be mistaken with sacred Vedas and source
codes. King David's and King Solomon's
writing is lush and powerful, and following
the lessons of Isa KRST can cause a more
peaceful, sustainable world),
close your inner eye.

Empire wants the peasants to believe
in "Meek" in a specific way for obvious reasons.
"Warden" is meant to be defined as not ever technically owning anything on Earth, including our children, and that it's our duty to natural Earth laws and Mother womb to stand against perpetrators who goose-step through the gardens and creeks.

"Warden" became inverted, turned on its
head to empty people's heads and pockets.

There are those who need to be dark for the
others. There are good dark fallen petals that
have their own light to survive the darkness.
The dark fallen petals lean towards the
divine feminine to bring balance and
harmony to the universal laws when toxic
male Jinn fire energy grows and spreads
into unbalance and unsustainability.

There are those of us who carry fangs
For Earth Womb, are willing supplicant cubs For Mother Huntress—sacred arrows
Notched in watery bow-spring.

Never Surrender to that which offers worse than death.

Surrender only to that which offers the water of life.

The Greatest Deception within the
Grand Illusion is to make people believe
that fire resembles false water:
Multifaceted, modified bait and switch.

The dark fallen petals fill their bowls
with water, then place the flame upon the water.

Filling your bowl first with fire, burns your mind and spirit into a husk. Attempting to extinguish a burning bowl with water, causes a polluted, murky brain and mind.

Always fill your pond with water,
let the water lilies and lotus grow
into wide open bloom. Always fill your chalice with water, then add the flame
upon the water. Mind as water, fluid,
able to flow alongside universal change
while adhering to universal constants.

State and Church are parasitic templates.
I'm snot suggesting that most people are bad and corrupted. You know the proverbial cliché: The road to hell is paved in good intentions. Prolonged saturation of negative entrenchment causes most every product to be negatively toxic regardless of initial intent going in.

Church and State are designed to close the inner eye and burn down the bowl permanently, leaving the hollow host with a jughead to fill with remote control leash and halter.

Church and State are designed to offer fire gift-wrapped in false water: The deceptive light that's obsessed with lighting candles in
an attempt to compensate for a burned down inner bowl that bathes the host in artificial light.

The nexus point between Church and State is the most insidious force that I've ever faced.

People who haven't already learned to do so, need to learn how to shield their minds from here on in. The next 15 years or so are gonna include some extraordinarily weird and intense moments and happenings across the world.

Learning to place the flame upon the water saved my body, mind, and spirit; It's the cleanest process and advice that I can offer.
It isn't an ultimate universal cure-all, as that is a wolf in sheep's clothing; It's a process that people can use to find their answers.

Empire always offers the ultimate answers, the psychopath that opportunistically builds traps as supposed solutions that lead to freedom and safety. Offered via State or Church, the answers are fire god traps disguised as water.

Nevermind conspiracy theory too, perceive it from various angles and scopes of objective perspective: please consider: trillions upon trillions of particles and particulates that range between organic and xenobiotic, natural and artificial, genetic and non-genetic: variables within trillions of natural and artificial rays, waves, pulses, beams, X, strings, that are emitted from trillions of organic and inorganic sources, such as uranium belts, stars, billions of wires, antennae, coils, tubes, on and on, BLASTED
into our bodies 24/7, awake, while asleep. While we dream.

Tinfoil (lol) can refract X negatively onto other reflective and refractive surfaces, cause amplification of ocular reception. Also, a wave/beam that might've passed through the skull and brain only once, can be bounced around the skull due to a tinfoil hat placed upon the crown.

Our bodies get hit within inevitability. The mix includes multifaceted physiological and psychological levels. And, images—trillions of images expressed in various states and forms.

Fire disguised as water causes hyper-inner conflict, shame, guilt, and fear that, when prolonged, eventually breaks the mind. A mind can break only however many times that it takes to bring specific minds to unfixable state.

