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‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et *** illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.’

                For Ezra Pound
                il miglior fabbro

I. The Burial of the Dead

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony *******? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
            Frisch weht der Wind
            Der Heimat zu
            Mein Irisch Kind,
            Wo weilest du?
‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying ‘Stetson!
‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
‘You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!’

II. A Game of Chess

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carved dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
‘Jug Jug’ to ***** ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

‘My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
‘Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
‘What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
‘I never know what you are thinking. Think.’

I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

‘What is that noise?
                          The wind under the door.
‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’
                    Nothing again nothing.
‘You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember

    I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It’s so elegant
So intelligent
‘What shall I do now? What shall I do?’
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
‘With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
‘What shall we ever do?’
                             The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself,
hurry up please its time
Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you.
And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said.
Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
hurry up please its time
If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can’t.
But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I’ve never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don’t want children?
hurry up please its time
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
hurry up please its time
hurry up please its time
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

III. The Fire Sermon

The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . .
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck
And on the king my father’s death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc’d.

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female *******, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
‘Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.’
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.

‘This music crept by me upon the waters’
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

      The river sweats
      Oil and tar
      The barges drift
      With the turning tide
      Red sails
      To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
      The barges wash
      Drifting logs
      Down Greenwich reach
      Past the Isle of Dogs.
                  Weialala leia
                  Wallala leialala

      Elizabeth and Leicester
      Beating oars
      The stern was formed
      A gilded shell
      Red and gold
      The brisk swell
      Rippled both shores
      Southwest wind
      Carried down stream
      The peal of bells
      White towers
                  Weialala leia
                  Wallala leialala

‘Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.’
‘My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised ‘a new start’.
I made no comment. What should I resent?’
‘On Margate Sands.
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of ***** hands.
My people humble people who expect
              la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest


IV. Death by Water

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
                                A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
                               Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

V. What the Thunder Said

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock wi
Mari Anjelyn Jan 2015
Unloved* and undesired
Felt like the universe conspired
Unfocused and uninspired
Tell me, will I ever get tired?
Mystic Ink Plus Dec 2018
Let me know
What was that
That made you
To choose him/her

She/He replied
Leave it, or listen
He/She is the future
Nothing more

Being an observant and a traveller of examined life I come to this conclusion. Tragedy does not happen, from the very beginning  It is "Us" who pave the path within. With the unawareness we focus to travel to the destination where we don't belong. Throughout the journey we keep on dreaming with a hope of a good day making us vulnerable to the threshold, when even a single undesired word, few seconds delay, lyrics of the background music could unexpectedly break us.
Trust me we all are fragile.

Let it be simple, if we are watering the leaves of the plant and hope to grow, we get the result what we have to accept. Sometime mishaps happens, we are the culprit. How dare we expect to water the roots of the plant in neighbor's terrace and wish for the fruit to be ours.

We may smell the fragrance if the kind breeze blow towards our side.
Even we may always get the fragrance if we follow the direction of the wind.
The choice is ours.
Does it worth?
Will we be happy?
Can we hide the pain?

The choice is all ours.
Genre: Dark Diary
Theme: Examined Life || Words of wisdom
faith Nov 2017
i am tired,
my eyes start to close,
i feel undesired,
my body is disposed.
Alan S Bailey Feb 2015
I still remember your eyes
I still remember you always holding me
Keeping me safe from harm with all your charm
I remember feeling you looking at me, and I
Know you're still there, you're so wonderful!
I couldn't help but fall in love with you
And get crushes everywhere else, too.
It's just so unfair to have found such
Lovely romances, and suffer heartbreaks!
I can't help where my heart
Goes, but that's why I'm torn apart...
Please remember I'm always here and so is
My love too, it's not easy to be what society
Wants of you, especially love! Love is wild and
It's so undesired to be told I'm a cheater
When I have an excuse, I'm only human too!
Just remember I wasn't born with a defective
Heart, and it isn't easy to be torn apart.
Jake Espinoza Sep 2012
Write something about nothing, call it poetry.
Quiet jet-engine speed turmoil indecision on the topic.
Silent bodies, screaming minds, communication desired and avoided
Chance glances, glimpses. Hoofing it.
Write poetry about nothing, call it something, but only in whispers to yourself, pretend to hope to be heard, have interest feigned or genuine directed your way.
        Confusion. Mingled strings of internal conversation.
        Misdirected. I can’t think crooked, focalisation se présente sideways. Self-expression in non-poetic terms seems likely. Saw girls, one on Detroit street, summer clothes and quiet face, scampered inside from the yard littered. Saw her again in the street next to a minor catastrophe, passed her by and looked.
        Let’s take a second to breathe, introduce a silence to the mind so that everything that comes can be better heard. So much background noise, minor thoughts mingle into static, almost impossible to interpret the bemused psychobabble. Empty it out, slow down, relax, and maybe you’ll begin to recognize coherent thoughts; organize the jumble of words fighting to be understood all out of order and as yet meaningless. Thoughts keep revolving, recycling; the girl, she reminded you of Melissa. Same style, a girl whose mood is always a grateful summer to your wintry perspective. Refreshing reminder, easy on the eyes. This girl’s likeness and your friend the poet, separated; his utensils. The paintbrushes he flourished about to create were not wooden and sable but liquid and smoke. That small ******* secret voice suggesting unwholesome things, acts unbefitting of brotherly conduct. He is my true brother, my family; an extension of my own soul. I went to treatment, they broke me down, whittled away at my rough hewn surface to make sculpture, a replica of others, manufactured to meet requirements and specifications deemed necessary for target successes. This talk of will, sacrificing my own, force-fed trust and mantras begetting themselves in circular fashion, turning in sync with the earth’s rotation upon its axis in its course of necessary revolution.
        Expended effort and time saved or served, goals impossible until forgotten, let go empty space ellipsis let god. Self-supplanted in unpredictable incomprehensible present, trying to avoid thoughts of crumpled papers in paper bags serving as receptacles for things undesired or abandoned or too truthful, I’m forgetting what it is to hide from myself which makes it possible to disappear. Tune in to the present, your train of thought – a queue – crowding, crowds rushed and frantic me first says everyone impatiently awaiting their turn for attention. Starved but forgotten proper nutrition. Self-criticism equating to self-analysis – spontaneity – uncontrollable, unforeseeable in the present aromatic mixture of mason jars swarmed with colored lights beautiful dim in darkness in which beer was swilled, time spent in unkempt kitchens nervous, standing walking evading settlement peace or rest, this is excitable discomfort, anything to slow down or feel a surrogate thereof. Forgotten words remembered, past rooms beautiful dim in darkness, proper illumination – see everything just right, not too brightly though not too dark. Living in this room for now, seeing as though immersed, submerged in memory of smiling faces easy laughter, cold-eyes Vera and well-at-ease. There is a wealth of self-acceptance. These people, their faces shine contentment, comfort, and mine is manufactured. I’ve become a factory where everything is sought after and nothing is attained because my goals are intangible, comprehensible but beyond aid, sorry, it’s just the way you are, maybe you’ll know one day, but we can’t help. We don’t waste our time with questions of absurdity, we live in this present moment, and that’s how we do it – no plans until plans come. No thoughts until thoughts come. Easy transitions in conversations, we don’t think of how to be ourselves, we just do it because we slow down, we know we are breathing, and it is not in our nature to forget it. It is not in our nature to live in our heads, to flail in a swell of questions less dense than water, we attend. We simply are.
        This is contentment. This is their seamless skin where mine corresponds to scars and rabid suspicious scratches dug deep. They were content with their surfaces; I was convinced of malice subcutaneous hence the scars and blood breathing open air. It is this suspicion that draws a line, places me on one side, them on another; it is this curiosity intrinsic and ironically unquestioned that digs the trenches in shape of graves. This fatal imaginary need for understanding where there is nothing to be understood. Questions are my poison, self-manufacturing, self-sufficient destruction, coming hot off the assembly line in my skull. Questions incubating further questions error: implement infinite loop, killall. Find the bug, recompile, run. Sit still, learn from the wind and atmosphere you’ve learned to sense which makes you an outsider only because you wanted this somehow. Uncertainty, confused reflection, arbitrary comments; coincidences, conspiracy, breakpoint. Programs running in smooth operation.
        Radiohead blaring, self-conscious self-care, these people enjoy themselves with unconscious grace, they let themselves be and immediately I tear my mind in two to understand what they understand without understanding. It is the nature of love and music that displays the closest correlation. These people are my idealized notion of grace, rendered more so by speed of processing, depth of analysis so that they appear not only graceful creatures, but with grace amplified as if observing them in slow-motion. So much contingent on understanding, contingency notwithstanding if I was comfortable with ignorance, if questions did not occur. These people are appropriate; balanced, no need for brutal introspection, no need to stir up sand composing the sea bed. These people, they understand certain things I cannot as of yet. They understand, they know without knowing that things are the way they are because things are the way they are and that’s ok, we’re ok, and everything is and will always be ok as long as we know well enough to leave well enough alone. We are each other, serving compliments to sainthood.
        ...let go, and be one with us, for love is in our hearts.
It took a few lines to get into it. Also, this is meant to be read aloud, somewhat intensely.
Sentimental person, stars in your eyes and longing in your heart.
Looking everywhere but within, broken. Sentimental person, lost and stolen.

