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Carter Ginter Nov 2013
Dear God,
If there is a god
Why aren't you listening?
I'm not going to sit here and question "why me?"
No, I've accepted my life for what it is.
But I'd like to know why them?
Why are you going to let my best friends die?
If you're so great and powerful,
Then why don't you save them?
show some pity and give them something?
Some reason, some sort of hope to keep going.
I'm trying.
I'm trying harder than you can imagine.
Trying to do what they say your job is.
They need a light, a reason to live, and they
Can't find it.
I'm doing all that I can.
But it isn't enough.
They still want to die, still see no point in living,
But I hope you know that if they go I'll be soon to follow
They're my life, besides my family, Hell they are family.
I don't sit here and wonder "why me?"
Instead I break the silence with screams of
Why NOT me?
Why do they have to suffer and I have things going well?
Why take them? What did they do to deserve this?
I'm the sinner. The one who should die, not them
God how can you take them and
Leave me here to die anyways?
Why not take me and spare them the sorrow?
I hope you know you're taking three lives with you that night.
Tonight I learned that my second best friend wants to die. Now both of my best friends are suicidal and who knows how long they have. I wrote this through a breakdown. I am not religious and I don't really believe in a "God" but this is what came naturally to vent.  I can't understand why this is happening so I guess that leads to questioning the "higher power". I know that if they die, I will not make it very long. I guess life likes to leave the undeserving sinners in our hell of a life longer than the better ones who actually deserve a life and happiness.
Typed almost identically to the hand-written vent.
The terrible threes
Are here at last
The terrible threes
I wish were past.

The terrible threes
They scrape their knees
The terrible threes
They snot, they sneeze.

The terrible threes
Are worse than twos
The terrible threes
They go "boo-hoo."

The terrible threes
Are terrible, incorrigible
The terrible threes
They're just plain horrible.

The terrible threes
Know how to climb trees
The terrible threes
Know how to say, "Please."

Copyright From A Poet's Heart
Madison Mar 2019
I looked in the fridge
And there were only
Three bottles of beer
I realized if I took one
They would know
If I took one
They would notice

I’m one of four
And four is not three
If you take one thing from four
It’s harder to realize it’s gone

I thought maybe if just one
Out of my mom’s four were gone
Maybe they wouldn’t know
I thought maybe if I were gone
They wouldn’t notice

And it’s 3 am on Tuesday
Mom I’ve been gone for
Five years
I mean I’m still right here
I’m mean mom
Can’t you tell I’m not really
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
This is not where this idea began but it ran and I

missed my mark. Mark sin.
-1 deficit reality quotientcy
currency.  Sure.
(Press Sure, to let the bursting pressure equilation expand at will)

That fine a level of reality
demands more attention than I have to pay.
Patient agent wait and not see or see if/then

you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are some of those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is,
but it is silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments.
Is it?

or mere
Dejavu, you believe,
what if it is your memory lying by ignoring time
attention ratios determining the observations stored in HD?
What if it's just a glitch?
Blue screen of death.

If you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is, but
is it silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments?

We come and go. To and fro up on the face

messengers bearing news in both directions, watch
the trickster, Jacob, in this story, he sees the messengers from
heaven bearing leaven thither and hither

upon the face of the earth.
the wrinkling mother, smiling now, chuckle head
I ain't no ***** saint.

Jah, I know. Joy is my dance, this is my song.
Is it good Grandmother?

---- on the porch facing my west gate ---

fences don't play exactly, out acted, the role of walls.

The idea that something
there is that does not love a wall,
has frozen my pond

the stillness beyond the sylvan **** crowned head
radiates through the medium of the message to me in time
to you.

Miles to go, you recall the feeling of feeling miles to go
I sleep.
That was yesterday, and you know yes ter everything's gone,

Aslan can pierce the barrier between mere Christians and me,
how would be fun to know, but
knowing why would help us keep the story interesting as life goes on

Who controls my peace?
Am I a mercurial sheen in between chaos and order,
chronus and zeus?
Could be, ya thank so, ye know so, less unlessed as

unlessing means nothing to you,
that means you are visiting here.

Visting whom, vis it ing whom?
Who's in charge, where's the power

age, wrinkles in time, rogue waves at the quanta scale,
we were dancing
with the thoughts emanating

from some IDW smart guy proffesing
Critique-technic-magi action, post mode'r'ism
at the point of Dada und Scheizkunst,
the unmass-queque,
the line of lies awaiting unbelief,
idle words lingering,
to be noticed and added back into the story book of life,

a simple wish.

