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Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Métis, Themis, Ma’at, their banter was for naught.
All the tides and tithings wisdoms and their teachings, Daemonium forgot!

But the heavens cry  manna as Nix cried out reprieve!
An act that loosed the flood, the chaos of her sea.

Her pain arose a champion to tend to all her needs,
Formed of Celestial Ocean he bore down on the freed.

A giant wave of madness, thrusting mist of sadness eradicating gladness... One led the ruthless breed.

Opaque in their beginning, formless shapes in twining.
Conjoined but not together, accompanied the weather.
Thalassa’s stringy tether wrapped them all forever.

Come or go in seasons, live or die in age.
No Spring to Fall in reasons, travailing of the mage?
Black tentacles the streamers, rooted into wave.
Witness the all-wise and snaking phantom phage...

Chiron watches while he prances, his dressage on the shore.
Arising liminal of beings wettened ambiguity of yore.
Even Iblis is impressed, such black rotten to the core!

Merkabah or egg, mountain, belly, tree they squabble.
All elements do I cobble, such are actions of the wobble.
james nordlund Aug 2018
While I don't suffer, or suffer from
Normal, eurocentrism, northern malaise,
Nor, academia, a blood disease,
I do mind manners in which doings
And not doings are done or aren't,
As it brings life and light to them,
Or it doesn't, for those most attached
To living or dying are most closely death.

This while acid rain from your closed eye
And an acre of rainforest falls each second.
Thus Earth's tears bleed for all you see is gray.
As machinations of travailing winds,
Miraging, veil, mirror narcissistic nihlistic
False-ego as self, do "..we(e),.." evince to be?
A republican chides, "put another poet
On the barbie", his idea of conservation.

Prump has had his exec. branch criminally:
Edit the official video and script of his
Helsinki news conference where tutin was asked,
"Did you help prump become president and did you
Have your gov't do the same", with tutin's answers,
"Yes I did, yes, I did..." + premeditatedly separate
Latino families at the border to torture them,
Dictate that "if they want to see their kids again
They have to sign away their rights and leave".

He just said, "don't believe what you hear, see",
Almost a quote from Orwell's '1984', in which
Is written, "this dictate of the gov't was most
Important of all, don't believe what your ears
Hear or your eyes see".  Since altright universe
Invaders were installed in the Blackhouse we've
Known things will only get worse, what other
Reason could his "military parade in 11-18" be for
Except military rule, will the American daymare end?
When's Mueller going to be done with his elaborate cover-up (he's purposely not using the REICO Statute that should be, and is necessitated), he's giving immunity to a dozen republican criminal conspiracy felons while only prosecuting, convicting, pleading out a few, before or after RumputiN's visible coup steals the midterms?  If you didn't vote for Hillary, you voted for RumputiN.  "...We(e),..." must protect the vote, vote early, GOTV, and protect the results more than ever, before the country gets used to being drunk on democracy's backslider's wine.  Also: All threads in the fabric of life are needed; "..we(e),...", can't allow it to be torn asunder.  Mothers are that which society builds on, their needs are all of ours; and necessary to meet.  "...Suffer the children...", from the Bible, didn't mean cause the kids suffering; when will remocrats, and even some dempublicans (dinos and DinoS), stop doing most everything asbackwards?   reality
brandon nagley Sep 2015
When all else faileth
Let me and thine own amour queen Jane;
Powerfully prevaileth.