Leaning on a falling shoulder, drowning in another man's tears. Everybody running,  running from you.

Always knew you were pretty, but never truly understood your beauty; your worth tossed aside like an old rug or blanket.

Never stepping back, never taking a breath, your worn out body on overdrive. Spending your days in a psychological prison, a suicidal mind; a deadly master.

Walking with armored shadows by your sides, defending you from adulation and affection. Much like a wealthy man in an infamous alley, the territory of an infamous criminal.

A daily shedding of tears. The hot waxy tears of a candle rolling down your charred cheek. You continue to burn alone, ever surrounded by darkness.

Always reaching out for others, until your arm is ripped off, now you're limbless; disabled, stuck in the mud.

A waste of space, according to your unjustified terms, a lonely species that serves no purpose.

Fearing yourself, hiding yourself and disregarding yourself. Labeling yourself as a burden to others.

Ghostly smiles and ill-suited facades, eyebrows dragging themselves towards the earth's centre.

A body-builder's weight on your soft-jointed feet, the mass of your lonely misery strapped to your fickle ridge.

Being used; you in exchange for your acceptance. Clinging to past love because your present has none.

Enduring the pain of stationary motion,    going nowhere fast, constantly crashing into tragedies, repeatedly ramming into heartbreak.

Walking with cracked and bleeding soles, like an American Slave, whip marks on your back, a result of self-induced punishment.

Every wake is unwanted, everyday painful. Living for you, is like sea salt on a new born wound, only it never seems to heal.

Your body taken over by plaguing parasites, under your own toxic control. Forced to walk to the beat of a tormentor's drum, your tormentor, you.

Your tongue removed, unable to express yourself. Even in the tongue's presence, pain forces you to keep your mouth shut.

Nearing the Precipice, afraid of jumping, but desperate to be hauled off. Anxious to fall into the river down below, the River of The Dead, where, in your hopes, life is happier.

Your wrists and chest like sliced beef, every tear drop accompanied by the unwilling swipe of your razor blade. The redness of your being splashed onto the floor, then wiped away before anyone notices.

Hiding in a thorn bush from your predetermined destiny, each day comes and thorns dig deeper into your blue skin. Thick needles that you've become physically immune to, thick needles that still emotionally hurt.

Sharks further below circle around your tasteless body, patiently waiting to change you, rearrange your features, devour you for their own satisfaction.

Plebeian people disguised as friends, they show passing interest in your melancholy,  your sadness is what they will soon forget.

Wandering and stumbling in a plain white plane. No colour, no sound, no mercy, no gain. Trapped in Dysphoria. Trapped in a worm hole, eternally alone.

Forever falling into a bottomless pit, a hole reserved for the undeserving. But unlike other times, the rope let go of you. The rope that you clung tightly to, the rope that gave up on you.

One tone played on your broken piano, dysfunctional instrument. Your second chance stolen from you, your body deemed as junkyard worthy and thrown into the jaws of a junkyard dog.

Your mirror image distorted, visions clouded, unrecognizable is your face and your pupils, a vacant shell where your soul once hid.

Relying on heavy drugs after heavy drinking becomes ineffective. Heavy feet, a heavy heart, heavy burdens, heavy sadness.

Given a useless name by those who never knew you, forced to go by it, forced to go by them.

Your sweet pink lips hiding, behind them, bitter secrets. Secrets that you've become too ashamed to discuss even with yourself in the darkest night.

Cut short by the knees, not given a chance to run like the others. You've no choice but to let the storm cloud rest on your soft-haired skull. And when the cloud releases its rain, the drops are sharp like daggers. They shock and stab and hurt like the truth.

Your teeth white and pure, are the prison bars that trap you inside you, your smile is now your limited daylight break, a breath of barely fresh air before returning to your forcible detention.

Sentimental person, wallowing in your pitiful emotion, an undesired sensation that seems to follow you physically.

Emotional person, more valuable than you think; more exceptional than you Know.
O, but needst I to listen to t'ese wishes, benign as t'ey are, but wild and inevitable-yet inaudible as dreams. Burnt by sophisticated passion, and whirring hells of torpid astonishment as my being at t'is moment, but smooth and glowing tenderly with affection-as thy love still I long for, woven so secretly ye' neatly alongst th' tangled paths of my mind! Yes, and its layers-turbulent patches of skin, yellow skin, crafted passionately by whose Creator, and imbued with unconquerable infatuation just like 'tis now. But no breathing soul canst I bestow it on-this overarching destiny, healthy and red as t'ose garden plums-impatient in t'eir wait for the shiny May summer-aside from thee, as 'tis but always thee, Kozarev! Uninvited as I am, by any other'ness' t'at might as well enrich my love story, as enough I feel, about t'at unrelenting history! Thou art th' sole man, th' only justified heart whom I adoreth, and want, so selfishly, to marry! As ripe as t'eir lips might be-but stifling, and immature in constitution, thinkable only when juxtaposed merrily with t'ose squirming nymphets about yon schoolyard; corrupted not as a newborn fern-with thighs carefully fastened to greedy-looking material, basked in immaculate sunlight, and so fresh to human sight, when all t'ese circumstances art but chaste no more, but beg, beg our hearts, and implore our worrying souls, to stay.

O Kozarev! Startled wasth I, to enter into thy proceedings, yester! Like an imbecile now my whole countenance-and its entire, ****** constitution-ah, but depleted, harmfully depleted, by laughter. What a raft of cynical conflagration! How grimly sadistic, ye' poetic in some ways! And t'ese remarks, and praises of love-begin but to dwelleth upon me all over again. Distracted is my firmness-by thy invincible power, guileless as thou hath always been, seeming not to hath heard my volatile heartbeat; and how doth I uttereth t'ose chuckles to my own mirrors upon flinging back into my bedchamber whenst our exchanges areth over. But indignant art thou not to my reddish blushes-which, like t'ose thorns of morning roses-enliven my soul up from within, after t'eir bleak winter!-and blanch darkly all my griefs away. In a thousand years and I shalt still miss thee, just like t'is, but 'tis just now t'at futility seemeth no more capable of wooing my calamity-and indulge it so adversely t'at it shalt turn towards me! Yes, how thou hath, with holiness, touched and entrapped my amorous passion, my love! In t'ese dreams-flourishing dreams, just like th' greenish pond and its superficial foliage outside, I but walk by thy moonlight and be blessed in thy fascination. Mighty and balmy shalt be th' sky overhead, hanging aloft with its mild arrogance, smelling like roofs of restrained rain-musty and soaking with glittering reproof; and wan abomination. But pure! Purity is but its sanctity, and protected by miraculous heavens, dwindling about like whitewashed statues being shoved around by a deadly lagoon of children-unknowing of what tomorrow shalt baffle us on, with faces of steel-like jubilance. And th' trees! Tropical wands be t'eir refuge-but horrifying as t'eir remorse-ah, in which souls shalt be brought about whirls of contemptuous winds, enslaved and stupefied all th' time-by mounds and havens of gruesome cruelty. But no care doth I fix on yon mortification-as thou art t'ere with me, Kozarev! Strolls shalt we take-t'ose encompassed by purplish and cheerful verdure, who admire us from t'eir gold-like stems afar-and into each other's cleavages shalt we retreat, by th' means of stories-yes, my love, stories of glee, pleasure, and yet-uneasiness, in order t'at t'ey shalt be wounded away and superseded by joy. Our love, rings of love, t'at is to come as immediate as nature might permit, and shalt allow us to admit-as yester hath unfolded, by bracing my feet for bouncing outside, across t'ese carpeted tiles-into th' very vicinity of thy chamber. Ah, thy handsome face! As white as pearls-yet frail as th' bulbous chirping snow. May I console 'em, my love, by my hands proffered-in th' most honourable marriage I desireth to come? But look, look afar, how t'ose stars-in t'is merciless universe, whispereth to one another, and talk gaily between t'eir wicked souls, of plans on bewildering our love-our bonds of vivid, mature fragrant compliments! How t'eir jealousy is mockery, and a swelling threat to us. And th' moon t'at is combing the hair, again, of t'at vicious ethereal princess-with a snooty swish of anot'er black hair-which is but a sea of anguished torment to me, should she descend the steps of her own ***** maidenhood-and carry herself off into our earth. Hark, how she doth it! How heathen, and indecent! But canst thou hear that-Kozarev? Canst thou be knowing of her shamelessness-and her counterfeit jewels? And her claws, her foster claws-ah, sharp as bullets, and notorious as her own evil heart! Luxury t'at is fake, ye' miserably auspicious! How I loathe her! Boil doth my temper at her genteel sight-and hostile auras, with t'at pair of necklaces t'at wasth born from falsehood, and ah! concealed deceit by portraits of clever contentment. How should thou hath seen her lips twitch over and over again, upon her setting t'at blackening imbecile gaze on me-me, who albeit from th' same brethren, but far from her flawless marches and stately refinement. And a creature, just a minuscule part of th' others, t'at she deems unworthy ye' deserving of torture! Silver and gold is she exclusively acquainted with, whenst torches in my garden art not even set alight. But look! How thou proudly saunter forward to welcome her, and salute her unforgiving cordiality with th' marks of thy lips, on her hand! And how t'is view scythes my chest, my heart, and tears it open just like th' blade of a sneaky knife shalt do. I am dying, dying from t'is tampered heart! And t'ese candles of my heart t'at hath been heartlessly watered-look how t'ey art brimming with sweat in cold demise. O Kozarev! Hath I been too late to seek thy love? Thy hands, my faultless prince, art but th' only mercy I canst pray for! Hath nature been so unfair as to savour all my dreams, ah, and even t'is single longing-and bequeath onto me a tragic life of undesired ghostlike mimes-in th' wholeness of my future? Thou art th' lost charm of t'at wholeness, my love, and should be I bereft of thee again, I shalt but be robbed of my entirety-and pride, womanly pride t'at I sadly out'ta hath. Ah, Kozarev, in thy movements doth I find bliss-a creaking blow to my wood-like stillness, and a cure for my sickly contrivances. I came here for thee, and always didst! Canst thou hear t'at-and satisfy this fierce longing with just a second of thy soundless touch? Lights flicker, and smile in t'eir subsequent death-but t'is is a token of subservient passion. And I shalt not give up like 'em-as t'is life greets us once only, before transporting us into regions of th' unknown-yes, it doth, my love, wherein eerieness is still questioned and overtly unfathomed. Ah, and before death I long to have you-Kozarev, and sit as we shalt-side by side, charmed by our generous yet moronic affection, until th' earth doth make us part, and shalt then we retreat into our most dimmed apertures.

