Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
It was golden and splendid,                                                      
That City of light;                                                            
A vision suspended                                                              
In deeps of the night;                                                        
A region of wonder and glory, whose temples were marble and white.              
                                                                              
I remember the season                                                            
It dawn'd on my gaze;                                                          
The mad time of unreason,                                                        
The brain-numbing days                                                        
When Winter, white-sheeted and ghastly, stalks onward to torture and craze.      
                                                                              
More lovely than Zion                                                            
It shone in the sky                                                            
When the beams of Orion                                                          
Beclouded my eye,                                                              
Bringing sleep that was filled with dim mem'ries of moments obscure and gone by.
                                                                              
Its mansions were stately,                                                      
With carvings made fair,                                                      
Each rising sedately                                                            
On terraces rare,                                                              
And the gardens were fragrant and bright with strange miracles blossoming there.
                                                                              
The avenues lur'd me                                                            
With vistas sublime;                                                          
Tall arches assur'd me                                                          
That once on a time                                                            
I had wander'd in rapture beneath them, and bask'd in the Halcyon clime.        
                                                                              
On the plazas were standing                                                      
A sculptur'd array;                                                            
Long bearded, commanding,                                                        
rave men in their day—                                                        
But one stood dismantled and broken, its bearded face battered away.            
                                                                              
In that city effulgent                                                          
No mortal I saw,                                                              
But my fancy, indulgent                                                          
To memory's law,                                                              
Linger'd long on the forms in the plazas, and eyed their stone features with    
awe.                                                                            
                                                                              
I fann'd the faint ember                                                        
That glow'd in my mind,                                                        
And strove to remember                                                          
The aeons behind;                                                 &
These lovers’ inklings which our loves enmesh,
Lost to the cunning and dimensional eye,
Though tenemented in the selves we see,
Not more perforce than azure to the sky,
Were necromancy-juggled to the flesh,
And startled from no daylight you or me.


For trance and silvermess those moons commend,
Which blanch the warm life silver-pale; or look
What ghostly portent mist distorts from slight
Clay shapes; the willows that the waters took
Liquid and brightened in the waters bend,
And we, in love’s reflex, seemed loved of right.


Then no more think to net forthwith love’s thing,
But cast for it by spirit sleight-of-hand;
Then only in the slant glass contemplate,
Where lineament outstripping line is scanned,
Then on the perplexed text leave pondering,
Love’s proverb is set down transliterate.
ConnectHook Dec 2017
Children drugged with truthless tales . . .
Unwise men embrace their treasure;
Algorithms urge the sales
In malls devoid of merry measure.

Plastic sparkles in the air;
Automotive ads turn festive . . .
Forced good nature everywhere
Makes the shopping crowds grow restive.

Corporate greed spins altruistic
Hyping goods, suppressing Christ.
Our Yuletide is their big statistic
Oversold and underpriced.

Secular beribboned fluff:
Peace, Goodwill . . .  but don't say God !
And heaven knows you've had enough;
Just download the app—acquire the mod.

Coca-Colaed, Disneyfied
You're wrapping paper for their fire;
Eggnogged, Santa-ed, thrown aside
While Babel's flames roar ever higher.

The godlessness shines right on through
Where Christmas lyrics die, unheard.
The Yule-log and the sparks that flew
Expire in embers long unstirred.

The old usurper carting toys
And Chinese knock-offs in his sled
Sets off a lot of empty noise:
Insanity in green and red.

The lurker leers and hauls his bag
(jolly antichrist distraction)
While flying Bishop Nicholas' flag:
A winter psy-ops covert action.

Only message left: go drink!
And may your cup o'erflow with cheer
Before you risk to start to think
Yourself and God right out of here.

Hallmark haloes, bygone kitsch
enwreaths the memory of the years,
Kindling maudlin sadness which
wells up in melancholy tears

For Christian culture (rest in peace)
Long-corrupted by dollar signs;
For fa la la and fattened geese
And holly midst the ivy vines;

For Dickens' gospel of the season
Anglican angelic ghosts
Pushing us beyond unreason
Toward the future's spectral hosts;

For folklore now reduced to ash
Commercial blow-outs, ***** snow;
For Saturnalian urge to smash
the store-front windows where they show;

For useless manger figurines
Passed down from some more faithful time;
For hallowed and nostalgic scenes
No longer worth a Roman dime.
I still love Christmas but its ongoing commercial secularization by corporate globalists makes me retch (into my mulled wine).