©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane nagley dedication/Filipino rose
©Lonesome poets poetry
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2017
<•>

blustery company/unexpected costs

rain-all-day, with a heavy creme topping of
blustery wind window rattling, par excellence,
making the houses's insides rumble so much,
the trees fringes bang-pleading to please be allowed in
so loud that you suspect some are already hiding within,
probably, more likely, those leprechaun Elusives,
up to their usual no goofy good

the poet's fellow summer travelers visit, Canadian geese,
clustering by the Adirondacks thrones four,  
who add another weathering to their grayed, somber,
thoughtful demeanor this day,
all in the Poet's Nook, which though forlorn,
surrounded sounded by sixteen! chubby flyers, admirers,
(their ranks expanded from fourteen of yesteryear),
asking where is the poet-boy, and the chairs explain that his
standing in the rain days are now past his prime,
inspiring modalities, so rest easy in the knowing geese lore that,

he,

through those famous civilizing lace curtains,
see-through visors, of  embroidered, embedded flowers,
the poet boy is watching your brood, not being rude,
just dry inside, contemplating their admirable
weather resistance, and writing of them with loyal affection,
his gaggle of friends, **** avians, favorite weekend guests,
not requiring feeding, cleaning up after, or their laundry done

delighted, they edge closer to him, where he, residing/semi-hiding,
in the sunroom where he writes and contemplates the
unexpected costs of human life
that he tries to pays forward so others may never have such a chore

coming ever closer, now nibbling next to the empty
tree swing, used by neighboring kids and in secret,
their parents,
and the wet freshly cut, delivered green grass,
a feast for them, beneath the oak tree

do they have unexpected costs as well, or do they know
all their predators and threats, that may yet diminish the happy sojourning, the tourney of flying south, and its trials/tribulations?


too long, too long I know, the poem,
but to the devil with you
inexperienced, impatient multi-taskers, this, a poem~moment
that would be dishonored by the breech,
needs lengthy fulfillment for the unexpected costs,  
the randomness of events that can't be guarded against,
demand never ending vigilance, and endless imagining

and the geese, saddened by his absence and his travailing
thought patterns, explain, that this is why we geese,
we gaggle travel, why our long necks swoon and swivel,
ever wary of the unexpected surprise dangers,
why we post guards forward and aft,
not to be taken unawares by foxes or men

the human's gaggle is their random, undisciplined,
by their solitary nature,
travailing thoughts
which they they foolish believe they can master,
but cannot, which then, is why, we geese,
we will always annual come to covenant, co-tenant,
visit the poet-boy in his nook, and rest him briefly, from the
terror of unexpected costs, be his inspiration,
for the poets nook, now, by custom,
our refuge, and his, as well, and better together...
Saturday
August 5, 2017
noon

other poems referenced can be found by searching on HP
In the poet's nook, The Elusves, and In the Sunroom
Jenny Mar 2017
Closing your eyes for a while
moment of silence for this time
reminiscing every travailing memories
that crushed and led me now to pieces

I'm hurt,
I'm deeply hurt by you
but the blame isn't all for you
cause I'm the only one who loved you.

Sorry if I've loved you this hard
to the point that I'm the one falling apart
In your words that is deceiving
To me who heard every word and now i'm grieving

Awfully painful,
but time will heal for sure
to those stolen hearts without knowing,
and returned wrecked and broken.

Feelings that unexpectedly come
Hearts that may beat like a drum
Is this what they call love?
I thought its happy but I'm completely wrong cause its numb and dumb

Actions that can be a destruction**
Truth in its hurtful explanation
where i felt every single pain
In this one-sided love that make us all insane
Loving someone without the assurance of having something in return is a brave decision. It would be more if you'll love someone that people set walls due to humans prohibition
Hannah Adair Jul 2013
Nothing,
The light in my eyes
fading.

Worthless,
My life is pointless
fading.

Tired,
Travailing alone
fading

Lonely,
Be my friend- someone
fading

Fading into the darkness,
Fading into the night,
Fading until my figure-
is just an empty light.
Soft-littered is the new-year’s lambing fold,
And in the hollowed haystack at its side
The shepherd lies o’ night now, wakeful-eyed
At the ewes’ travailing call through the dark cold.
The young rooks cheep ’mid the thick caw o’ the old:
And near unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground,
By her Spring cry the moorhen’s nest is found,
Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold.

