"thirds" poems - Hello Poetry

"thirds" poems

suppose Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head. young death sits in a café smiling,a piece of money held between his thumb and first finger (i say “will he buy flowers” to you and “Death is young life wears velour trousers life totters,life has a beard” i say to you who are silent.—”Do you see Life?he is there and here, or that, or this or nothing or an old man 3 thirds asleep,on his head flowers,always crying to nobody something about les roses les bluets yes, will He buy? Les belles bottes—oh hear ,pas chères”) and my love slowly answered I think so. But I think I see someone else there is a lady,whose name is Afterwards she is sitting beside young death,is slender; likes flowers.

0

84.3k

suppose Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head. young death sits in a café smiling,a piece of money held between his thumb and first finger (i say “will he buy flowers” to you and “Death is young life wears velour trousers life totters,life has a beard” i say to you who are silent.—”Do you see Life?he is there and here, or that, or this or nothing or an old man 3 thirds asleep,on his head flowers,always crying to nobody something about les roses les bluets yes, will He buy? Les belles bottes—oh hear ,pas chères”) and my love slowly answered I think so. But I think I see someone else there is a lady,whose name is Afterwards she is sitting beside young death,is slender; likes flowers.

Continue reading...

You are my dear, decadent desert, My summer-thyme delight; Starlight. Tonight’s your night, for you I write. Radiant glow, fuzzed herbal hue. My dear butterscotch icecream. Sore arms churn thick, slick froth - Sauterne butter. Gentle spread melts, dowsed in sweet, sugared innocence, rich scents, then sits. 6 years pass quickly, youthhood gone; My black swan, a third complete. You, sauterne butter, mix with scotch - Fermented, demented, invented to inebriate. Golden brew dissociates reality - Spinny, fuzzy, dizzy, funny… gone. Go on again, dear fawn, 6 years pass, Pant for the water, two-thirds complete. 12 years as toll to adolescence; Icy, creamy, dreamy, element prepared. Scoops of soft serve mix with years past - Angsty era. Seductive spirits, beautiful brew. At last, my summer-thyme delight dances with rhyme. The lime-light shines; ten and eight. Todays the date, stuff immaturity away. Make room for the adulthoods’ good, Scooped generously into a bowl Shuttled and entrapped by me, Melting, streaming, gleaming and freezing. You awesome angel! My pleasure supreme - My dear butterscotch icecream.

0

Apr 22, 2017

Apr 22, 2017 at 6:43 PM UTC

Butterscotch Icecream

You are my dear, decadent desert, My summer-thyme delight; Starlight. Tonight’s your night, for you I write. Radiant glow, fuzzed herbal hue. My dear butterscotch icecream. Sore arms churn thick, slick froth - Sauterne butter. Gentle spread melts, dowsed in sweet, sugared innocence, rich scents, then sits. 6 years pass quickly, youthhood gone; My black swan, a third complete. You, sauterne butter, mix with scotch - Fermented, demented, invented to inebriate. Golden brew dissociates reality - Spinny, fuzzy, dizzy, funny… gone. Go on again, dear fawn, 6 years pass, Pant for the water, two-thirds complete. 12 years as toll to adolescence; Icy, creamy, dreamy, element prepared. Scoops of soft serve mix with years past - Angsty era. Seductive spirits, beautiful brew. At last, my summer-thyme delight dances with rhyme. The lime-light shines; ten and eight. Todays the date, stuff immaturity away. Make room for the adulthoods’ good, Scooped generously into a bowl Shuttled and entrapped by me, Melting, streaming, gleaming and freezing. You awesome angel! My pleasure supreme - My dear butterscotch icecream.

Continue reading...

Strolling through the park With humans, dogs, and birds, Pink leaves make their mark As they hover down in thirds. Drifting along lazy airwaves, An amplified guitar echoes As a band soulfully misbehaves For all nearby bedfellows. Apartments loom over trees, From a place of urban gray As blue air works to appease Spaces between dusk and day. Sturdy street lights rusted and old Accompanying a worn path ignite, One by one flashing dark to gold On a normal Wednesday night.

0

Oct 4, 2018

Oct 4, 2018 at 7:03 PM UTC

A Normal Wednesday Night

Strolling through the park With humans, dogs, and birds, Pink leaves make their mark As they hover down in thirds. Drifting along lazy airwaves, An amplified guitar echoes As a band soulfully misbehaves For all nearby bedfellows. Apartments loom over trees, From a place of urban gray As blue air works to appease Spaces between dusk and day. Sturdy street lights rusted and old Accompanying a worn path ignite, One by one flashing dark to gold On a normal Wednesday night.

Continue reading...

Spilled ink. Old film. Crumpled paper. The click of a shutter. Pens dying. Wiping lenses. Flashlights under the covers. Struggling with a tripod. Daydreaming. The Rule of Thirds. Tattered pages. Beautiful sunsets. Coffee shops. Skittish animals. 3 am. Cropping. Always thinking. The horizon line. The frantic search for pen and paper. Frustrated with trying to capture the beauty of the world In a small package.

0

Jun 30, 2018

Jun 30, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC

On being a poet and a photographer

Spilled ink. Old film. Crumpled paper. The click of a shutter. Pens dying. Wiping lenses. Flashlights under the covers. Struggling with a tripod. Daydreaming. The Rule of Thirds. Tattered pages. Beautiful sunsets. Coffee shops. Skittish animals. 3 am. Cropping. Always thinking. The horizon line. The frantic search for pen and paper. Frustrated with trying to capture the beauty of the world In a small package.

Continue reading...