Nonetheless, like Scrooge, I intend to keep Christmas well.
By the way, that's Merry CHRISTmas.
(No Christ, NO CHRISTMAS)

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2017/12/19/christ-massed/
And who shall care for that o'er which you weep
Or share the burden of this world's foredoom
Seen starkly? Behold, a haunting specter creeps
Among the binding fates spun on life's loom.
You’ll wake them not to that great misery
Which emptiness of pride has reckless wove
But pluck the web for loss and trembling
Of idols in the soul for which they strove.
Put off your glossy youth and early oaths
Devout nativity; raise up your cup
To ***** Lethe and thunder with the strokes
Of fury, treading out the ripened sup!
They will not bear to flay their sacred cows
But shades of death endure and prostrate bow.

Ages in their veins, more raging, whirl
As titanic potentials’ dreadful might
Turns girl to boy, conversely boy to girl
Unlimbing reason for unreason's fright.
That once gone right, here deftly ventures left
As self-conception staggers to its doom
Bursting the bonds of day and night, distressed
With desperate grasping measures, late and soon.
So set on generation's awesome curve
Of ageless heart and mind, how shall they bear
The die they cast at first when madly swerved
Into contesting congresses of care?
Dividing parts, dissolving in the same
The common wealth, no part the whole maintains.

Boast of the times and gilded privilege
Are these pretended guardians of State
Whose politics of power have sought to bank
Their future 'gainst dissenting arguments.
With rhetoric to foist a brave new age
They come as chaos mages on the brink
Of all disposing will, all ends betrayed
To serve their corporations’ nod and wink.
Auctioning the world, their goods are sold
Commercially with avaricious might
That sanctions lust, in quest of pyrite gold
And pirate earnings, staked upon deceit.
At last, the men of mock integrity
Luring the world to covert slavery!

Hurrah, the master men and lords of time-
From time brought forth, they are the world's latest
Whose overweening strut is in the best
Of culminating age, the mind refined!
Now to and fro they go, their lists increased
With every tally; line for line computes
Their beads of enterprise, the while relieved
Of tribulation, fate of hapless dupes.
Learning is theirs, precepts are theirs to bend;
Lawyers, clerics, politicians rest
Upon this pillar; they can split or mend
The finest lines; no guile their thoughts distress.
Step by step they round the universe
And finite lies to infinite converse!

What pride of theirs that strains for fleeting fame
Seeking to wrest from time the wasting plaque
Of recognition, host to every hack
That postures on the stage of the obscene!
Pretending worth, their practiced scripts dispose
In mocking light an empty dignity
While darkening intents; witless disclosed
On lips and brow their self-important glee.
As if full-wrought by truth's heroic wing
Their pride aspires; on vain conceits they soar
Up through the mist while private songs they sing
In self-made praise for deeds of phantom lore.
From belfries of the schools, in broken flight
They shriek away, hell's banshees of the night!

These timely wise, entranced of mind, decree-
Hear all you simple what we shall disclose
Which craft of our discernment is repose
Of wealth in understanding mastery.
A gift to all, these rich-invested beings
Pretending to resolve profundities
Decoct the world with learned fluency
Of torture ways, all gnostic knots untied.
A flair for comedy, their gelded self
Mounts every snorting bore of certainty
Then armchair resting, pants to yet indulge
Another ******* idol’s reckless scheme.
Some stowaways upon the open seas
And polished sextants of academe!

Here is their derogation, born from creeds
Of judgment in self-righteous confidence
That proves for nothing to the innocent
But swamps life's refugees with cruel conceit.
With ages they have built the edifice
Of dogma; every pit and lion’s maw
Is their contraption, set in consciousness
Of the condemning letter of their laws.
Cunning serpents, masquerading doves
They fashion argument, more vicious wrought
With rationales to blacklist those who strove
To flee their institutions’ heinous plot.
Enamored with a fascist benefit
The systems of the world they implement!

