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Nigel Morgan Oct 2012
She had hung it up from the mantelpiece in her bedroom, so when he entered the room there it was. It was suddenly lovely and he immediately imagined her body flowing into it, flowing from it. Standing close to the dress he brought his fingers to the fabric, touched gently, stroking then, as though it already held her form and substance.
 
Stepping past thoughts of her that so stirred his body he entered the pattern of the dress. It was a meadow in southern Ontario. July, when already the sun had bleached the profusion of grasses: water chestnut and papyrus sedge. He had stepped from the untidy veranda, past the pond, and down the rough track between the fields unmown, uncut, left fallow. As he entered the breaks of woodland between these swathes of grassland, deciduous leaves, dry and brittle from the summer's heat, were strewn on the path, and between the trees clumps of bramble bushes with berries of red and blue, black and purple.
 
There was no wind. The only sounds an underlay of crickets, his footfall, and the sharp mournful cries of geese on the now distant pond.
 
He saw her like an apparition standing motionless at the woodland’s  boundary; her dress at one with all that surrounded her. When he came close and placed his hand on her shoulder he could smell the sweet dry earth mingling with her body's sweat, a hint of her *** as he placed his cheek against the shower of printed pollen amongst the leaves on her back.
 
Back in the late afternoon bedroom he heard her move about in the kitchen, and the spell broken, he turned away and went downstairs.
 
Several days later, as they prepared for bed, she slipped the dress on. As she stood in the lamplight smoothing it against her flanks, adjusting its fall across her *******, he felt himself faint that such a thing of beauty could be a joy forever . . . and beyond.
A further piece from my collection of prose poems 37 Minutes.
Hayley Nov 2019
I am you.
You, who feels the grey underlay.
You, who can feel so happy and yet at the same time the numb weight is beneath you.
You, who can laugh, smile and wave because you’re so good at being brave.
You are happy.

You, who talks to their friends,
You, who loves another human.
I am you.

You, who thinks about dying and just stopping being.
You, who knows that something’s wrong,
But, you’re fine.

I am you who lies horizontal with the clouds, feeling the grey underlay but always reaching to keep your face in the sun.

No one close to you will ever know, but I know. I see you. I am you.
Hal Loyd Denton Apr 2013
It was just ordinary colors in my wife’s clothing but it was similar and it was the effect of
Touching another item that I had purchased for her when our lives first began together it was
soft plaid again like when they say earth tones but this was light purple pink and green it was a
Pant suit and with her white turtleneck blouse she was a knockout in this single memory a life is
Flipped through pains joys indescribable happiness how she made me feel as she stood there in
That mall for some reason white always brought a special glow to her skin transfixing the heart
Not speaking registered adorable there are grand moments of romance but there to is the most
Precious visitations through the simplest means everything stands still and lets her stand
Out and shine God saw it first when he created the majestic pine then underlay it with brown
Soil the exactness of perfection I already wrote about how she looked on the back side of Oahu
Again the shade in the foreground white sand the carpet the preferment the palms created
Overhead and then out to the water’s edge the bright sunlight the turquoise surf edged in
White she strolled barefoot letting the waves roll in and splash over her feet and she had on
These bright red shorts and a white shirt with a red emblem on the front she was stunning
What a blend of paradise and the embodiment of love post card picture perfect a touching
Breeze caused her hair to flow out and away my heart rode on this dream wave truly Venus the
Goddess of love was in attendance again my heart was applauding without outward expression
It was in private conversation with my soul the swells in my heart rose as high as those rich
Green sea side cliffs it was renewal it was remembrance why I loved her so then at the country
Club back home in California at Christmas she wore this sheer black dress we had our picture
Taken in front of this great tree that was flocked she wore her hair in a perm perfection beamed
From her face she stole the show the dazzle of Christmas lights my heart rode the chilled cold
Night wind when we waited for them to bring our car it was the feeling of waiting for a carriage
Over head the stars twinkled in the crisp winter night air I just included you in a short journey of
How it feels to love my wife why because we all need to find our way back to the central and
Most important place in our life it happened for me just by the sight of a familiar color this also
Pertains to the immeasurable treasure that we have here in our homeland what can prompt us
To revisit and appreciate all that we have in marriage in God and country this truth is and will be
Told in different forms of sacred memories just open your heart and mind and enjoy yours
PrttyBrd Nov 2014
With all the innocence of old friends, wrapped in silent hoping, knowing but afraid to believe.  The heart beats a bit faster as the words become free. No longer chained in what came before. Transformed by insight, a vision sent to each of us alone.  And in those words were hidden truths that underlay what came before.  A true affection melts in heat into a fire that burns free.  