A dream once was had-- for two to be equal, For this is the land of the free, Free for you; free for me. Often we hide our faces, as if we were the ones shamed. Instead of standing up with another, Repelling awful names. Silence has a power, often more than sound. Silence tunes your true voice, Silence shakes the ground. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. Young students go to school, all shades of different skin. We all threw rocks and names, Wanting equality was their sin. Did it matter? Their race was who they were. A few rose voices, Others’ silences were fists furled. What does it matter, of what color their skin? Here comes another battle. Here it comes again. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. If one was gay, would he not be a being? Should you let others mock? Does silence stop the grieving? No, the pain is still there, still loud. The silence is louder. Silence is all around. The names, the hate, all can be repressed. Silence is the fermata. Silence has the stress. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. What is the solution, to this lack of sound? Simple. Make it loud. A word of hope, ringing upon new ears. A word of sympathy, Erasing all the fear. A smile, a hug, a song, a dream, All to be had, All to be seen. Shout against repression, against hate. For we are all equal, All the same final fate. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. Stand together, as one. Make the stand. Stop silence, create music, Ring it through the land. With your words create harmony, create rhyme. Create thirds and fifths, Stronger than the flow of time. Why must we stand alone? Aren’t we all brothers? Did our ancestors fight? Protecting our dear mother? Hand in hand we’ll rise, voices speak as one. Cruelness and evil gone, Silence on the run. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. If we do not help each other, then who will assist? Together we will rise, Or fall together into the abyss. Gay or straight, or be it black or white, Whether you believe in god, We’re all human, right? We all feel, we all hear and see. We can all make words, We all breathe. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. So why must we be made different, called by our opinions or race? Why must we be judged, Simply by our face? No more, I shout. No more the hate. No more discrimination. This is our fate. No more injustice, social and the silence. No more acts of anger. No more senseless violence. Let brothers protect brothers, let friends be friends, For we are only human. The same mortal end. Let sisters love their sisters, let strangers be strangers no more. For we are only human. Our heart is our core. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. I will stand alone, if that is what it takes. I will raise my voice, Singing with quick haste. I will be the difference, the smile to the weak. I will help protect, Helping shield the meek. I will celebrate the differences, that make you and me. I will turn the lock, My voice will be the key. Soon my friends will join, creating a choir of light, Singing against the hate, Harmonies strike the night. Silence will not be my tool, silence is not my friend. I will make my voice count. I will make this hate end. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead.

0

Dec 9, 2012

Dec 9, 2012 at 8:54 PM UTC

Silence Marks the Dead

A dream once was had-- for two to be equal, For this is the land of the free, Free for you; free for me. Often we hide our faces, as if we were the ones shamed. Instead of standing up with another, Repelling awful names. Silence has a power, often more than sound. Silence tunes your true voice, Silence shakes the ground. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. Young students go to school, all shades of different skin. We all threw rocks and names, Wanting equality was their sin. Did it matter? Their race was who they were. A few rose voices, Others’ silences were fists furled. What does it matter, of what color their skin? Here comes another battle. Here it comes again. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. If one was gay, would he not be a being? Should you let others mock? Does silence stop the grieving? No, the pain is still there, still loud. The silence is louder. Silence is all around. The names, the hate, all can be repressed. Silence is the fermata. Silence has the stress. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. What is the solution, to this lack of sound? Simple. Make it loud. A word of hope, ringing upon new ears. A word of sympathy, Erasing all the fear. A smile, a hug, a song, a dream, All to be had, All to be seen. Shout against repression, against hate. For we are all equal, All the same final fate. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. Stand together, as one. Make the stand. Stop silence, create music, Ring it through the land. With your words create harmony, create rhyme. Create thirds and fifths, Stronger than the flow of time. Why must we stand alone? Aren’t we all brothers? Did our ancestors fight? Protecting our dear mother? Hand in hand we’ll rise, voices speak as one. Cruelness and evil gone, Silence on the run. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. If we do not help each other, then who will assist? Together we will rise, Or fall together into the abyss. Gay or straight, or be it black or white, Whether you believe in god, We’re all human, right? We all feel, we all hear and see. We can all make words, We all breathe. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. So why must we be made different, called by our opinions or race? Why must we be judged, Simply by our face? No more, I shout. No more the hate. No more discrimination. This is our fate. No more injustice, social and the silence. No more acts of anger. No more senseless violence. Let brothers protect brothers, let friends be friends, For we are only human. The same mortal end. Let sisters love their sisters, let strangers be strangers no more. For we are only human. Our heart is our core. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead. I will stand alone, if that is what it takes. I will raise my voice, Singing with quick haste. I will be the difference, the smile to the weak. I will help protect, Helping shield the meek. I will celebrate the differences, that make you and me. I will turn the lock, My voice will be the key. Soon my friends will join, creating a choir of light, Singing against the hate, Harmonies strike the night. Silence will not be my tool, silence is not my friend. I will make my voice count. I will make this hate end. Silence is the foe, when words need to be said. Silence is the killer. Silence marks the dead.

Continue reading...

A baby sea turtle in my hands: the outer islanders call him Wol, he will be a nomad, if anyone will. What will the world look like to him? Will he dream of killer whales, those Swiss Cake Rolls of the sea? Of winning the three hearts of an octopus? See what the turtle sees, and rejoice. The sea turtle, like the human, cries saltwater and the tears cover two-thirds of the earth. He risks pirate ship, cigarette boat, Chinese net. He mistakes bait for food. (Who doesn’t?) But he can swim away from; swim towards: India, Mombasa, New Zealand, Ulithi. The world's a turtle’s home, why is anyone a nomad if not for this? See what the turtle sees and rejoice, carrying only the markings on your shell. A jungle. A shack. Half a moon. Islands sprinkled like tiny green beads across the Water of the Sky. A first tattoo—seven little turtles-- and it hurts in a good way like the world does. Dear Creator keep me from evil keep my life keep my going out and my coming in

0

Mar 8, 2013

Mar 8, 2013 at 4:39 AM UTC

masikanicrocodile

A baby sea turtle in my hands: the outer islanders call him Wol, he will be a nomad, if anyone will. What will the world look like to him? Will he dream of killer whales, those Swiss Cake Rolls of the sea? Of winning the three hearts of an octopus? See what the turtle sees, and rejoice. The sea turtle, like the human, cries saltwater and the tears cover two-thirds of the earth. He risks pirate ship, cigarette boat, Chinese net. He mistakes bait for food. (Who doesn’t?) But he can swim away from; swim towards: India, Mombasa, New Zealand, Ulithi. The world's a turtle’s home, why is anyone a nomad if not for this? See what the turtle sees and rejoice, carrying only the markings on your shell. A jungle. A shack. Half a moon. Islands sprinkled like tiny green beads across the Water of the Sky. A first tattoo—seven little turtles-- and it hurts in a good way like the world does. Dear Creator keep me from evil keep my life keep my going out and my coming in

Continue reading...

--To C. M. Fountains that frisk and sprinkle The moss they overspill; Pools that the breezes crinkle; The wheel beside the mill, With its wet, weedy frill; Wind-shadows in the wheat; A water-cart in the street; The fringe of foam that girds An islet's ferneries; A green sky's minor thirds-- To live, I think of these! Of ice and glass the ****** Pellucid, silver-shrill; Peaches without a wrinkle; Cherries and snow at will, From china bowls that fill The senses with a sweet Incuriousness of heat; A melon's dripping sherds; Cream-clotted strawberries; Dusk dairies set with curds-- To live, I think of these! Vale-lily and periwinkle; Wet stone-crop on the sill; The look of leaves a-twinkle With windlets clear and still; The feel of a forest rill That wimples fresh and fleet About one's naked feet; The muzzles of drinking herds; Lush flags and bulrushes; The chirp of rain-bound birds-- To live, I think of these! Envoy Dark aisles, new packs of cards, Mermaidens' tails, cool swards, Dawn dews and starlit seas, White marbles, whiter words-- To live, I think of these!