Empire attempts to trick you into placing fire into your chalice first, it's that clean, base, simple, and primary.

Water religions/psychology/projections
produce more peaceful, accepting societies
that range in every possible mix of melanin and spice. Whenever a society retrogrades back to fire god worship and Sun sacrifice psychology and belief systems, the people and land become poisoned and dry, divided, cleaved under the weight of the cloven hoof

after having built another Tower of Babel.

Water cools the tempered sword
Glowing freshly from the forge.

Blossoming open in one way
Protects in many ways
That can't happen without acceptance.

When the dove sparks, stirs, drinks
From your chalice, and unfolds her wings into golden light inside your brain,
Empire's messaging no longer
Makes sense in a good way.
Ongoing rough blah blah blah, 11 15 2021
Emmatell Oct 2014
Flowers rottening, is the reason to grow them
The acknowledgement of a volatile time
Templates an, at least real, ache

Embracing the pain possible to touch with fingertips
When imitating deleted feelings

The satire of smashing a plate to feel complete
Ylzm Apr 2019
Be inspired not from without
of those you imagined yourself desirous to be
but rather be inspired from within
from discovering the unique self you truly are
the one you and the world never knew
the mystery and the wonder the world awaits to see
and the reason that is truly your reason for being

But the world demands success
defined from templates of history
imposed without care for who you are
but only for what you count for them
you, seduced with morsels and crumbs,
freely choose to be slave for their profits

And so alas the world lost
the truly free alienated

becoming

one weary hungry step at a time
discovery drifts to disillusion
mystery remains mystery
wonder turns to ruin,
despair and cynicism
the flicker of reason
burns dim
if only
on hope
of

eternity
Cyrus Agons Feb 2015
With utter dismay, a boundless aura portrayed in which one could truly say due to the weathered soil at stake, many templates were driven
"As my sight is vague and night transitions to day, I coincide with the breeze throughout artificial structures that is my name
I ask for the gate that has embedded my mere existence unto a vivid Chirov relates"
"Lightened chatter isn't what one must towards a God as myself
A sudden suffocation of infinite concepts might, indeed help
With great remorse, we fancy for my brother
Unfortunately, how desperate Chirov had to be as he ate his developing hunger
William A Poppen Sep 2015
Everything is measured and sized
Necklaces gaudy and gay,
Rings of different carets
mingle near gold and silver bangles
 
No scale or ruler
marks distances between them
Templates screen words
of spontaneous bluntness
 
Turn the apple
toward the worm's
tip peaking through the skin
Cull the fruit  from the basket
 
Between ardent glances
and shallow breaths-
an awareness of nourishment
beneath peeled skin
 
All realize
one seldom cuts
delicious melon
without spilling some juice
Selena Jance Jan 2015
The diseased roots have come to
lay bare. My fear so strong, this one thing secretly
paralyzing me, feigning it be a natural
friend or even the paper on the wall, written in
reflecting ink, permeating every part of me.

When time calls out for the necessity of my
bold action, I will run out into fire for another
but for myself, I hold no peace. So how can one

come out for other beings like this? It’s no

fact of toil, the lot befallen to us, all
the weary, is love. So when these hearts have the space
to call for justice, the lone world will tremble
from our contradictory bravery, unity in the
numbers, forsaken by only the giro templates.

If only this fear knew the strength I find
in lonely places, solely accompanied by sacred whispers
of revolution. How much we want it, I hear the call
in the night across the vastness.

The uncaring trees with pleading hands
will burn black, and the little birds fly free to
where fear no longer exists.


© July 28th, 2014
Luke Gagnon Mar 2013
Of course
I have fireworks
so many incessant, breathing
bodies, active and
available.

The environment
requires these.

Can I offer you
my name, first?
After, will you memorize
edited
versions of me,
templates and tailored materials
you find relevant to your
exercise?:

Mother,
Home is a four
letter word.

Please I am
limited.
Value each crux
of me.