Chill are the gusts to which the pastures cower,
And chill the current where the young reeds stand
As green and close as the young wheat on land
Yet here the cuckoo and cuckoo-flower
Plight to the heart Spring’s perfect imminent hour
Whose breath shall soothe you like your dear one’s hand.
DracoTalpus Dec 2015
What rumble grumbles thundering
     beneath another boiling sky,
Which warns me, scorns me,
     distant thorns flee: flashing light from clouds, and I…

Am harkening – darkening towers,
     ivory-cast and sunlit spires lie!
Still distant, though these
     trees are bending, rending, raising arms up high.

Green fingers flailing, leaves travailing,
     one warm-gust, and the blues go grey;

Then silence…
And the wind dies:

Calm

I can feel you coming.

I can taste your spray.

There’s nothing better
     than a thunderstorm;
I love them, and especially
     the way your tempest touches,
And the way your thunder talks to me.


©14Sep10 @DracoTalpus
If you like it, follow me, and I will post more.  If you know someone who might like it, share it with them, and I won't charge you.  ;) <3 @DracoTalpus
Save me from this ailing sudate disdain
To pursue an oath to ordain,
Crimson dark stains yet uncertain.
Beneath a soul’s secret door to obtain
Pure pardon from this wretched torment and pain,
The sickening impudence…an implication!
Yet I try that Grace, Harmony and Love may win,
What am i…but a travailing mortal machine
Taking flight from this mundane plight to become even.
I plead that this conscious with mildness can reckon
In awe I cry out…
“Please don’t forsake me divine Logos”
In dilapidated pieces without price am torn
Helpless and lost behind the aisle,
Not more than an infantile person
Searching for a comfy path back home,
Sad but at times to admit the autism awoken.
In solitary at the center of crossroads
Were do I turn to run?
My heart so weak and slain without feign.
I have judged without concern
To satisfy an ego unknown,
On my stifles I now implore of the Passion
That she may patch-up for a peaceable Parturition.
Cerebral Fallacy Feb 2014
The face, scarred beyond recognition
A nacked exposure against the real
Every fantasy crushed under the weight of being
Being is nothing but nackedness

A void in the midst of his heart
Amidst the dream of eternal happiness
A broken life, travailing under *******
A framework of meaning presented by lust

Nacked came I out of my mother's womb
Among ten thousand aborted infants
One woman in travail dies to bring life
Life tarnished by sores and boils!

Soothing his body with a porcupine's quill
He vomits and laments outside the scope of life
The grave seemed an inviting space
Why did the ****** ever give birth?

Why was he not among the aborted?
Why was he not a sacrifice to Baal or Molach?
May the day he was born never be remembered
Life toys with him like a cat does its prey

And lo the great consumer arises from the depths
Great as the darkness that arose in cosmic proportions
It was he which consumed the first star
It was his terrible laughter that echos in the grave

The raw laughter of pure jouissance beyond flesh and body
Beyond the confines of matter hard and real
Beyond the nature of every genus ever known to humanity
Sacrifice and die, ******* and die, this is sacred religion

Dry bones around the alter, viruses dying with hunger
No more corpses, no more decaying flesh
Create once more O divine creator, so we may eat and drink
We will once again ****** and consume

Outside the scope of the dead he lay with his sores
Discharge of stale blood and mucus surrounds his being
He was mocked for all eternity for his suffering
He refused to die, he refused to yield and he refused religion

And they took his flesh and offered it to the great beast
The one who's appetite does not rest
The one who's desire is endless like the skies
His heartbeat is the sound of negative infinity

But his flesh was devoid of nourishment
And his bones hollow without marrow
His blood was like empty air in a broken container
He was nothing but a wound- a divine wound