0

3.9k

William Ernest Henley

Ballade Made In The Hot Weather

--To C. M. Fountains that frisk and sprinkle The moss they overspill; Pools that the breezes crinkle; The wheel beside the mill, With its wet, weedy frill; Wind-shadows in the wheat; A water-cart in the street; The fringe of foam that girds An islet's ferneries; A green sky's minor thirds-- To live, I think of these! Of ice and glass the ****** Pellucid, silver-shrill; Peaches without a wrinkle; Cherries and snow at will, From china bowls that fill The senses with a sweet Incuriousness of heat; A melon's dripping sherds; Cream-clotted strawberries; Dusk dairies set with curds-- To live, I think of these! Vale-lily and periwinkle; Wet stone-crop on the sill; The look of leaves a-twinkle With windlets clear and still; The feel of a forest rill That wimples fresh and fleet About one's naked feet; The muzzles of drinking herds; Lush flags and bulrushes; The chirp of rain-bound birds-- To live, I think of these! Envoy Dark aisles, new packs of cards, Mermaidens' tails, cool swards, Dawn dews and starlit seas, White marbles, whiter words-- To live, I think of these!

Continue reading...

This is a lot more formal than writing it out for you, besides you usually can’t read my handwriting anyways. I’m sure you’re sick of my notes by now, but later in life they might matter, or we might break up and burning them might be part of your healing process. Being with you has changed my life drastically, in the best way possible, I didn’t want to live. I had no hope for my future, I felt as if I was standing three feet in cement and I was sinking fast. And then a man with ******** comments came into my life for whatever reason, and changed me for the better. I want to succeed, be the best woman possible for you, though I make you mad at times because of my quick temper and tendency to befriend a bit too many guys, I appreciate you in more ways than you can ever imagine. I have never met a man as kind as you, or a man who cares so much about the people he loves. Loyalty has always meant something to me because I never had it; the amount of people that have been disloyal sickens me at times, for I was the one to believe they were something different. Yet, I found you; you are the most loyal man I have ever had the pleasure to meet. Being with you feels different, I have never craved the attention of anyone before, but having you with me eases whatever pain I’ve felt in the last couple of days. Our relationship has been something I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world; you’ve accepted me as myself and loved me for my flaws. I am but a plain girl to be frank, I am not extraordinary or exceptional, but holding your hand, or lying next to you, makes me feel beautiful for whatever reason. I haven’t had the courage to tell you ever story in my head, or blurt out every thought in my head for I fear I am partially insane. You put up with me wishing I was a leaf, theories on dead birds, and the habit of my resting in too many trees. Just the fact that you’re willing to climb trees with me, or explain how beautiful crows are, makes me fall so deeply in love with the person you are. I understand at times why so many people adore you, as beautiful as a person you are. Being without you feels like two thirds of me are missing, as if I have ghost limbs and I keep reaching out to see if you’re there when you’re not. I love you immensely, though I love you doesn’t compare to the way I feel, words or actions can’t describe who you are to me. You treat me as if letting me go would be the end of the world and I thought I didn’t understand that until I think of the thought of you leaving. Thoughts like these steal my breath away, and the ground beneath me, because losing you means losing a part of whom I am, and that is terrifying.

0

Jun 3, 2014

Jun 3, 2014 at 12:22 PM UTC

I've never written a love letter before

This is a lot more formal than writing it out for you, besides you usually can’t read my handwriting anyways. I’m sure you’re sick of my notes by now, but later in life they might matter, or we might break up and burning them might be part of your healing process. Being with you has changed my life drastically, in the best way possible, I didn’t want to live. I had no hope for my future, I felt as if I was standing three feet in cement and I was sinking fast. And then a man with ******** comments came into my life for whatever reason, and changed me for the better. I want to succeed, be the best woman possible for you, though I make you mad at times because of my quick temper and tendency to befriend a bit too many guys, I appreciate you in more ways than you can ever imagine. I have never met a man as kind as you, or a man who cares so much about the people he loves. Loyalty has always meant something to me because I never had it; the amount of people that have been disloyal sickens me at times, for I was the one to believe they were something different. Yet, I found you; you are the most loyal man I have ever had the pleasure to meet. Being with you feels different, I have never craved the attention of anyone before, but having you with me eases whatever pain I’ve felt in the last couple of days. Our relationship has been something I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world; you’ve accepted me as myself and loved me for my flaws. I am but a plain girl to be frank, I am not extraordinary or exceptional, but holding your hand, or lying next to you, makes me feel beautiful for whatever reason. I haven’t had the courage to tell you ever story in my head, or blurt out every thought in my head for I fear I am partially insane. You put up with me wishing I was a leaf, theories on dead birds, and the habit of my resting in too many trees. Just the fact that you’re willing to climb trees with me, or explain how beautiful crows are, makes me fall so deeply in love with the person you are. I understand at times why so many people adore you, as beautiful as a person you are. Being without you feels like two thirds of me are missing, as if I have ghost limbs and I keep reaching out to see if you’re there when you’re not. I love you immensely, though I love you doesn’t compare to the way I feel, words or actions can’t describe who you are to me. You treat me as if letting me go would be the end of the world and I thought I didn’t understand that until I think of the thought of you leaving. Thoughts like these steal my breath away, and the ground beneath me, because losing you means losing a part of whom I am, and that is terrifying.

