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zebra Mar 2017
split the atom an we get fission
mass becomes energy
but can we split a second
enter the essence of the present
what would it mean to us
to be that mindful

ask your self doesn't your mind
only occupy past future
abjectly incapable of living in the present
in the true present there could not be even a ghost of a thought
theres no time to think

can we enter
an incalculable split second
and totally take in that instant
with a forgotten organic technology

is it the big bang in perpetuity
yet quiet as a mute
a raging ever expanding sea in a connected
but distinct dimension

if you entered it
would it not utterly erases all of history
the thinkers and doers along with it
the step beyond the alpha and omega
the great underlining reality

imagine the penetrated moment
an all consuming unimaginable
trans-mutational merge
omnipotent
yet forever imperceptible
to those among us
time locked
an irreducible limitation
like an ant in a closed paper bag
a fixated reflexive machine
wandering aimlessly
with an unknowable mission
and a relentless survival mechanism
with no chance of survival

time as a cosmic metabolism
its medium space
a vast cauldron
an infinite vessel containing endless points of light

everywhere
myriad phenomena
its terrain and the temporal creatures that inhabit it
both exquisite and hideous
an incalculable zoo
histories victors and victims
one and all vanquished
by the curse
consciousness of dis-juncture
a merciless countenance of limitation

yet could time be an illusion
rooted in a narrow awareness
bereft of an eternal
inexhaustible self effulgent now
the rapture
an eternal ******

if we could only penetrate into it
would it swallow us
and blot out the drama of creations theater

is the
now
conscious
illimitable
ecstatic
a perfect meta moment ?

we hear from sacred texts
like the Vedas... Bhagavad Gita.... and Kabbalah
that we may enter beyond the veil
passed time and its ravages
passed mind and its distortions

not to the heaven of religion
in its endless
closed system precepts
anthropomorphic metaphors
theistic gobbledygook
and
sophomoric social engineering
a kind of cliffs notes
god for dummies

we can enter
the eternal abode of the divine
a point between
the splitting of seconds
revealed through the simple act of mindful breathing
pierced by the effort of a focused mind
we definitely can!
but do we dare?
Hayleigh Jan 2015
Everyday
I find and underline
another few new
favourite things
i love
about you.
Kurt LaVacque Sep 2014
I stress sometimes 
For the dreams Ive missed or left behind, 
The fine line of reality, and or individuality
Never have I ever severed the bridge that binds us together
But you have
My breath, heavily resting upon, her breast
Underlining her eyes, beyond the unseen sky
I wept only for your hands
Intertwined in the time we’ve wasted
Satiated with love and in all the wrong places
She will be loved more than ever
I wept only for her lips
I miss more than just the kisses, she would give
Tapering my heart to a shallow bliss
No longer will I hold you, In my arms I have none
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
islam is really buying into an ideological
warfare
       of creating a historiogical narrative
for former crusader nations...
           the history? it's way gone, past,
in the dust... but islam is probing
        this need to settle old qualms in a modern
narrative...
    i can't actually add to a history
           these days, but i can take up a banner
of historiology, or so i am told...
   and yes, certain words aren't exactly
the standard bearers of who easily you can
rap them...
            you really need to pause and catch
the nuance... or the naiveness in which they're use...
   when i use the word historiological
i think of the past as having necessarily happened,
and in need to happen again, on the basis
of someone else telling me: you have to
inherit this.
            it's no wonder that islam attacks former
crusader nations... france esp.,
          what with adhemar, bishop of le puy,
urban ii grand speech lauching the ***** into
a tight spot... tancred de hauteville...
                 bohemond...
        radulph of caen merely annotated the deeds done
and the words said...
      robert, duke of normandy, and his daughter
adela, quick to **** at Urban's tongue... the truth...
   Islam is really reassigning us with
a historiology, not a history we might be prone
to forget, or be ashamed by...
   it's not doing what the word histiorology is defined by,
not this unearthing of graves, and their deseceration...
you really want to wake up the Nazgûl?!
seriously?
   sure, i can be your necromancer... we can have
total obliteration... just speak enough ****** constriction
to germans, and then point them at the target,
and you'll get a crossbow shock of the event...
     Islam really is warming us up for something,
they're nibbling at us, they're trying to
  really give us the "spark", it's not a case whether i'm
correct in thinking this... it's only that i feel it...
i can taste it... i can stomach it...
     such lovely names, those old crusaders...
Tancred...
                     mind you: peter the hermit's child
crusade...
                       if they came from north of Persia
they'd be drafted as Mameluks...
       le throng! if only there were always
the french incission to state that...
   le throng! you just can't leave youth culture
settle into the urban environment,
you really seem to want that... get pockets
of culture coming from the youth...
     it can't ever be grime from east or south london...
    me? i'm trapped in a library, i actually
built of myself... apparent;y 1 in 10 people don't
own a single book in england...
         the brothers Godfrey, Eustace & Baldwin...
   oh lookie lookie... you're tickling the beast
so just, any minute now and it will awake once more...
    and be cited as having said:
   walking up to me knee in blood and
slaughtered corpse... Harod looks pale the minute
past...
               Tancred... dubbed te Panzer sulphur snout...
are there more gentlemen of my stature on
their way?
        that's me: don't know who's the possessor
of a ***** and who of a juiced up ****...
   but i can bet the niqab does wonders...
   so much anonymity, you don't even need
  internet pseudonym names, no jackx666
or rogerxtra... you just don the ninja and, ooh!
ooh! everything's so flimsy! so airy! flutters
of a butterfly!
               that ***** king in the kingdom of heaven
movie did have a name: baldwin iv...
   and he was a *****...
         you'd accidently sneeze into his face
and his nose would fall off...
   true story, or i'm drunk...
           but my: this wine i made, this homemade
wine? it does the trick!
                 baldwin iv died aged twenty four...
lucky sod, kurt cobain of the medieval ages...
    oi oi... wait wait... ZENGI!
  zengi the heavy drinker! buddy!
fully name? imad ed-din zengi. ah, zengi zengi,
zengi... what tales i have for you...
      i'd tell them, and you'd turn out to be in full
disclosure trying to fake sober...
                        ibn al-athir also wrote something,
does it deserve more a toast or mere chronicler?
the latter will know.
fatimids and sunni caliphs...
              Balak, the dream-inspiration for
Fulcher of Chartres...
Antioch, Tyre, Edessa...
  and that old feverish fox known as the lesser
Barbarossa: Reynald de Châtillon...
         don't know...
   as an ethnic bias, i am of the people that remained
bound to a home near the Baltic sea...
  we also fought crusaders...
the knights templar, die ritter von deutsche haus
beispiel sankte mariam in yerusalem...
       which makes my history a bit different
to the current history...
i have other myths... with
Jagiello... and grand-komtur Brzęczyszczykiewicz...
but you know... hmm... let's go crazy
and pop a pill or two... blues for the upper
and reds for the downer...
what a unique occasion! are you sure
we're not sailing on a gondola in the water-alleys
of Venice singing some obscure folk-song, hmm?!
by now i look like the stańczyk (grand court
jester) in one of jan matejko's paintings,
laughing my *** off as to denote: that i am,
quiet righly: the most amused. ha ha.
Sioux! sioux! pruss! pruss!
     and the crucifix really is a profanity of
the tetragrammaton, that came back,
morphed, as if touching a philosophers stone,
and turned out to be an acronym n.e.w.s.:
north, east, west... south...
   the minute the tetragrammaton touched
the ✝ it came back as n.e.w.s.
      and that really is the most dignifying
Balaam equal compliment i can give...
      but you know, just seeing how Islam is really
inviting former crusader nations to have a fight...
   and i'm spotting this, coming from a region
that also had crusades riddle it...
    but it's true... the crusades around the Baltic coast
never get any coverage these days...
  i guess you can't really make momentum
from a reigion where it's natural resource hidden
in the ground is salt... rather than oil...
    then again, lying about,
reading the book crusades by terry jones
& alan ereira... didn't really make me think much...
   when it comes to the two splinters off
res in: res cogitans,
  i can only think of re-       i.e. reflex
   and re-    i.e. reflection...
     and the tongue these days is so ******* saggy....
i'd take more pleasure eating a bagpipe of haggis
than listen to current rhetoric...
    it's a sickness though, this demand Islam
is making, that once Israel has been established
we forget our cosmopolitan cocktails and engage in
a holy war...
                  but it is the narrative, we're almost expected
to feed into a crusader culture...
      but once again, i'm using a tongue that once
did wield crusading pomp, and i have an
underlining perspective of being on the receiving end
of crusades of the baltic states...
     i really should be jumping for joy right now...
   but given the schooling system in england,
or i suppose the whole of western europe,
i'm part of the schattenvolk...
                how the Lithuanians were so and so...
how the Poles were so and so...
    how i could almost try to seek out the same
linguistic pride of modern Silesians in ancient yore
of Pruß, but come against nothing but the Kashubian
denote...
**** me! so it really was worthwhile keeping
my native tongue, and exploring my ethnicity
and history like a ****-pants 16 year old girl
on a trip in the guise of tourism?!
  oh applause! this is better than milking old ladies
like Liberache might for a fur coat
or a gold-plated toilet!
     ooh... you rascal you...
                 can i please not sound gay now?
i hate how the concept of personnae can creep into
your psyche and give you, the most obliterating
narrative techniques imaginable...
                        but if you ask me...
Islam will not wage war against nationas that did not
succumb to the rhetoric of pope Urban Deux...
        i mean... can you really imagine a terrorist
attack in Poland?
             given that Poland experienced it's own taste
of crusades?
                 well... if it does happen... that really will
wake up something... it certainly won't be multiculturalism....
perhaps this really is merely a **** into the wind...
         my, all this can come out sleep-walking by
simply lying in bed and reading a history book?
             it's a good thing i assimilated on the basis
of merely using the tongue, rather than tapping into
past history of the people, past grievances, past prides,
past symbolism... i just use the language...
    i don't expect to really revolve around being an
adamant west ham supporter...
i just know that i'm Polish in the english language...
   and Islam doesn't really attack
      those who've have the better share of grievances...
whether in the 20th century context,
of going way back, when Israel was about...
             and reading a history book...
   wriggling toward a status of fame is absurd...
     i like the idea of: gently passing by like foam on
top of a cup of cappuccino...
                      someone said froth:
i'm exfoliating with this that and the other guess work
of vocab...
               well... that's that...
        worth noting the many more easily impressionable
young men out there...
                that would rather chop a head
of a person of their assimilated culture, and subsequently
not retain their native tongue,
   and then not play: smack the ******!
    layering over what their ethnicity clearly speaks,
although with a borrowed tongue...
       which is why a slang variation of language
has to emerge...
                it's not a case of slang representing
prior footing, and current footing, but cleansing
prior footing, as current footing, with only
a melting *** to be sure of...
         on the objective basis that's the right thing
to do... you really want to eat a good curry
at the end of the day...
  but sometimes you need someone to say:
me a shallot prior a carrot in that melting *** of spice...
        the feeling is not mutual...
    would i ever eat sand to sharpen my teeth
for a cannibalistic grin?
                         i'm quiet content with merely
dabbling in poached lamb... but if another mein teil
scenario arises... it'll probably come west of the Odra
river.
Mitchell Duran May 2012
Addicted to the transformation of the self
In hearing we see that touch is the only hearth
To warm one's hands in winter near to the fire
A separation of love shows the underlining
Of dotted red when the word one sees to be false