With a breath was lit
What had always smoldered there
Ablaze on a wire


Tentative in this new-found freedom. We touch delicately, lingering on the words that electrify the flesh and liquify defenses.  Steam wafting in the air as emotion meets desire.  Intoxicated by the ethereal beauty of it all. Left reeling, hearts traded, souls tangled and the lascivious nature of what was once hidden ravages the senses.
111314
For He Who Knows
SassyJ Jul 2016
In a bed of cosmic stars
I floated on the winded lake
lighted as the thunderstorm rolled
holding peace as a new born babe
so close that no one snatches it away

Now in a bridge waving
the passersby as they sink
to that very bed of green grass
where locusts escape the evil
eager shores that kiss and appease
that very spark of tranquility
the quietness of the resolved soul
where my feet pace to finish a race
the life wire of ambivalence
at the door where it all makes sense

In bed with the cosmic stars
I live unknown and invisible
the underlay of my natural matter
where I exist as a mere human being
estranged to the world and it's effects
Kelly Roland Jun 2013
devolve
whats it all been for?
frost creeps in
light no more
the warmth that paints your rosy cheeks
is just as fleeting
as a naivete  blush
upon the cheek of a smitten girl
will the blue frills matter
as they burn in flames?
will the lace underlay flatter
your decaying face?
will reality reveal itself to you
on your dying day?
Or will you destroy the clock tower
before it tells you
that your time is up
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
yea... i made a slight... . . punctuation error... like **** will i correct it... i was asking a question, that wasn't exactly a question... ooh... salt & vinegar chips... even with this added ***... yummy yummy, yummy...

.i ask a question, i don't ask a question, i ask a question... but don't use a question mark, which implies a subterfuge of rhetoric underlay, which subsequently implies: dialectics are in play; i expand punctuation marks where intended, to add to the emphasis... i turn horror... into a... romance... i give the shadow the strings, and leave the body... courtesan... but all the more... curious in fathoming automation; lucky that we've met! incy-wincy-spider... the 1960s... such curious years to us... Millennial folk... well yeah... thanks for... ******* up the internet! you're right up there with the pedophiles on my ****-list! bravo! bravo! right up there with the pedophiles.... what?! you think i'm going to shove my head into the entertainment of hitting the mall arcades?! L.... oh wait... i thought you knew what that stood for.... do i ******* look like a Loser... oh wait... right... you're going to rob me of a roof over my head... if you get to the age of a care home? find... luck... but you won't... all the luck i might wish you... find... luck.

the laughter...
dies with the clown.

p.s.
i guess misspelled
the word...
soft;

the existence of
shadows begs,
as man of god,
the existence of
mirrors;
my own,
the turbulent lakes,
and seas, and lakes
incubated...

marks my words...
into such depths....
aa heart might seek resolve...
but in such depths...
whatever heart is to be spoken of...
will not fulfill the shape...
or the original
grievance....

woman! what is there to forgive
is what i cannot forget?!
what is there to forgive?! what?!
what is there forgive?!
unless...
   you are endowed with
succumbing me to a lobotomy...
then...you want me to forgive...
i'll forgive...
but help me to forget...
by staging an instigation of
Alzheimer... perform a lobotomy...
then i'll forget...
by then... i'll not be able to either remember,
think, imagine, or remotely contemplate
the concept of memory...
nostalgia in tow.

there's no bitterness behind this...
just aa prehistoric rage...
a dumb gnashing of teeth...
      
           it will not rest,
and... hopelessly...
i don't want it to rest...
i'd die: uninhibited, restless....
   not this life, and the deaf assured...
overcome my leisure,
overcome my pain,
  overcome all life, and death,
but only overcome...
when this narrative dies...
yet another is born;
then... only then...
        will my justice in worship tame...
the self-proclaimed judge...
this generation or another...
i will, claim my voice...
        
why?!
         my contemporaries?!
i have contemporaries?! really?!
i thought i was the idiot among geniuses!
i was wrong?
  we were all idiots among idiots?
****...

            why did i even bother
to talk, when i could have bothered
to make emphasis of thought.
Venus Rose Vibes Apr 2013
A drinker should hold all of the doubt
For a prayer is what one lives without
And with what underlay may cause one to spout
The pain one has felt at the brow
Though escape of the fearful is that which one envisions of
Frightenings and nightmares are relinquished smug
Light projected as a flying white dove
Is thou who may be safe with a gun
Brandon Navarro Dec 2014
The way your smile looks like
a few rough times came in and knocked out your teeth
but the child stayed,
your laugh and it's booming base
like I'm at a metal concert being thrashed around by hundreds of people.
The way your eyes look like someone said something mean to you but you told them to *******,
the way your skins feel against my skin soft like satin with an underlay of warmth.
How you didn't talk to me all week and I'm not mad
in fact all I did was think of you
and your smile, your laugh, your voice and your body against mine.
Finally,
the way your hug makes me realize how infuriatingly fragile I am and your arms are like the paste that holds me together.

I'm falling and I'm scared.
Just going through some times
Ken Pepiton Sep 2022
-Xenophon leads me on… in another place… here
Aft amorning entranct with possibilities. Yo crero.
Someday you, is reading thisday me, when
from Under the Volcano
to the Lighthouse, bemused, as muses use us. Little things, elves. Ves-try best try, purple robe,