Thou art my blissful paradise, Kozarev! Thy presence but bringst out my well of solemn cheers and proud, sun-like congeniality. And in t'is warm, gentle spring I shalt write but merely on thy vivacity! O imagination-blame, and curse her as thou might do, is in fact, my key, to my newborn triumph and infallible victory; th' marks of glimmering satisfaction-and visible restoration of my sin, my soul. T'is is because I believe, strongly, with all th' forlorn might of my heart, t'at sincerity shalt forever tower over every tweak of malevolent innocence and repressed wishes for destruction. 'Tis, Kozarev, is th' voice emanating towards me from within; and bracing t'ese lips, and *****, for facing her-t'at accursed rival of mine, with bravery and independence I hath never been brought to acknowledge. Ah, petrified as my customs let me be, conviction shalt stay within my hands; and t'at shadow-o, picture of our old days together, on th' veranda-yes, decorated with lights of our love, spur me on. Thy love is born as, and devoted to mine, my love! Crafted, shaped, and designated for me only-and to be mine, only mine-for evermore. We art but a chain of perfect concord, as God hath so sweetly decreed! And I shalt doth nothing else as remarkable as determine to retrieve it-with all th' charms and intellect t'at I possess-and my words as sugar sweet, as well as th' leaves of grace and my becoming, comely wit.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
The Seven - The Mashup

In memory of my mother who passed away recently, I wrote, or intended to write seven (only six were actually done) new poems themed about her, her passing and some perspective on life and death.  All were read and I am deeply appreciative.  I have consolidated them all here, in order, though not necessarily the order in which they were written. But the order does matter, as it reflects the change in my mood with each passing day.   Perhaps I will write the seventh someday, but not now, not soon.

Thank you all so much for incredibly kind words of sympathy. I am not a dweller, so I set myself a goal to complete this vow, this task, in a week to correspond to the seven days of mourning the immediate family observes after the burial (the shiva, shiva meaning 7).  For seven days, the bereaved family "sits shiva," sitting on low, uncomfortable stools and the comforters come to share their grief, praise the deceased, from mourning till late at night

#1 Shiva

I am confused - what day is it?
Windows tell day or night, a necessary but a condition insufficient.
The days have no distinguishing marks, a video stuck on
Repeat - a single track of recollected tales, prayers add a mild seasoning.

Though brief is this week of pre-sentencing hearings,
If one cannot dice the time into portions,
Then, there can be no pardon,
No early release date, from Phase One.

Rinse grief. Repeat. Seven cycles.
Apply stain-stick at the intersection of
Bloodied hurts and dimming memories,
Strangers secreting, spilling on you secrets unwanted.

This play, saw it many decades ago,
Before there was poetry, children.
A young man of twenty one,
Very afraid, silently, of the newest unknown,
His father, cancer won.

I hated it then. Now experienced, I hate it more.
This semi-catharsis, a tapestry tale wove of faded pasts
Twisting an heirloom blade into an old wound,
the original cast, a new revival, playwright, regrettably, deceased...

First time at bat, hid in a small room, away from this tradition.
Beating my head against a wall privately,
That being my preferred manner of mourning,
Not this Broadway show, twice a day, seven days.

Rituals well intentioned, a time tested method,
nonetheless, jail time for me, a/k/a, the boy, the brother.
Familiarity comforts some. Me? A prison uniform.
I write my own poems, I am not a Borg collective.

Cast as Son, my obligations specific, aged.
My Hamlet doublet, cut/torn, messaging my somber status,
The cuts deepest, invisible, but all see this child
Drowning in eye pools that continuously self-replenish.

I'll do the time, this show the longest running ever,
Did forty years as son-shadow of a father-man,
Tacked another concurrent sentence for his woman,
End Date: Indeterminate...

The low stools will reappear, seven days for me,
Yet my job as poet not fully done, until this be read!
Leave 'em laughing o'er this Official Release from the obligatory,
Read, sit but once, read this poem, this script, this story, and be freed.

#2 Hover^

My Children:

Ancestral homes oft possess,
a unique scent, product of an atomizer, a memorizer

Musty time, the odor of
faded and shadow,
hollow, yet hallowed.

Somewhere along the road,
a residence transforms from home to
shrine-storage unit-hospital room-tomb-records depository.

Dust, expired perfumes,
the sweet odor of crumbling, yellowing books, disinfectant,
stale medicine chests, years of furniture polish, sabbath candles.

It is my smell -
the parfumerie of my history, a customized blend,
a commissioned work in 1964, entitled, more accurately, emitted,

Photographs, memories, and paper scraps
my very own Preservation Hall Jazz Band.
Yet the most potent firing pin for historical retrieval,
the molecules of scent.

Soon all will be dismantled, discarded,
just plain dis'ed.

Confused and disenchanted,
my departure orderly but, in a disordered fashion.
unable to seed one last kiss upon your forehead,
nonetheless, surreptitiously enter your neurons
though my entity, away, across the miles-wide Hudson River.

For three days, I will hover invisible,
implanting myself once more,
slapping your mucous membranes,
transversing this pathway, an additive to your cells, nuclei,
where my markers always reside.

Adding one more ingredient to your inner vision,
strengthening the formless structure, my altered state.
This odor, keep close, fresh, no becoming musty too, my scent,
the last of your senses knowing me, a true keepsake.

Hold me close and hold me fast.
This one last magic spell I cast.
This one last magic smell I set fast.
You cannot hold it, but it will cradle you.
You cannot see or touch it, but when contact comes,
You will see me, hold me, as in the days of your youth,
When you loved me best,
And I, you.

^According to the Talmud, the soul hovers over the body for three days after death.  The human soul is somewhat lost and confused between death and before burial, and it stays in the general vicinity of the body, until the body is interred.

#3 Orphan

The funeral will commence at 11:30 am.
Gives me one last review time before the
Final Exam.

Panicked, I discover a whole new chapter
for which I am wholly unprepared,
though its inevitable presence was
assuredly knowable long in advance.


It doesn't fit, occur, imagery is of a young child to
soon abandoned, not a late-in-life curmudgeonly poet-boy,
who has been multi-times reincarnated.

I add this title to my list
of proper ways to address me,
titles earned by dint of hard work,
or just unlucky luck.

This new status, orphanhood,
bequeaths no special privileges,
other than, a semi-official
societal permission slip
to feel bereft, lost, and compose poetry.

Know a real orphan, from early, early on,
has never recovered and
never will for it is just impossible.
Just impossible.

So whom am I to make light of
my undesired, unrequested new degree?

I accept it and to my surprise,
It hurts.

# 4 Judgement Day

After you put in some time on this planet,
You kinda know what the world thinks
About you, your rep, what they don't say to your face,

Sure, thingies, time and incidence and circumstance
Can sometimes cause makeovers external,
But each of us know the quality of ourselves,
Self-certification, you can out your internal self,
Better than anybody else.

So I inquire of myself, about myself,
what will you be remembered for, if at all?

Why do I ask, today, now?
Do we not ask ourselves this
On the low down, subconsciously everyday?

Is this a poem?
Most assuredly...
And a trial.
You, the judge the jury and the prosecutor,
The defender, if u can, if u will.

For seven days my mother was adjudged,
Family, friends, hers, her children's,
Almost an 80 years of live, in color, HD, looking back video,
Tales told, memories dug up, old photos explicated,
Who what when where of the details of one women's voyages,

I cannot, I will not, do the details here.
Suffice, acts of kindness, faith in people,
Feminist in a strange land, a chance taker,
Gifts of memories, streaming of adoration,
Many strangers are witnesses to me,
This trial a runaway train.

I am outed.  There will be no such verdict for me.
I am outed.  There will be no trial needed, just a
Summary judgement delivered.

Out yourself.
What will you be remembered for, if at all?

#5 Summer Girls In Their Summer Clothes

Oh yes!

The streets of Manhattan, jewel dusted,
Summer girls in their  summer clothes,
Bedeck the streets and make men say, Thank You!
To their creator.