Mother - when the night was young and you were old
Were you able to see the stars without your glasses?
We are the products of products of products of war
The shells of the bullet casings and bomb fragments
How much transparent blood have we bled so far?
Where is the fork in the road that will take us to Shangri la?

Notice that when the woman in the mirror disappears
The cleaning men drop their tattered, ***** & cut wears
Disaster holds the hands of man's growth & evolution
At times I notice the way the wind passes through my sheets
The skirts of the women and the thin hair of the old men
And they are much like the lavish trees that line my street
That hold true form in the pose of nocturnal naivety

And there we are by the carpenter and the pine tree
An "A" for effort attitude that barely got you the diploma
Hard work for the Hare and easiness for the turtle
The last night I worked was like racing through hurtles
So in sight all ye' fathers who break the mold of religion
Hold true and steady when the wind will start to whip
And knowing was never the correct answer & never helped at all
"The whips are where the heart is," the fortune teller is told

Where all is sold for the cheapest and weakest dollar
I pray to you there has to be more then all this squalor
The nightingale awake in the horned' tree cast in moonlight
Waits for its dreams so in the morning it can have a song to sing
Nod off and nod in where this life began I can't even begin
The guitar plays as she types awaiting for Her lapse of sin
Here the night is wired and wild with burn marks around the edges
Here the boss's hair rings like a hornets nest and everyone clings to their rubble

And pushing forward through the snowflake rings of time
Makes me to think that the seasons are only there for our design
"Not in the least bit asexual," the lawyer reads to his wife
In the morning both their breaths will wreak of red wine
Near do well and saying it all as the bathroom stall
Leaks out a liquid familiar to the ancient, early neanderthals
I have written and I have seen and I have breathed the air of every sea
The only thing I now wish to be
Is on the lakefront with new eyes and a frame to seize
When the speed allows the memorization of misfit tyrants
To push the rant to the edge of the hill that lays in dust and ants
Then there is the horizon that God creates for all those Western window sills

Tearing the skin from your fingernails and seeing not a drip of blood
Sloth like reactions reaching for the best spot in the house
The covers torn away as the nightmare in the mind becomes real
All that can be heard is the vibrating walls and the wailing squeals
Through pebble caked walls and finger padded dawn lit rooms
Lay to rest thy' faith for the moon opens your casket & the entrance to your tomb
Whorish knave that makes even the gutter grimace in its disdain
There the nun contemplates a life she could have lived without restraint

And to connection through the way we need to see each other
The push for brotherly love in the face of the dawn of technological revolution
And the hastiness of the way that it was and in the day of running mad men
What are we to do when the push is far more advantageous then the pull?
Where the cliff is in sight and death is more likely to be the safety net?
Awareness that all of men's problems exist for man to work at it
To prepare themselves for the war of wars where later to see
The deaths of their fathers, their mothers, their brothers, their sisters
Was not in vain if the reward of the stars is presented to the young
Where the rivers ripple with Roman like eloquence of progression

To live for another to fight for another to die for a place that would leave you in the gutter
Is the madness that leaves the one's shooting with their heads spinning
Tour the way the rules are made and the books are spun with the hands of spiders
Their webs are infinite and indestructible for they learn from one's before them
Their ways were as intricate and profane in their time
For the envelope was sealed and burned and sworn to forget its own name
The lightness of the this place throws me off in the way the clouds are grey
Letter heads are masted like the wooden ships that produce silver flecks of clay
Our nothingness only pushes us in two directions
Suicide or production
There is a choice that few make with knowing and many without
Which one are you?
Do you cry for reasons for which you cannot see?
Do you believe what you will, or what all the others decree?

Crack of the bed she turns herself over to a man that isn't there
I got a place that I know I belong but to where that is is already long gone
In type the strawberries shine red always appearing to be ruby ripe
And these ghosts of electricity provide neither discomfort or much needed positivity
There were things that I needed to know but never took the time to figure out
So what I'm left with is a world wide open with whatever I want to find is what it is about
The deserts and the canyons, the hills and the oceans all a few of what I wish to see
Where I'll be and where I'll live I don't rightly know now
So I might just get myself a mule and a satchel and get to selling tea
EXPERIENCE
IS
EXPERIENCE
IS
EXPERIENCE
is only a word
used to describe
                                          perspective
because bad can pile on top of terrible, on top of naive, on top of cruel
and you'll have nothing beyond stories that
do not wish to be told.
EXPERIENCE
IS
     your head space narrative
starting from the beginning and underlining until a broken paragraph
creates
a
visionary.
EXPERIENCE
IS
      a prize for allowing your memory
to serve you on a silver platter.
because lessons are hard to learn unless you wrote it down
on the chalkboard
after class
and gained
all that a past can ever hope to be.
Umbr4 May 2014
I wonder restlessly if underneath that encouraging and brillant smile is as hollow a soul as the ones of those you try to help,
I wonder restlessly if underlining each word of praise and love you preach is a bitter sorrow of an unrequited love you seek,
I wonder restlessly if underneath every gallant action is a shallow thirst for self-righteous fulfillment,
Most of all, i wonder restlessly if underneath all your perfectly structured walls lives one who also; wonders restlessly
Joanie Poston Feb 2013
I am writing to you from this deep dark abyss
Searching and searching to find the source of this grief and deep sorrow
I feel so shameful so ungrateful
Dear mind I wish to put you to rest

So insecure so self hated
I can't seem to make sense
Everything feels like its falling
Concrete pushing down on me burying me within
It's heavy extremely heavy

The only way I know how to fight this sinful creature
Its Ironic fighting pain with more pain
They say you can't fight fire with more fire
But don't you fret This is my way of fixing my affliction

Where you see crimson red ***** blood
I see the rightful ingredient that will wash away these flames
Take out the internal fire with the external fire

But hush now my dear reader I don't deserve my dream to live on
For I am heartless and just a sad pathetic unhealthy soul
For I don't matter for I am just one of the billions
For I have no right to feel this, its all a figment of my sorry excuse for an imagination

For there are billions of unhappy souls on this earth
More worthy of, help, hope and happiness
So don't fret I don't need help I am perfectly alright
There is absolutely nothing clearly faulty about me

So don't try to find an underlining meaning with these words
That I am searching for understanding and peace of mind
Because I"m not

The only thing I wish is that my words were magic ropes
Ones that could be thrown overboard to that great deep dark abyss
Ones that reach down, down, deep below the surface
Could pull Each Unhealthy sickly sorrowful soul out of this deep unforgettable hole
Lynn Hamilton May 2019
Timetable torn in two