He himself was death, disease and pain
The trauma of the real opens up and all fantasies disappear
They disappear like the mist in the light of the morning sun
The wound is now the cure and death is now life
Martin Narrod Apr 2017
The postulate of this grief is ours. Every night in my wiry chain-mail suit, in my bed, where you have been crying for your lost hours. For a moment they came, in calamity and drudgery, to every travailing effect that pushed you down. Half of one day, you had it. You plucked your eyebrows, applied vigorously baby oil, lotion, to your pallid skin, and in two bats of your eyes, it had disappeared again. So sad you are. So sad you have been. They were only minor hours, wrapped in crimson bows, gentle happenings that you had barely grazed the tips of your fingernails into, and their symbolical sense, their nuance, wasn't perfected as you had wished just yet. And you tried so hard and it wasn't right yet. In the bed, with your fore-paws tucked neatly under the pillow, the bottom of your legs tucking their way up into your gut, tight as tight could be; I watched you sob in your maudlin ball, your sudorific tears, just peeling out of your eyes. I changed the pillow. I swapped it out. If only we could find your hours and give them back to you.But you cowered into a half-lump ball, your spirit curdling under your night-wept tears. And I too wanted your hours, for they were mine also. Our amatory hours, the fervid hours, our hours of luxe developing bliss. I felt the same urgency to recall them as you, but it was I who held to them, and clang to them that was losing my fingertip grasp on their minutes, and that is what frightened the both of us.
grief grieving sad sadness torture inimitable horror horrifying dead die dying death wicked evil depressed depression awful unghastily horrid sordid eyes spirit hours hands paws girls girl her hers him write writer writing poet poets poetry write writing writers sanfrancisco paloalto california portolavalley stanford review reviews novice nocturnal heinous fetor
Ask not the name of the man who speaks here.
He has traveled the long dusty way, and
Through pastures sought the better life and the
Way that is not broad, but narrow, unsought,
And travailing yes I say that I have
Come to this, now, that you may, unto me,
Ask the undying question that is of
The everyman and his suitors many.

For I say unto you, I have witnessed the breaches of man’s will,
And have bought talent with shrill motion.
I have sauntered upon the long dusty way, and I say to you
It is not what it figures, appears not
As it seems to me, yet I long the toes of my feet through its dust,
Admire the gentle gleams that aspire
To godhead like me, to Sunlight with crystal formations and dust,
And longing have I perspired here
Long hours in the midnight drone, and have bought with cheap glass the fire
That is promised only to the man who has nothing.

This I say to the longing, the begging, the thieves,
The stealing conniving and prattling on like
Bees in the springtime, honeybees so forgetful,
So lusting after the next flower, to make good
On the oaths of children and fathers, to find that
No oath could be so magnificent, no oath could
Make good what thing the sailing Odysseus sought,
Might have sought were he of godlier kind, might have
Heeded were he not of the atrocious living
You and me, but so we are and so we must contend,
Contend with the flesh and the life and the death, the
Longing, the dribbling, the hours ill spent, to find
Not to find, and to live not to live, best
It seems to you and me, prattling and squandering
Life for the grave, with little time left: Such are we made.
Dawnstar Mar 2019
your face speaks more
than a million heartfelt adages;

travailing, you
compel stone-cold statesmen to grieve.

was it debu-
-ssy who softened my heart to say that?

a cypress dies
when it touches your tear-snuffing sleeve.
you are a town crieress
brandishing the banner of rebellion.
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Ted Talks in the background, the rush of forming in to me time.
A test, a lure, a net, yes

Sunday, December 09, 2018
11:24 AM

A Beta test, they bet the tithe on the human race.
Wisdom set the milestones,

Pillars to bear the weight of knowing both
possible and impossible no matter how the alpha

bet degrades under pressure to conform, for
Short term gain,

how far out can a man imagine, how future can one be?

Mathematically, wherever, where, in ever, you are you are now.

A platform
A standing place
A flat butte above a

Broad alluvian fan laced with gravity formed fiords,
see, look, we live on a whole world which
is fractured and half frozen.
All of us, ever, have lived here.

Google earth.
Use the tool you have.

See farther than you imagine you can.

Take time,
you have some of your own, right?