Little black dresses, previously immortalized^,
Seasoning and sauces, halter tops and jeans cutoff,
Give thanks for the tanks, revel in the revelations,
For God created man and women in his/her teasingly bare image.

Yo! Dude!  This is number 5 in the series,
Of sad and somber, re dad and mother, ***?
Have you lost perspective, not read the directive,
You're in mourning, time to be introspective,
Not dis-respective!

My mother was a beautiful women.
Till the day she died.
Yes, physically beautiful at 98.

She, was a poem.
For her exterior was suffused, burnished,
By the spirit residing within her body

I ask myself, why not judge a book by its cover?
Her cover was exquisite, but what gave her a glow,
A radiance, was her modesty, her love of humanity.

What's under our cover?

^ Nat Lipstadt · May 30
The Little Black Dress (and its magic prowess!)

*#6 & 7 Live like you're dying

Perhaps you know the lyric, the song?

Live like your dying.
Dying caught my ear, my eye, can't imagine why.
Con-Textual emendation, Natalino style.

Live like your writing.

Yes, that makes sense...
Embrace with passion each new session
Charge every second stanza with ruminating rhythms,
Cut the wires to the air traffic control sensory tower, go solo,
Pulse each word, beat all into a plowshare, even the anger,
Even the hate, dressed to ****, in words, forgivable...

Grant the mundane, the insane, even the pain of tragedy,
You refuse so hardily to glorify, grant it and
Record it all - a moment,
A royal audience with all
Your writing parts.

No fancy footing, keep it simple.
No jesters in rain puddles,
Let images of clouds of sand
Born and perish  in other's eyes and sighs, let verbal games bedevil other
Wooden puppet princes drinking fairy ales.


Write clean and clear,
Let the sheerest wonderment of a new combination,
Be the titillation of the tongue's alliteration,
No head scratching at oblique verbal gestation,
Let words clear speak, each letter a speck,
That gives and grants clarification, sensational.

You, afternoon quenching Coronas, white T shirts,
Sun glazes and later, a summer eve's Sancerre,
Wave gazing on the reality of rusted beach chairs,
Babies sandy naked, washed in waves of Chardonnay,
The traffic-filled word-way highways and bay ways,
Exiting at the Poet's Nook, for exegesis & retrieval.

Write of:
Body shakes and juices, skin-staining tongues,
Taking her, afternoon, unexpectedly, her noises your derring-do!
Broken tear ducts, the Off switch, so busted, write about
Real stuff.

Write not in fear of dying
Angels delivering bad news in vacuum tubes,
Write joyous, psalms of loving life,
Live like your writing,
Write like your living,
So you may die well.
hallucinations Dec 2014
and really, love is the absolute worst, is it not ?
(c) hallucinations | twenty-fourteen
O, why but I am like t'is! Hath I, since t'at last sober night,
as th' wan, dull clouds crept nearby, been bequeathing
tragic, credulous insecurity to myself. Like t'at frail moonbeam
disturbed by starless rain! And a turbulent voyage
didst I take, alongst my dreary sleep, into th' grounds
of scythed lands-full of horror, nightmarish leaps,
and dire-some terrors. Why didst I do so! I hath come, to comprehend
not, why t'is turbulence of brave grossness seemeth like nothing else
but perniciously irredeemable, as though I accidentally, or even
consecutively-inflicted it, without the wakeful knowingst
of my brains. Indecipherable! T'is vacant delirium of mockery, and its abysmal hearth
inside-set alight by invisible flames-torches of hell, and gruesome
shrugs of untimely malevolence. Insatiable deployment, indeed! How
miraculous it would be, should I be free from t'is inconvenience
in th' course of some upcoming days, but still, doth I hope so!
Waggish remarks, jests, and playful turns of ancient riddling-
areth but exchanged outside, with airs so snobbish, from t'ose
pampered youngeth dames, blind to t'eir silenced world's grievous
suffering, and laborous perspiration. How unfair t'eir fiendish hearts areth-
once and againeth-sneering at th' pure, stoical beds of t'ose airy rivers,
andth t'eir dim solitude, with t'ose rings of presumptuous laughter!
Spaciousness in its holy sphere, untouched by th' turmoil t'at lingers on it
surface, neither driven away nor shaken by ungratefulness. Toil
improperly apprehended! And insulted as it might become, tenderness
shalt it leave behind, insolence but be crafted along th' insidious rims
of its face. Marvelous in wild ways! Wild, devilish ways! And unwatched
by th' stomping blokes on its visage, shalt it rise, rise like an unforgiving
tidal wave, soulless in its aliveness, blighting and scratching
t'eir shoulders, with blades unmarred-dormant powers t'at ought not
to be ignored by seconds t'at feebly tick away. And t'eir ends
shalt 'ey meet, granted liberally by t'eir
deliberate neglect, and repulsive indulgence.

In th' nothingness of aggravation I am but naturally not a hard-hearted creature,
too of a stony appearance I possess not-intimate and even, t'at should be how
my being is paraphrased mercifully! With t'ose perpetual-and even limitless-
replenishing jewels of ardour, flawed only by harmless faults, I would consider myself treasured
by nature, o t'at precious creature whom hath so adorably vouchsafed t'is
spring-like life to me; warmth can I gratefully feel in t'is winter every day,
in my prayers, studies, and amongst t'ose invigorating fits
of my daily perambulations. How truthful, aye t'is confession is made! As I am
but a pious, sanctified child, ye' in spite of being a humaneth as I am, a snake is bound
to dwell within my *****, asleep in its quiet slumbers, unawakened so long
as I unbetray my redolent virtues.
But last night! How nigh my soul from t'at anxious burst of agitation,
melancholiness so undesired but abruptly avenged my silence. My indulgent
silence! Th' one frame of my unresting mind t'at I so fastidiously preserved!
Hatred encountered my countenance, and bifurcated my ******
dispositions; flew into anger then I-so sudden as gripped my soul was
by paths of hostility sent onto me-overwhelmed by t'is ineloquent treatment,
howled in despair, and agony was all I felt within my cheerless heart-
until everything amounted into a blurry shadow-insignificant as it was,
but th' fraud was still t'ere-stupefying desire, so ardent within th' leaves
of my conscience, to slaughter even th' most innocent skins-
'till no more breath t'ey shalt but gasp for. And triumph shalt I procure,
ascendancy shalt be painted onto my palms, and opulent pride shalt I be
endowed with, so unlike all t'is hateful remorse, and slithering chastisement!
Amongst t'ose seas of disillusionment; whilst frowning in desperation-combusting
all t'ose wretched spirits wert all I wasth but able to think of;
and all I conjectured wert proven worthy of my thoughts. Inevitable! Entrenched
was its root-t'is flourishing tiny devil on my inner self, as it is-'till th' morning but
retreated and vanquished t'is gust of little hell, which had decoyed me
and my lithe genuineness like a trivial shell.

O dear! My flawless prince, hath thou but thoroughly gone from me?
Still, a painting of thy kiss roam silently th' rooms of my heart. Now scanty
as to emptiness, roaring fussily as to loneliness, for thy being unhere!
Distorted hath been now its breaths-adored only by groans
of misery-like caprices t'at laid unwanted, abhorred by t'eir masters-
for t'eir yesterday's pricelessness, and valuable crowns! How ungrateful masters,
my dear! And how t'eir proceedings shalt recall
t'ose pristine shines, yes, my dear, (of my golden gems) t'at areth gone,
with unsounding returns t'at are unexplainable, and too unattainable-
and shalt remain dim be t'eir whereabouts, amongst t'ese winds
of fervent, but sultry days. O, come back, my love, come back to my arms,
and hate me not, for my threads are woven alongst thy charms-
ah, t'ose threads of life, of soulfulness, and unabashed mortality!
Clashes of feelings, emotions, and mutual usurpation
of endless infatuation. Chaste, and unimpure, passion! Yes, yes, my love-
t'at's how we ou't 'a be, next to t' fireside, lulling each ot'er to sleep,
and welcoming t'ose night dreams with hearts so dear, lullabies
so near to our ears, of t'at unwavering breaths of passion, and unchangeable
affection, for th' rest of our lives! Leave me not-once more, but stay hereth
with me, and make me forgive
and forget cheerethfully t'is seditious, thoughtless, but most of all
irresolute conflagration.
Rose Haven Feb 2013
The meaning behind what time can hold
That desired instance where patience does not exist
This creates a dependency
Where time is the unwanted, insufficient, undesired; time gives time meaning
Time is healing
Time is undesired
Where the world finds this undesired, I treasure every drop of time
Sydney Victoria Oct 2013
I Wish I Could Explain My Current State Of Mind.
Undesired Instead Empire.. Ahaha:)

There Is So Much I Wish To Say About This Feeling Of Loss And Sadness Which Dwells Within My Hollow And Cooling Heart...
David Crum Apr 2014
Tightness, wetness
******* again
Pain on skin
Nerves numb
Hips meet
Back arching
Body aching
Hair pulling
Teeth grazing
Faking, groaning
******, phony
Over with, finally
Sadness is stifling
Staring at the ceiling
Sigh at the thought
Of wasted virginity
Chris T Apr 2014
i'm a loose hair on your diner scrambled eggs:
another food based oldie.
His Voice,
His Face,
His smell,
His Hands,

The time has come for the truth to spell from the base of my soul,
The time has come for nature to take control.
I love him like a bee love honey,
I love him like the existence to provide thru the concept of money.
His presence aluminates the area in which he stands,
The personality in his walk makes me yearn to understand.