- the nobels dismounted
By and by, we learn the rhythm, sing song, none
Said wrong -goin’ up country… doin’s as we do…
goin up country, bring some ***** home
Woe baby war war war, holy war, face o’ god,
- Click, new channel, and the other one goes on… abysmally pro fundity, pay eh…
No mortal may gaze into, as the window of his own soul,  may gaze eyes ablaze, having
Witnessed the fact that the shining thing, tasting
The wait and see tree, {we asked why we could not eat the olives from the tree, but remembert green persimmons. So we let patience work}
We name first fruits, from the end of time, wait
Wait wait wait wait wait
Fifty years. Just wait. Suffer it to be so, never go
-away hungery, or mad, as the author, seeks cause, aitia, reason come to cause,
meet me at the t. aitia, I am, as amusement, a thoth thought that any Solomonic emulation can run. Pocket Pal, or a B natural Blues Harp, or
Some times I sing. Or whistle, just to let me know,
We remain just this sane, by a thread…
Of Anabasis, goin’ up country
Bound, bound bound by my brothers,
Marching
As to war, God gives us greed, t’ meet our need
Jones to the bones, pure-dee vine curiosity
how were such armies formed, gathered up,
from where, whence came the brazen helms
the hoplites sport on inspection and demo charge,
with a roar like highschool foot ball kick-off,
same surge of mob adrenal reasoning, tuned in,
sheee it, we, she-us, wh-then, the signal dropped out. Zero beat.
Right on. Tune tested, best of 300, in the top 3.
- look there were multiple versions
- the story of mankind, as we branched,
by means of confoundment… flattening,
Tin into brass, folding, and flattening, pounding
On an oak stump, oh,
Long time ago, this stump, see we cut it down,
slow, slow, old man fades, see,
Time as thought is time as time, to me, thinking this is all I bloomed to become.
About 1957, I learned that an old Persian olive
cultivar on Crete, or anywhere around there,
takes fifty years to reach maturity, full fruct-
if-ication…

So me, the guy after the secondplace hero,
Xenophon, you know, the rich geek,
Teddy Roosevelt, right, right right, just
like his character,
Legendary… like mine. My best me, I did boast,
But freedmen, as a class. Raise a brow, one notch,
Per sold out, wait, wait, wait till we see, the whites of their eyes, the others, sub-human, by god… hold your fire… wait
Or regret you have but one life to give, for your country. Do and die, be an Israelite indeed, guiless.--- unbeguiled, no guilt for knowing…
And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not… in deed…

High-brow mode. Click. Read the underlay,
life’s books, exist as onion-skinned palimpsests,
- Secret writing , not hid, just here, under
- Stood stones, such as we all learn, sing
- Song,  look at us, we’re marching, sing along… to Pretoria, pre- torie, eh, we
Dropped out. And ate dust. Dots in the distance,
Thunder in some dreams, tuned to take a non-anxious thought from a child so sure,
I’ve got a mansion,
just over the hilltop, in that bright land of after all.
We die. And lo’, we live, as words,
A word, to the wise, is enough… true rest compresses trust abused as a beggars tin-cup, to catch the rich man’s ball…
yes, I owned a silver cup… not tin, silver.
I was as proud of that cup as what’shisname,
The Left-handed Son of One-eyed Jack.
He had a buffalo hide. A whole, shaggy hair,
old, too old for fleas, buffalo hide,
he held in pride, the ownership
of special things kind of pride, not the gay abandon chains and don a Phryigian cap and
wrap the headsman’s axe in our threshing staves.
How high the brow, I raise, singlely, no, I lack that gene, yet, my lip doth sneer, left side only,
Thus, we flip the lense, then flip the pixels, yes,
Film effects, chaos in beauteous sfumato or chiaroscuro, something computers were taught,
finally, by sight. True, half-tone tech, made Chiaroscuro Computer Art, vision via metrics based on artist’s eyes, won me first prize,
An the 1986 Mohave County Fair, where we
Displayed our wares, and our networked Macs.
SE- latest, dual 3,5” floppies…
$3200, out the door. I never sold a one,
but to me. Wholesale, minus my commission, as the flooring was running out, interest
about to come for the accounting and the vig,
Keep hope alive, pay us all you can, we say when,
Enough’s enough, left right left, mental exercise,
Stretch the concepts… essentials first, must know
Knowns, we knowns, we all know, stories with morals, since the cradle,
So it seems, some think wombed Bach is better than acid rock,
time will tell, so they say. Vonnegut mutters,
So it goes.
Canned Heat, on youtube, at my whim, yeah,
Play it from the second verse, we all can think,
We were singing that, when Kurt Russell was a computer wearing tennis shoes, in a strange
Disney characters from the real Mickey Mouse club, with Lonnie, and Cubbie, and Annette –
Beach Blanket Bingo—war story
Flip for it, the novel thread is chance, fishing
For mental means to ends in minds, aimed at peace, post happiness achieved, on the Lincoln plan promoted with Famous Amos Chocolate Chips of the old block,
Yes, as you may imagine, carbon-steel, is new
To mankind, almost all the tools we use, are new.
Since 1969, have we learned any thing that might ease a child’s mind… after My Lai, or the like,
As soldier ants, enforce the others must die, we are protectors of the flag and the concept enclosed in the word republic, a we form, regimented,
Tools,
Trades and crafts,
Guardians of liberty,
Priests and experts in knowing signs
Left on stones for all to see, see, see and
So-bemused become, awe sets in, couch lock
Right, too right, mate, good enough, we got mind
Sunk… lowest point in south America is in Argentina. And what do you know, so is the highest. Learn it once,
Know it for ever, after any ever in progress.
So, that is all I had to say about that. at the time.
kay Feb 2012
I just want to spill my secrets to everyone I see on the street, I want some one to listen. These unknown pieces of information seep from my mind, but where is my mind? and where is my mouth? I'm silenced by the weight of everything I want to say and everything I need not say. Some things i keep locked away and try to forget but when ones mind wanders it finds the deepest repressed memories.
It's not fair, to work so hard to drown these thoughts, these images for them to just as easily float right back up to the surface. Hanging to it like a film to forever underlay right below covered but yet so visible, so easily distinguishable.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2024
In the stacks of all we knew, LOOKY HERE,
in 72 minutes we walk a parsec, and Earth turns
two degrees, and Annie Jacobsen's whole
do no more, is all our denoument.