It could be every child's, should we think that
if we can or may,

sometimes I'm still, and

confusion troubles the water,
it seems,
then another hurt is healed, another lie is gone and life goes on

we won again, this never gets old,
I do love my opposition,
pressure pump
pump pump. De-us-me-can-onbeoffbeyond

five years ago unmasking and rhetoric meant nothing to me
the purpose of learning forever and never
knowing anything beyond all things

our bubble is metastasizing, a mercurial film forms
informing us
in its reflection,

this is the ying yang thang in 3 or 4 d, HD+ chaos one half

order the other,
sharpest imaginable thing
me trick being mag ift just if eye winged show

how beautiful are the feet of them who bring good news,
you see, it flows, sweetwater flows
winged feet
whish through leaving, leavin' leaven…

unleaven that which has been leaved?
Fat chance, all who
eat this bread and don't get gas,
they are our same bread people. Companions.
Vectors of sour dough,
webs of fungal
make a way
bore, pore, poor-with-us, pour

in to it ish, that idea, an opening through,
trickle down good gravity leveling stillness,
gentle rocking earth
roll round and round and round

the pythagorean version
of Euclid's point in his mother's story,

the point of this song? To know the point you must have been

to the point of in-forming the point on which we dance and you recall

we come in threes, and just, we are, just, if it, that idea,
rests in your
back roads, gentle on your mind. We make peace.

Being young is easy from my POV.
I've lived in my future for sometime now

I can't say how, beyond saying aloud, this was never hidden,
in my accounting of idle words I claimed,
upon hearing the stories each contained.

i'da swore i hear that wise *** o'balaam's abrayin'
Braindeem, deemed 'eem. Wham, uptheyhaid. Relig, fool,

or chaos wins and no hero ever lives again!
Drop anchor, wait it out.
let patience blow her nose, gnostic snot caught in the nets,

nonono nothing's wasted in patience work, we make glue
from gnostic snot that patience sneezes
when reality grows cold,

that has happened, you know, temperatures are just now,
oh, wait global warming, bad dam,

Script, bust it,
leveling is essential to eventual temperature
The heat is on, the bubbles are forming, informing one to another
below the surface
greasy tension, slippery slopes putting pressure on chaos
to conform to the curve

Ying yang, mercury film upon the sea of time and the scene of chaos
in this bubble of all you can imagine real.

Hows' that feel? Why?

You want that? What are you standing under? Does chaos win?
You are, as we say, cognisic magi we-ified,
practical magic at
the moment
the point
is made, then the creation begins fractalling outward

and not before or is this all
unrolling ex nihilo, no magi ever knew…
come, let us reason together,

why am I empowered? To live, first thought wise, that's good but
evil forces me to think again and I see the pattern

life goes on, John Molenkamp, Sam, soldier 4,
(as the credits role by, the name catches my eye)
never in a thousand years,
'cept unbelievable is one of those lies I came to **** by strangling
on bile while
rescuing every idle word ever involved in the infection

from the point in the absolute center of the bubble,
objectively, you see everything
that is

but would good prevail if evil had no hope?

I know that one, yes. why?
evil has no mind, soul, some think--
same same medium message spoken spelled chanted danced
who care's?
*** 'er done. Life has a chaotic side, the churning creates

number one from none, the cult of one divides itself
go do be
we three we three we three a wavy song ding ****.

Aware? Awaken? Avowed-wowed-wit-wise,
fullcomp, retired
Peacemaker. Me.

All my hero's imagined or real, were Peacemakers.
Just now, peaceful now, mindful now
we remain
the same blessing promised in the package of yeses
stolen from Cain by his older sister, his
keep that quiet, eh?

Secrets made sacred, always
those are lies, no lie is of the truth,
all lies are about the truth.

What empowers you, poet or poetry? Right, you know,
God, good god knows, resentment lives in lies

the rotting idle words deemed curses at best, secret at worst,
those idle corrupting thoughts sparking as if absolute annihilation were thinkable by rational minds

of ---wait, there's arub, a sore
ex nihilo, the homeless wanderer screams,

"May the whole world perish, may you all go to hell,"

the mad man wept his hell, and imagined his curse,

not mine,
I don't have one. I did, but I went back so often to find pieces of my heart that now I have an Elysian network woven through All-hell, the big idea that broke loose infecting the mind as wisdom's leaven builds her womb
stem cell informing builders empowered, pressure empowered, what must be, but is not verse, versus
us, the we that be
we must

let this be, come and see,
life goes on.
Agree, or empower us as we bubble by and
takenallwecan expanding gobbling bubbles,
by ye.