You breathe?
Take one breath for only you.
Listen, as you breathe, is this a voice

or mere words we imagine meaning more

than then when we imagined

we were seeing through goggles,
no peripheral augmentation,

goggles with blinders, urban adapted tech
from the old days,
blinders?

War horses in the Iron empire wore blinders,
Chariot racing war horses always wear blinders,

boys watching wagons in movies would notice blinders
if such boys had grown to knowing idle from not in

my realitiy. Itified, but run within,
disconnected from competing reality ifications
I inherited with the wind.

Watch the welder's goggles, see when he removes them,
don't attempt to see what he saw through them,
trust me, he was not making gods.

I say again. Radio to now.
re-ad re-al re-wise devize a way where there
nor there
nor there, nor then, nor then and there
is no way to seem, no other
being than being, as a verb.

No else.
Oh, well, I'll tell.

A heretic is a self-willed entity able to think about thinking,
e-special when time is in turmoil,

We all have our life and being in time, at the moment.
We behave, then one has an urge, a whim, a fantasy…

see further, see different, ex-spire-ment. Bet that breath,
the one you took for yourself,
the one you treasure.

Take a step,
Fear not, giant steps feel like falling going down and
mountains going up, but get some altitude

see where the snake in the core of the magneto sphere
shed its skin, shook off the dust of the third world,
attached each spec of dust,
be it any element or rele mental in the re-alm of Whatsoever,
a single gravity bound drop of water.
In that,
Suspend the noble miner-als, dis-solve the salts and acids and such

Let the eukaryotic work on version 2.0, epi-genetically, as
they shall say, some day, after the fact.

A little leaven, the kingdom is like that, when it works.

Wanna bet this makes some dust? Did you sneeze? Or me?

think now, 's no co incidence, me writin', you readin'
it happened. A hap hapt. We share that,
infection effect.

We breathed an effectual breath, together,
in and out, the clues are everywhere,

the better man won, then we became better,
both, wombed and un. one another we

make, effectual we, make good,
by our very nature,
born, as we were post the information deluge
that washed the blinders from our
children's eyes, for ever after.

we can be the side-bet clan,
betta value, betta moment of your own time
attention to the mean
general inteleosity
of being better,

being better beta testers for effectual fervent hope
for good for goodness sake.

Heroes go through hell.
We never pitch a tent and dance around Pandemonium.

The bet. AI is or am?
See it logger rythmical,
Ax,
hands to handle to tool to cut, break, scrape.
How would you, you, chop a tree?
Eat? You, not ancient ancestor you, you

manifested mature **** sapien sapiens augmented you,
what do you think will make life, in general,
be tending toward your happy ever after,

after silence, for about the space of half a time?

Hey, how do I say looky here here?
I am
alone.
Ah,
some know Ah, she knows,
Wisdom has a way, a wombed man,
beyond the original
ginal general gentle plan for an atom on this scale,

but nothing is impossible, so something must be done.

Progress, motion.
Relative to what, do you perceive motion?
Whence base ye di-rect e-rectors forming lines

point A to point B to so on soon as someone
sees forever in the apple of his Grandma's eye.

[found on a stele in northern Baja, 2018. Interpreted, sometime later]
(ragpicker's note: this thread links to a junkyard near a Green Book,
The Loma Vista, listing.) The sign, in those days, read:

Axles greased for free.

The symbols mean now that people
travailed along these old stone roads,
and kindness in the journey
greased the wheels in the wheels of those
auto-mobile-means of travailing.

Axles greased for free. Will sing for my supper.
Will you wont you will you join my dance?
Free
Golden oils,
gifts from the whale that ate my father for
non-monetetical bearing
of the wait to know,
wheel,
before it squeeked.

Itching ears, hear? The squeeks, the growns as the old
home stretches,
like her skin's too tight,

Ah, intelligence generally
available for the price of the tools used to use
any knowledge perfect
or perfecting
effecting
affecting the manufacture of you, Roll on,

out to infect the masses shopping for hope.
Sneeze for me, say Ah. We knew her when…

Wisdom was the reason for the season.
The principal setter of the sakes,
also set beginning and end.