- pardon our verbosity, we had free time -

What news good came lately my way,
I long to think I did expect, my way
was new made, after the majority attained
use of Google translate thinker augments,
weform a contextual we, excluding
orders of social harmony
allowing liar laws life,
justice and way
eminence
eumenine specificity, so many specified known
wasps classified royally cosmopolitan,
mental peace presensing sub-untilificious

royal rules, only queens reproduce,
only idle bees are never seen busy,
and some can see syms when societies
all stop to think, for a minute,
and just breath, in, then out
we form awesome thinks expansive,
to mostly
support generally useless bums, like me.

{estimated reading time queries are invalid}

This is why, don't ask why again, or else,
imagine that…

The idle mind is where repairs are made.
Pairs connect, mate in mind and hold
thoughts as long as you imagined…

With this tool,
were I one willing, and able,
to master its functionality, imagined

ever learning along with reality
expanding the need to know,

all the things possible in this window,
between my time and thine, whole
worlds away in words never writ
with ink or wedge in stone nor clay
wished for siderealities, as many as
all the stars within augmented plain
sight, as through any stained pane,
presenting dancing pixels just there,
edgewise,
in our per ifery margin, where beauty
squirms eusocially,
all lights holding mean-peak
at an instant's attention
max red or green or blue, fading to black.

Pain, in jokes and drama, pain
is the essential underlay, the gesso
McLuhan saysotoo
over which we pigmentate, media
mental in original intention, obedient,

under law older than Shadrach,
the law of the Medes and Persians,
the power of attorney given priests
of the authors of our orders, classified,
as it is writ, thus it must be… sacred
ready readers, only.
Reading makes inclusion work as wisdom,
instant completely functioning beautifully,
breathe-ing
as if, asked
and answered, at the moment, called
Wisdom, come, entreat with all warring in me,
Wisdom, come, gentle minds twisted by me,
Wisdom, come, make us make believe.
-------------

Eerie, eh, not holding any thought, being
thought spiritual enough to find any word

so idled as to be posh fluff or street crud,
slung to signal inclusion in the with side,
the meaning in life is the message
in this medium prepositioned
opposed
to the without side, those at emnity
with truth's way

Into the comfort zone,

danger free, follow your toes, theories
of everything, meditatively perpendicular,

norms, and circles, churning burning effort,
ef-ing walls extend effects solid ificate
to hold the ash and tailings,

mined precepts seeding crystals
in caverns,
never witnessed, now known, so true,

two dichotomies make one tetrad,
and whatsoever we agree
to make believe

we may, and think it not robbery
to play,

make functional fun, little impulse to smile,
and think I know this idea, functions in me,
wink
and now, you, unless we lost you at the
NAND gate, excluding unbelievers, then a
NAND gate excluding unbelievers in live words,
NAND gate excluding no second guessing, here

we are, all in one window, thinking
we are our kind,  tied
at our common sense ability,

to stretch a point,
to make a thread one pastless point thin,
to tie a premis, a premission, permitting ponderous
whying
heavy duty gullibility
in terms
of mortal sensibilities,
this'll kihl you. I realized. Accidental as the idea silent
aitches let us talk end existence kihling bad ideas

to use pain
to teach, 'ow, why how is always
thorny issues, way back, seemed common,
we learn how fire works
by being made aware,
- not by being burned, a touch is enough
- skin as sensitive as a frog in parable lies, leaps
as touch response reflex functions all start running
what ifs against wonder ifs, wishes versus prayers,
-no, frogs won't simmer to death, they leap
using frog sense,
worth of knowing how long
to wait in winter, learning
worth of knowing bears know something
of weather. Co-mental commenting we think.
Thought hard fruit, thinkalongtime fruit, ra' good

Singing salmon songs I never learned, thinking bear
market strategies make less sense than bullshat
macroeconomic dimensions extractable
from meta data,
under all we ever stood up from under,
in the bubble of all I bet I knew for sure,

boldly accumulating in arterial informal plaques,
and films in limenal tunnels holding quarks as ones,

two bit chirality problem,
solved, cut it six ways,
two heads, two mouths, in one, out the other,
inside outside all at once, so easy, we imagined,
image that, two eyes, two ears, two nasal passages
into synodical pressure sensitive chambers
sinus sorting
of pheremone signal
to act analagous senders
to whale domes, catchers,
signal
from noise, gnosisnot say so,
sniff, feel cold nose, think so,
swallow all pride, and pretend, we made up this mind,
and it uses words we can understand
in all the unbarbing thorny issues
of zoological superfluity, among