Once we flushed the Dada poison and let mito mom
instill the patience gene with
epigenetic peace we can pass on with a touch or a word,

we've never woven lies for no reason,
if a rung breaks
and they can, last straw and all that weight,
you know,
Jacob's ladder is an escalaltor-ladder, wittily invented,

there are automated steps, algoryhmes of reasons to repair the broken rung
with a reason to believe the rung has been repaired,
only believe, take a step,
paired again with the idea of meaninglessness masked in create-if-ity

good enough. okeh. don't believe lies.
Don't pass undigested lies to see if farts burn.
Listening to Hicks Explaing Post Modernism after watching Tenant's Voltage Within spark a fire. This reality is storyteller heaven.
Miguel Sep 2018
Replaying a riff four times perfectly
One missed fret and the entire day ends disastrously
Replaying moments of kindness and warmth
To overcome the feverish idea that I hold no heart

Every fourth step, threes end in ******
Maimed images constantly creep
This subconscious ludovico technique
These thoughts come and go in no particular order

A seat at the table and a serviette on my lap
What if I leapt out my chair and suddenly attacked?
What if I aimed the knife towards my hand?
I constantly question if that’s who I am

I will have a picnic with her today, all joy and cheer
When these intrusive thoughts will inexplicably get near
And terrorize my attitude as well as my image
Disassociating with a perplexed and horrified visage

I’m so incredibly tired of existing
A cruel and ironic fate
I’ve missed out on so many opportunities
All because of this miserable headspace

Brad Threes (spoken): Hey Janet.

Janet Ones: Yes Brad.

Brad: I've got something to lay.

Janet: Uh huh.

Brad: I really loved the skillful way
         You beat the other ones
         To the braIde's bouquet.

Janet: Oh Brad.

(Stringing begins)

Brad: The stream was deep but I grabbed it.
           There's a face on me'head and you'd slammit

Family (Riff Raff & Magenta): Janet.

Brad: The future is OURS so let's can it.

Framily: (Riff Raff & Magenta): Janet.

Brad: So please don't tell me to planeit.

Framily (Riff Raff & Magenta): Janet.

Brad: I've one thing to say and that's
          ******, Janet.
          I love you.

i know three ways that love cancanflaux
That's good, bad, or gran-plan mediocre

Brad: Here's a thing to groove to that, I'm a joke'n.
Janet: Oh!......It's noicier than Letty Mungtoe had

Magenta: (Peering up from behind pile o'pew) Oh Brad.

Janet: Now we're engoraged and I'm so glad.

Magenta & Columbia: Oh Brad. (Both peer up and disappear)

Janet: That you met Mom
           And you know Dad.

Whole Framily: Oh Brad. (peering up together)

Brad Majors There's one thing left to do, ah-whoo
                       And that's go see the man who began it
                       When we met in his poe-science exam-it
                       Made me give you the eye and then panic
Now I've one thing to say, and that's
******, I'd love you

Janet (Taking his alcharm): Geez. I've one thing to say and that's,
                                             Brad I'm mad,
                                             with you too.

The Letter-Ing: ******
sixth or last
in a series of poems made of quotes
one part to a whole
its sum has yet to be totaled
may be more than its parts
subject to change
why not
Tom Spencer Jul 2015
The trail rose up
through the sand
and sage covered hills
following the sinews of a land
scoured by fire and flood.
Even the most severe carving
here was nothing
compared to the city below-
its concrete grid
glaring over my shoulder-
sprawled out,
******* on its dingy
comforter of smog-
******* up
the dust of the desert
around it.

The trail led me up.
Up past twisted
juniper bones,
past pale green yuccas
fine white filagree
from their dagger blades,
past sandstone boulders
swirled like confections,
past ancient cooking pits
nested with ash,
and ghost-like hands
outlined on stone-
to a white cliff face
beneath the cloudless sky.

From a lone stump
a pinyon jay squawked
drawing my eyes down.
A sentinel
to its comrades-
who rose up
from the draw to my left
and sailed in twos and threes
sinking down into
the draw on my right.
Right before me,
around me, behind me,
first two- then six,
then tens of metallic blue
wings beating heavily against
the unfamiliar desert air.

They had come down.
Down from the scrubby
forests of pine.
Down from snow
covered slopes.
they searched the green
fingers of the washes-
the winter forcing them
down across the trail
that was drawing me up.
They passed close by,
wing beats feathered my ears,
first up, then down-
the sentinel
keeping an eye .

Listening, suddenly hearing
my breath beat
against the wind-
I stood motionless, perched
beyond starting
and destination-
blue wings lifting
the hunger within.

