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Wake up it’s a beautiful morning,
like the infinity of a closed chain;
lists keep growing, brain-freeze again.
As long as there’s tomorrow, not today.

Succinct intentions imprinted by a hoot;
how can a sub-conscious refuge,
de-commission the projected truth?
A 24-hour religion, is that all it is?

So which way is it to be tomtom?
Intrepidation never failing,
or honour ‘the’ grand unveiling?
Side-step: back to back-warming Oracle.

Pride appoints a distilling of hidden stature;
forget the dentistry of a mounted gift,
sensitivity not deserving an emotional spendthrift.
No mentions of a game, but you have to play.

Rationalising the intensity of late;
surely that’s an impossibility of squirming feet?
Solution follows a tryst of the elite,
subjects must therefore be; for it to make sense.

Periodic patterns of revolving chrome-vanadium,
lends itself nicely to discontentment
and occasionally promotes relinquishment;
summer sun; does it matter?

Survival make-up – check.
Abrupt journey’s end; in your face.
An odyssey not started yet, offers no grace.
Relax, the God’s haven’t even begun their terror.

The bottom of a barely coping universe it might just be;
Curious are the similarities to sinking sand.
Submerge as you extend your hand?
Or do I just simply do nothing, and nothing happens?

Rat-out the analytical introspection monster;
For when you can see your own reflection in a black-hole;
A bonus penalty shot at life’s ultimate goal;
Then a neutered Neutron star is a good thing to be.
SøułSurvivør Aug 2017
Patrick (Lucky Stars) O'Hara set his disabled grandson up on the old horse's back. Contrary to his moniker Paddy was anything but. His luck had run out. His son had just died of leukemia, and his grandson was now fatherless. His "daughter-in-law" had run off long ago. Couldn't handle having such a disabled son, and a sick husband. Paddy had never liked her anyway.

Patty looked at the child's wizened body. The cruelty of scoliosis. The doctors said it would cost vast thousands of dollars to straighten Bobby O'Hara's spine. Money Paddy absolutely did not have.

His sad gaze shifted from the boy to the horse he was sitting upon. Oh what a magnificent creature you were, 8 Ball! His own retired racehorse. What was once a stone black coat was now mottled with white. The figure eight shaped blaze on his forehead had given him his name. Not to mention the way he took off at the Starting Gate. As if someone had goosed him with a cue stick! And he bounced off the turns in the track as if he had a spin on him that was absolutely deadly. 8 Ball loved to run! He was unbeaten in every race that he entered. A real Dark Horse. With no particular lineage whatsoever. 8 ball just had Talent. And the track owners hated it. Most races were rigged. And Paddy O'Hara didn't play the game.

So they set up a race. With a big race horse named Red Rodger. This horse was also unbeaten, and had a promising future. But Red Roger's jockey was told to lay his horse down... Right in front of 8-Ball. So lay down he did. Killing Red Rodger and severely injuring 8-Ball. There was a lot of speculation about the race. Especially how the jockey riding Red Rodger had jumped from the horse just before the accident happened. He said his foot had slipped the stirrup. No one could prove otherwise. So red Rodger was dead, and 8-ball was very effectively out of the game.

8-Ball, being a sweet natured horse, stood stolidly as a little boy patted his withers. He looked back at him with his gentle dark chocolate eyes and nickered with what Paddy could have sworn was tenderness...

He heard a frustrated whinny behind him. Looking back he saw what he expected. The F-tch was back.

Lady Genevieve Summerfield-Fitch looked down her long nose at Paddy. Astride the most magnificent jumper O'Hara had ever seen.

Gentleman Jim was an astonishing animal. The dappled grey of rainclouds on a milk white sky... and his lines were flawless. Not to mention his lineage. His dam was Proud Nelly, and his sire was none other than Seafront View. And The Gent was as good as his name. He wasn't hare- brained like some horses which became ******. This was a well-tempered, almost intellectual horse. He worked WITH his rider. Practically thinking his way through a course. And it was no surprise that Gent won more awards than you could shake a club at!

But Gentleman Jim's rider was anything but his counterpart. She owned him, but she was no lady...

All of a sudden Paddy's gaze shifted again... this time in the far distance to take in an apparition. A small blonde girl... hair the length of her knees! Running like the Hound of the Baskervilles was after her! She closed the distance between them so rapidly O'Hara was almost dumbfounded!

"I... must... buy... your horse", the child panted.

"He's not for sale..."

Suddenly Paddy saw who the youngster was running from. Back in the middle distance was an ugly bald-headed creep. The spider's web tattooed over the left side of his face was enough to change Paddy's mind... he'd give the girl TomTom, though. He was a good, swift horse....

... then, before he knew what happened, his grandson was sitting on a chair by the stables and Blondie was astride 8-Ball!

"Hey! That horse is old and LAME!

"Not anymore." The blonde girl said simply. She pressed something hard into his palm. "And he's now mine".