Continue reading...

seeds spread by whirlybirds couples who take on thirds love flying everywhere trusted not and the scared a puff, a blow, and then you go fuzzy flight to and fro **** ball picked and his wish to feast upon a dreamy dish yet a breathy breeze decides where scattering of seed shall hide in the fields, or cracks of pavements lovers bound in their enslavements to one another's dreams dandelion dreams it seems always never completely fulfilled dandelion will be tilled from immaculate and pristine lawn or in a forest by a fawn nourishment it is for me its root bound deep, not free like those dandelion seeds rest my head upon cement men I've met will not lament sprouts doubts of dandelion's needs

0

Mar 18, 2016

Mar 18, 2016 at 11:30 AM UTC

Dandelion Dreams

seeds spread by whirlybirds couples who take on thirds love flying everywhere trusted not and the scared a puff, a blow, and then you go fuzzy flight to and fro **** ball picked and his wish to feast upon a dreamy dish yet a breathy breeze decides where scattering of seed shall hide in the fields, or cracks of pavements lovers bound in their enslavements to one another's dreams dandelion dreams it seems always never completely fulfilled dandelion will be tilled from immaculate and pristine lawn or in a forest by a fawn nourishment it is for me its root bound deep, not free like those dandelion seeds rest my head upon cement men I've met will not lament sprouts doubts of dandelion's needs

Continue reading...

Is when you wait for that perfect time of day. Somewhere between 4:00 and sunset when the light gives perfect sight. Follow your rule of thirds and keep your aperture right. More than your skills, art is within the eyes. Which through experience and passion, just like film; Both develop over time. Just for that precious moment.

0

Aug 27, 2014

Aug 27, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC

Is when you wait for that perfect time of day. Somewhere between 4:00 and sunset when the light gives perfect sight. Follow your rule of thirds and keep your aperture right. More than your skills, art is within the eyes. Which through experience and passion, just like film; Both develop over time. Just for that precious moment.

Continue reading...

My solitude comforts Doubt, like a lover's lie. His fickled fingered Digits chokes my heart. Second guessings elevated to thirds, fifths, and sevenths. Crippling and seducing what ego and self reliance I have, away. My solitude that comforts Doubt. Betrays me. I have no solemnness nor reassurance. I can not banish Him I never welcome Him But yet He stays.

0

Feb 24, 2012

Feb 24, 2012 at 4:18 AM UTC

My solitude comforts Doubt, like a lover's lie. His fickled fingered Digits chokes my heart. Second guessings elevated to thirds, fifths, and sevenths. Crippling and seducing what ego and self reliance I have, away. My solitude that comforts Doubt. Betrays me. I have no solemnness nor reassurance. I can not banish Him I never welcome Him But yet He stays.

Continue reading...

1 4 she offers me, a spot of dust she raises me under the couch, on platitudes and warm bread I know it’s in return for my devotion there she loves me like the boats today, I start spring-cleaning, she keeps out on the ocean (this alone she loves me to be molded, should receive not to be unfolded more recognition than it will) I pull out the couch she bore me bones the vacuum doesn’t quite the lacrimal bone reach the dust lying the breastbone on unused carpet, all the cervical vertebrae the head I use them to simulate keeps hitting the wall her expectations unproductive I put the furniture back 2 in place I have names, no one will see the lack I wear them like badges of progress inspired by something not quite earned yet 5 while lucid dreaming I assigned constellations were on each name my skin a compartment and freckles in of me the night sky If I name them maybe they will become pollution drowned out real, not just necessary two thirds even if most imploded before they were seen 3 6 with enough necessity were it not for shadows anyone can tell a lie I would surely learn to hate the light

0

Jul 4, 2015

Jul 4, 2015 at 6:43 PM UTC

on deception (vignettes)

1 4 she offers me, a spot of dust she raises me under the couch, on platitudes and warm bread I know it’s in return for my devotion there she loves me like the boats today, I start spring-cleaning, she keeps out on the ocean (this alone she loves me to be molded, should receive not to be unfolded more recognition than it will) I pull out the couch she bore me bones the vacuum doesn’t quite the lacrimal bone reach the dust lying the breastbone on unused carpet, all the cervical vertebrae the head I use them to simulate keeps hitting the wall her expectations unproductive I put the furniture back 2 in place I have names, no one will see the lack I wear them like badges of progress inspired by something not quite earned yet 5 while lucid dreaming I assigned constellations were on each name my skin a compartment and freckles in of me the night sky If I name them maybe they will become pollution drowned out real, not just necessary two thirds even if most imploded before they were seen 3 6 with enough necessity were it not for shadows anyone can tell a lie I would surely learn to hate the light

Continue reading...

they're the worst, and i mean that literally imagine this, imagine that everything that terrifies you, from any age that you've been from the things that barely ***** you to the things that you are deathly afraid of under one tent, an old worn down halloween coloured carny tent, filled with broken down rides and fallen apart structures and lit only by the moon all with one intent, all of them working together to reach one goal to get you, and have their way with you and you can't fight back, every time you try to, they just get stronger so you do the one thing you can do at this point you run you run faster then you ever have before, and none of this weird *** dream running where you move slowly when you're trying to run i mean full out sprinting you run and try to escape but there's no way out, the holed purple and orange walls of the tent flap in the wind but when you go to touch them, they fill and turn solid solid concrete below three inches of dirt, and you can't see anything to climb you run and try to hide the lesser terrors might try to help you. trying to convince you that this place is safe, or to let them lead the others off of your trail but they never tell the truth, they only do one thing they help the greater terrors find you so you refuse their help, shooing them away, and you survive for a bit longer but its always the same, in the end, no matter what you try, every time it ends the same way they find you, hiding on top of one of the structures, in a little cave, somewhere in one of the rides and you're tortured you're tortured worse than you ever thought that a being would do sometimes your tongue is split into thirds from side to side, and is then cut from front to back sometimes your limbs and body are twisted and contorted into strange shapes, making you into human art you foolishly believed that these things might have a heart and not make it as slow and painful as they could well you're right for the first bit, they do have a heart of sorts after they're done playing with you after they're done toying with your body they don't just let you be, leave you where you are to stay there in agony no, they **** you nothing extra, nothing complex just a stab through the heart, a ripping off of the head, and you're gone unless they're being crueler at which point, you have the option of fighting back or letting them **** you in a gruesome way, hanging you from a rope over an open tank of water with lots of hungry creatures eagerly awaiting your fall at least, that's what you think they do, you're never asleep long enough to find out and that's why youre glad that they've only now begun to come and get you while you're awake