Tom Spencer © 2017
Jai Rho Mar 2014
“Good afternoon, Mr. Leitch.  Have you had a busy day?”

     Grey eyes peered over wireframe spectacles and gazed upon a vision that lifted the corners of his mouth.  “Yes, quite.  Thank you for asking.  So lovely to see you again, my dear.”

     As she entered the tailor’s shop and lithely traced her fingers across yards of brightly colored silk, and muted finely woven wool, her companion quietly assembled outside the entrance door.  He had selected a prime location adjacent to the neighboring baker’s store.  At that hour, the wafting mixed aromas of warm cookies, cakes, baguettes and shepherd’s bread would lure workers of the day from their homeward paths for just a bit of something to fill their evening meals, or add a little nuance to the setting of the sun.

     “And you as well, kind Sir.  I do adore observing the mastery in the magic of your finery.”

     “Well now, what a lovely thing to say.  And I adore listening to you as well.  But no more of that ‘Sir’ business.  You must call me ‘Arthur,’ as I have said before.”

     “Ah, then no more of that ‘dear’ business.  You must call me ‘Kathy,’ and we shall both listen to more lovely sounds that will soon fill this room.”

     At that moment, when the tailor’s eyes began to sparkle, Kathy’s companion began to strum a well-seasoned lute as he sang a refrain from an old Yorkshire ballad:

          Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Remember me to one who lives there
          For once she was a true love of mine

Then slowly, a crowd began to gather, one-by-one and in twos and threes, of those emerging from the bakery or simply passing by, as lamplights began to glow against the evening sky.    

          Tell her to make me a cambric shirt
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Without a seam or needlework
          Then she shall be a true love of mine

Entwined within the strumming, individual notes came alive and danced their way across the frets and fingerboard to leap and float about the crowd.  In time with the rhythm and the melody, pence and schillings soon found their way into the instrument’s open case, sounding light percussive accompaniment and applause.

     And then as though entranced, Kathy twirled about the tailor’s shop and took the tailor’s hand, to lead him out into the square and join the merry band.  She smiled a wondrous look, with eyes closed to the scene around her, as she gazed upon the vision within her, and her sweet voice shared its verse:

          Tell him to find me an acre of land
          Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
          Between the salt water and the sea sand
          Then he shall be a true love of mine

Then Kathy gave a laugh or two, and raised her arms to the incandescent night, as a blackbird perched itself atop the crescent moon, resting in the palms of her hands.
Brody Blue Aug 2019
Everyday you say that someday
Far away you’re gonna fly,
Like a little bird that sings
Till it don’t mean a thing.
Good luck
With that

Then early in the morning,
You up and pulled out on the sly,
And threw away in threes
The love I gave to thee.
Good luck
With that

Even though I saw it coming,
Tell me what was I to do?
Other than pretend that all the lies
You said to me were true?

In two my heart is broken,
But I can’t find a tear to cry.
Nothing is to gain
When nothing helps the pain.
Good luck
With that

Time to time I pray for vengeance,
Tooth for tooth and eye for eye.
But when the heart forsakes,
Just as soon it breaks.
Good luck
With that

Even though you’ve got it coming,
Tell me what would that make you?
Other than another broken hearted
Soul that’s down and blue?

If you're happier with someone
Who believes your every lie:  
Bless you all the way
Until judgement day;
Good luck
With that
An absence reversed
Fuming lush greenery seemingly
Between the frothing
Soup and lather twinkling
"Tradition may act dishonestly"
All and sundry
Trails along merrily
For traditionally
All is how it should be
Belonging to one and only.

A trade between the thin lines
A baking sheet made sprayed messy
Artists in threes
Shakers of mountains for invisible ease
The truth is simply
Things done traditionally
All-in consuming historically.

Is fresh
Hidden in the fabric's sleeve
A gaping passage of air and breeze
Racing electricity
Breathtaking silk from worms
And worms eaten by birds
Sewing the dresses of Empress the third.
Her plea worth salt and sugar
Like the skater's
Minted odour
Distances the valleys low dipped to the everlasted rivers
Where a time arrives for eternal celebration.
The embellishments of
Unwavered tradition.
© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
What is your tradition?
Treat me with a new sweet trick
And repeat until I get sick
Start to believe I am in love

All the floating oranges
Reflect off the metal horses
Why do we bow, when he's above

The tapestry was well designed
And hands were chopped off in due time
Then woven over, redesigned
Now let the blind lead the blind

I'll face the moon and count by threes
With fingers crossed under the trees
Night shade feels extra warm to me