I will not be open
and courteous and
free.

Home is a
promise of
leaving.
This was originally an erasure poem of my poetry writing syllabus but I modified the format to share it here.
Laokos Sep 2019
what we become in
    rejection to the templates
        we succumb to
a positive negation of what
we once believed to be our
being
cast aside even the idea
of a revelatory rebirth
silence and space do not
    describe it
emptiness, void - they too fail
the more i write about it,
the less i say about it
The fair tales of my works
Early wakes out of pijamas
Quick sights to lament my day
My lover slept right
On the pillow i didnt buy
Come see my dream
I caught a fortune at hand
Of the previous to build
A thousand templates of mould
Judge your own wishes not of my acts
Am full of smells of success.
Look down to set admiration of my under feet
And smoke to the sky a wave of congs
Must you not be grateful better than you
Oh yer your linen cloth costs so much
Than the over coat i inherited
Bla bla i inherited luck not a job
Brains not money
Personally am fortune a son of fortunate mother by Blessed and sistered by Hope
Slash your competence in worries am a slave to non as my wisdom is buffed from above
Hello tomorrow, see those that dislike me
But its fine am off to fly far their plans
And now look at me My Majesty
Let them drown in hustle am sorted by extreme blessings flow.
Cookie cutter templates for every soul in a building.
Sheep.

They are not the same. We are not the same. You are not.
The same.
She can speak words I've never heard before,
but she doesn't say my name.
That's okay.
I could listen to her for days.

She doesn't say her own name.
That's step one.
Silky smiles, spicy speeches,
Savvy slogans, grabbing gab,
Tasty talk, touchy tongue,
Tempting templates, trumpets,
Dramatic discourse, pulpit promises,
Built castles in the air,
Voted the Seeker to power,
Tossed him onto ivory tower.

Erstwhile speaker-seeker, vested,
With powers to make, unmake,
Car, care, caravan and carnival,
Moved the man to magnificent mood;
The kingly way to minister and administer.

His days passed, surpassed,
His might went unsurpassed,
Poor, the soft core of his card,
Far from sight feeling so hard.

Fence began to pounce on the crop,
As hapless cursed their source of hope,
Arrogance spiced up the powers-that-be,
On a cool swing in paradise of power-so-be,  
Powers-that-be are the powers not to be.
scully Feb 2018
all beauty is
is the beginning of abhorrence,
it is horror that is easy to look at.
when can you twist your body
and turn it ******?
i can do it on command,
i have skilled the viciousness of my mouth to bite
willingly, to tear without reserve.
all poetry is
is running hands over skin,
touching yourself.
i make templates to map out the faults of my words.
i curve my neck towards my blame,
i rehash my faith on repulsion.
this madness has a frame to hold onto
in the middle of the transition
from something digestible
to something noxious.
beauty morphs itself into something
that burns to cover with your palms,
like a child trying to trap light between fingers,
maybe you should learn to keep your hands
to yourself.
all love is
is pressing our soles into the dirt and our
deception into the other side of the bed while we
construct a way out.
if we never love each other,
there is no refuge to fall from,
only towards.
when can i take my love
and make it hurt?
where can i place my lust so
you can watch it burn,
so you can watch it brand the only
body i can still stand to identify?
i can spit this truth from my lips without choking.
i don't care what it looks like while it is lying
dead on the floor.
this is the disgust that is so final, this is
what all beauty mutates into; something holy that
i can't love because i can't recognize.
shireliiy Oct 2015
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Stephen Leacock Jul 2016
With anger and wrath my soul is becoming dark
Lost in two worlds of a chained melodic heart
Fighting battles of their arts hoping to be free of the perception of the grand-master arts
Construct within my consciousness, templates of thoughts
Reality of possibilities like a Hindu God's
Many battles have been fought worlds flying thru like a dart
Aiming for the nectar of a new wonderful new start.
Entering the void and becoming timeless art!

— The End —