0

Jun 30, 2014

Jun 30, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC

casual-voldemort

they're the worst, and i mean that literally imagine this, imagine that everything that terrifies you, from any age that you've been from the things that barely ***** you to the things that you are deathly afraid of under one tent, an old worn down halloween coloured carny tent, filled with broken down rides and fallen apart structures and lit only by the moon all with one intent, all of them working together to reach one goal to get you, and have their way with you and you can't fight back, every time you try to, they just get stronger so you do the one thing you can do at this point you run you run faster then you ever have before, and none of this weird *** dream running where you move slowly when you're trying to run i mean full out sprinting you run and try to escape but there's no way out, the holed purple and orange walls of the tent flap in the wind but when you go to touch them, they fill and turn solid solid concrete below three inches of dirt, and you can't see anything to climb you run and try to hide the lesser terrors might try to help you. trying to convince you that this place is safe, or to let them lead the others off of your trail but they never tell the truth, they only do one thing they help the greater terrors find you so you refuse their help, shooing them away, and you survive for a bit longer but its always the same, in the end, no matter what you try, every time it ends the same way they find you, hiding on top of one of the structures, in a little cave, somewhere in one of the rides and you're tortured you're tortured worse than you ever thought that a being would do sometimes your tongue is split into thirds from side to side, and is then cut from front to back sometimes your limbs and body are twisted and contorted into strange shapes, making you into human art you foolishly believed that these things might have a heart and not make it as slow and painful as they could well you're right for the first bit, they do have a heart of sorts after they're done playing with you after they're done toying with your body they don't just let you be, leave you where you are to stay there in agony no, they **** you nothing extra, nothing complex just a stab through the heart, a ripping off of the head, and you're gone unless they're being crueler at which point, you have the option of fighting back or letting them **** you in a gruesome way, hanging you from a rope over an open tank of water with lots of hungry creatures eagerly awaiting your fall at least, that's what you think they do, you're never asleep long enough to find out and that's why youre glad that they've only now begun to come and get you while you're awake

Continue reading...

Tiny toes pitter patter, The dish, the spoon, china clatters, In the end it doesn't matter, Nothing is new anymore. Reduce, reuse, and recycle, Take an inch, I go a mile. Faces tighten with a smile, Tired ankles, wanderlust-sore. Marching songs, stomping feet, Blood shed on the fresh cleaned street, Sight of violence, scent of defeat, Find a way home, find a way home. Louder voices, stronger words, Fleeing children, roosting birds, Frame and focus, rule of thirds, Final days of the Peace of Rome.

0

Jan 10, 2014

Jan 10, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC

Tiny toes pitter patter, The dish, the spoon, china clatters, In the end it doesn't matter, Nothing is new anymore. Reduce, reuse, and recycle, Take an inch, I go a mile. Faces tighten with a smile, Tired ankles, wanderlust-sore. Marching songs, stomping feet, Blood shed on the fresh cleaned street, Sight of violence, scent of defeat, Find a way home, find a way home. Louder voices, stronger words, Fleeing children, roosting birds, Frame and focus, rule of thirds, Final days of the Peace of Rome.

Continue reading...

I am one of three – Shadow, skin, and light. A triplet split from the same egg and ***** ** Make it 3 and you’ll have me Explicit. It’s so **** Being cleaved into thirds. A ********* with myself – The shadow is morose. A needy, demanding ***** Begging to be cut up. I want to, So I can see the blood wring around my – Her Wrists like shackles pinning her To my bed. I know it’ll shut her up But I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m not that ***** The skin is boring. A virginal flower Dreaming of understanding. She’s too wholesome, Always waiting for the right Version of herself to come along. Saving myself – Herself For the right time. My tastes aren’t quite so Vanilla. The light is adventurous. A psychotic, brilliant **** ******* herself into the ground. Necrophilia just got a whole lot hotter, Bodies piling up thanks to her STDs – Stupid, thoughtless decisions. Protection? Ha! That’s for normal people. There’s no need for me – Her To slow down; We like it fast. The skin doesn’t participate. The ***** virtuous ****** Fidgets as the others 69 – A disgusting yin yang Of low and high. The shadow drinking downers Until she can’t remember All the bruises covering her heart, Too distracted by the bile Smeared across her lips. The light popping enough uppers To strip herself of her Consciousness, Naked and raw She often wakes bitter Of her restored senses. This ********* takes place In a womb, An amniotic ocean Swaying toward the shores Of existence. Two will drown – Vanishing triplet syndrome. Only one may be pulled from Mental waters and placed on the sands of reality. The labor takes 33 hours - Finally I emerge. Who survived? There is no way to tell.

0

Jun 26, 2014

Jun 26, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC

Devil's Threeway

I am one of three – Shadow, skin, and light. A triplet split from the same egg and ***** ** Make it 3 and you’ll have me Explicit. It’s so **** Being cleaved into thirds. A ********* with myself – The shadow is morose. A needy, demanding ***** Begging to be cut up. I want to, So I can see the blood wring around my – Her Wrists like shackles pinning her To my bed. I know it’ll shut her up But I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m not that ***** The skin is boring. A virginal flower Dreaming of understanding. She’s too wholesome, Always waiting for the right Version of herself to come along. Saving myself – Herself For the right time. My tastes aren’t quite so Vanilla. The light is adventurous. A psychotic, brilliant **** ******* herself into the ground. Necrophilia just got a whole lot hotter, Bodies piling up thanks to her STDs – Stupid, thoughtless decisions. Protection? Ha! That’s for normal people. There’s no need for me – Her To slow down; We like it fast. The skin doesn’t participate. The ***** virtuous ****** Fidgets as the others 69 – A disgusting yin yang Of low and high. The shadow drinking downers Until she can’t remember All the bruises covering her heart, Too distracted by the bile Smeared across her lips. The light popping enough uppers To strip herself of her Consciousness, Naked and raw She often wakes bitter Of her restored senses. This ********* takes place In a womb, An amniotic ocean Swaying toward the shores Of existence. Two will drown – Vanishing triplet syndrome. Only one may be pulled from Mental waters and placed on the sands of reality. The labor takes 33 hours - Finally I emerge. Who survived? There is no way to tell.

Continue reading...

Time rolls its mossless stone slowly tonight. It is as though the tic has lost it's toc. Seconds have become thirds, fourths, fifths. So slowly does the smallest hand move upon the cracked face. Minutes no longer tiny minute things. But now gargantuan wedges of pie. So large as to feed history's poor twice over. Hours are unpowered, flacid flat balloons without breath or form smothering all thought. The grandfather clock in the hallway has embraced senility and no longer completes it's pre-ordained preambulation around the captured sundial. It has now given itself airs and graces. Believing in heart and mind, and cog and pendulum, to be a jazz percussionist banging, tapping and ringing in an off beat tempo somewhat lacking in basic rhythm. So time runs with the scatterd predictabality of the Tardis. Bigger on the inside..... Slower on the darkside of the grandfather clock.