Side-bet. 2 bucks, I bet time is temporary.
Paypal me when you lose. Ten to one, my favor.
Collect from Wisdom if you win. Even money.
Having been encouraged to this degree, I heard Google has, for years, budget 10 percent to "other than Goohle business", for the mathematical reason that good works that way.
the whisper of words
the groaning of tears
wailing of sighs
travailing of pains
can all be wrapped up in a six-letter word called
P R A Y E R.
it's not just a language uttered
language heard
and felt.
it's that sorrow within
longing unmet
pain screamed.
when all else fails
when no one listens
everything seems to fade
that's when you do this so often.
for you know,
someone hears and someone loves to hear.
So pray.
Pray often.
not just in your moments of weakness
but also in those moments of success.
P R A Y. #beholdheprays
Dawnstar Dec 2018
how can I stop looking at your picture?
you look so elegant.

your travailing face tells me
your words must be heartfelt.
maybe because debussy
softened my heart to say that,
a cypress dies
when it sees your tear-snuffing sleeve.

you are a town crieress,
brandishing the banner of rebellion. . . .

my hunger and thirst are gone,
I could survive on your image alone.
james nordlund Nov 2019
As machinations of

travailing winds,

miraging, veil and mirror

narcissistic nihlistic

false-ego, as self,

"...we(e),..." evince to be.



Finding that find,

giving it away,

aliveness being this day,

and further searching,

to be this day

what it is to be this day.
Feeling thanx, gratefulness, and mourning the losses to Native Americans more before this Thanx/Mourning Day; more than before any other.  Blessings be....   :)   reality
Ken Pepiton Aug 2021
Take a tiny taste of the future,
from a keep it rural POV.

As my Gerry-rigged life, extends
as in, what soldiers did
to try to stay alive, after spare parts were pastense,
a nod to Northern Euro knackraft of olden days.

If you have the knack 'ritused to makin' broke bits
function in a state of _
unspeakable, but you'd best believe,
it makes the lights turn on,
that
is a gift, a knacker's gift, truth t'tell,
and put an apple on the crown of your own
first born

test the legendary ai-mmm through handlelesss
axes, was that not the tale told to children
comprehend the arrow flying on a line,
hunter children,
aware of the fish story aspect of tinker
told tales of olden times damnations.
-- {now, calculate the curve}
Aye, and our old ways work, we make you think
double minded, eh, like two cpus in 86040 days,
two clocks, eh, first, lizard level from
now to any cloud connected when,

take in a Saturday mattinee,
see it again on Sunday and wonder at the change
A POV, who you were, you are no more,
rich or poor,
this is the theatre of the mind, and mere words
rule the plain truth, smooth,
deep soft belly breath
breathed to smooth-as-silk, down to the amber
touch,
touch me now, why doncha try, we might
make matters matter more or less
a while, gentle touch,
peace passing understood rules of engagement

Transcaucusus, carriers of this old tale, Pontic
Greeks, ah, so

the book of life is not a story,
you are. And you do end up reading it.

Moses eyes, you imagined that right,
clear as any Hubbard riddle ever entered in the fray.

Old things pass away, all things are new,
on earth as it is in heaven, when some certain
people
begin to believe the wisdom under the idea,
our
public declaration across all time, then to now,
our father, passengers of earth, travailing
groaning to manifest, the will of all
truth be done truth's way,
on earth, as it is in ever after we begin
telling the truth to us
regarding the home of the free,
our shared lies that allow non-profit CEOS
Abu Dhabi level luxury,
and reward the tellers of war as fullfillment tales.