You jump through the parallels
And warn, this one goes straight to hell
You would rather stay than be free
Happy New Years, who else secretly hopes that finally those youtube videos, about the world ending, come true?
Ken Pepiton Jan 2019
There was a day

Yes, we all imagine we remember that day, but

now it is as if it never

really-- every y must be just if ied or it is never
a requirement

it is a re less

not every story has been pointedly
taken as granted,
even, oddly,
Quire a quest is a matter of motion,
hear, and there, time and all that,

Now, next has never, as in non-realized as realizable

up to now.
told ere un. That may, is. law, an untold tale is never twisted.

between the reversible nand gates of our augmented imaginations.

upon a time lonagone, which were common (or come on)
signals scrambled at this depth, but pressure proves

the point. We are past all that for now
by reason of why

curiosus curiosus our imaginary guide, once

all the imaginations in the hearts of men were only evil,

Then Noah or some storyteller, or prophet
caught wind of a sweet savour

roasting on a fire tended by Tubalcain's daughter,

Naamah, last named bearer of Cainish flavored genes
never set, epigenetically beyond the woumb

she coulda been, some wombed man was,
you know, we all share mito-mom,

science of some sorts can't lie. Take that as truth.
If I could believe it,
I could swallow it,

you can, too. Oh, the myth we model on matters little,
the boys and shoemakers who sniffed the glue,

they loosed some wild ideas

got all tngled with stories from ever

where in the world
have you been?

You just got outa jail. I'm right. I can smell

near as bad, but it was then, a mere made up monent
meant now to hold a point

pon which a story longer than I have ever told may stand and

be told, the king
s story teller stutters in his sleep.

okeh, this is not pre posed as funny,
merely odd,
one ish in a realm of twos and threes and fives

spinning into etern naughtity, empt un-null-ift possibles.

Naught me less press on, find a vortex, flow,

we are peacemakers stranded upon a time of war, scabs. we heal.
don't pick on my inflexibility in matters

of duty. Leaven has always been the means of re pair ideology.
Quarkish insistence on duality from the ***.

The augmented ones are getting better,
as a choice, they see how good
ever works,
some fix what evil broke, some make new ways around the lava
balance, spin, lean, wobble, no place to fall here

we gotcha. Gravity and light, those are givens.
this is life.
make something of everything you ever imagined possible.
then die to see if it works.

But wait. Don't die early. It makes grief, which is
what fills the slough of despond.

We are draining that. Birds that nested there all died,
it's frogs moved to Florida, bugs and molds say they can make it any where

so, we are watering the desert. We grow Panama Red. Who eats roses?

Critters manifested as ideas that never linger but in the miry clay,

Most of those went north.

Deserts served and deserved have I claimed as mine
from horizon to horizon, all I see is mine to see serve and
de-serve, I served and am served and
I de serve and see as free as I may imagine

bodys are not bearers of light. There is hope. Right is known,
you know right, and you know good, and you know evil

Spike Jones had the hermit wiseman say,
Do the right...

self-evidently not a clue. we thought he got on at nano nano

Hung himself. Why do they do that? Why display dis paired

It resonates, dead end. turn back, Sylvia Plath warned you.
Don't die without knowing

we, me and you, we are nothing with out you.
This touch of word to meaning,
this is in time, mate, we
made a ripple in
material reality past all limittions of time and space,
in a word or two packed with ancient ideas,
which always spill,

whenever we open them, dust in the wind , a ditty from
some A.M. experience, on the way to now

we sing a song of six pence worth, and settle
with a jug o'rye.
more in the give me a reason why i believe saga of myth mending and metaphor piece matching for patterns
Lorrin Jan 2019
Hot tears and empty loneliness.
Sharp razor kissing soft flesh.
Whiskey breath. Seeing in threes.
Warm bed and soft caresses.
Gentle kisses. Soft love.
What does 2 AM look like?
TMReed Oct 2019
Beware the Gyac’tus!
Oh you monster, oh beast!
Found crawling over mountainsides
on such uneven feet!

Watch the way it’s hobblin’
o’er rocks and hills alike.
**** now, foulest creature! Rid that-
hobblin’ from my sight!

Gone isn’t far enough,
he stoops within my head.
No hamlet could survive like this,
let’s burn him in his bed!

Forks n’ brands, fires too,
pierce heavy evening air.
Storm straight, we do, his wretched mount
to find him sleeping bare.

Be gone, oh Gyac'tus!
I howl atop its shape
A whimper leaks from his lips ‘fore
I carve across its nape.

Fear no more! Fear is dead!
Echoes proudly out the cave,
thus we flounder up the mountain,
thought victors, found us slaves.