0

Mar 28, 2014

Mar 28, 2014 at 5:09 AM UTC

darkside of the cogs

Time rolls its mossless stone slowly tonight. It is as though the tic has lost it's toc. Seconds have become thirds, fourths, fifths. So slowly does the smallest hand move upon the cracked face. Minutes no longer tiny minute things. But now gargantuan wedges of pie. So large as to feed history's poor twice over. Hours are unpowered, flacid flat balloons without breath or form smothering all thought. The grandfather clock in the hallway has embraced senility and no longer completes it's pre-ordained preambulation around the captured sundial. It has now given itself airs and graces. Believing in heart and mind, and cog and pendulum, to be a jazz percussionist banging, tapping and ringing in an off beat tempo somewhat lacking in basic rhythm. So time runs with the scatterd predictabality of the Tardis. Bigger on the inside..... Slower on the darkside of the grandfather clock.

Continue reading...

the little pink paper clamp you see once upon a time there was a little pink paper clip which had three anchors on it, one of them is blue, and 2 are black. the anchors mean it keeps the paper from blowing away, you see it opens really widely and it keeps all of your personal papers from blowing away, but what i am doing is saying, what will happen in the anchors wanted to move away from the paper clip, like if one moved, it will lose 1 third of the power and if it lost 2 anchors, they would lose 2 third of the power. if it lost all three of the anchors, the power of the paperclip will lose all it’s power and the only way to get the anchors back is go the ship dock and take some of the anchors there, sure it might mean the ships haven’t got anchors but this paperclip needs it anchors because it needs the power of which it brings. at present the little pink paperclip without the anchors is sitting at the bottom of the stationery desk hoping that one day the anchors will come back so he can keep paper in a folder. this was going to be a hard job, as the people thought the anchors were way to heavy to carry home, despite the anchors being small on the clip, so one man went out on a boat who was doing whale watching and when they threw out the anchor, which incidentally was blue, and he had to stay by the anchor, so when the tour was over, he took the anchor away and the blue one goes in the middle of the paperclip, and then he walked around the other ships to find 2 black anchors to give the paperclip a lot of power to keep the paper down, but there was only one black anchor on every boat, so he rang up the company to find a black anchor to make up the 3, but he took one black anchor to bring back to the paperclip and it got two thirds of the power, but they were having a hard time trying to find the other black anchor, you see they found a pink anchor, the same colour as the paperclip, and they found a pink anchor but it was far to light, they found a green anchor but it was like green cordial, so he went out again and he got a orange anchor, but no it wasn’t the one and he bought a purple anchor, the same colour as black, but no way, this wasn’t working, none of these anchors fitted on the paperclip, so they looked hard and wide, hoping they will find a black anchor you see they needed to keep the paper from blowing away from everywhere around the office, and just as we gave up for day, we found the second black anchor and we put it on the paperclip and it worked the paper was tightly on the folder, and that is how they gave anchor power to the paperclip, but the only problem is, the ships will miss their anchor, so we must go out to buy some for them, and we did, and our paperclip hooked the paper together and every boat was anchored down, and everyone is happy.

0

Apr 4, 2016

Apr 4, 2016 at 2:01 AM UTC

johnny-georgy-brown

the paperclip lost it's anchors, we must find more

the little pink paper clamp you see once upon a time there was a little pink paper clip which had three anchors on it, one of them is blue, and 2 are black. the anchors mean it keeps the paper from blowing away, you see it opens really widely and it keeps all of your personal papers from blowing away, but what i am doing is saying, what will happen in the anchors wanted to move away from the paper clip, like if one moved, it will lose 1 third of the power and if it lost 2 anchors, they would lose 2 third of the power. if it lost all three of the anchors, the power of the paperclip will lose all it’s power and the only way to get the anchors back is go the ship dock and take some of the anchors there, sure it might mean the ships haven’t got anchors but this paperclip needs it anchors because it needs the power of which it brings. at present the little pink paperclip without the anchors is sitting at the bottom of the stationery desk hoping that one day the anchors will come back so he can keep paper in a folder. this was going to be a hard job, as the people thought the anchors were way to heavy to carry home, despite the anchors being small on the clip, so one man went out on a boat who was doing whale watching and when they threw out the anchor, which incidentally was blue, and he had to stay by the anchor, so when the tour was over, he took the anchor away and the blue one goes in the middle of the paperclip, and then he walked around the other ships to find 2 black anchors to give the paperclip a lot of power to keep the paper down, but there was only one black anchor on every boat, so he rang up the company to find a black anchor to make up the 3, but he took one black anchor to bring back to the paperclip and it got two thirds of the power, but they were having a hard time trying to find the other black anchor, you see they found a pink anchor, the same colour as the paperclip, and they found a pink anchor but it was far to light, they found a green anchor but it was like green cordial, so he went out again and he got a orange anchor, but no it wasn’t the one and he bought a purple anchor, the same colour as black, but no way, this wasn’t working, none of these anchors fitted on the paperclip, so they looked hard and wide, hoping they will find a black anchor you see they needed to keep the paper from blowing away from everywhere around the office, and just as we gave up for day, we found the second black anchor and we put it on the paperclip and it worked the paper was tightly on the folder, and that is how they gave anchor power to the paperclip, but the only problem is, the ships will miss their anchor, so we must go out to buy some for them, and we did, and our paperclip hooked the paper together and every boat was anchored down, and everyone is happy.

Continue reading...

t'is a seasonal custom of us, **(you did notice that us is the centerpiece of c-us-tom?)** that in December, not November when turkey precedes... I take my slip of a gal for a big bowl of pasta and white truffles from France. the eyetalian waiter knows he made the sale when her eyes, crinkle wrinkle when I ask, upon which pasta does the ristorante serve the white truffles from France? fettuccine, naturalmente! in ritual grandiose, the mushroom grated before our eyes, shavings and specks scattered and disbursed, part one of the us in c-us-tom done. me, I grew up lower middle cheap, Ronzoni rigatoni and Heinz Ketchup, not just good enough, but a treat, and I did not from truffle oil eat nor speak. two thirds of the way, part two, I say, hey! you know you don't have to eat the whole thing. with eyes adoring, she fesses up her tiny tummy was full about half way through. but she knows me, I grew up lower middle cheap, hate to waste the money, that comes so hard. part two is the part of the c-us-tom she forgets about, but the part that she really loves me for, so who cares how much truffles cost, as far her eyes are concerned, they crinkle wrinkle at the taste, of my remembering part two.