Covered in fluff, grit and

Other unidentifiable residue

Instructs you

Where you should be

Weekday between nine and three

If not held together right

You’ll be going to English class

At midnight



A blue pen in hiding

Has blown its cover

Left bendy and limp

Adding its mark to your

Timetable print

But you will struggle on, I know

With tongue stuck out to one side

Concentrating, not daring

To ask for another



The shatterproof ruler

A claim too hard to ignore

Reduced to smaller plastic bits

None of which will measure

Over an inch, I’m sure

But you will have a go

Underlining, shifting, underlining

And shifting

With your bendy limp blue pen



The fallout of wrappers

Of the hubba bubba crew

Shoved in your mouth

One directly after another

Sending your jaw into a

Slow motion, over committed, chew

Breaking down the matter

Of which would

Fill a crack in a nuclear reactor



The tangled and twisted wires

Umbilical cord of twins

Connects to your head

To feed you from a placenta

Of surround sound

Via your ears

It makes you sing so sweetly

Without knowing I can hear



Emptying your blazer pocket

I find you and I feel joy

My beautiful, beautiful boy
Penned in 2015for my beautiful boys
smiling sound; sonar driven
echoed back; always smitten
leave my body; floating mind
feeling sound; every time
bass vibration; settles me
simple lyrics; deep meaning
easy spirit; noise unveiling
underlining; concentrating
out the window; intently gazing
there it goes; my favorite song
the perfect chance; to sing along
manicsurvival Oct 2013
Ambition drove me to hell
Where I stood in the torrential downpour
Waiting for a hero of some sort

Maybe it would be him
Maybe it would be the sight of his license plate
Or the whiff of his cologne
Hopefully two abrupt hands covering my eyes

But no, I was alone in the rain
My laptop in my bag
Only to get wet, along with my copy of "The Sun Also Rises"

I had nowhere to go
No one to see
Or no one who wanted to see me

My family was away
My friends had all dispersed into cars full of life and spirit

And then I saw a friend
no
less than a friend
...someone I know?

I was stupid enough to go with her to a house rampant with drugs
Powder perfectly lined up
Broken up ****
Old prescription bottles
******* and marijuana and oxy and everything that feels like heaven but tastes like hell
FALSE
tastes like heaven but leads you to hell

**** my stupidity
So depressed that I couldn't make a simple decision
a decision so simple, all I had to say was "no"
Because stupidity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result, right?
Same result
Stupid because my actions are counterproductive to everything I work for
Endless hours of typing and reading and underlining words that were already highlighted
Stupid because I was selfish
selfish enough to only want to get high
and not think about the people around me
So stupid
it's laughable
FALSE
it's painful and terrible and everything I dont want YOU to feel

And I consumed the substance  
that altered my mind into a kaleidoscopic whirlwind
Of blackness and white dots
one minute I was there...
the next I was home
and then a coffee shop
and then my house

My eyes were as glazed as a krispy kreme donut
excuse that deliciously disgusting simile
POuNDs of led were on my eyelids
and nothing mattered


until it did
until my HIgh became a lOW
until my mother walked into the room - - unexpected - - danger
until my mother said "you're gone"
until my mother cried because her brother was addicted to coke and her dad would shoot up on painkillers
until I was a reminder  

it matters
I think it matters

I am the downpour
they say "When it rains, it pours"
and ****...
it's been raining  a lot

everyday theres another thunderstorm
literally and figuratively

just imagine
REALITY
who can riddle the thought of reality
not me
not me at all...
The census is a gun
and every  ten years for a bit of fun
someone
pulls the trigger.

The body count gets bigger all the time because once a decade's far from fine,we all know that we want a little more
but just who is keeping tabs on us and what's the  score?

If you're more than willing to fill in and tick the boxes one by one
we'll carry on the same and be just a figure getting bigger
reviewed by counters
mounted in the book
and taken down
looked and read
underlining, numbered in red ink and thumbed,fed into ,computerised until algorithms
drip from and dot the eyes with postscripts slipped upon the page which mention dates of birth and gender
this is the age of the want to know
and we're being counted
like sheep we go through turnstiles,smiling,clicking,sickening in the need to feed the ever growing need for information,technology will be the death of me and in a census yet to come
or when my numbers up
I will be done
shot full of holes the census gun is indiscriminate but there's no fun or sense in that,they'll tamper with the workings,lay them flat and reassemble parts until we're part of some vast assembly
in a Wembley stadium,the gun's the game
we'll be numbered until the final whistle blows and someone goes to tally up the score
and in the counting they'll count more and more
as if in some final lunacy
the lunatic accountants see there's numbers coming out of their ears
and say,
'thank God it's only once every ten years'

Data will as data does and do
and who would count the countless where the few are many and any mistake means you have to start again.
Censuses
another pain and millions more
and someone will come knocking on your door to give you forms and envelopes
all hope's lost
so be counted and don't count the cost
let the ones who get paid for this
kiss their sanity
goodbye.
topaz oreilly Jul 2013
Do they value  quietude
as we do?
passing through their cul de sac
with the same red blood causing through
our veins ?
The cold stone buildings are arcane
clematis seemingly  choking.them.
A wider sentence permeates.
The nightingale squabbles with the swallow
and all is not as same it seems.
How peace was wished for
but the inhabitants  are loathed  to admit
an underlining struggle re emerges.
Mitchell Duran Feb 2012
Faces

Millions of them
Moving meandering
Like Movies untitled undeserved

As the clouds divulge
In their own worried woes
Knives lay scattered in empty streets
Disembodied revolutions churn out stale music
Of the 1920's and 30's

Aging face
Dusty memories
Of youth spent
Running crying never thinking of
Dying

Rotations of afterthoughts
Conveyor belts of love
Rusting now
Red and brown from being
Left out
In the rain

To die here
Is to live here

To live here
Is to be born here

To be born

To be born
Is the greatest
Practical joke
Of all

A gift wrapped
In weathered red bow
Hear the harp
Fingernails plucking
Like tears atop still pale lake
From the angels
Which none can see

Low boredom
Deep pint glass
Fingered oaken table
Gentle sleep
Frightened dreams

And the smoke plumes
That leak from the clay chimneys
Of families made of
Potatoes, carp & beer
Cheer on filthy diamond
Who shines not from the sun
But from within

Clicking faces of the past
Every wrinkle reminds
The ones who have lived too long
Of the times without them

Insidious disease
Down & down with no ice
Brown & tongue tied
The lady in white presses
Her red lips together
As the piano man flicks his Bic
Under his cigarette fix

A mixed thought
Of two minds
Moves through the stem
Of my spine
And all I can come to understand
Is that these days will one day
End & End
And there's not a ******
Note or bill or money order
I can send to keep that
Blacked robed postman away
From gloved' hand

So hear ye' dear brethren
The underlining of scholars
Is naked underneath

Each poet has to take a ****
Sometime

Warring heart &
Out on the streets
Hear the beat & the creak
Of the bones
Soon to break

Oh' nodding child
Drink gripped viciously tight
Streaks of solemn pride
Bed cast in fire
The devil wears your mother's
High heels
Chuckling as he moves
For the backdoor
Tail wagging
In the dim white moonlight

Sole of the soul
Worn down & ragged
Each penny I got
Was made for you &
You only

She lays alone with
Her black hair down sighing
As I'm dying blue sky turning
Into hot florescent night

Plucked my eyebrows
And got myself a shave
All I need now is a prayer
And a soul to save
But the pay ain't worth
The pavement where the
Sounds of the hurried bustle
Of faces - all those faces -
Moves outside & inside of me

Dear Chump;
Record day of sales
Next to the furnace door
Dressed in the lace of dead queens.
We were mad to live the way we did.
Imagine if life was just one big crayon box,
How many pictures you think you and I would make?

Sin Breaking Fast -

Dearborn Draught Season IV

Where the quotes
Line-up like old milk bottles
Twinkling off tinted glass
From the hanging February sun

Noose around my
Neck since the
Day I was born

Concrete tastes fresh here
And this silence is killing me
Throw me a quarter cause'
I don't have a solution
To all these problems of mine

And there's no couch comfortable enough
Or ears wide enough either
To get me away from this rickety
Wooden boat without any oar
Or holy sail that I call life

Bitterness tastes of
Stale red wine
Floating clipped fingernails
Drift across bloodied sea
Brown crumbling wickedness

Bring me
My final cup
Of tea
Sasevardhni Jan 2018
Like placing a Sitar
I placed you with care,
On my lap I dare,
On my lap, till I fell asleep.

My fingers ran over those dots
Came to know the plots
As I felt my cracky sneaks
Smiled on turning the leaves
On sensing your corners
Understood the creator's pain
The pain of adorning those leaves
Those leaves that have thorns and veins
You contained dots,
Dots, six popped out,
six punched in.
Heartfelt heavy for sure
On analysing the torture
The torture of oneself
Shed tears on knowing the revealed fact
The revealed story.

Slid within,
Felt the essence of love and life
I didn't want to harm
To harm by a pen
By a pen by underlining the passage.