Clash of the fathers, with mothers doing nothing
I trow not, but too far, me, too, I've come

to entangle carnalmind value for cannonfodder
or breedsow worthiness,
with life,
and that,
more abundant. On the battlefielllld, after all
the only emnity is the carnal mind, on God's side.
The middle of a long timespace occurence
Ranger Dec 2014
Once upon a time, in a land of shadows. There was a wolf born to a cave. His heart was good and pure. His eyes burned blue and bright. His name was Ranger. But Ranger did not choose his pack. His family. He was born to a Mother and Father wolf who had very little, the land of shadows had not been kind to them. For he would have had five brothers and sisters. But sadly all but the oldest was slain. Cut down before there time.

So as this young silver wolf was playing in the shadows and looking for things to fill his day his parents where teaching him to fight. Training his hard for the life he would endure. The woods where no place for a kind hearten wolf. Day after day they pushed him to be harder. His fangs growing sharper with every passing day. His other siblings struck down. When he asked why. All he was ever told was this is the way of the world son, You fight to live or you roll over and die.

Long did this time pass and he had grown to be a beast. I hardened scared wolf, fur black with blood stains. He was a monster like no other. Merciless he hunted alone, Never needed any one or any thing. He felt only rage and contempt at the world. For all the pain in him. All the hate he had felt. He was a wolf with a heart of stone

One day well travailing in the darkest part of the woods he would hear crying, whimpering in pain. Slowly keeping to the shadows he would see a young fox. Her body cough up in thorns. Slipping closer he investigated. He turned to the shadows and thought about simple walking away. But that cry that whimper, he turned back to see her. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her eyes big and blue sparkled helplessly in the shadows. Slowly he stepped closer, and dug in to the vines of thorns and freed the little fox and expecting her to run away in horror. How did you end up here he would ask her and to his surprise he she told him she was hiding from her family that had hurt her so bad. So laying down in the soft earth he wrapped her in his tail and gently licked her wounds.

When day came he found her again in the place she was last night, softly wagging her tail waiting for him. Fallowing him she would smile and hide under him and playfully jump on his back. Then as the sun rose she would scamper off to the field where she was from and every night she would find him. This powerful and deadly wolf.

Day by day and night by night she warmed his stone heart. Made it burn so bright and pure. His black blood stained fur became a bright silver as he stopped fighting. His deep red eyes burned blue. His heart had been saved and his soul little bit by little bit became hers.

Years past and there nights became routine but never dull. He would smile seeing her and would hold her so close. As the years went by he would notice she was no longer a little pup. She was an adult now. Sly and stong and fast. But her family knew of him. The stink of this wolf was all over her. They raced in to the woods finding him they ripped in to him. They dragged her away from him  as she cried out I Love Him. But they did not care. They knew wolves where not to be trusted and even tho his fur was silver, purged over the years of his cruel ways. The smell of blood lingered on him. Harder and harder they attacked him until she ran off. Under cover of moon light. Her eyes dripping with tears. Her heart heavy in sorrow. How could she watch as the family she loved worked hard to destroy the one who stood with her and kept her safe.

She ran and ran and ran. And even tho she is gone she can still hear him at nights howling at the moon. Howling for the love he lost and the pain he had felt. For he loved her as well and no matter how far away they are they will never forget those dark places that where there home.

I love you
Story not a poem
One day the Holiest-Psalms "ORĪSHA'NLÀ"
who inspires Ideas in sequence
"that everlasting existence" was walking,
and he found sitting in one corner
the four wealthiest men of the Universe, Realm World & Entire-territory
showing their prowess
of the richness of their fares,

The Dinosaur of Isa-riot was there
the ruler of the eth-air
the sharkwhale was there
the ruler of the cloud
the Pheonix was there the ruler of the °cord-Lightning
& even the dragon the ruler of the outer speace,
Ap3Rook the ruler of Hidden fire

They were all friends whose bond stick closer than blood
& brothers who stay firmly together
even in adversity
their absorption is absolute
far greater than couple Union,

This was their conversation;
the Owner has taught perfectly
about knowing woman,
truly he has established every Business
even the electro-mechanezium
are not new to him,
Consider how he formed the ant
& established their ways
then you'll realise
he already set everything in place
before we existed in the womb of everlasting existence.