The concept of this man

His fragrance is like moms homemade me pie,
Making my mouth watery and craving for more.
He is the vacation I have been procrastinating on,
Yet he is what my mind tends to explore.
His eyes talk to me loud while he tone remains silent,
Loving this creature is making my love violent.

Dying to be released, breaking windows for exposure,
Im closet phobic yet I find myself sheltered in a dark enclosure.
I know I want to know and Im in a position in which I can.

But the concept of this man.

Leaves me afraid to believe and to fearful to release,
But somehow when amongst him I am sprinkled with peace.
One soft kiss on my forehead and my worries cease,
Leaving my soul relaxed and at ease.
The strength in his faith is the beauty in his eyes,
The power in his testimony makes my blood pressure rise.
Life has journeys that are so un-definable,
Where did he come from I thought I was un-findable.
With my eyes closed and I place my feet on land,
God how am I ever suppose to understand?

The concept of this man... From The Unheard Words
Terry Collett Jun 2016
Even as
her husband Brian
shags her,
Nuala thinks of Una.

Even as his body
pounds into her
in passionate gaming,
she wants it to be
Una there not him,
not Brian.

She lies there
allowing him his pleasure,
his need,
listening to his sighs,
and grunts,
and 4 minute workout.

Even as he shudders
himself to a big ******,
she feels nothing,
but a tingle of regret
and unearned sweat.

He lies back on
his side of the bed,
taking large gulps
of bedroom air.

She just looks up
gives the ceiling a stare.

How was it for you?
He asks eventually,
turning to gaze at her,
a look of satisfaction
on his face.

It was good,
she lies,
best yet.

He smiles,
and puts a hand
on her right ***.

Have you heard
from that friend, Una?
He asks.

No I've not,
she lies,
looking at his eyes,
and how innocent
they are,
how childlike
he seems.

He tells her
of his day at work
in soft utters;
she listens on and off
thinking of the ***
she'd had with Una
that afternoon;
how hot and wet
she'd been,
needing a hot shower
to get clean.

She lets him talk on,
hoping he won't
want *** again that night;
she's not up to it,
all she wants
is sleep and rest,
not more ***
with him,
the 3 minute trier,
and boring pest.
Umi Jul 2018
Love is always praised into the heavens
But never is a tale spoken in which hatred truly prevails,
For those creatures who have nothing but it left seem so lost,
Is this the price they are taking, or must this be a farewell ?
Alike love, hate can give strengh but also great misery,
For those who have lost the access to light it is but an embrace,
Because for them the heart was made to be broken,
Eventually though, through all odds they find their way, despising what they formerly had done, had felt and had acted.
This side of the story remains lonesome,
The light of love is for all to bear in the end,
But the embrace of hatred is undesired as if it was cursed,
Just because the darkness made an attempt to protect their minds,
An outcast who was left behind, who was undefended,
Bidden farewell the shadows of night give in to the sunrays
Another night ends in defeat.

~ Umi
Harmony Sapphire May 2015
Waited to be sofisticated.
Desires saturated.
Feelings contemplated.
Unknown people stalked & hated.
Commitments unreached & outdated.
Birthdays belated.
Imaginary relationships created.
Fantasies unfated.
Communities fenced & gated.
Opposite sexes connected & mated.
Second thoughts changed & debated.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved
Candiese Jul 2015
I lay in my bed
And think of all the bad that you do and did
How I spent so much time thinking I was the one in the wrong..
How I allowed you to mind **** me into hating myself
I started to think I was unattractive, unattainable and undesired
I even believed you when you cried and said it was me
It was you who lied
It was you who cheated
It was you who left me alone during dark times
It was always you that I could not count on.

And you're here trying to prove me wrong, saying that all of that is done.. so why do I still feel undesired, why do I still feel unattractive, why do I still feel this way?
Blank Dec 2015
A cry for help is ugly
For those who cry discreetly
And those who cry out loud
No matter the extent of pain
It is always justified
Because we all deserve a warm hug
Or a quiet and sympathetic presence

A cry for help is ugly
Because it reminds us of our own pain
It reminds us of how we think
That we don't deserve help
Because kids are starving somewhere

A cry for help is lonely
Because it is ignored, or transparent
Because it thinks itself ugly as well
Because it is helpless
And nonsensical

A cry for help is ugly
Because we can not feel each other's pain
But we can feel each other's fear
And most of the time
Like a human being
We care

The pain that clouds the mind
And stifles the words
Choking on a feeling of being undeserving
And drowning in a sea of self loathing

A cry for help is ugly
Because it is the ultimate form of desperation
It is a trust that reaches out for anyone
And the responsibility over another
Is a terrifying thing
Jon G M Feb 2015
Stop stop
Can't breathe
It's getting dark
I'm buried in black dirt
Why did I perish
In this violence
I was to young
I had so much to live for
Bryar Trent Feb 2011
Walking, always walking,
Puzzled youth being funneled like cattle,
Seek shelter from the sun,
Jeer and poke at each other,
All from the safety of their cell phones.

Constantly seeking that one undesired retention
Of jukebox explosion catapults.
Thrusting us deeper into the mind/brain paradox
What is this?
What are these strange mutterings in the dark?

Babysitting wasp nests by electro shock railroads,
Disgust in the face of the many.
Where is this golden eclipse we’re all waiting for?
How can I not see the spiders on my windowsill?
Are these anguished, infantile youth truly desired?

Aggravated Neanderthal men
Try to impress pulsating goddesses of Light,
All to no prevail.
Sickening feeling in the gut,
Why aren’t you here?
Well I suppose,
Things have changed.

The Empress of the tunnel
Seeks out the empire halls
Of the tunnel-bound angst,
Musicians in the hall strumming
There thoughtless musings,
While the the debutantes watch and listen.
The intensity is unbearable to them,
They must seek shelter in their ipods.

Milk, must have it.
Watching them creep through the cafe,
May they one day find what they’re seeking.
Where are they?
Sitting here by myself,
Look at them jeering at each other
In their own jargons.
Have they seeked out the pleasure of life?

Dream-like meditations,
Well-rounded views of life,
Happiness within.
Dumbly smile at each other,
Seeking closeness,
Mind/body consciousness
copyright 2010 Bryar Trent
Ariel Good May 2013
Music of the street
Reverberates loudly
Out the dumpster,
From the tiny mouth
Of a screaming
Wrought in the wombs
Of filth, injustice,
Foggy rage.
Tongues ripped out,
On the floor, tastebuds that
Know the pang
of blue blood.
Rusty nails and overused syringes
***** the fingers,
The people yell, maniacally,
Yet remain unheard.
Pain becomes evident,
Written on the faces
Of the unwholesome.
A wafting scent of
Their rotten morals,
Forgotten dreams,
Floats, as hot steam,
from the pavement.
Unable now
To decompose.
Across the road,
A pregnant woman holds
Her cigarette, which
Smells of cookies
And cream soda.
Jesus was enlightened,
Not too pious
For the poor.
Yet more than pain
Was written
On their faces,
Missing tongues, missing eyes.
Laid together
On the ****-stained mattress,
Feet to head and head
To feet.
Nonsense was confused
As words, that danced into
Non-platonic humps.
She kissed him, because
She wanted to feel
The texture of his brain.
Pick her up with
Golden hand, though
She may see you.
And the sad image of
Dollar bills
Inspires the mind,
Making it immobile.
Here, where the *******
Stands, more holy
Than the monastery.
Crawling, as they do,
Through unpainted,
Rented walls, like
Hungry little cockroaches,
Creeping for a bite.
The small infant still
Lays on metal, each
Moment crying softer
For warmth.
Though you will not
Hear her tomorrow,
As she’s carted off by
Garbage men
Who, each week, remove
The undesired
Remnants of yesterday.
Hope for sweet
Needles to sooner bring her
A different relief.
Life is so simple
When struggles
Are never-ending.
Mi amor pequeña,
no llores más. El fin está cerca,
aunque no entiende
mis palabras.
Though the buildings
Surrender with
Decay and the sun decides
He doesn’t want
To keep on caring
The music still plays mournfully,
And only the baby can hear.
Beck Dec 2014
I don’t need to start from the beginning, just where i am at currently
the feelings of undesired draw my attention
the lack of attention catalyzes my cravings
for love, and joy
for happiness, simplicity
why are people afraid of the cold
when i warm myself every day
and every night
all my life
i have been my own blanket

i hate the feeling of being less than
what happens to the equation that is always less than?
i bet negative infinity has a ****** life,
maybe we are the same, though.
Who is the greatest less than in this universe?

What i want is not what wants me, in fact,
who, or what, even wants me enough to get me?
none. no one. not a single soul has requested my company.
I hate it. I'm done with it.