Hats off to Louis Braille
A blind man
Felt the essence of a novel
Though those eyes were at rest
Though the world is black
Lived the moment of colours
By the warmth of which the eyes fell asleep.

Dated: 19.10.2014
Catrina Sparrow Dec 2013
she sat in the kitchen
   frivolously underlining passages in her brand new bible
      nodding her head
      occasionally pressing her hands into her chest
"yes" she'd whisper
   with her blind eyes shut

         every ******* needs a crutch

every hour or so
she'd leave her hiding place
   to shove her misunderstanding in my face

"god only loves us if we ask him to"
"you're a sinner. your sins can only be cleansed with the blood of christ"
"our lives gain their only meaning when we ask christ into our hearts"

oh yeah?
   is that right?
      how'd he find any room in yours
      when you keep it bound up like a hostage?

i tried with all my might
   to remind myself that i am a spiritual being
   that i want no one to hurt
      even those who waste their precious seconds plotting ways to hurt others
   to craft everyone their own kind of pain that they can name
      and later
         help you look up a cure in a little black troubleshooting guide

but i cracked
and i snapped
and i didn't feel bad

don't you get it?
are you paying attention to what you read?!

the whole ******* story is about LOVE...
   about loving everyone
not only under certain circumstances
   but every second of every day
the same way we're told that he loved

calling yourself a christain is the farthest thing that you can do from actually being christ-like
  
he was a good guy
      like robin hood
         not oprah
   you won't get a free car
   or fleeting fame
      all you'll gain is peace
      and clearly that's what you really need

but you also need to remember
   that if he's watching everyone's every move
      like you say
   then he too sees you going out of your way to ruin someone elses day
he sees you ignore the hungry man asking for change
he sees you preaching things you've never practiced
he sees you looking for ways to bend the rules without breaking them

if christ came back
   he wouldn't be the sharp-dressed man seated up front
      whom you try to charm the pants off of with your faith every week
he'd be the homeless man outside sitting by the steps in silence
whom you marched right passed
   without so much as a glance
      or a simple hello

         he'd know you misunderstood the entire message
         flash a toothy grin
         and go right back to spitting prophesies into his brown paper bag
             
            but most importantly
                  he'd never rub it in your face that he thinks you've got it **wrong
this is in no way a jab at christianity, or at any faith, for that matter.
it is however a direct jab at people of any practice, who don't even bother to embody any of the basic principles or ethics of said faith, such as; trust, compassion, empathy, understanding, selflessness, and love.
Mitchell Duran Apr 2012
Each beheading holds
The truth of Justice

Now, when the arch light
Flickers at Dawn
We see the Repear holding
The underlining of the fat belly
Of Free Verse

When there was nothing
You complained
When You had Everything
You complained

Instead of Fortitude
Births Arithmetic
Pushing rose petals
With the tip
Of your chapped tongue

Every rain drop
Slows me down
I step as if it is
The last one
I will ever take

Naive hesitation from
A mother who elapsed in Love

As water builds on my chandelier
I hold nothing in my hands

I am tired of these
Sick, enjoyed, hipsterites that
Praise things they have
Never even touched or seen

A bitter taste
Holds
For the soul
Of the pigeon

They say things
That hold nothing

That praise nothing

That say
Nothing

As am I lost
I will stay
In the meek and
Desperate

Gutter

Flipping pennies
As the seagulls mock me
Having flight
Where I
Do not

Desperation hangs
On their nouns

Humorlessness spills
From their verbs

Showing the Fear
That somehow they know
Nothing
Is Near

The Prison Light Moves
The Beat of the Heart Folds
A telling affair of
The rich, priceless, and snared

Reading you
Brings out the absurd
In
All of this
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
prelimenary coordinates - a blindman playing chess.

well... you either drink, and write sparingly,
     or you don't drink, and you write
a novel...
    but who would have thought, that there
would be poetic odes involving coffee...
     it's staggering how many women write
poems and have to concern themselves with
coffee...
  i down a litre of whiskey a night, don't know
what a hangover is anymore,
        and i can beat out more words
than women, who use a stimulant and write
   crumbs... when i expect a loaf of bread...
if not this website, then another, and the scenario
is the same: the glorification of coffee...
           it just shows you how barricaded the human
narrative is, of the soul...
        poetry merely nibbles, and i know it's
flaws... write without paragraphs,
or care for punctuation marks... and it's immediately
a poem...
   or... oh god forbid! there's something profound
being said with a few words...
      and it has to be profound...
                      yes, i'm the Gargamel and those
are my smurfs...
                             strange that Freud didn't think up
the man-child complex...
                         which is the opposite of the madonna-*****
complex, which he actually did...
           Edward Hopper was also bemused by
these two mental pharmacologists...
                did a little sketch holding Freud as pillar 1,
and Jung as pillar 2.
    but coffee and poetry: i'd expect more from this
latitude...
        and it's still a case of:
                   people cling to the raft that's their
mental narrative mondus operandi...
                Kant tried to say something as concrete
with 5 + 7 = 13... and read any philosophy book...
    Kant isolates the ''i think'', and Hegel isolates
    the i = i, or i am i...
                              and these are serious thinkers...
but Descartes has said a limit...
                       thinking defines subjectivity...
      thinking the essential component of what's
   not thought about: the existential compromise of
   being per se...
                    and how i always seem to find philosophy
as a stumbling block concerning everything i write...
    it's almost as if i can't escape the world of
abstracts...          a degree in chemistry didn't help either...
     am i truly so un-realistic?
               not that i'm afraid of being drawn toward
the un-real...          it's that humanity seems only like
an infertile groundwork speeding toward a forgivable
promise...
    i just wanted to say: you drink and write poetry...
or you don't drink, and write a novel...
      and true to a heart's cause i will say:
that straitjacket of what poetry is...
                           whether rhyme... or other technique...
    hanging over it...
                           it can't do:
      i abhor Nietzsche for making poetry a science...
  and it is: too scientific...
              i'd never think so little can be deemed
so perplexing... or having that essence...
                    so yes... Kant
                         really does struggle to say something
profound, but he actually does...
                     over and over again... namely:
i'd never could think of so many faculties of my mind...
    not that's what i call a plastic saying...
      ****-licking brown-nosing, call it what you like...
it's just so terrible that philosophy cannot reach
toward being a humanism, like a novel always can...
     which is why i could eat a historical novel
        by Kraszewski in three weeks in between allocating
that time to the festive season,
                     and it took me 2 years to read Kant's
critique... until i let go of that post-scriptum necessity
of having to stop at every setence and do a rubick's cube...
     a bit like: well... aren't those electron-migration
   schematics they teach you in chemistry, a little bit pointless?
   who give's a badger's nut-sack about how electrons migrate
when a a cabron to oxygen bond forms?
                         but they do teach that...
           which is why you can take a novel to bed,
on the train... but so much focus is needed for that other novel,
the scientific one... the grandeur of... philosophy...
                and that's when i let go...
   the last part of the critique does allow you to read
piece of work... like a novel... unless of course that was my
need to do so...
                    so yes: transcendental methodology in Kant's
critique: does read like a novel... at some point
you just have to let go.

ii. ...