As 8-Ball wheeled around to go out the gate something... happened. Was it O'Hara's imagination? The Ball's coat got darker! And shiny! His "game" leg seemed to... straighten...

When he made it out to the trail with his small rider he bunched up his flanks and took off Like a bat out of HELL!

The young blonde girl's long hair streamed out behind her like a sail as she took on the seat of a hockey... PERFECT FORM!

Paddy looked down at the hard object the girl had pressed into his hand. It was a classically cut emerald, dark as the hills of Kentucky. And bigger than any Paddy had ever seen...
Peter Kiggin Jun 2016
Smoke rings out of your ****.

Sitting in a wigwam playing tom toms
What a lovely day; tomtom along
Tambourine jingles while I'm playing this song
Look at all the children dancing; nothing shall be wrong
People always want something but I smell a fishy that's horrid and pongs
Playing tom toms calms me to centre thoughts of the past and the devil's tongue
You use people freely like a troublesome one who will string you like a puppet then simply move on.
experience
Gideon den Tex Nov 2024
A  guy wakes up one morning and decides he wants to be immortal.
He’s healthy, well to do, reasonably handsome and extremely unsatisfied.
Thru Insta, Tiktok, Facebook and a chain smoking friend he learns of a firm offering immortality.
Welcome, says the Immortician, you’re at the right place.
My TomTom told me so too.
How does this work and how much does it cost?
There are three stages, each increasing in intensity and in costs.
First stage amounts to 1499 USD.
This is rekindling your lusts.
How do I do that?
Unfortunately, our method leaves you entirely to your own devices.
See you in three weeks.

After three weeks.
Welcome, says the Immortician, what did you experience?
Well, I pursued many a lust, but that resulted in osteoarthritis of the hip.
Excellent. Now for the second stage.
Your imagination needs to run away with you.
How?
Unfortunately our method leaves it entirely up to your own fantasy.
And the costs?
3000 USD.
Can I pay by installment?
Naturally, the term is infinite.
By the way, the guy says, you yourself look younger than three weeks ago.
Your efforts are our gain.
See you in three weeks.

After three weeks.
Welcome, says the Immortician, how was the run?
Well, my imagination is in overdrive, no sensible thought in my head, but I did develop a migraine.
Excellent. Now for the last stage. You need to become a child again.
I won’t ask how.
No, the child in you will show you the way.
And the costs are?
6000 USD.
Drop dead, the guy says, you’ve become even younger.
So you’re saying you’re showing me what’s in store for me?
This is reversed obsolescence.
See you in three weeks.

After three weeks.
Welcome, says the Immortician, how did it play out?
Well, I whimpered, snacked and shrieked to my heart’s delight,
but after climbing a tree I ended up in IC with a heart attack.
Excellent, you’re dead right on track.
However, we strongly recommend a follow-up.
Costing?
10000 USD.
Hey, you’re getting younger again.
I suggest you pay me!
And the guy grabs the Immortician by the throat and strangles her.
After which he drops dead with a humongous *******.

Detective: We suspect a love making that got out of hand.
Don we now our gay apparel
despite knowing lives
(within definition of rainbow person,
where individual considers themselves
within LGBTQIA2S umbrella group)
suddenly prideful freedom of expression
imperils their very existence
during repressive Trumpian regime,
which would forever hashtag me
(not necessarily linkedin as identifying
with aforementioned acronym,
but merely expressing solidarity)
with those whose existence defies categorization
no matter passive and not violent modus operandi,
nevertheless yours truly automatically associated
as one among dangerous agents provocateur,
(the pen or rather keyboard
more powerful and mightier
against thugs than the sword),
where demagogue(s) would gloat
over purging one harmless
equalitarian, latitudinarian, nonestablishmentarian,
sexagenarian, and Unitarian
falsely indicted on ******* up machinations,
would decree (if given free reign)
to issue death by most brutal short
nasty, and heinous means
against supposed poisonous free expression
with absolute zero chance of posthumous acclaim.  

I now imagine as the figurative guillotine
propelled at lightspeed
intent to lop off the talking head(s)
sharing figurative body electric
instantaneously reducing to silence
as the TomTom Club beats louder
signaling immediate decapitation
mien average nondescript means
elatedly being trumpeted as stark example
in an autocratic attempt to bid au revoir
to the likes of Matthew Scott Harris
oh perilous death of freedom
courtesy opprobrious and machiavellian edicts.

Since pledging my troth
to the missus July 25th, 1996
after the common era
never in my wildest dreams
would the end of the world
as we know or remember
punctuate mein kampf,
and that of almost every **** sapiens
with global disequilibrium, and discombobulation

Ever since the notions
of life, liberty and pursuit of happiness
coalesced within the mindscape
attributed to one
or more anonymous forebears
way before the advent of civilization
when written language preserved
(**** sapiens communicated
virtual primal groans and grunts),
nevertheless witnessing inchoate awakening
visa vis discover ring dawning enlightenment
bajillions of years after
earth, wind and fire
affected ideal environment
for Beatle browed foo fighters
Nirvana oriented proto humans
among rival capital one group
of beastie boys versus another.