My computer erased all of my poetry, and yet i still write it. I still continue to write.

a teacher once told me that poetry with darkness was ugly. ugly and undesired.
She said that she
could be dark all on her own
yet i still have yet to see someone who shares my darkness.
I am alone,
on my own
I am my own blanket in the
HerrAichach Nov 2014
I* sleep for whose purpose, mine, yours or a greater being
The **** since childhood had prevented recollection of my precious, memorable, memories.
The only remaining of  my past would be the scars across my ankles teasing.
The **** since childhood had prevented relationships and education, but the realization for the victim is a worthless being. A worthless soul of energy.
Repost or like if you can relate
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2013
Seven New Poems For Seven Days #3:  Orphan**


The funeral will commence at 11:30 am.
Gives me one last review time before the
Final Exam.

Panicked, I discover a whole new chapter
for which I am wholly unprepared,
though its inevitable presence was
assuredly knowable long in advance.


It doesn't fit, occur, imagery is of a young child to
soon abandoned, not a late-in-life curmudgeonly poet-boy,
who has been multi-times reincarnated.

I add this title to my list
of proper ways to address me,
titles earned by dint of hard work,
or just unlucky luck.

This new status, orphanhood,
bequeaths no special privileges,
other than, a semi-official
societal permission slip
to feel bereft, lost, and compose poetry.

Know a real orphan, from early, early on,
has never recovered and
never will for it is just impossible.
Just impossible.

So whom am I to make light of
my undesired, unrequested new degree?

I accept it and to my surprise,
It hurts.

I have produced tons of intimate letters; none of them are real. They are true in just an uncertain sense; they don't lie in the hands of any liberty. The whole of them; the utter, entire thoroughness! Sad, I know. Most of them are of no interest to anyone but my heart. My only heart. That sings in horrid uncertainty and unloved freedom. My love, my darling, the second half of my being - is lost, and will forever lay out there, astray. The very own flower of my being. My sin, my soul. The dearest letter of my sacrifice, inner thoughts, depth, and pleasure. It is my mistake, I know; my fault as it has always been, to be unable to desist from my loving feelings. I can't resist the eagerness I feel whenever I am close to him; when I can hear his thoughts, when I listen to his distant heartbeat. How I am addicted to, and obsessed with the sensation - the ****** warmth, and vibration when I catch his agile sight in my vicinity, in the polished blandness of my greedy solitude. O, how I feverishly long for more, as always! I who can't hinder myself from moving about in peculiarity - just to cast a glance at him, as bizarre a loving curiosity as it might possibly be! I who but feel forlorn when he is not around, when his pulses are unseen, hideously invisible, encroached by silence and chaos of the day - vicious but all of these to my sight! How undear! How I am unbelievably hungry for which, so ravenous as I am, it becomes no longer a singular desire to me. I am afraid I shall be accustomed to this singularity; what a simultaneous treachery that shall be trampled upon, and grossly abashed - with acute meticulousness and strands of powerful lamentation. I am so greedy about my destiny - for I believe utterly that he is the sole bird, and butterfly of my life! My butterfly, o guileless butterfly, who is as frail as a stem of lavender, scented as it was by nature's comely quietness, sickly it may be, in facing the relapse of its wrong and evil doings. He is my swan, his beautiful wings never relent although deeply wounded; he flies away from tragedy and blends swiftly into harmony. Tragic but true! As I may never be worthy of his love, he is the manifestation of my princely dream; he lives in the dreamland, the haven in which his stately princess resides; he belongs to her, and only her that is deserving of his affection. Like a desiccated lake, from its long sleep now awake, I will be the thirsty snow when spring comes to life, and greets the bashful moon aloft! I am the weeping window to all this solitude, I care for no life beneath; I dwell on the tedious edges of my prince's marriage. Frames of beauty, paints of greenness, and all those gracious perks of womanliness; all belong to his wife, and carved under her name. Not my name; awfully not, and shan't ever be. The stars sneer at it; the skies none but spurn it for its undesired but designated misfortune. Hurtful as it is but I pray that Heaven watch my steps! As to this I am but cursed and shied away from his love, o, in this drear I am like a lifeless tree when the roots are old and severed. My branches are tired and longing to embrace death; call for it so that it can come to lull them soon, from amongst the hills! I am one of its deadly shadows that makes fate even more haunting to myself! My remains afterwards are not missed by the angry earth - they are sullied so it despises my leaves, thorns, and bushes; thus my fruits will wither without proper notice; I am praising myself, with these words, to no avail! Defying my fate is indeed of no advantage! I will yell but at nothingness, I am dull and unspoken, my unfortunate thoughts are boldly sounded in the murky state of no astonishment. I am a haunting melody to a giddy song! I am not for anyone's possession, pathetic as I am; my soul can't help falling in someone's grace, in this wondrous breaths of hesitation! O but I detest it! This desire, this flame, and all their demonic flutes - those soulless songs! I can't help passionately and tenderly loving him; and his ecstatic features that nature has been so proud of! I who love him with all the might of my joy, as awkward as it might be, I long but for the rainbow in his eyes - the rainbow that duly reminds me, of how warm the sun used to be! O I love thee, I dearly love thee, my sweet, the prince of my soul! I love thee so gently, I love thee bluntly, frankly, and unconditionally. My love for thee is vivid, mortal, and pretty; I love thee graciously, I love thee gratefully, and so childishly! I love thee selfishly, but it is just because of my faith in thee, my generous, loyal faith! As I have professed utterly - I love a man but only thee, thee who rules my soul, whom I so awfully adore, needst, and care about. My kingst is thee, this I admit with all the power of constitution; strengths and weaknesses; and sincerity of my comeliest gratitude. Thou art the sole lad, master, and conquerer of my soul! The solidity of my being, poems of my tongue, and joyful veins of my blood; thou feedst my life, mind, and sanity! I love thee as how a woman loves a man; I love thee not as my guidance, no more! Therefore I shall choose thee, only thee, and as irrevocable as this love is to be, no matter how strong I restrain; I'd only love thee once again.
Poetic Artiste Apr 2016
She's Tired...
of the broken promises,
and of the broken dreams,

She's tired.
of being unappreciated,
taken for granted and hurt.

of lies rolling off your tongue,
and of the swelling tears,
she'd learn to hide.

She's tired of feeling replaceable,
disappointed and undesired,

of broken hearts,
--broken trust,
and of the emptiness she feels.

She's tired,
of being yours,
when you do not know how to love her.
Are you ever tired of it all?
Rachel Mary May 2013
once i felt sad
because nobody understood me
but then i realised
i am understood
but just not in the way
*i would like to be
Purple Rain Mar 2015
She's searches for the path that takes her right,
But of course; it's out of sight
She's makes life long commitments
For in her belly there is a figment
"Three months old"
she says "it is distant"

Her mom asks with Constance's,
how she's supposed to take care of something of her own,
because when it comes to her own self;
Well, she is all alone

every night there is a wish she grants
too find away out what she can't
For smoking ****,
and doing wrong deeds
Doesn't fit her needs

For she dreams higher
She wants to be admired
Not undesired...
Oh, this is why I hate love!
How I used to moon over it;
shape it and craft it and run after it
in my brambles,
how I used to indulge it in my *****
protect it from any uncivil desecration
cherish it for its wilfulness
relish it for its greed;
how I tainted my heart with its fake scent!
It just dawneth on me!
Oh how I fervently remembereth the scene; the very afternoon scene, before me:
I was heaving my dull steps against the sheepish grounds;
so peaceful in their breezy slumbers;
unlike the busy grass afield!
their dainty colours blackened by the whirring clouds from afar.
Hung cozily amongst the sky, whose childishness wasth adjourned by
the sleeping rain!
Oh but it was none yet coldeth but temperate;
when his moorish figure, blent into the naturalness of the afternoonth;
retreated into the lingering scene,
swiftly and lightly as the chirruping birdth aloft,
as if no anguish was within reach,
as wildly glistening as the mirth of the old den!
How my soul warmed towards the sight of him,
and on he went to relate his selfish story.
How I celebrated it - its giddy, gullible outset!
How I endorse its unknowing innocence!
How I adorned it with my passion!
His reclamation proceeded,
I was but astounded to hark to the rest;
into it he amorously poured the account of a bizarre creature;
namely a stranger;
invariably a woman!
How insolent!
He named her his love;
he waveth his moronic praise at hers;
at her charm, andth not mineth!
I was spurned, my heart was churned;
despite my stranded efforts to keep my pair of
relenting eyes
I steadied my legs, I was more than ready to
bounce and go
sway myself away from this gloomy tragedy
as before me the story undesired unfolded:
my love was repressed, my heart was
bludgeoned, heartily bludgeoned,
and I was silenced; could no longer feelth the tinges of blood
in my latent veins.
He hath slaughtered my peace!
My inner visions, hopes, and dreams!
I hath lost all of which!
I hath lost my shrieks; I could not voice my despair;
yet I could not utter my grief!
I was cursed and condemned;
my soul was appallingly dishonored;
my entirety is for lifelong anger,
desolation, ignominy and utmost desperation!
My crossness against the Creator arose,
like a wave of torment,
a surge of unbecomingth animosity,
as to no matter how I suppressed it unthinkingly,
all ended in vain:
My stern heart shan't ever melt to love again.
Oh my love, my love,
my princeth, my deviousth prince,
the only one I was so ardently fond of
how could thou deepen my misery?
How could thou ****** my sweetest virginal affection
in the midst of my isolation?
Like the sultry willows
whose memories unshaken, unbitten in the most
melodious, but pallid from the heath
in this musty, salubrious air
my blooming flowers hath died
I am brokeneth, I am torn!
I am writhing in my vainness,
my foolish longing, unmissed and unsung by the dandy branches aboveth
Dancing in my own blueness, weariness that is both livid
and unforgiving
scared by the heartless world
in the course of this barren winter.
Winter with no whiteness;
winter unholy and fulleth of diminutive, evil suffrage.
How ungodly!
I am raked into pieces;
and this is what remains.
This is my misery; oh how I could not riseth above the misery itself!
This is my solemn admonition,
this is my fate!
I have no right to love,
to embrace and to be embraced,
and from this day on I wanth but to dismiss my love;
onto my heart was bestowed not serene affection but intelligence;
and intellect is far better regarded than love!
How sully, narrow, and vicious love is!
How unimportant it is in the eyes of glory,
and the sea of fictitious admiration.
I quit the monstrousness of yon outer devastation;
I take hold of my pen,
and swim deeper into my whining words, again.
entropiK Nov 2010
you enter my dreams with such audacious curiousity;
examined the void with intellect- deprived precision,
inspected every crevice painted in colour.
you left the blue for last because you say
the amphetamine matches my eyes.