But the mount is unkind,
spilling forks in twos, threes,
soon a crowd becomes a party,
a party ‘comes a leash,

‘til the fire burning
on the crest stands alone,
yet the only thought I think,
thunk of wine slugged at home.

Drunken dreams expose me
the vengeful mount beneath,
my careless kneecap crumbling
like cornbread at my feast.

Tumble down the mountain
rolling head, feet n’ all
'til sprawling on the ground beside
the spoils of my war.

Glimpsing 'cross its body
held down by shorter heft
I find myself an iron cast
fast ‘round his shorter left.

Donning the clever craft,
my fate turns a corner!
I crawl, on such uneven feet,
homeward in a fervor.

Triumphant from the hills,
hunger tempting Bacchus,
my hobblin’ culls an awful tune,
Beware the Gyac'tus!
Humanity comes and goes.
JV Beaupre May 2019
The bongo drums of his thought carrom across the cosmos,
revenanting across the dawn with nodules of coltan from beyond.
A clear channel for reading the universe:
"When you come to a fork in the road, take it."
"Thank you for making this day necessary."
"It's déjà vu all over again."
"You can observe a lot by watching."
“Ninety percent of the game is half mental.”
“Pair up in threes.”

The smell of a quantum of disconnect,
the taste of the magenta of non-sequitur,
the  sight of logic colliding with chaos,
the touch of an insightful short-circuit,
the music of senseless syntax that says it all.

Coinciluckily, the saving grace: "I really didn't say everything I said."
"Always go to other people's funerals; otherwise they won't go to yours."
Who else would say, “You’ve got to be very careful if you don’t know where you are going, because you might not get there.”
Que sera, sera - "It ain't over till it's over."
In remembrance of Yogi Berra, American League catcher for 19 seasons, 3 times MVP, 10 World Series, Hall of Fame and arguably the best baseball catcher ever. But perhaps best known for his demands on the English language.
Von White Mar 2019
Crystal tears in beams of the ethereal triangle. (Moth)
Leave gleams of cosmic rays of colors new from all angles
Crying trying to hug a moth.  
As Crystal tears fall on sacred cloths.
Benighted Bug embraced in hugs
Wings are spread to hold one snug:
Deepens the sorrow,
smiles be smug
Deeply sad
happy songs sung
Deep so deep in altered states fun
Deep like your hole that was never dug.
For this is why thy is sobbing yet numb.
So missed, so loved
this head in dread hung.
Hysteric screams loud left ears that rung.
Mourning love on lavish lush.
Perhaps hard drugs
gleam in this rug.
Like Twinkle stars in eyes of lights bug.
Flutter now precious one.  
That moment has come.
For that cosmic lights in the night sky has shun.
Fly off now and thrive
Through Blessed skies twilight.  
Omega trifecta disjecta in white.
Disregard all  life’s ill lies
Project Past false folly worlds not wise.
Omega trifecta eternal cant die.  
Clothed in robes on moths back we ride
  Purple eyes On wings spread so wide.  
Protected With swords
worn on there sides
Giants enlightened
with violet sash tied
Guide these rides like blades on arm right
through chaos harmonized untwined.
be three inside when doors thy find.
Under cat pelt black mat
Crystal white key sleeps and  hides.  
Unlock bone carved door,
to obscure and pure life.
Flesh cold on *** gold,
Twist it like Pyrex pipes.  
Looks dead
Though alive
Triangle portals for immortals to rise.
  In bliss gnostic gifts of the purest of kind.
alive in parallel paths that have died.
Blind not the light,
as black sun in sky rise.
Omega trifecta disjecta drenched white.  

Triangle eyes  
Upon moths wings.  
How nice was it for you visiting.
Lovely wings now wave to thee
Love has come
Love will not leave.
Of three
Triangles dance like seas.
White it be
of love
of 3.