This is the Temple with the
Arch Angels,
The Cherubim & Seraphim Shrine,
The Igumen Throne,
The homly Garden Oró's.

Our Lord is an oriented spiritual frequency who has made his Royal priest pearls of lightning,

Our God is a rivers of supernatural ideas that never runs dry,
he has made even his Angels firery flames,

An everlasting awaken conscience
is our Father °Inspiratory
even his christ are pure white clouds,

Our King is a perfect & true Mystic
his princes are ascended wind,

These are they who squart as lotus blooming before the thorns & thistle.
These are they who stand as chariot Unicorn with wings before the ShrineTemple,
These are they who lie down in the garden of green irie pasture,
These are they who sit highly exalted in their throne room,
& They who bow down before the orb & sceptre of A-cane & A-bell.

I speak as;
the Conscious Conscience that Inspires Spiritual Order in the Supernatural Realm.

Le-Ithiel - the One who is the Oath of Principles & Laws of Sequence,
Jakeh - the One who is free from illitracy & immorality,
Ha-***** - the One who bore the yoke of Err & Imbalance,
Agur - the Advice compiler; who first gathered maxims,
We-Ukal - A Leader; Hu the Author.Creator.Owner.Ruler.
Ishàaca The clock compass cost.

To every matter there is a 6,9,7,0,°1 then a Zillion foe err.

I speak of the transfiguration of;
iANOVH in his temple with his Celibate Monks
MOSES in his shrine with his Beatified Rigourous Saints 
& PAUL in his garden with his Burdensome & Travailing Revivalist
ELI-JAH in his throne with his Ascetic & Stoic Philosophers
Yes, I speak as their One & only begotten.

Where have you been
Our Pal-A1 they said;

we have explored the earth
& brought to light all that is hidden
& still did not find you,
we have gathered
the wind in our palm
in search of you,
we even ascended
to the highest cloud of heavens
to see if you will be there,
we descended to the depth
of the dark waters
still we found nothing,

I returned from nothing
measuring & measuring
scaling & scaling
I replied.

I found wanted
Prostitution, rehabilitation,
seduction, poverty, corruption,
& pride death-dirt.

Remember how you formed
the entirety from void
out of °corded lightening our Lord,
how you created the universe
from the Heavenly cloud AbbaFather, from the orb & sceptre of el-eth my King,
how you garnished
everything from outerspace
in the beginning
oh God

this children eth-err has deliberately
forgotten my Law
how by your word
the heavens came into being
& the earth was formed & life founded.

wherefore I became nothing
that nothing might be lost
Thou Almighty Supreme
Greatest & FearfulOne.

Remember how you taught me
the highest of treasure
is to have 6 before 7 & I'll be respected,
the most important
is to be able to dissolve any issue
°corded,
the greatest is to show care at all time
nothing can be more valuable,
& Inner calmness is priceless
the richness of it's smile
never to be bargain.

they who brag to be stars
to be gods/goddess
to be angels
to be kings & queens

Are marely
demons

The fools say education
is not useful anymore,
Prayer warriors are broke,
Monks will not make frair list,
Angels will be their bodyguard servant,

Your stigmata is nolonger a sign
the tilak has no more value
education is now a thistle
& respect have completely disappeared
all that is left are thorns.

But as for me I was warned,
all that is left are slaves
to vanity.
the old occupies space
their young cannot wait to do the same.
Kelisabet Apr 2020
Were on the city road, going far and wide
Travailing up and down, side to side
I bounce in my seat, awaiting for arrival
This destination, I can not handle
For my accent it heavy and thick
And everyone thinks I might be from war
I stare at the ground, oh why great London
I came here to work, not make friends
But still, it would be nice to have someone there
A smile tugs at my lips, for I can not frown!
I'm in great London! And this is where I make the acquaintance, of my best pen pal
I had gone to London before the coven 19, and I had met a male, who's my friend now, and we send each other messages about the stuff e do and cool things about where we live...

— The End —