0

Dec 22, 2013

Dec 22, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC

white truffles and fettucini

t'is a seasonal custom of us, **(you did notice that us is the centerpiece of c-us-tom?)** that in December, not November when turkey precedes... I take my slip of a gal for a big bowl of pasta and white truffles from France. the eyetalian waiter knows he made the sale when her eyes, crinkle wrinkle when I ask, upon which pasta does the ristorante serve the white truffles from France? fettuccine, naturalmente! in ritual grandiose, the mushroom grated before our eyes, shavings and specks scattered and disbursed, part one of the us in c-us-tom done. me, I grew up lower middle cheap, Ronzoni rigatoni and Heinz Ketchup, not just good enough, but a treat, and I did not from truffle oil eat nor speak. two thirds of the way, part two, I say, hey! you know you don't have to eat the whole thing. with eyes adoring, she fesses up her tiny tummy was full about half way through. but she knows me, I grew up lower middle cheap, hate to waste the money, that comes so hard. part two is the part of the c-us-tom she forgets about, but the part that she really loves me for, so who cares how much truffles cost, as far her eyes are concerned, they crinkle wrinkle at the taste, of my remembering part two.

Continue reading...

"I hope we last. I hope we do. But if we don't, this is how I want you to remember me: I want you to remember me curled up, listening to the sound of your heartbeat and tracing maps across your skin. Remember me laughing at your jokes even the stupid ones. Remember me in hysterics for absolutely no reason and in tears because one time you made me so sad neither of us thought I'd recover. Remember me brave, that time you held my hand and I thought I was going to die; remember me scared and gentle and delicate and breakable - only for you though, only for you. Remember me happy, and all the ridiculous ways I tried to get your attention. Remember the way I was too stubborn to talk to you and how absolutely insane it drove both of us. Remember all the firsts and how they were so delightful we went back for seconds and thirds and fourths. Remember the songs you couldn't stop listening to and the childish dreams you allowed yourself about the future. If it's any consolation I allowed myself to have them too. If it comes to it I don't want you to remember the ending. Remember the beginning. Remember the first time you knew."

0

Mar 26, 2016

Mar 26, 2016 at 6:40 PM UTC

deanna-m-reeder

Remember the first time

"I hope we last. I hope we do. But if we don't, this is how I want you to remember me: I want you to remember me curled up, listening to the sound of your heartbeat and tracing maps across your skin. Remember me laughing at your jokes even the stupid ones. Remember me in hysterics for absolutely no reason and in tears because one time you made me so sad neither of us thought I'd recover. Remember me brave, that time you held my hand and I thought I was going to die; remember me scared and gentle and delicate and breakable - only for you though, only for you. Remember me happy, and all the ridiculous ways I tried to get your attention. Remember the way I was too stubborn to talk to you and how absolutely insane it drove both of us. Remember all the firsts and how they were so delightful we went back for seconds and thirds and fourths. Remember the songs you couldn't stop listening to and the childish dreams you allowed yourself about the future. If it's any consolation I allowed myself to have them too. If it comes to it I don't want you to remember the ending. Remember the beginning. Remember the first time you knew."

Continue reading...

DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, the sun is beautiful--isn't it?:) come back no more retrieve those times free those ends skirting down the space literal meanings of known overflow in motions of waves I would never say then them be tunes symphonious to the ear splendid in fear of eternal reveal she in disguise no more comes to a life snatched in daze taken by hand fight or flight said the drag to the glass hesitancy in the eyes of guilt and rebel Mars my heart flutters for the leave into the dark a step between the light and the dark no seconds no thirds on duty bark turn the black and show the white hue for a selfish moment for a stare for a blue in the tremble memoirs are written upon floors for the remember yet found in not an adequate resemble lose me once then carve the doors awake my feet lie on logs of take and not fakes make up my soul make up my mind its not late for another chance another mistake she in the adds she in the lines she for an escape maybe untouched by those neither by these cut my slate bring me to the reals forever sealed for my eyes surreal not for once not for dear the sun brushes feather for the sight to near an end of oceans to look up mercy on the seas one jump to **** her gear --------ravenfeels

0

Apr 16, 2021

Apr 16, 2021 at 5:20 PM UTC

DEAR PENPAL PEOPLE, the sun is beautiful--isn't it?:) come back no more retrieve those times free those ends skirting down the space literal meanings of known overflow in motions of waves I would never say then them be tunes symphonious to the ear splendid in fear of eternal reveal she in disguise no more comes to a life snatched in daze taken by hand fight or flight said the drag to the glass hesitancy in the eyes of guilt and rebel Mars my heart flutters for the leave into the dark a step between the light and the dark no seconds no thirds on duty bark turn the black and show the white hue for a selfish moment for a stare for a blue in the tremble memoirs are written upon floors for the remember yet found in not an adequate resemble lose me once then carve the doors awake my feet lie on logs of take and not fakes make up my soul make up my mind its not late for another chance another mistake she in the adds she in the lines she for an escape maybe untouched by those neither by these cut my slate bring me to the reals forever sealed for my eyes surreal not for once not for dear the sun brushes feather for the sight to near an end of oceans to look up mercy on the seas one jump to **** her gear --------ravenfeels

Continue reading...

Maybe I just want to fall asleep with your arms tightly but gently holding me, brushing the small wispies behind my ear, giving me two thirds of the blanket while telling me that the warmth radiating from me is enough to keep you warm for days. Maybe I just want to lay my cheekbones and my jaw into your collarbone, to hear and feel your breathing speed up and mine slow down to match our heartbeats and merge them into one, to talk about my deepest worries and listen to your soothing words, and to wake up as the sun rises with your arm still draped around my waist and feel a small curve form at the ends of my lips.

0

Dec 14, 2014

Dec 14, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC

To wake up beside you

Maybe I just want to fall asleep with your arms tightly but gently holding me, brushing the small wispies behind my ear, giving me two thirds of the blanket while telling me that the warmth radiating from me is enough to keep you warm for days. Maybe I just want to lay my cheekbones and my jaw into your collarbone, to hear and feel your breathing speed up and mine slow down to match our heartbeats and merge them into one, to talk about my deepest worries and listen to your soothing words, and to wake up as the sun rises with your arm still draped around my waist and feel a small curve form at the ends of my lips.

Continue reading...

You don't realize what you have until it's next to gone You don't recognize the truth in a "first" until long after the seconds and thirds You don't appreciate comfort until you have known true pain You don't realize what you have until it's next to gone But I'm going to do something about it.

0

Nov 15, 2011

Nov 15, 2011 at 8:28 PM UTC

samuel-the-poet

You don't realize what you have until it's next to gone You don't recognize the truth in a "first" until long after the seconds and thirds You don't appreciate comfort until you have known true pain You don't realize what you have until it's next to gone But I'm going to do something about it.