Each subsequent generation embodied
propensity to acquire heavenly delight
characterized courtesy
storied primeval human associations
to wrestle with promotion
of mental, physical and spiritual autonomy.

Once self-determination awoke
animal hides did cloak
daggers if antagonism occurred
especially as high society
coaxed fibers inviting village people
to invent legislation to evoke
amity particularly once firearms
witnessed proliferation of gunsmoke
(and the Western genre as film noir)
after shoot-'em-ups erupted,
when scapegoat mustered courage
(after chomping powder milk biscuits)
bad to the bone bully underestimated chutzpah
courtesy said shy person,
yours truly did invoke
adulation and garnered
within figurative keystroke
generated winning vote
cast strictly by menfolk
if I vouchsafed would
NOT be pig in a poke
as happened countless millenniums later,
when forty fifth president
of lands slated to become de facto despot
across United States of America
would try to revoke
his successor mudslinging him,
(the latter, a common joe biden time),
a veritable teetotaler,
who swore, he rarely took a ****.

Blame aforementioned  conveniently shifted
upon blue collar Scranton
common Joe biden his time yup
blimey bloke never woke up
until after leaving Oval Office
glad to wipe his figurative hands
as vice president to Barack Obama
after November 8, 2016,
when Trump elected to his first term
as President, defeating former First Lady
and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton.
subsequently inaugurated as 45th President
of the United States on January 20, 2017.

An interregnum of eerie and relative calm
descended from sea to shining sea
before lights, camera, action.

Cue Project 2025 in full swing
after overstuffed bombastic, caustic,
egocentric, fascistic, hypernationalistic, irrationalistic  
and narcissistic ego freezer
exerted usurpation upon body electric of Uncle Sam
early one January morning
bright eyed and bushy tailed
after a months long stint,
barnstorming across the United States,
whereby the electorate majority
approved former forty fifth occupant again
of “Executive Mansion”
(intending to rule analogous
to Iron Maiden circa 2024 - ?)
admitting his admirably
hand picked administration
donned hat of ruthless dictator wannabe
exhibiting word spelled like elan,
but substitute “o” in place of letter “a”
bragging about earning a living wage
and taking page from playbook of richest Bro,
who brought good humor and laughter,
where tragedy wrought woe
visited webbed wired wide world
(once trod upon by the noble savage
as described by Jean-Jacques Rousseau)
whipping out trademark Dobro,
(a contraction of "Dopyera brothers"
and a word meaning "goodness"
in their native Slovak,
who introduced said instrument in 1928)
kickass nimble though pudgy septuagenarian
(accompanied by the band
Tripping Up Stairs)
performed outstanding show
capering, dancing, gliding,
high jumping, et cetera across the stage
hither and yon, to and fro
contagiously gifting, letting riotous hoopla
ring out across Land of Lake Wobegon
spontaneously kickstarting
audience of senior citizens
(including yours truly)
to shuck off mantle of senescence
and clothes in the same process
after gaining courage
to join Barenaked Ladies
hooting and trumpeting nouveau
playfulness summoning
rebirth of childlike spirit.

How carefree and ideal to identify
with mindset of Alfred E Neuman
Mad Magazine what me worry
unfortunately as a little boy
yours truly beset with mental health issues
Anorexia Nervosa the most serious
potential to develop healthily
self starvation eradicated
courtesy the expertise of psychiatrist
Ted Goldberg my parents did employ
subsequently eating disorder
manifested as hair obsession
with a vengeance,
when maybe some dozen years later
while completing a co-op
linkedin to enrollment at Antioch College
at facility I chose called
Chicago Ecology Resource Center in Illinois,
and who should make
a small teleporting cameo appearance,
but none other than Leonard Nimoy,
albeit his likeness manufactured as plastic
popular gewgaw enterprising toy.

Courtesy the most flimsy tenuous
designs linkedin to above lines
availed and linkedin thru
Unitarian Church affiliation while a youth,
(now negligible participant,
who would never join any group
that would accept me as a member)
an important connection throve with 1976
Norristown Area High School alum
Frankie Augustine Junior a brain,
plus admirable ruler
of tribbles and klingons to boot.

As an otherworldly webbed wordsmith,
I befriended said lad,
who became best earthling chum,
whose birthday (January eleventh
nineteen fifty nine) two days before mine,
our camaraderie did rattle and hum
until he attended Rensselaer
Polytechnic Institute (majoring
in nuclear engineering)
landing himself a plum job.

Our friendship since foundered
unlike the enterprising television show,
which captured the imaginations
of countless young and older people alike.

By 1986, 17 years after entering syndication,
Star Trek considered
the most popular syndicated series;
by 1987, Paramount made $1 million
from each episode;
and by 1994, the reruns
still aired in 94% of the United States.

— The End —