and you do... try saying philosophy without saying
something pretentious....
               and i dare say: as long as the fewest number
of people concern themselves with it:
  the more chances we have for electricity,
plumbing, food on the table...
               but by now there's this talk of a curse...
premature Socratic antics... mind you: he was an old man...
but Plato be ******, he wrote down what the old man
spoke: and a clear number of them succumbed to
      the tumble-**** effect...
                      no real prospects for life...
        and, evidently, the dead gods philosophised,
while the rest remained: prone to throwing a show of
macho, and worshipped the body...
Olympus shone...  
   by now you should know that i don't know what
i'm doing...
                  give me the killer-switch to launch a nuclear
strike and i'd probably say: maracas!
shake shake shake...     fidgety in the brothel...
shake shake shake...
             that's the weird thing, every time i went to
a brothel i became over-heated...
      i sat there, the whole **** place always reminded me
of a perfume... jack daniels...
   and i could feel myself over-heating...
  i don't known if that was the angel conscience talking
to me... but i always felt those eyes of scrutiny...
       mind you, once the whole "naughty'' escapade
took off... i forgot those relationships where
                    an impotence was crowned...
   don't know: maybe prostitutes just know my pin-number
and hold to say to little richard: off to the crusades with you!
     phenomenal...
                                         well... thank god for
the north african imports! i'd start thinking all european
women are bound to be: neglected.
               and was it ever, not only about ***?
    it's nice to doubt it...
                           next time i'll woodpecker a grave.
but hey! the promised land!
                           at least you'll have someone to cry
over your grave...
   and did i tell you how there's this cult of the grave
in Poland? yep, that's not a personal reality,
it's a populist manifesto... i'm starting to see it
as a hell where people sort of forgot to state their emotion
to the people, now lying in those tombs...
         give me a Hindu wedding with fire!
  i wanna become elemental!
and look, libido on fire... a billion vishnu-******* in
Bangladesh...   it's this thirst for fame in western
societies that's going to be a downsize...
                                 over there that's like a **** in
a tornado...              ha ha! it really is!
   but then again, here i am, a graveyard hyenna...
walking in Liberace's talk of style...
  most of these graves, really are: tacky...
    just like Liberace, the greatest showbiz conman of
the 20st century... i love the fact that he fooled so many
women... i mean... that guy was almost as good
as ****** when it came to mesmerising people...
but Liberace had a nieche audience... so...
                 no khaki for the ss...
                                           and i dare to hold
an ethnicity? in tune with bob marley: one love, one people...
it has never been so painful to strategise globalisation...
         it's this ethnic cleansing that everyone agreed to
provided they received a smart-phone...
                   or a McDonald's fetish... and that's saying it cheap...
but that's how it feels on the periphery of H'america...
little ol' England boycots Europe...
                     and it's like: huh?
                                           presto! dum-dum.
    sometimes i start thinking that i have a hydra for a tongue...
and the more i drink, the more i start to see
       it splintering up into a polyphony construct,
but more a case of: polyphony of subjects...
   and yes, aren't we all those internet losers...
when the most powerful man in the world...
     uses twitter. bastions of respectable comment!
yes, i.e. newspapers... we're riding this meteor to the end...
          does anyone still consider newspapers to be
the pledges of a free society? i must have been asleep for
the past 20 years then...
                      someone switched on this chaos-turbine,
and we're all shoving our two cents of opnions'-worth into it...
and it's not stopping...
            and yet you still read in newspapers, this underlining
feeling of being condescended... as if they are the sole
authority... they have to behave like little despots...
                           social media's power is invested in its
shock reverberation... think: Marx in the 21st century...
           but can you? is this some pseudo Marxism?
             i might have bypassed all the king-makers and
walls... but i have no leverage... my opinions are
     as cheap as chips... well: we got ourselves a unison converson...
   i still don't see how the television zeitgeist still thinks
that the internet zeitgeist is no connected with ''real life''...
i mean... **** me! where's the highstreet with all the shops?
on the internet. where is the frontline of wars? on the internet.
  where do suicides take place? on the internet,
from all the cyber bugs that people start to represent...
    if this isn't real life... then i guess i must be sitting,
and writing this in some medieval castle in transylvania,
    and my computer is powered by a legion of
hamsters on exercise-wheels, in a damp room, lit by a candle.

iii.

for me, this is how reading a philosophy book looks like:

| | |
     fig. 1
                                          /   \
                                            _
                 ­                                 fig. 2
    Δ
       fig. 3
                                           A
                                               fig. 4

it's like i want to see something with some clarity;
there is clear movement
      concerning a book like that,
              but unlike a standard novel:
there is clearly nothing concerning the: any given
  hope to disperse the mist.
                you're given the blunt truth:
the use of language...
                     again, it would be easier to call forward
a use of a tomahawk... or a guillotine...
            philosophy books never establish civilisations,
they break them.
                and do i think that the crucifix is a profanity
of the tetragrammaton? yes.
                do i feel Spinoza's anguish? probably.
when you read philosophy to start to waver,
it's almost necessary to unlearn language, and with
each philosophy book: learn it over again.
     you can't remain strapped to this culture
of emphasis of singled-out words...
              we can't find a constructive basis if we're
about to start any mechanism from such a dynamic,
isolating certain words and weighing them
                       obstructs language...
                 i can't even begin to fathom a pledge
to using a language, if there are these plebian obstructions...
i did write some notes when i spent these past 3 weeks
in Poland, but i'm scared of rewriting them...
                    i can claim to have understood
their content at the time,
but the context disparity is too much for me...
                 i'm rereading them in England
and i can only see England as a nightmarish construct
of such grandeour... that i might only be seen
speaking truth in the north of it...
                nor do i like the tri-tier categorisation
of man... if you read Kant, you'd be afraid of
man's laconic approach to the mind, stating
the three boundaries, and literally no faculty interactions...
  consciousness (the artist), denoting the overly-sensitive,
the subconscious (the worker), denoting the athletic construct
   and liberation from the daily toils of pure physical
    disposition...
and the unconscious (the zombie)...
   if you read Kant and explore the faculties...
and then turn toward the Freudian populism:
   there's enough reason to be concerned...
                  i can't be saying someone anti-vogue:
and that was my proper concern, that i might be saying
someone not recountable in any sort of realism...
          that mine is an isolated case...
         ditto alongside: why are we juggling the tri-tiers,
and so bombastic and even celebratory in huddling
toward these safety-nets of being human?
    thus said: the reflective man has died...
       in his place came the reflexive man...
                             and if there really is a worthwhile
stance to be a: **** sapiens...
   then all hope for a bewildered man is gone...
                 when the potency of robotics escaped science
fiction, and all trodden paths of orthodox science were
      fed to science fiction, humanity could begin
the process of discarding the offshoots...
          
iv.

the new testament... a book riddled with metaphors...
no wonder the greeks exploited the hebrew literalism...
and yes, plato the precursor made this very real...
by testifying that poetry had no place in the republic,
the new testament had to become solely poetic...
   the new testament is a rebellion against plato's republic...
it's a book wholly compromised on metaphor...
culminating in a book that's founded on imagery...
the gosepls are, once again, arithmetically speaking,
resembling the crucifix... which damns the concept
of the tetragrammaton...
                      as a book: it's only gibberish in
its final circumstance of revelation as a book of imagery...
   and in its preceding case: a book of metaphors...
who wouldn't be apprehensive to be born human
with such a thing being rampant?!
                    imagery is gibberish, given that we
have compentent painters out there...
and metaphor is metaphysics, given that we have
competent magicians out there...
   so how far apart are the words: qua             and
                   quo?
   as good a question as: how far apart are the words
                          phor               and phren?
       φoρ                       &                            φρην?
        so in the congregation of μετα, how are they
so apart?  looking at language from an alphabetical
perspective... it's hard to see anything inspirational...
    nor the tangens divergence of words
that are nonetheless so proximate in their construct...
a bit like the genetic proximity of man and ape,
or man and a banana...
   φoρ (the bearer of the beyond) -
                φρην (a mind concerned with things
under the curtain) -
                        and so: the futility of looking for
        a soul... became translated as the new found feudalism
of looking for a mind:
  given the common consensus: we're all mad....
so too looking at mythology could be revised:
  that myth of narcissus and echo...
or narcissus and psyche...
                         or φρην & πσιχη -
                we already know that there's an aesthetic
in Greek, at least they showed us
      that it can be σimple, when acknowledged
  and practised -
which means transcribing the ease of handwriting
   into a digital format, can be seen as an unnecessary
complexity - as if me currently looking for a word
that ends, and showcases the most obvious Grecian
aesthetic (without mention ο, ε, ω, η, œ)...
but with due mention: so where the second variant
of α, given there's æ?
                           it really is hard to find coherency
in human language... i'm still trying to conjure up
the second sigma... unless i hit the plural noteς...
there... i hit them... as simple as that.
  and yes: the father of the french hooked c
in garçon, came from this: the sigma used at the end
of wordς... i suspect that how things were denoted
to be possessed in english, also came from it.
once again: handwritting is bewildering on this digital canvas.

v.*

i don't have an atheistic argument, or a theistic argument,
i'v
copperots Mar 2014
undo the rusty bolts
underlining
  my frizzy hairline
the crummy ones that hold
  volatile turmoil
    within my scalp
the erratic lunacy
  playing
   with my aging brain
using the untangled strings
  to jump rope
   and play
    sorrowful tunes
      for the weeping
        to harmonize

i want you
  to stick your hands
   in my heavy head
as you would
  in a flower ***
    freshly filled with soil
dig into the moist compound
  with your pliable fingers
   amend
     the corruptive leakage
       that toils
         within my own deceit

i want you
  to avidly turn
    the soft claying matter
       how ever you please
as you would
  turn into roads
     that lead you
        running
           straight to me

i want you
  to breathe
     igniting hope
born from the fumes
   of cigarettes
    you smoked insensibly
into the seeds
  you wish to discard
     in this potted cavity

i want you
  to pour oceans
    of poetic sentiments
tainted with gentle kindness
   from those isolated tears
     held back in the sockets
        of your eyes
to water
   my wilting corpse
     so it may flourish
        from your light reflecting gift
          of life (you resurrect me)

i want you
  to trust
     in your
       captivating presence
          to make me
              unintentionally smile
from your caress
  will selflessly sprout
     inflorescent buds
       of rich purplish-blue flowers
          with conspicuous green calyxes

  and even though their coloring
        is rather insignificant
  and they can be easily overlooked

i want you
  to know
   that only you
     hold the key
       to this secret pasture

that
  without you
   there would not be
     such garden
         for us to hide
Morgan Jul 2013
Warm apple
& pumpkin spice
Its mid summer
but you're still burning
Fall scents
You bury your head
in your pillow
and twist your body,
all wrapped in sheets
toward the wall
beneath the window,
"It still smells good
so I dunno... whatever"