you sample every syllable ever borne from my mouth,
denude the metaphors to their unchaste nakedness,
reach inside for unfleshly meaning.
you say all my filthy secrets implode into
ugly saliva bubbles on the brim of my tongue
and that is why you bite it off.  

you make the drain spin out water. you make reverse hurricanes.

you euthanise my suffering mind with vulgarity and sliver-veined chalks.  
i like it when the moon is yellow and not white.                                      
spread me across your bones, you make me cold                      
**** in flesh. you wear me on your head as you would a stubborn fever.
you lick the lily, burn away its petals and
then you use the ashes in your next drag.

there are ghosts in your hair, they want idiosyncratic judgments.
they want anatomised angels and amputated wings.
they want ribs, signals, vessels and chlorine and aileron segments.  
and electric ***.

i am thinking of lexemes and lycoris, the vulnerability of artlessness,
prosthetic fingers and cigarettes, the umbrella under metal rain.
i only remember realities when they are expired.
the ribbon between cognition and the ventriloquist.
the psychology in undesired sentences.                      
this is the only immortality you and i may share; amongst ourselves
like teenagers filching answers before algebra, like dealers exchanging
eight-*****, pipes and profanity, like animals in chemical heat.                                                                      
this vanilla immortality that we no longer need.

i'm watching the end of the world

from underneath your clothes.
sometimes i have to write horrible poems to remind myself of some things;;
Jess Bull Dec 2013
Throwing up will make you beautiful
After all, beauty is pain
Waxing every square inch of your human body
Squeezing into those Spanx to hide your smallest flaws

Your daughter, she needs help with her eating disorder
There's no beauty in that. Strictly pain.
Or telling your 20 year old best friend everyday for 6 years a size 3 isn't anywhere neat fat
Having the same conversation with a 10 year old girl: is that any more beautiful? No.
Forget that beauty isn't painful

A mother experiencing excruciating pain yet forgetting it all when she holds her child for the first time
Death of a man with terminal illness--all the pain built up to the soul finally at ease
The battered woman seeking courage to break free and begin new life

Actual emphasis to "beauty is pain" is one who pushes through the undesired struggle-- beauty is the reward
Remember that beauty can be painful
What's beautiful in your life?
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
it's almost beautiful, we created the thing called
money, in order to turn tribalism
into a myth of Eden (alone, stark naked) -
          it's almost as if we deviated from
creating it and asking for family values,
            but never got them,
       i'm trying to imagine a Russia where
Rasputin wrote a book
that might have resounded with Nietzsche's
ubermensch - but thankfully precipitated into
world war i & ii... fancy the interlude:
a cold war i, now the cold war ii...
you should be happy, to be honest, it's the best
status quo you'll ever get...
but **** me, 1970s disco craze: even i'm
like Mozart-who?
               a little notebook, and my getting
drunk thoughts in it, funny how drink intellect
knows all too well about the: diminished responsibility
white flag -
              as with the **** chokes come the
drunk-and-writing-a-poem jokes,
                                i'd say blame Al Capone!
you know how many diacritical distinctions i could
insert into that surname? diacritical marks
are ulterior forces at-be when all punctuation goes
*******, not sentences, but words -
Cá       ponè - cockney slang Capone on the phone:
        we had fun: because you really don't say
Cáponé like you might say a torero's olé, do you?!
me? i find it grand to paint syllables with
diacritical marks, i mean: it's not even a blank canvas,
shame the semi-colon isn't minded in distinction,
but still, i already know that poets are scared of
punctuation, hence breaking the lines and not
engaging in a paragraph... tying shoelaces seems about
fine when it comes to modern poets,
talk about knitting jumpers, or scarfs by grannies -
sold as doing that same activity on shredded wheat cereal:
- = a hanging pause (suspense);
       , = necessary pause (or the expected
in a rhythmic cyclone);
   then i say to all my would be assassins:
you'll be doing me a massive favour, to be honest.
at times it really is the age of trusting entertainers
and not the media and certainly not the politicians -
it's almost stating the obvious.
i was in St. Petersburg for a month, and every time
i wanted to go to a danceclub to dance she refused me....
me and my naiveness in thinking that people could
actually be seduced by good...
      i don't mean being exposed to a tsunami
among the other elemental congregations of Shiva
there goes my belief in people being good to each other...
shoom! gone... bye bi!
(origins of dyslexia? maybe).
                                 she took me to the opera and
she started her snarling condescending approach to
the new-rich girls in the next booth...
     **** me, relationships leave me so ill-equipped
i actually find it staggering that i had any...
                 i must have been really naive in believing
that people could do good that i ended up
   a hermetic pessimist or misanthrope -
i never expected to be one, or share the juices of such
a calibration of humankind:
but it's funny how a movement overstates the cartesian
sum and never the cogito,
and when you by chance encounter the actual cogito
organising a movement, you represent nothing
representative of the movement's sum,
because the cogito is actually so staggeringly
divergent from being affiliated to the (e.g.)
         French revolution's guillotine locomotive.
when utilising only one hand in writing?
a black notebooks is written into at a rhombic degree,
yep, slant.
        i have two or three decent points to make,
but, obviously, i have to utilise verbiage to state them,
let's compare that to building a thousand homes
before the leaning tower of Pisa comes along
and people say: wow! in the immediate sense i
will require compensating that exception with
enough social housing for the tower to actually be erected:
that's natural: regurgitating maxims from no experience
would be an equivalence to an exoskeleton:
no experience, no harm... and where's the fun in that?

(interlude no. 1)

almost 15 minutes in an opera house, long enough
for the march from your seat into the street and a smoke,
  i still can't understand while people adopted money
for the demand of talking to each other via pebbles,
we are in our billions and made it so demanding to
only appeal to the few for company... i mean, should
i be sad? we made our company so unbearable because
of engaging in the concept of money that we later had
adapt to books as the conversations we need to have
among people we can't even talk about the weather to.
people always think that talking about money is
shallow... as if it's some really necessary version of
the crucifix (which to my mind sounds like a name for
a charity and the need to be thankful for it being there),
then again: something so geometrically pure
hanging over us and then comes Rodin's the kiss:
that really is a miracle - walking on water can hide itself,
turning water into wine (40 days & nights in the desert would
do that to you, every time you rehydrated, any liquid
would be intoxicating).
             oh hell, i have the notebook narrative,
i need to take a break after having written the unexpected
intro, and subsequent interlude.

it seems to me that language can never be sampled,
sampling language
is anti-scientific,
because it breaches an objectification of things,
which sad,
    are the Balkan states Slavic, Christian or Turkish?
i'm asking because a Greek said
it's Byzantine, and then lapping allah illha Allah
turkish took to Istambul...
*how best to defame a god with ensnarled capitals,
each, levelled,
                                only Islam will reign under the
praise of my name, which alone, will sing my praise.