Continue reading...

Planting excitement upon us, My daughter asks how to thin the beets. "When the plants are three inches tall, Pick the weaker ones and pull them up," I say. "You'll take out two thirds of the young plants So the rest can grow." I see a troubled look upon her face, And realize what I find in myself.... The teacher's quandary: Picking whom to keep, Whom to cull... We put our love into them all. Watching for first and tender shoots, Celebrating as the fledgling leaves appear, Not thinking of a time ahead, Dreaded time to thin.... Teachers are reluctant to cull, Building emotional connection, Providing loving direction, Promising success to all.... Then come the standardized tests, The team selections, The popularity contests, The invitations to slumber parties, The division of elites, The rising of divas, The rostering of first teams... The separation of pariahs begins, The promise we made to early learners ends, Superiors, exultant, drown out the tears Of those left standing by the fence, Excluded from the chances to advance. Standing in the seedling beds, Spring breezes rustling tender leaves, I turn to Kate.... "It's never easy.... But if we don't thin the beets, The beets will not develop Beneath the leaves." These damnable analogies arise Infrequently these days, And I am standing in the dirt, Black soil upon on my hands, Wondering about survival of the weak, The treatment of humans and young plants, Pondering humane ways to honor every student In which I am investing... Wishing I could see the end of high stakes testing....

0

Jun 4, 2015

Jun 4, 2015 at 12:29 PM UTC

Planting excitement upon us, My daughter asks how to thin the beets. "When the plants are three inches tall, Pick the weaker ones and pull them up," I say. "You'll take out two thirds of the young plants So the rest can grow." I see a troubled look upon her face, And realize what I find in myself.... The teacher's quandary: Picking whom to keep, Whom to cull... We put our love into them all. Watching for first and tender shoots, Celebrating as the fledgling leaves appear, Not thinking of a time ahead, Dreaded time to thin.... Teachers are reluctant to cull, Building emotional connection, Providing loving direction, Promising success to all.... Then come the standardized tests, The team selections, The popularity contests, The invitations to slumber parties, The division of elites, The rising of divas, The rostering of first teams... The separation of pariahs begins, The promise we made to early learners ends, Superiors, exultant, drown out the tears Of those left standing by the fence, Excluded from the chances to advance. Standing in the seedling beds, Spring breezes rustling tender leaves, I turn to Kate.... "It's never easy.... But if we don't thin the beets, The beets will not develop Beneath the leaves." These damnable analogies arise Infrequently these days, And I am standing in the dirt, Black soil upon on my hands, Wondering about survival of the weak, The treatment of humans and young plants, Pondering humane ways to honor every student In which I am investing... Wishing I could see the end of high stakes testing....

Continue reading...

first, make sure you are very concerned with unlearned or silenced or misread minorities. this establishes that you are a rarity, a person of charity, a champion and deity of the small and the voiceless. you’ve made the right choices swallowed the right poisons so now you’re not pointless, you’re with the top few of the economic disparity. do you aver verity? not so much. you just make the choicest noises. second, it is very important that you stud your vernacular with words like deictic, post-spaciality, and sub-simulacular. when you, font of knowledge, squeeze out pearls like turds in twelve-point, double spaced, times new roman rows, lined up like crows or some other ***** birds, be sure to write no sentence shorter than thirty words, and see to it that two thirds of these words have more than ten letters that even the nerds in their plaid-patterned sweaters have not once ever heard. when you walk, A paper in hand, from your car to your apartment, past four vagrants, do not look at them. do not look into the eyes of the man standing in the rain, barefoot, black, green, and yellow toenails oozing and crusting, nodding his head and shouting at no one, and do not wonder whether or not he’d be there had he been educated. lexicon is not eloquence. erudition is not wisdom. intelligence is not a prerequisite for rights. you have no rights. take a dictionary and shove it up your *** and while you’re at it, shove one up mine, too.

0

Aug 7, 2013

Aug 7, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC

Postmodernist Vomitus: or, how to be a sanctimonious educated ***** like me

first, make sure you are very concerned with unlearned or silenced or misread minorities. this establishes that you are a rarity, a person of charity, a champion and deity of the small and the voiceless. you’ve made the right choices swallowed the right poisons so now you’re not pointless, you’re with the top few of the economic disparity. do you aver verity? not so much. you just make the choicest noises. second, it is very important that you stud your vernacular with words like deictic, post-spaciality, and sub-simulacular. when you, font of knowledge, squeeze out pearls like turds in twelve-point, double spaced, times new roman rows, lined up like crows or some other ***** birds, be sure to write no sentence shorter than thirty words, and see to it that two thirds of these words have more than ten letters that even the nerds in their plaid-patterned sweaters have not once ever heard. when you walk, A paper in hand, from your car to your apartment, past four vagrants, do not look at them. do not look into the eyes of the man standing in the rain, barefoot, black, green, and yellow toenails oozing and crusting, nodding his head and shouting at no one, and do not wonder whether or not he’d be there had he been educated. lexicon is not eloquence. erudition is not wisdom. intelligence is not a prerequisite for rights. you have no rights. take a dictionary and shove it up your *** and while you’re at it, shove one up mine, too.

Continue reading...

The way water pellets run down your tan firm body like light nimble fingers caressing your edged jawline makes me wish those fingers were mine. The way the sun reflects off of your white brilliant smile like many bright little stars inside your lips makes me wish your light could shine into me. The way you walk towards me right now your muscles tensed and eyes locked like an animal going in for the prey makes my heart race and skip beats a little kid on a sugar high. Which I am. Looking at you is like feasting on Halloween candy eating the entire pillowcase-full in one night. Gazing at you is like going back for seconds thirds fourths on dessert and not feeling the least bit guilty. You are my secret stash of eye candy.

0

Aug 30, 2012

Aug 30, 2012 at 12:48 PM UTC

The way water pellets run down your tan firm body like light nimble fingers caressing your edged jawline makes me wish those fingers were mine. The way the sun reflects off of your white brilliant smile like many bright little stars inside your lips makes me wish your light could shine into me. The way you walk towards me right now your muscles tensed and eyes locked like an animal going in for the prey makes my heart race and skip beats a little kid on a sugar high. Which I am. Looking at you is like feasting on Halloween candy eating the entire pillowcase-full in one night. Gazing at you is like going back for seconds thirds fourths on dessert and not feeling the least bit guilty. You are my secret stash of eye candy.

Continue reading...