You're always laughing
at the most
insignificant things
and making eyes
with inanimate objects
like your guitar or my notebook
You say you fall in love
with the art I make
and then you kiss my forehead
and twirl my hair
between your fingers
You're the only one who really cares
to consider
all of my rants and hurried scribbles
'art'
Most of them have been
about you
for the past year or two
I wish I could still
show you
I know you'd pour
your eyes
into every word
Underlining all of your
favorite parts with the
tip of your pointer finger
& choosing one stanza
to sing like an other one of your
pretty songs,
strumming your thumb
against the page like the
strings of your tired guitar
Just like you did
on that patient day
last summer
Lying in your bed
Counting ceiling tiles
and making homes in each other's chests
I miss you
Vanessa Grace Jul 2016
Separation does weird things to the body
causes a continental divide
between the mind and the heart
This divide-- it causes doubt
and it distorts three truths
for three lies.
It shifts a millimeter each moment
till one day, there's been an earthquake
and you no longer can tell fantasy from reality
due to the irrevocable damage.
You realize
the memories aren't really memories--
they are perceptions of events gone wrong
and this cataclysm of love allows it.
You see, the sweetness of words whispered
now have an underlining bitterness
now have a certain edge
that makes you wonder if they were ever true
And now you notice, far too early,
the warmth from their embrace
just... leaves, too quickly.
they just don't hold on like they used to.
its ever so subtle, but ever so notable,
and its enough to make you worry
about the things you see.
And finally, you both begin to see...
.... that separation
does weird things to the body.
It causes a continental divide
between the mind and the heart
and the realization that there's no healing
when you're miles and miles apart.
v.g
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
well, ain't that an oklahoma sing-along sounding title; pretentious *** gives me all the jitters.*

the parody of pronouns, Walt Whitman's
and Jack Spicer's collected poetry - both
are always the front-running jokes
with someone else's selected compilation -
the parody of pronouns:
the father the son the holy spirit -
me, myself and i -
philosopher practice the same parody -
deluded ******* think they're kings -
the royal we - the royal we meaning
the entourage included -
the clown juggling both the philosopher
and the king and himself (reflexive compound,
not a reflective compound - oddly enough
the Oxford dictionary has a time period
where new compound nouns are in
purgatory of hyphen usage, before
being admitted to the heaven of no red line
underlining a "spelling mistake") -
it's the profanity of pronoun usage -
poets ease in and out of pronoun variations
almost unconsciously - prose writers tend to
get lost in creating characters / puppets -
no out of body experience in fiction -
just truths that are supposed to be lies.
but you know what? schoolchildren
are taught that poetry exists, sure as **** they're
taught it exists - but they're taught it
with too much emphasis on a scientific approach
to it: spot a metaphor... spot a pun!
are bird-watching or something? is there an app
on your phone that might recognise a type of
flower or a type of bird? (snigger) - but you
caught your Pokemon, haven't you?!
cultures that respect poetry are caustic -
if they take it to their heart - like Iranian schism
early on with Islam - no ultimate truth with
a schism, just do it like the Blue Indians,
allow more and more schisms, give it all,
you have a ruler, on it 12 inches or 30 centimetres...
for it to be effective you can't have division
according two one judo chop, down the middle -
**** it, let's go down to a sensible division,
i'm not talking nano-metres, but centimetres -
we won't get any Pisan anomalies that way;
but are those scientists really telling as that
the mystery of life is how far we can divide things up?
sub-atomic clever are they? really?!
you see what happens when civilisations undermine
art - make fun of it... the dementia epidemic -
oh sure... don't read a poem, instead play
cognitive games, do a crossword, get mindful,
complete a su doku - but don't read a poem,
don't even try to make conversation interesting -
poems ought to stimulate involving conversation -
the way the art sees it? we're living under a
dictatorship - swear to god, the poet sees it like that -
we're not living in a democracy -
you have charities concerned with gross
negligence of dogs - gross negligence of poets?
you 'avin a laugh - which means many are
put off it, they write 10 or 20 and then fade away -
they think the ease of writing a few words
because they're from the generation where universal
education was permitted can make a buck from
a few ooh ah repercussions when a piano fell
from the sky and they had to crab-walk two metres
into the gutter - then walk on.
you neglect something precious it bites back -
the dementia epidemic is one such example,
the current problem: premature depression
in your people is another - the 21st century
sandwich; but the ease that poetry handles pronoun
usage is akin to kings - technically mistaken
for personas - fake - we write like we walk on airs
and superstitions of the gnawing paranoia of
power and subsequent respectability of the power's
authority up-kept and constantly implemented
for proof of its effectiveness -
getting a trained monkey is one thing,
but getting a monkey that can train itself is another -
as it stands, Oxford treats nibbling on
Germanic with unease - the Oxford hyphen
is the purgatory of necessarily compounded words -
an optical loon brigade loop of adding necessary
complexity to a language and making mathematics
simpler, more atomic, we don't need an atomic
shrapnel language construction -
and yes, this is an old attachment of mine:
reflective pronoun compounds - e.g. my self -
and reflexive pronoun compounds - i.e. myself.
Hal Loyd Denton Feb 2012
Beguiling

Would you like to know the picture God carries of you first fired in his imagination then bathed in light
And the final element water I know the power fire has to loosen the quiet tongue the flame dances and

Leaps your mind and imagination falls in step recall marches in with abundant expansive dialogue the
More you talk the more thoughts rush in as where the final viewing is in the clearest pure water at first

You don’t expect your change of mood when you approach any size of water it can be just a pool or a
Tremendous lake and more favorable is the small setting with water present a peace will descend like

Misty silk it bellows out and gently descends engulfing you through this silky sheen you are the supreme
Vision of loveliness the male is never more handsome the woman is never more beautiful can it be any

Different to look upon a face through green sea colors that occur when the sun shines through the
Rolling wave’s silkiness is nothing but the master’s delightful touch God sees his

Daughters as true princesses of the mysterious desert and there was a reason that Valentino played
Sheiks of the mysterious desert land it made him incomparable and the women stood on equal footing

In character and looks spellbinding that is what you look like to God we love with all of our heart but his
Capacity is so far greater than ours every church around the globe would be busting at the seams and

More being constructed if people really knew God and his love that is the greatest cry of the human
Heart is to be loved it took a master deceiver and the greatest hater of mankind to wreck the havoc that

He has accomplished well why doesn’t God do more the artist sized it up when a broken bloodied savior
Was shown on Calvary with his arms outreached with the underlining words he loved you this much

You’re the whole of his existence there is master piece after master piece that hang in museums but
They pale and are considered inferior botched art next to his longing pleading eyes that say come unto

Me my treasure and know everlasting pleasure come and be seated around my throne your rightful
Place that was always my plan for you only death and sorrow awaits those that turn a deaf ear to
Perfect love
Faith Barron Nov 2013
June eighth:
That random warm summer day
I heard
That in the hospital, an hour away
There was a room where my father lay;
Surrounded by doctors and nurses,
Conscious as they pushed, a wire up and into his brain;
To remove the thing, that awful thing
That could take my father away forever.
A blood clot that sat unaware in his vein;
One stroke that minimized everything.

From the time of the phone call
I sat in my room
Isolating myself
Coping with my thoughts as best I could
I wondered if he was ok

We went to see him for the first time,
On Father’s Day:
My 11 year old little sister and I
Balloons and cake and presents.
All smiles so as not to make it worse.
When I saw him I bit my lip,
That warm coppery taste filled my mouth
Instead of the tears that would have been.

When he talked his words slurred, uneven
He saw the pain in my eyes and tried to seem more himself,
He tried to sit up and straighten,
But he had lost much of his strength and could not.
I sat with him, next to his bed
My mind numb and afraid

The only noise the underlining sound of the TV
After a time he reached over with his good arm and squeezed mine
Just like he always does
But his voice wavered,
And something new became clear to me.

Even as he was still my father and alive
He was no longer the father
Made to be immortal to a small child:
Someone that is always there
No matter what, never going away,

But that is not an immortal idea.
It is but what it is
What people want it to be;

Its not truth.
For, at any second anywhere
My father can be taken from me.
Now life tells me that my father is mortal.
Just like any other
He works to regain what was lost;
Step by step,
New things return.
But still some evade him
And he sometimes saddens,
Mourning his taste, or strength in a hand or finger.

Ideas are immortal and ever changing
Their creators however, meet their own end,
And one time or another are taught why…
Perhaps for my father this is but a life lesson.
And perhaps he will learn from it.
Perhaps the lesson wasn’t only for him.
David Nelson Mar 2010
Alphabetical Order  

amazing are the stars, that fill the eyes of a woman in love,
broken is the heart of a man, who has been turned away,
crowded are the stairways of the souls, searching the ****** glove,
dichotomous minds each separating, between month and day,

emulating the desires, that never seem to be quite filled,
forever left behind in the wake, of the steamy encounters,
gratification comes so close to the edge, of tears that spilled,
humbling the spirit of drive, as she casually saunters

in and out of her trances, thus requiring a special technique,
just as your about to capture, the flag of your quest,
keeping your head above the line, you get just one peek,
lovers separated, never owned, still merely a guest      

might as well step into the path, of an oncoming fist,
never was any remote chance, that this would be resolved,
over and over the words are repeated, like reading a list,
permanently bringing injury to the dreamers involved

quietly, you grab your bags of lost promises and regrets,
resolving to the facts, that are right in front of your face,  
securing the one of you dreams, don't be placing your bets,
trying to hard, seeking too much, another time, another place

underlining the failures, that are displayed on the page,
verification of these unwanted responses, we certainly don't need,
when oh when, can this heartache release built up rage,
xylem pumping the fluid, will it finally bleed

you're standing there now, with nothing to show for the time,
zanyism is quite commonly blamed for the entire episode.