   to move mountains, one must move throngs.
          to move people you expect them to become
mountains: or sun-tanned noon
  having been charcoaled into obliteration.
     one thought: an ottoman janissary: and vlad
the lesser crucifier and the adamant
impaler, who said that homosexuality shouldn't matter....
   imagine the comparative pain...
i can't: therefore i won't.
                     thus the black scripts of notation...
better than uttering original maxims,
          as in... better to engage in transcendentalº
     ºin ref. to Nietzsche: the masses do not hold
an opinion on sanity: hence my concordance
with "him" - and insanity in individuals (self-dividing
                      duos in calamity of one):
insane individuals are rare: but conglomerates are
the norm - thus an agreement of shared truths
that has no debate to support it, because it has been
   the transcendental aspect is the lack of dialectics
(replaced with diacritics),
     and also the historical novelty of shared observation
with a disparity of a century's worth of history:
governing still the caveman and the modern man,
            as if the two were mutually compatible.
that one could rewrite the other, and so too true in
   i find it harsh having to relinquish the authority
of language, as my own it used,
but only when school-friends suggest it, those
with ******* family members do i foremostly
experience it as my own: well... thanks to you
i'm not a plumber because your father detonated
the atom bomb and never bothered checking what
the gorilla did next with the grand censor of fertility
to protect an aesthetic...
           but then again: you were always Irish.
oo! well: sodomite that oops... it'll be worth something
in 30 years' time. strange how it must read...
Holocaust deniers also have the same lysergic trip.
             insanity in individuals is rare,
among groups it's the norm, within a framework
of Nietzsche: thus an agreement of shared truths,
that has no debate to support it,
because it has been "plagiarised" (necessarily experienced
more than once),
   ºthe transcendental aspect is the actual lack of
dialectics, and also the historical shared novelty of sharing
of observation (the tsunami cult, the earthquake cult)
with a disparity of range toward the century-range...
   philosophy infamously aks purposively
unsolvable questions: or questions that require many
more questions... or what is known as a transcript
of Aristotelian awe: of those who commit to error
with that science of pure wording, to spur people on;
philosophers are the adventurers in error:
only because this engages them in providing a "gravity"
locus... for others to hone onto and correct...
(oh how i'd believe had there been a Koranic surah
on the mindful hoplites)...
         purposively erroring: philosophy;
philosophers are pioneers: birches... scientists
are all but oak: auburn well established.
       but what of transcendental dialectic that expands
into shared truths (as experience) within the dual-disparity
of nearing death and the dawn of the 20th century
   and never-nearing a life at the dawn of the 21st century?
excluding dialectics and diacritics has given us
such a society, where everything is nearly snowflake
lucratively dissolvable and gentle...
                   few people utter truths,
even fewer utter truths than need to be debated...
             for the over-lord truth is mono, or glue...
        but still the tactic of avoiding certain truths
for the necessity of sitting in an armchair rather than
on a cold pavement... for in their pluralism
they express as many universal traits of non-experience,
as they subsequently express enough
    particular traits of experience
(translate rhyming into philosophy and you get this...
going cross-eyed in allocating an understanding,
summarised by the word zez).
hence the unwinding: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -):
    of time, and how to encourage abstracting
worded coordination into an advanced literacy rate,
that'll fail, because literacy is power that requires
labouring anyway.
  because you did say "encapsulating a zoo"
readied to perpetrate a staging of a freak-show.
examples: universals (x, ÷):
       and particulars (+, -)        are zeniths in
the narrative compensation to nothing -
        in literature a surprise turn of the plot,
a summarisation, as such stand-out moments,
or quotes: here is a version of encoding verbal
"mathematical" synonymity -
         i too would wish to create a language
that doesn't abide by the language of miles,
but that of metres, but then there's the thesaurus
distinction between metres in deviations of
centimetres and nano in close-proximity
          ruby, crimson, burgundy, bled throughout the week
until pale grey and with an epitaph.
      language never brings us together,
it never did, we all wished to be cats and have said
meow... but we rarely and will never say...
that's nearing toward shame...
  i absolve humanity of the original sin...
                    if sinning was so original i would suggest
other forms of compensating it rather than prayer:
i'm thinking of the original shame...
it's that story of a serial killer who believed he
had no universal traits concerning him,
he had no systematisation of conscience,
he denied having a sense of guilt...
          it's hard to believe such things,
given the ceiling is the universe...
        it's hard to become a rat in a solipsistic maze...
that's ****** had to believe...
                   to deny having universal a priori
is also to deny particular a posteriori...
                           even though nothing really happened
apart from god laughing and man yawning
and the devil crying. it's very hard to believe people
these days, even though they deserve it,
                    it's hard to summate oneself in being
able to;
  thank god philosophers didn't complicate simple words
with remnants of Latin like psychologists did,
there's the prior (a priori) and there's the after (a posteriori),
or the two within a-: without a prior (to) / priority -
                  or without an after / an imitable vogue / trend /
          can you write something like someone disclosing the fudge
of what's technically an arithmetic summary?          
no intelligence is being undermined here,
         what's being undermined is what's critically an optical
   java transitory period.                                                    

(int­erlude no. 2)

the laziest philosophers always write about the word
philosophy without actually philosophising,
you can say as much when saying: i'm thinking about thought.
of all the professions, philosophers don't know theirs...
it's true, if you do it, you do it not-knowing / unconsciously.
modernity does in fact overprescribe the word genius
because it doesn't give practitioners of philosophy any
credit in the slightest of actually being recipients of
life... every time a thought spawns from nothing
the limitation of expressing it is: you don't exist;
soon enough you hang up having any competence in language
and say to people you thought you knew: adios amigos,
good luck: then you wonder why they're so
prematurely depressed, and then you forget about them
and think of a million Chinese carpenters:
simply because it's less depressingly so.
     do you ever write encapsulating a rhombus on a page
with your literary / wanking hand? i know i do,
write in a notebook askew - or that's what's called the
future of absurdity: i'm thinking about thought -
some later claim morality, and some later claim god -
        that should sound more simply as: ought i?
    but it doesn't... hey, here's to self-projecting ****** -
it's not even that good people invented god,
  it's that evil people did...
                  which is always a bit ****** having that
microchip in my abstract mind (the brain) i sometimes
try to get rid off while acting as an atheist for pop super!
       does that sound highly idealistic?
it probably does... have i an influential counter to it?
n'ah. thinking about thought without the either or of
ought leaves me asking outside the box / transcendental
questions about what self is ingested by that
Pontius Pilate... talk of the "true" self and talk of
the "false" self: who the **** is the narrator then?
are we all bleaching our handshakes these days to
give a handshake?!
    some men would claim to be the husbands of that
insatiable "woman" that's Sophia,
         who, after all, is better equipped to satiate 3
men, than a man to satiated 3 women:
the trinity of ****, vaginal: oral - funny that,
how perfectly that plays against all those years of
practising to a demand of the churches': kneel!
i'll just watch you **** him off while Mary Magdalene
spread the schematic that resulted in the Islamic
******* analing the "respected".

(interlude no. 3)

just can't be bothered mate...
  never did so much charity work pour into
      herr Herrman's charity chest of
the never thought of set of poems.

- and a day later, just a blank,
what a formidable evening,
why do i queue for even a trombone, violin,
       a viola, trumpet or a sax to add to my voice?
but in musicological terms: that's exactly what i'm doing.
it's hard to not see this as a cure:
with 16,713 views matta's echo babylon is
truly the antithesis of Prokofiev, or any other,
as might call it: windy character.
        classical music was bound to tornados and
zephyrs - modern music is the epitome of rhythmic
sampling, drum eroded violins,
           and other things happened, too.
rhombus within the framework of the hand-written prior,
on tiny scraps of rectangular paper,
because it's easier to write like that: slanting
and therefore for the imagery of cascading -
and as the pronoun revolution dies down,
                    and the voices go unheard,
   people will start to think about thought
and later thought per se for transcendental purposes...
     because choice will be ejected from
having competent access to it: namely?
   i can't see those **** the ***** protests seriously
if people can't take to shooting guns,
          i mean real rebellion... obviously i'm egging
on the situation and spraying gasoline on it
(obviously), but if the French give you the statue of
liberty as a present, you get to look at the appendix,
and start thinking: where are the guns, so
it looks like a genuine protest? i thought the idea of
being able to own guns (by the people), was to suggest
that if the government was electorally undesired,
people could start shooting... the tongue isn't
Look in on his
                   ­                      As he – in|
          The rugged determination of
                                               The very rock
                                                Under his feet:
Stares into the storm of our dreams.
The whiteness of our innocent and
­ Are a storm that blew the sea of rationality
          From the strange crags of the floors
            Of unconscious spiritual awakening
                         To unknown
     ­                                                                 ­    
                                                            ­ And neverending-
                        -Short. Love.
                     And sweet comforting familiarity.
                                 It’s all useless,
                                   Every bit meaningless.
The deepest
Sadness being|
None of it.
A reaction to Wanderer Above a Sea of Fog by Caspar David Friedrich
Danielle Shorr Jun 2014
My mouth is full of moths
My words are not pretty
They do not flutter out with grace and ease
Twitching as they find their exit from my lips
They are not butterfly
With a name so smooth that it rolls off the tongue
I am not monarch
The decaying flesh it preys upon
The contrast between beauty and reality
I do not know why
People like me are attracted to light
I guess it makes since
To swim towards brightness
When you've spent so much of your life in the darkness
Cocooned in between empty spaces
Nesting in silk spun from my own silence
I have spent months inside my shell
Learning how to find my own voice
Learning how to speak my own language
Hearing myself talk for 18 years but for the first time actually listening
Like moth
Touch sends me fleeting
Like moth
Attention back into hiding
I am not conspicous
Nor do I crave to be
Like caterpillar
Are all given blind hope
Told that someday
We will be noticed
But some spend so much time
Preparing for glory
That they forget storybooks lie
That in real life
The very hungry caterpillar
Who was promised butterfly
Becomes moth
What most see as ugly
And intrusive
Chewing holes in your finest clothing
Making home unwanted places
Moth is undesired
Butterfly is welcomed
Tell me why
One is invited in and the other shut out
Moth is not pretty
Moths lack ofbeauty
Is enough
To disregard it
All at once
Different is enough
To disregard all at once
Do not disregard me
Because I am not ideal
Because i am not fully painted winged beauty
We as a society only stop to see what catches the eye
Unable to notice the intricisies
Of darkness
So look a little closer
Try a little harder
Because if anything is to be known
It is that beauty
Is not
In the obvious.

— The End —