watchers and waiters serving as idle ants,
with angst relief primary function,
just take air for granted, free
grace in time of need,
sleep if you are tired, easy,
weary way we know we go, has
cost. Pain exists, you know, you can imagine
in art, in jokes, and most certainly dramatic series
that carry followers
through decades exposed
to commercials announcing urgent solutions,
- now, no commercials, we bingegulp seasons,
- sometimes at a sitting, depends on dope
skating on easy learning absorption skills,
ever learning the drama never ends,

ask your doctor, now,
back to the global equivalent of one
Paredo Distribution, eighty percent of TV
is daily faire for twenty percent of people,
eighty percent of readers reading this far,
get to this bubbles popping edge, on a side

zoom to a scatter graph, who breathes in
who breathes out,
all around the world
whiling away, in trust we make peace seem.
.. seen as through smoked glasses, liquidly
Gaussian blurring edges
where the frame
holds the light we see through
to think like this

is real
at word level. Live rethinking, first men
tale-ings
after refining whying wishes
to know.
More, or less.

Everything, all at once, is chaos, whence
art abstracts beauty patiently, trusting wishes
what if its another trick we have no defences,
we get eaten alive,
for cultural misappropriation.

Dear is a value to be weighed using full bandwidth
Sakal, show thy self letters ready for measure,
mea culpa, mea maxima culpa, indeed
שָׂכַל defined several of seventy ways,
spelled to take a broken heart
and mend it with a realization.

If my need became your need,
we would be in love,
that would really
defeat the use
of preparation, peeling potatoes,
prudence, ever ready to entertain,
pounding clothes down by the riverside,
watchin' babies being washed off and blessed,
שָׂכַל knowing waiting is suffering, not pain
watchin' life like National Geographic, before TV.
A messenger's whistle, hear
ah
Message to the mass essences
of little looks mira-clues, seen miracles
since who knew when today
would continue as today. As if once more.
Dear Prudence,
did we come out to play, as if today,
was one of those times that we all seem
to have, recollected
if it could seem alright.
שָׂכַל prophets spake, Ai make secrets known,
the whys for all the wars so far. Pride, indeed.

Why? Would that defeat the use,
and not the purpose
of preparation, final product,
Battlefield Earth, truths uses versus lies uses,
us as we
who think it all through
to the seed
in the fruit it self desirable
to make one wise considering
שָׂכַל science falsely so called, still makes believers.
Slow down.
Jello time reminds second glancers,
when time is not as dear, as an instance
in re co gnosis, swallows gnosis known nots,
- wise was the serpent discerning decision trees.
what would ever make us all think one thought once,
then never think it alone again, we all ways, big all
think this was the way, we walked in,
the same way we walked out, all
set to comprehend wisdom and knowledge and
yada da da da we who work
   in living once idle words,
our side ways won, when we did not fight,
we never lasted al-mental
this long before, but
when we get old, we keep our wits, we got older
sooner than later, so we know
more than our dads, too.
- old friends well imagined
- happy ever after any way,
don't aspire, little maker
of good sensed peace,
to stave off thermo nuclear war
by your self, aight, here we go,
make up a master mind board
of suggesters
by your self,
HelloWorld,
with you
in a minute,
I am in a consultation,
relationships with dead friends, such are
deeply personal, core ties to old times, remember
we can hear them say the same damnedlies, or listen,
שָׂכַל together with stars consider real the times

analagous to tuning back when zero beat, was sought
to make one wise,
in Genesis, esoteric
in the gaps,
she saw he never knew, so Cain did, for sure…

hey, old enemy of me, I cannot remember why
I was afraid of you, and never got to know you,

but I recognized your art, the other day,
in an old, old magazine ad,
then that leads to us in a sense, innocent,
a lost soul I had no sympathy for, I was his bully,

so he's dead and we're okeh, spiritually, we talked,
I told him I had changed, he told me he'd broken,
got busted in Oklahoma, went to prison, for ****,
got religion then went nuts, and I said

I can relate.

So we stay in touch in the spirit.
I don't know how he died, but we were in situations,
where sixth grade bullying had been forgotten,
when I call this character
into my life, as a friend, known to many
mistreated in this mortal moment, laughing ever
as a complexity of never ifery, it did not ****
you to know, boys were always boys,
we always think of Infinite Jest, and laugh
at the coincidence we both read Foster Wallace.
Always sorry, for the trouble we allowed
our wild child payback voter against
peace at any price, what price glory?

The little monstors empo'w'rable in us all, rahrahrah

It was Donall Dempsy said it:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4897567/even-now-now-very-now/
The flag of self unfurls
snaps into the lost moment.
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4899302/walking-from-the-rising-sun-to-kildare-town/

Oi, this man's an inspirer of SAW such as wisdoms, never told,
could be, back when eighty percent
of us heard all our wisdom from drunks.
Now we read texts.

When the battles over,
and common sense is laughing,
some of it singing simultaneously

concurrently free presses in spirit and echoing
out side the bubble we met in as licensed wannabe

messenger shouting in the wild,
anybody home, we got lost.