Gomer Lepoet...
- From Rhymes or Reasons Vol I
sobie Oct 2014
You know where you're going.
So when it comes,
Acknowledge and appreciate
The day that I come home late at night
for the 113th night in a row
and there are bumps and bruises kissing my bones,
there are dirt and grass stains painting my knees and clothes,
there are patches on the gear, on the pants, on the skin
from rips of rad that stroke my discomfort and
grant me a fight to win against fear.
and there are eye wrinkles forming around
bags of forgotten sleep and sexytimes
that make me feel worthy of nothing more,
yet everything more still comes.
And I clamor in the doorway hand in hand
riding giggles with an innate and undying flirtatious hilarity
into a house that radiates warm simplistic comfort
but has no locks
so I may come and go
to and fro
from everyday new adventures and
new states and new sights and new lives
but always back to the dog-fur lined rug
that tickles my circletoes as I ****** a tasty beer
to wash away the dust that coats my guzzling esophagus
filling my belly with the mountain’s leftovers
and satisfying my hunger for another day
but not until the sun rises and it is morning and I must be alive
to smooch the lips of the most important creatures
puppies, kittens, boys with fingertoes,
whose love is constant as
the beating of my wild and beefy heart
and the breathing of my battered and blessed breath
with the silence and rest within it
,between each passionate burst,
as understood yet persevering as
any will we have to live our lives beyond the mundane.
They are Nature’s gifts that make me owe her
something greater that gratitude,
so I go out at morning light each day and play with the winds
and babysit the plants and learn from the birds
who send me off with homework about listening
and about singing songs out of selfless selfishness
not for other people
but with the intent to make people listen and
make it change them for better
whether they want it to or not.
and sometimes the lessons are tough,
harder than rocks that teach them.
Sometimes the work goes untouched on my desktop
and I get lost in Milky Way patterns
made by the Sun’s best friends on a drunk getaway
but then I find my way back by a road of traced constellations
on the moley chest of the ultimate mountain man,
who flips back open my books and
points to nirvana among the pages of life’s endless studies,
emphasizing and underlining key points with
pens of self-awareness and highlighters of supportive independence.
Then bookmarks important parts with reminders of the first time
he licked his lips to savor the sweet taste of a tough cookie
he had tasted only once months before.
A recipe that had been fine tuned away in a hell he left behind
for new homes to be found.
A place he confronted again
to lead a lost soul out and into the world of living and loving.
And loving is what is done
when bears romp beside our sleeping heads and puke garbage belly
but make less of a mess than I do when giddied by that silverlining
that was merely a stormy cloud to those who predicted rain,
And I will not seek to tempt fate nor die unsure of it
but I was jigging in the right place at the right time and
the river of his rain has flooded me with forward momentum,
I will rescue those who cannot stand stronger than the current,
my quads are toned for they've fought the waves until I stood.
And after a hard day of nothing less than that and more,
Zzzztown will welcome me with
joyful snoozing, lekker slaaping, and the tightest dreaming.
And I will wave 'See You Soon' to B-town not alone, finally together
with batted eyelashes and heavy eyelids and sore bodies.
Steve Page Oct 2017
Today we have the labeling of people groups.
Yesterday we had the suggestion of an inherent disposition to dishonesty and violence in some groups.
Tomorrow we will have the careful counting of individuals and the placing of individuals into each people group.
But today,
today we have the labeling of people groups.

For those of you who are new here, we recommend this period drama underlining racial differences with a subtle suggestion of inferior intellect in some groups indigenous to warmer climes.
And here we have a persuasive and tabloid friendly research paper that hints that children of mixed race tend to struggle in school. You'll be relieved to see that it hasn't any distracting data.
And on the shelf beneath you'll see there's a picture book version for younger children.

Over here is the arbitary divide between us and them, with a useful circle of arguments to differentiate ourselves from others.
Here we have colour coded lables to more easily distinguish between  people groups. Yes, that's correct, we have three labels: white, black and, a recent addition which is now available for added distinction, rainbow.
Oh yes, when engaging in any discussions, for your own safety please ensure you wear these ear defenders.
To ensure a free flow of visitors we have erected large signs in three languages marking where charity at home ends. Yes, after rigorous focus group testing we have selected the English language in three font sizes.

We are coming to the end of this orientation tour.  Please note the subtle but effective shedding of compassion for those who appear or sound different to us.  This underpins the necessary disregard for the rights of others that we assume for ourselves and for those like us. It is almost imperceptible I think you'll agree.

But the priority for today, as I say, is the labeling of people groups. 
No questions.
Shall we begin?
Prompted by Through by David Herd.
Paul Rousseau May 2012
The sun of astrology and the tarot card of mirrors
Tired reflection underlining the tissue of fears
A four-letter word that crawls through the years
Black works well with the mind it clears
Jenna Vaitkunas Nov 2013
I never quite understood
why you wanted that girl,
the one who wore too much lipstick
and flirted with your best friend.

I never quite understood
why I never bothered to say hi
whenever you walked by
or picked me up in your car.

You see,
I never quite understood
why I wanted you to want me
and wanted you to forget about that girl,
who wore too much lipstick
and flirted with your best friend.

I was never quite sure
why you wanted someone
who didn't care
about your favorite movies,
or books,
or people.

I never quite understood
how I would never get to study you,
underlining the most important parts
over the softness of your skin.

I never quite understood
why I thought what I thought
or how I felt what i felt
when I looked at you
and you didn't look back.
alwaystrying Nov 2014
To partake of a strange feast where the price claims haughty
too, bits of sanity
or decline.

Courage must be the face to the lion
in a pool of fear
and recognize the unacceptable.

The scorpion waits, a grumpy nip the heel
going round, sprain in soft sand
dessication tripled, slip in butter.

The search via crumbs to secret root
underlining hefty conditions
undermining liberty.
Internal debate.
Thomas Newlove Feb 2011
Lights
Bright, white beams stinging
The absorbers of light,
Scorching memories, piercing the soul.
Their power causes your eyes to droop,
And you dream that home surrounds
Your cold, blinded body.
Chair
Who would have thought
That grime was comforting?
For between chewing gum and sticky wall
Lies a body of endless exhaustion.
As if this soulless chair
Were the comforting clouds of heaven.
Doors**
I finally depart this grisly place-
The Nightlink only brings one form of life,
Eyes reading me,
Underlining my valuable features.
This place is rough's definition.
I head to my safe haven,
The grimy doors transform into the gates of heaven.
The cold air blasts my tired eyes as I depart.
I am home.
Graham Jan 2017
Beneath everything
Every try to be "Almost perfect"
Despite  the daily criticism
I'm still breathing
Breathing through my deep scar
Underlining my super flaw
Everyday I try to be someone else
Just to please someone else
My scars run deep
I gradually fade away
Underlining my super flaw
Every try to be "Almost perfect"
Despite my daily critics
Diving deep into my scars
I still breathe

In a moment of madness
There was a fist fight with the "Inner me"
And He said;
Beneath your scars
You!  Yes you
You are almost perfect without trying
"No one is in control of who likes who"
Learn to love your scars
It's made you

In just a fist fight
Beneath the crazy
Despite all odds
We became one
Scars to my beautiful
Be who you are, you are an amazing person, always believe that.
Dark Jewel Jan 2015
Underlining the main point.
Striking words to a page.

It's troublesome when,
One has no rage.

The trouble with poetry is,
One with stanzas united.
Going in rhythm,
With the sound of a heart beat.

Beating down the rhythm,
Of a Skull's drum.

The trouble with poetry is,
One life corrupt,
In a demise.

When the sword strikes stone,
Igniting a fire.

One heart, One soul,
Encrypting each poem.
It's troublesome,
When one has no soul.
English class poem
sobie Oct 2014
Acknowledge
The day that I come home late at night
for the 113th night in a row
and there are bumps and bruises kissing my bones,
there are dirt and grass stains painting my knees and clothes,
there are patches on the gear, on the pants, on the skin
from rips of rad that stroke my discomfort and
grant me a fight to win against fear.
and there are eye wrinkles made of fun times
forming around bags of forgotten sleep.