Burn forever has this flame.
Insane deranged the mental state.
Delirium comes
And is here to stay.
Now in the dark filthy room,
the schizoid hides away.
In Torment
in dormant
Destroy rituals save.
Healed by the hand
Upon masters embraced.
Purify soul
Preserve culture and race.
Clean blood the last goodness
left in this wretched place.
Yet still in stillness
stagnant turns blue in veins
Bloodletting not upsetting
Blades sway without pain.
As well as chop lines
Upon mirrors for days.
Twisting Pyrex orbs like a game
As well as starve self in sacred ways.
As well as smoke finest of *** never laced.
As well as this huffing to **** cells In brain.
The alcohol be it the final Intake.  
Rituals so official for healing in this hate.
Sleep deprived
for up to thee days.
Final hours
bring forth meat and champagne.
Replenish the ugly shell carbon based
Starved for many days
Sacrifices made done safe
Acts watering spirit
Sacred like this self inflicted pain
Be it in ethereal place
Where insane becomes sane.
Clean the mirrors like spirits slate.
Awaken here to rise.
Eyes alive appearing crazed
laughs upon the sad estates.
Fear all clear has disappeared
Nearly forgot the name
again please come play
like the sun does in may
Cloaked with veils soaked,
like the bed lovers lay.
Cloaked in veils soaked
With inhuman healing rain
Cloaked in veils soaked
Through shadows in thick smoke.
Abstract absurd croaks,
hang from yellow ropes.
Oh strange these roads
magicians go.
Zero fear crystal clear
With senses unknown
It is upon the humans where Paranoid confused madness cripples all life.
Where the eyes of the rubber skinned demons flutter like fast as hummingbird wings.
No logic or sense
reality has shattered.
Machanical animals glitch out like brains splattered
Oh the inner urge to stab synthetic creatures
Oh to destroy Gears and chips inside that “raccoon”
Oh to have oil drop off this sharpened knife
How the **** can one ****
That which is not even alive
Malevolent smiles on people on all sides
These are the things
these eyes have seen
Enough now on obsessing
on that which is now cleansed.
These are the reasons this obscure life be led.
These be the reasons these practices one tends.
These be the reasons for the drs meds
These be the reasons one ***** up this head.
These be the reasons that one is not dead
For these sacred acts in fact have fed spirit and flesh  

Dancing and laughing now through storming waves of chaos seas
Immortal threes ride storms through dark nights.

Until Timelessness be kind with bliss.
These moments will be missed
For the horror be done.
For the flesh be at rest.
Silk was a voice that little wings said.
For fabulous readings
Whispers to heart In chest.
Last lovingly gesture
face gently corresed
Kissing soft wings as the honored guest left.
Gracious be glorious gifts that were sent.
For a  radiant cosmic ray is shun
A Glowing beam bright as the sun.  
Open ethereal triangle windows up.
Fly far now back to lands you are from.
to gaze into ethereal triangular windows.
Free forever eternal have fun
be a triangular window.  
Oh how now to frolic.  
Within Crystal palace.
Oh how to drink from the purest of chalice.
Oh how now to frolic  
Do not stop it
be not this calling.
Laugh and prans  
as if you have lost it
sheen as if polished.
Which  gleams like gold lockets
Soft the Royal purple carpets.  
Dance in trancemusic of inhuman artists
Terror tamed and disregarded.
of black and laced scarlet
Parallel white
Blackness falls.
Gone unto the sacred arts.
Beaming rays in callused  hearts.

Hard telepathic readings.
The physical health was releasing.
Now physical health is at full regeneration.
In threes
In these
Darkest light in vibrant scenes.
Walk the chaos fields
Laugh at this disease.
In threes
Your triangle
Your embrace please.
Speaking through the cosmic seas.
yes blood as flesh are with thee.
All moments of timeless times.
We both dismantled time and logic.
Witnesses of chronic tauntings.
Together cold hands at hops frolic.
Disability in the humans life
Keeping wits as sharp as knifes.
Laugh with thee
In three
Far to gone
Walking along with zero fear at all.
Within you now all distress is regressed.
You are immortal and free.
You speak through moths and trees.
Transcend the logic of all human beings.  
Beyond the sane and tamed.
Oh severely was such un heard of pain.
humans of hate and horror in black corners.
Chaos in eternal be harmony.
Through delusions
Through evil illusions.
Still immortals storm the insane vespers.
In m
Aquarius being of untouchable boundaries.
Virgo being of untouchable boundaries.
These moons

**** trying to word or logically read.
We’re born of the purest lights.
found in the darkest of seems.
In pain
In collapsed yet precious veins.
In pain
Happiness on earth not aloud.
Happiness in far away bliss.
Oh how the dread impails when such is missed.
In white
In ligh in black
Laugh with thee as the wretched attack.
In purity
With purple sash on white robes
In light in darkness harness you will be loved and whole.
Still shovels crave to dig six foot holes.
Still death appears in the faces of the cold.
Love fortold in the hopelessness like mold.
Oh telepathic wanderer of true purity.
Your purity and loving being
Eternal shall your light be strong.
Your love in lungs as one rips bongs.
Of three you and thee
Of night
Of light
No more fright
For blackness has led them to might that is white.  
For love from the purest has held out inhuman hands.
Forever infinite beyond imagination of man.
Forever gnostic callings in not so human lands.
Crystal tears beam in ethereal triangle (moth)
Eli Jul 2018
Stop packing your bags.
Don’t head straight for the hills.
A life without you…
Is unbalanced, complete pandemonium.