As the earth moves relative to the sun, see
two degrees, is about, nearly to the Picosec
Seventy-two minutes, a parsa, in tradersprachen,

the realization, sure and certain utter destruction,
an agreed upon form of right use ness, national opinions

believe madness deters madness and nonsense in just code.
-it is not secret code, nor sacred, knowing is necessary, just
always was, all else you were told
to believe, with knowin' known
as sin, well we have recycleables
to trade, for those,
made
of the exact same historical threads
to here. On the battlefield, after all.
The point of anything we wished we did, done.

We can use our minds in ways once called praying,
we think we say we wish you the best, and hesitate, luck or grace,
favor undeserved by a wretch like me, ah, the maze,
the logos as spirit medium cord, twisted spider kite collection,
Ariadne, toss the lad a line, he's a ways to go until sense is common.
I hope you enjoyed that, it seems I asked for more, tooo often
Arlene Corwin Jul 2017
You Need Someone Who Believes In You

It sounds romantic; a cosmetic;
I would say,
It’s more a cosmic
Underlay:
A kind of agent
Sent
To shout your name world over.
Someone to communicate
The rare fresh flower that you are;
Star-becoming-bigger star;
Someone booming out your gifts,
Strumming, humming wide and far
About your lifting gifted star;
Friday’s date, friend or mate,
Adorable, adoring pet,
Someone there to vindicate and validate
Your expertise,
The artistries
Accrued;
Who’d
Build a statue
Honoring your values
And of course, your value:
Someone who believes in you.

You Need Someone Who Believes In You 7.2.2017
Defiant Doggerel;
Arlene Corwin


Isn't it obvious?
isn't it obvious?
Antony Glaser Mar 2016
An ounce of humam kindness
does that go a long way?
or is it alteady an exit sign
appearing to usher you away to safety
when its only envious of the vacant space.
A barbed comment may after all be an underlay warning
for a fault line
that an unrealised friend is trying to repair
David R Jan 2022
wet eyes a-twinkle with unshed tears
from northern wind's raining spears
grazed silhouette of solitary deer
antlers branching as tree austere

then, a hind of tan and grey
tiptoed forth from underlay
followed close by calves to play
'pon the shadow'd bracken'd brae.

and as the deer midst berries bent
in sweet paradise of wet pine scent
in nature's naked, raw element,
sharp rustle was heard, clear, evident

"soft!", cried hart, "who goes there?"
all looked, still, statues a-scare,
"'tis but me", grinned the hare,
his nose a-twitching in the air.

"Well, welcome, then, my good ol' friend",
said he with nuzzle on nose'd front-end,
"I know I can on you depend
those sharp ears to apprehend"

"smallest hindrance to our meet convivial,
for sound though minor be not trivial,
thus we may enjoy our meal
as our young frolic by mother's heel."
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
#trivial
Keith Labonte Apr 2016
the purple and pinks
of a departing sun
the rolling picturesque
clouds of a pastel canvas
poise a tranquil brilliance
accentuating and overlaying
a patiently waiting
velvety underlay
of twilight
nightly
when she
was wise
that underlay
spies with
greater machines
whether grants
alight her
home yet
align a
sentence with
parallel verve
of song
but with
melodious flight
in throes
would spirit
those nights
Eriko Apr 2018
the waning sunlight
strikes a ray of brilliance
once more
blanketing the air
in thick strokes
of burnt oranges
and yellows so rich
they speak of gold

the sky dances and dazzles
and sparkling blues
underlay the patchwork
of oncoming dusk
caught in a twilight,
in an inexplicable in-between
of settling day
and waking night

a sliver of transformation
a destined evolution of time
I race and embrace
I ache for it to stay
yet in vain I hail
in its temperance
it shall remake
This is a stand up routine
it's like a bad dream
I once had and
the weather is bad

can you see me laughing?

But the tube is no place for a
self pity session.

Lots of rosy red cheeks
I sneak peeks
and that's how I know,

and quiet too
as if the
cold's got their
tongues

the cat's not worried
he has nine lives.

It's only Tuesday
which is nether here
nor Morecambe bay
but
I'm drowning anyway.

When I thaw out I'll
go out to gnaw at
what's left of the
morning

I might be some time.

I should have worn my
long johns,
a thermal underlay
for a ****** cold day
but I forgot

I won't make that mistake
again.

He
trains his brain to remember
but can't remember what for.
Jakk Calico Sep 2018
Baby I saw your
Moonshine eyes leave my side
Several times.
And when you reached out,
As if to say I'm sorry,
It began again.

You hurt the most -
Even Mysticism underlay
Every wishful brush of the shoulder,
Taste of your scent.
I became your muse.