Say thanks for the day that comes
when I clamor in the doorway, hand in hand with selflessness
riding a wave of giggles on a board of undying flirtatious hilarity
into a house that radiates warm simplistic comfort
but has no locks
so I may come and go
to and fro
from every day a new adventure and
new states and new sights and new lives.
Always coming back to the dog-fur lined rug
that tickles my circular toes as I drag them over
on my way to fill a thermos with the tastiest brew
that will wash away the dust that coats my guzzling esophagus
and fill my belly with the mountain’s leftovers, satisfying my hunger.
But not for long, only until the sun rises again and it is morning

And it will be another day that needs appreciating,
for when it gets here I will be alive and called forth
to smooch the lips of the land and its most important creatures
puppies, kittens, bees and bugs
whose love is as constant as
the beating of my wild and hefty heart
and the breathing of my battered and blessed breath
with silence and rest  
between each passionate pulse.
Pauses that will be treated with understanding
by those who love with a kind of love
that keeps persevering
that does not fear dormancy
that is as determined as
our intention to live our lives beyond what is expected.
This type of love and those who share it with me
will be Nature’s gifts that make me owe her
something greater that gratitude,
And at morning light on each day that comes, I will go out
and play with the winds
and babysit the plants
and learn from the birds
who will send me off with homework about listening
and about singing songs out of selfless selfishness:
songs not written for the audience or the demand
but with the intent to make people listen and
make it change them for better
whether they want it to or not.
And sometimes the lessons will be tough,
harder than the rocks and cliffs that provide me a playground between classes.
Sometimes the work will go untouched on my desktop because I know
I will get distracted by the Milky Way patterns splattered around me
made from creative bursts of the Sun’s best friends.
But eventually I will find my way back on a road of traced constellations
on the moley face of the ultimate mountain man,
who will flip back open my books and
point to nirvana among the pages of life’s endless studies,
emphasizing and underlining key points with
pens of self-awareness and highlighters of supportive independence.
And he will bookmark the important parts
with reminders of the first time
that I licked my lips
and loved the salt I tasted
and realized that it is just the right amount for the recipe
that makes the tough cookie that I have turned out to be.
A recipe that has been fine-tuned by role models with a taste for bravery
and better baking skills than Martha Stewart, Rachael Ray, and Paula Deen
Combined.
And these cherished bookmarks will litter life
with humble self-love and prideful love for everything else in the world.

And hopefully a satisfactory love for these days that will come,
The days when loving is precisely what is done at all times,
even while bears nap beside our sleeping heads and puke garbage belly.
I will forgive them because I shouldn't have let them get into the trash
in the first place.
Anyways, it will be impossible to be mad while giddied by the silver lining
that shines around all the bad things that just look like storm clouds
to those who predict rain.
The rain is not under our control, so why fight it?
I will not seek to tempt fate nor die unsure of its reasoning
But rain often seems pretty purposeful
and I know where I am going so I will go with purpose
and I know I will be finding good people
in the right place at the right time
whose importance I will never second guess.

But Never forget to thank them for existing
and recognize that the rain and storms that have flooded me
have also made me a river of forward momentum,
and it will be my duty to rescue those who cannot stand stronger than the current.
My quads are toned for they've fought the waves until I stood.

It will be a long, hard day of nothing less than living fully
and watching plans perpetually come to fruition
and giving all of myself to the earth and others
and lovingly recognizing that I have the life that I have worked so hard to live.
When it is finally time for rest and
the universe, with its royal authority, has knighted me
with all of these gifts and responsibilities,
I will get onto the snoozetrain to ZzzzzTown,
curl up in a beam of moonshine then tuck myself in.
With batted eyelashes, heavy eyelids, sore body,
I will sleep so deeply and dream precisely my reality.
And have not a single dream to tell in the morning,
Except for the occasional one about dragons.
David Nelson Jul 2013
Alphabetical Order  

amazing are the stars, that fill the eyes of a woman in love,
broken is the heart of a man, who has been turned away,
crowded are the stairways of the souls, searching the ****** glove,
dichotomous minds each separating, between month and day,

emulating the desires, that never seem to be quite filled,
forever left behind in the wake, of the steamy encounters,
gratification comes so close to the edge, of tears that spilled,
humbling the spirit of drive, as she casually saunters

in and out of her trances, thus requiring a special technique,
just as your about to capture, the flag of your quest,
keeping your head above the line, you get just one peek,
lovers separated, never owned, still merely a guest      

might as well step into the path, of an oncoming fist,
never was any remote chance, that this would be resolved,
over and over the words are repeated, like reading a list,
permanently bringing injury to the dreamers involved

quietly, you grab your bags of lost promises and regrets,
resolving to the facts, that are right in front of your face,  
securing the one of you dreams, don't be placing your bets,
trying too hard, seeking too much, another time, another place

underlining the failures, that are displayed on the page,
verification of these unwanted responses, we certainly don't need,
when oh when, can this heartache release built up rage,
xylem pumping the fluid, will it finally bleed

you're standing there now, with nothing to show for the time,
zanyism is quite commonly blamed for the entire episode.

Gomer Lepoet...
- From Rhymes or Reasons Vol I
Anthony Canchola Apr 2016
MORNING DEW ON IT'S PETALS GLISTEN
 ~                                       IN THE SUN.

YOUR SENSES INDULGE ON IT'S SWEETEST SCENT.
~
REMEMBERING ALL THE HEARTS I
~                                              SHOULD'VE WON.

ONLY TO DWELL ON HOW OUR LOVE JUST
 ~                                                         C­AME AND WENT.

STILL, IT PROUDLY STANDS ABOVE THE REST.
~
EASILY SPOTTED BY IT'S THORNS.
~
INSTANTLY ADDING A 'LOVING
~                                          TOUCH' AT BEST.

STANDING TALL OVER ALL
~                                       THAT IT ADORNES.

YELLOW, RED, PINK OR WHITE.
~
ONLY ONE OTHER FLOWER CAN
~                                   BRING MORE DELIGHT.

UNDERLINING WILL GIVE YOU CLUE,
~                                     TO KNOWING.
SINCE I WAS UNABLE TO UNDERLINE THE FIRST LETTER OF EACH WORD LIKE THE LAST VERSE SAYS.. THE POEM HAS A HIDDEN LAST VERSE IN THE FIRST LETTER OF EACH LINE READ DOWNWARD
R Saba Dec 2013
i looked across and down
and the man's feet tapped
out a rhythm into the dark floor
of the speeding, jostling bus
and the rhythm matched the music
that occupied my ears
and my fingers pressed the tune
into the depths of my pocket
and i looked outside

the trees, aligned along the road
filed past the window
one by one
and the speed at which they passed my vision
matched the even beating of my heart
and the drumming of the cracks
in the cement that hammered
through the wheels and into
the soles of my feet
and i closed my eyes

the words that echoed there
in that dark expanse of thought
were spoken evenly, echoing
into the cavern
in strong, reliant waves
and the beauty of their timing
matched the rhyming of their meaning
and the march of my feet upon the sidewalk
matched the space between the lyrics
marking every single breath
and hanging on each letter
and i opened my eyes

it's funny, because today
the skies were open wide
and the passing of time
was aligned
with every inch of my five senses
one rhythm underlining each word said
one rhythm defining the weight of it all
one rhythm combining the moments together
and as i went to bed
heartbeat thumping in my head
i said
today just felt to me
like a song
and that's a good thing
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i too sat on a park bench invoking the stimulant -
having received none,
do or day, and the *** quill for
a bow: or literature for archery,
resembling replacement -
i just got bored
of people being fidgety with
my vocabulary; people, being
fidgety, with, my vocabulary,
because as i saw plum-coloured-bereaved skin,
i learned to yarn out a hark in a bull's belly...
(smacker above the jaw, underlining
their compensation arguments:
soft-toy mush people, acronym p.e.a.) -
or i in the vocabulary -
                     the spectre in the fog - akin....
hai Plato!                       or no Plato.
      as once was spoken of honour,
  i lived among children and machines...
i lived... among children and machines...
i swear to oath: my ******* have been
discarded... the woman has her sway in
what's desired, rather than what's expected:
                              **** ahoy!
**** ahoy! or the macabre niqab!
                                                sells you curtains:
two for one... believe me, i wasn't too keen
to keep them, have 'em Rotherham style...
             what, comes, after, is, up, to, Hollywood:
char and charcoal and later choke -
or what later became the dictionary -
and last... the poet: flusters of a feather
               encircling a grave to a torpedo
            pinpoint, as said:
                       the wriggling ostrich's head
out from the sand, precursor grave in ashen troughs -
       and together, prior and after:
                     Tao unto those yet to come
with the world as chisel and Teuton memory -
             and those of later expertise:
   the, last, forgotten, chasm, remembered, as, a, yawn.
grace Sep 2016
I long to touch you
To feel your arms wrap around me
Like a blanket on a car ride home
Breathing in a familiar scent
A comforting scent
Breathing in my home
My legs wrapping around yours
Hearing the rain on the window like splatter paint
Smelling ash and wood and moss
Your strong arms wrapped around my waist
Tracing the curve of my side with your finger
Like underlining your favorite line in a book you've read ten times
I don't want to fall asleep and miss it
I want you
Always

— The End —