Where would a star be without 5 points?
Think of all those little kids.
Gold stars upon their tests.
Running home to show their parents.

“Look, Mom, I did swell!”
“Look, Dad, I did well!”
4 points in nice and even,
But 5 points feels grander.

Hands have five fingers.
Five fingers play the elegant piano.
Notes flutter from their fingertips.
Little, beautiful, butterfly notes.

We show congratulations….
By giving high fives.
Don’t you remember the old childhood years?
Kids gave each other high fives all the time.

Then they grew up,
But carried high fives into adulthood.
The ninja turtles have mastered the high threes,
But we’ve mastered the high fives.

You play a part in math.
That performance with numbers, letters, and weirdly shaped shapes.
Without you, 2+3 wouldn’t equal 5.
We would have trouble adding to ten without 5+5.

A starfish has 5 legs.
In Finding Nemo there is a starfish.
His name is Peach.
I think he would be sad without his fifth leg.

So you see,
My beloved number 5,
You are important.
Don’t give up in your dreams,
Shoot for the stars little fella.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2019
Aye, they'll be no wars here
Russian Sci Fi full neo-hero trope
post the untangling of tongues in 2019
We got us a 'ero, sh

it's bueno, like okeh
A. I. imagined
"Better Than Us"
paquin paquin 'skool

global mind making us see us

Bable was a long long time
whole wide world now speakeasy one tongue un
the root of all evil

virtual free speech is like free thinking

Bravo Holmes Noshit Sherlock

Ruskie TV on Netflix, this is a brave
new world

how much green screen clueing do we need

how real can you imagine
this source
in A/I termsa All In Art-effectual Inteleosity

Eh, wanna play
the long game? Snak-ish sistere quest on a point

is the whole world chromakeyed to black?
CMYK reality
4 and we know there
is more

life is com
plixitified in timespace with sinkholes

from russian lit gone t' seed
in the days of geek gods in realms of emoting

demoting weight of adrenalin on a globalscale,
the dmt, just to see men dance.
  try it, its in you, you think dreams

you know you do
dreams, hard wireless ness courage

to ignore the backstory and take the hero as
the hearer of the

angels, the forder of the hermetical stream
flowin' tween yen
and yanked

into reality with a pull
that broke the skin, an orange picker memory
would you know the rod of an almond tree,
if one budded in your mind,

lockt in the box of the coven
entitlement to the
kingdom, after
kings mean
dung and reality tv is indistinguishible,

can you hear Turings's gay chuckle,
how about…

Folk Art, the ruskie actor says, winks and
pirouettes into

a spiral-ation action,
slipping in rorshach assumptions...

beacuss, be a cause
we can,
bits and digits all the way down,
the turtles were

never holding up progress.
They could have been repurposed in future myths,

as mutants emerged from sewage,
who imagined that,
for real?

Your children must know the truth,
who will tell them if you can't lie?

That is an A, an alpha idea.
Can you think it? But is a Beta,

but beta is always better, eh?

Everybody knows, we sneeze in threes.

Charlie was the enemy, C. Company
Rhose to the occasion

how long ye simple ones
choose ye simplicity?
this odd is
simple as pi wrapped in
Hopf-fibrations you twist in your soul,

There's the question? A/I (Arisa in this Netflix
re-run of "Better Than Us")
queried through by
whether person's vacillating
on the
width of the eye of the storm
in the  elex-elite
as co-related with the
degradation of the
Great Red Spot.

Episode seven or so
the russians call coaches coach.

Hey, I call coaches coach,
even ones I never knew. WHO knew ruskies do to,

Hard to hate a team player, with coach
respect dripping, dark stains on the green screen

where what shapes the future
reality is

visible, If I squint....
Those can't be, can they?...
Potemkin villas,
filmed in 2016, to run in Amerika
now, leading upt to interupt the
intentional animosity
with frivolity in
the 2020 build up of crudescence.

We have seen the enemy and he is we
envisioning good A.I. Art-effectual Inteleos,

as well as Pogo Possum did, Earth Day One,
1970, nigh half a century passed away as
funny papers faded into

the medium of memory -- look around--
loved ones ain't in the funny papers, like regular, back
when ink ruled the imagination involved in
how Tibet was depicted... in our mind's
hearing ears and seeing eyes

how about…
can you hear Turings's gay chuckle,

now. It's the test.
Whatif the enemy was still regular fold under oll the otherness of their gut biomes based on the soil amd the clime?
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