I went through a thousand
Beautiful scenarios —
Of skin on skin,
Subcutaneous conversations:
Salts mixing,
Hyperplasia of hearts,
The rhythmic chant of breath —
In my dreams.
i am sorry to hear of your day
if you able
the detail
i can listen
a new day
goldfinches on seeding knapweed
simple things

i was to cut it down soon
now i shall not

they balance so sweetly
eating the seed

yesterday was charming
i looked at the trees with clover
underlay
i looked at the garden

i will go again
another day

6.56
late summer
worrying

about friends
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2019
well... it's not like i was going
to head into the big city,
stash myself somewhere
conveniently,
    drink & drink with someone
or anyone: or just me...

  it's not like i was heading
to some east London
basement, some art show,
some gallery,
                 some concert,
  some friends getting together
for a meal,

   it's not like cinema was
on the cards either...
          as a Friday i think i was
supposed to do something:

but wrestling with the spaghetti
wriggling "ego"
        against the ping-pong
   of itself (in the reflexive
sense) and off it-self (in
the compound reflective sense):

sly baron of fickleness...
  back into solitary confinement
of a bottle
   and a decent packet of
cigarettes: yellow camels...
and: as ever: the window-sill.

song?
   great gable -
                                   drift...

alternatively?
   30 minutes from the countryside,
and the woods:
but i'm tired of walking
into the woods into the dark
into myself drinking
cheap beer
maddened chess
shuffling feet,
stomping,
              the shirt being
taken off:
   pale skin in the moonlight...
finishing the night
off with a knockout from
some cheap whiskey...

    i'll refine myself:
i said to my self...
    yes: my, my and whatever
the "self" is, or a:

                 play-dough,
******* on sand in the sandpit,
because:
   sometimes it's so
impossible to wait
for either sea or rain;
there: hey presto
                   a pharaoh of ******
on sand.

- yes, the great big city,
a waste of a Friday night
staying cooked-up
   in a room...
       hell...
            if this is not a refinement...
i don't know what is...

Elgin whiskey...
   25ml in glass on ice...
cigarette lit -
          1 minute delay...
gulp...
      20cm from the end
of a cigarette
25ml in glass on ice...
1 minute delay:
throat on the guillotine...

music playing...
sifting through poetry...
   a hard copy of
something profound
by my side: a reality check...

well: bypassing
publishers is to say:
no self-critique or
              what?
                  unless a poem
is equivalent to a bus-fare...

is this a sort of
bus-fare?
    is anyone going from
(a) to (b)?

me? i'm getting off
somewhere around...

                    (n)ow:

before i start spewing
the details of:
   whiskey for the interludes...

and yes...
that michelob ultra
    beer...
    worked a miracle
     with that homemade
burger and chips...

some beers are better
drank with a meal...
esp. those light beers...

the whiskey?
thank you: a pat on
the back...
                      and an
invisible sight of...
a cushion
made from bundled
coils of burnt orange
peels...

    a pinch of
lemongrass
in the air...

and a candy-sweet
vanilla underlay
entwining
itself around my
tongue:
   as a prolonged
                     aftertaste...

yes... me in the big
****' worth of a city on a Friday;
i much prefer
this solitary confinement
       in a bottle
of whiskey.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
russia never fails at being: unsurprising -
stagnant mother of
the little caucasian dittos -
        otherwise a pristine day...
a breakfast of a coffee... an apple...
and a cigarette...
minutes later... digging up glass
and mirrors from the earth -
       the earthworms and the scuttling
spiders - the woodlice
   and
those sluggish irritations
of glob-like loafs of galileo's bread -
it's almost impossible not
to laugh when picking up
a snail by the shell... timid little
lubricant slob... teasing it to
prop out its eyes...
   fungus-esque vacuum of cul de sac
black prodding (the eyes! the eyes!):
god... that salival gobshite of
a slush munch oozing
like a ******... but slugs?!
ugh... a discomfort like no other...
yes: those spiders dancing a cossack...
'opak...
with each handling of a shovel
the displacement of these little
pandemonium rugrats...
gloriously wriggling centipedes;
      but the fence is not yet complete...
i have to dig circa 6 inches
into the harrow and plough to...
set up a underlay border...
so the weeds: these consistently demanding
   overlords of will -
can be clogged up against:
a makeshift ha-kotel...
    as i also watched the ants:
how many i buried alive in the cement...
satellite eyes in my skull -
          sushi from earthworms...
like pruned shoots of greenery -
i am sure the clone replica
body tomb will... well:
sometimes one might draw blood from
an earthworm cut in half...
breakfast for champions:
a coffee an apple and a cigarette...
oh yes... the cement - fine fine
grey powder...
and building sand...
      a 3:1 ratio of sand to cement powder...
it just desires air like pollen...
you end up snorting a burst
balloon's worth...
   that was me... a concrete flinging
monkey... i seem to have...
forgotten the ****...
   in response
                 a mini replica of the ha-kotel
or hadrian's wall...
come the evening;
a ******* moth sanctuary that's also
my bedroom...
     which is nice...
i.e. moths...
            unlike indoor plants...
concrete flinging monkey...
       architect chomp chizzy...
             a story akin to: come evening...
a local dairy farm is being
closed in vermont...
         there's talk of... the usual...
it's not that capitalism this...
capitalism that... socialism blah blah...
kafka and bureaucracy...
a forest... a paper stampede:
but tourism...
   i, concrete flinging monkey...
come across a view with a nuisance...
no... not wind-farms...
cows... lots and lots of cows...
i also own a maine **** that...
   meows at the moon...
   well... imitate barking... howling...
fair enough... ah'woooooo!
perfect... but... it's just impossible...
to... say:                woof...
saying <woof> these days is like
some czech saying the word <i> -
                     pronouns are not stand-alone
necessary conjunction shrapnel: and...
i'll bark: without... i'll hark...
i'll imitate... god forbid the idyll of
a "woof"...
       back to the cows...
well... what better cure...
crying: moooooooooooooo'n
at them...
                if not a canvas for
a zebra... then most fuckety-**** assured
a dalmatian running chaos
and concrete evidence for a ziggy
and a zag...
                         because: as you do...
it would be plain idiot
to have to print black paper
to later write in corrector ink on them...

a day as any other:
my own... and that i was alone
for most of it...
creepy-crawlies being resettled
and... those crows...
like they might turn a branch
into a rattling toy...
     it wasn't a hark with wasn't an
outright croak...
blistering black heavens with
a glistening white cross of their
skeleton having fun...

it's enough to have written so very
little... seemingly freelance
livid on a hot horseshoe with not
impeding stress for gallop...
but this is not a grave...
there is no tombstone...
and... there's no epitaph...

           funny... i have ventured
into many graveyards... out of fun:
out of a mortal assurance...
but beside it: to own a grave is a status
symbol... like a second mortgage...
cremate the rest of us: said plonk
and pluck...
              there's a name...
there's a born on and a died on...
     there's an engraving by those
who dearly miss: a loving father etc.
but there's hardly...
an epitaph...

i am yet to find myself... in awe...
walking in a cemetery....
finding a gravestone with an epitaph
detailing a: progressive thesis
for a blatantly borrowed Golgotha!

- that moscow is a memory of a in concreto
of a slab -
perfectly contorted and
only a midnight at a train station
waiting for a ****-plug
heading back to st. petersburg...
is another time... another life...
the same spatial coordinates...

little venice whittle Constantine-ville...
some other-wordly ham-steer-toward-the-dam...
flooding! mr. orange:
the spanish are craving polenta...
and all that's perfectly...
inaccessible for the serenity of
a plonker and a plumber...

              hidden niches of
english phoneticism arguments:
in that they lack any variation
of orthography -
   what even the germans had to mind.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
as a somehow... perpetually
kissing the trough...
(that best... the spectacle of
a symphony of oinks and gruntling;
snorkeling-grit of stowing
earth with banknote promises:
like an imitation
of the dwarfian act of... mining)...
this debilitating fear:
   and kissing the feet of some
antithesis semite of
a god at the root of all temples...
i am tired of...
an arachnophobia
that has little or, rather,
nothing to do with spiders...
or a claustrophobia
that has little or no...
concern for confined space...
and such is time: relative...
that nostalgia is boasted about...
peacocking dawning sturt...
i want to live a day with
enough sufficient fear
to stage the proper: hormonal
stressors to play their role...
it's not enough to merely...
drink a numbing cushion...
         the will to life has
a precursor within the confines
of a will that never bothers
or teases the structures of
hierarchical power envy...
             i should have been
best designated for the role
of a bus-driver..
               it's not like i made
this sallow choosing of grief...
                 i wish for meeting friends
in a restaurant...
or neighbours in a supermarket
like the best of the best:
retiree...
                like the precursor years
are some new underlay of
Ultricht...
                 or Antwerp...
i'm tired of life...
this non-eventual safety seizing
plot...
              i want to marry death...
i can't begin to imagine
marriage with life: in that most
secluded sub-:
                               enim timor
                ex deus...
                 a sort of paralysis that
no seljuk turk or ottoman
hijacker care to mind...

             i'm terribly tired...
              that i wish for me death as prior
to the death of a mother...
that i sort of wield contortion
excavation loops in: "asunder":
that i cop-out...
when is it believed...
the fungus rot of the brain
without the transcending hallucination
prospects?

            my average my nuanced: "new"..
this antithesis achilles..
my southern average...
my mediocre...
           my left hook concerning broke...
time is... relative...
a death by carrying weight...
   but this... god no god...
               mors naturalis...

                 can't we find ourselves...
before... choking on...
the adventure of death:
the innocent died upon the cross...
            can't the same innocence
be shared with those willing
to make death more relative?
can't there be an unwillingness
to live this... caustic... retract rebellion
  persistence of mrs. quasi?
        
        there is absolutely no
compensation of arguments...
          my words: my little words...
        pauloverbis...
               i do advertise the prospect
of the thumb ruling in
favour of: by death confined...
i will allow the strategy of the less
exempt to rise to their highest
scope of invitation...

                         villain of words...
i am no better than the next:
and the next... no better...
                      i am subsequently
hardly a heart surgeon...
but i am also not...
a left-leaning activist...
             i carry my worth of life
on the posit for:
these words are debasing...
depressive... all the required
connotations of a negative spectrum...
because?
      death is a marriage...
             i am conscious of the:
          
quadratic!

geocentric / vs. heliocentric...
mors-centric / vs. vita-centric...

                     it really doesn't bother me:
some new Darwinistic attache of truth -
i have to be devoid of "truth"
come the: sun "above" the earth...
or the earth "beyond" an extension
of gravity... in linear...
the stars are but photographs...

it's such an itching itch
without a witness of a scratching that...
the very basic... mundane...
so censored... experiences of life...
have become...
iron curtain lifting...
   crown of thorns skidding...
                   this my little:
***** of a nuance...
last reflected upon within
the confines of some pickled
lungs... and some...
choicest of the choicest baltic sushi herrings.

— The End —