Fanatic men, how bold they tempt the fates
That meet to each the fruits of brutish will
Redoubled, which they’ve spent in kind to date
Upon their brothers, sisters…other self.
They make an estimation, rule the span
Between men; lord over equity
With zero tolerance and brazen hand
To smash upon their consanguinity.
Such is the wicked priesthood’s confidence
In its own judgment, ever owning not
The wrong condemned in others, deep dispensed
To every heart, from roots of life begot.
More wretched they, and haunted with the shame
Of hypocrites, bedeviled by the same!

O law of learning, sum of thinkers' best
Now magnified, ensconced upon the power
Of natal worth and privileged social dower;
Once ruled by you, the Earth pleads for redress.
No scruple sought, no reservation found
To staunch against your certifying will
Which point of iron stylus now furrows
The world at large as object for the ****.
So cart away your pleading victim, mired
In ****** wallows of concupiscence
And grace deny, self-dubbed the doubtless squire-
Errant usurper of the human quest.
How dignified, the rake of your ambition
That promises continual division!
Erak Freeze Apr 2014
Evil, Mightypower,
Overcoming, sweeping by
Tidal wave of dark.
Suppression, needless
Jealousy, unreason.
Shard of hell,
Born from earth,
And broken ceramic.
Escaping freedom,
Smashed prison.
Feeding on conceited lies,
And acts of
Eviljoy.
references about Pandora's box, abstract poetry, freeverse
Once I dipt into the future far as human eye could see,
And I saw the Chief Forecaster, dead as any one can be--
Dead and ****** and shut in Hades as a liar from his birth,
With a record of unreason seldome paralleled on earth.
While I looked he reared him solemnly, that incandescent youth,
From the coals that he'd preferred to the advantages of truth.
He cast his eyes about him and above him; then he wrote
On a slab of thin asbestos what I venture here to quote--
For I read it in the rose-light of the everlasting glow:
"Cloudy; variable winds, with local showers; cooler; snow."
RoKu May 2013
how can you say I'm beautiful?
the fact is even I can get angry so easily sometimes...

poetry replies:
coz you haven't gotten the right channel
to express
to unfolding
coz the genuine yearning in your soul
since the first
tells

coz you as you were and are
no reason to unreason
it is just be
....
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
3 weeks, that's all it takes,
      how many necessary things could have
been said, but weren't...
    i could have written to my local m.p.,
or say - an imaginary letter to
Lorca, like Jack Spicer -
     instead, i wrote a few pieces of
verbal-diarrhea - sheer frustration -
      how debasing i sometimes see myself
becoming, all this talk of self-censorship,
     it's this ominous shadow of some third
party sources... the more you write
it seems, the more you start fearing
in the existence of that famous chestnut
known as writer's block...
                         it's such a fear that it's
impossible to call it irrational,
a tiny fear, a phobia, fear without a narrative...
so you end up becoming debasing for a while:
thankfully: there's nothing in concreto
about it...
                    you begin almost in trance
blurting out words to no civilised purpose -
  just to go beyond the rust and stiffness of
3 weeks sober, as if starved from the world:
because your grandparents don't have an internet
connection...
      and you return from a place where
you have to time to read books, and be content
at being fed by a television set...
                rather than having to feed
the computer and that amassing of knowledge
and shared experience...
      a digital detox they call it...
   i call it a double-whammy detox... and strange
how doable it is: it doesn't require
a rehab...    or some guru telling you
       that you have to block out thoughts
immersed to the internet...
                    but then again, is it about that?
all i can claim to say is that:
    the internet can really become a cul de sac...
i'd feign to believe that anyone with
   it can read a novel these days...
                       i know i can't -
     in the most ordinary circumstances -
                     a complete shut-down can provide
enough furniture to be so less itchy
and nagging to touch...
                               and it wasn't even a case
of a self-imposed hiatus...
                    don't know what it actually meant
other than an immersion in: what
life was like in the 20th century...
                              and on that touchy subject of
certain words being treated as if said
by children and deserving the scorn from an elder...
well sure, would that give us many more
graces to: write in the fxxx?   and if i actually did -
if only the english language used some sort of
orthographic, but it can't: since it has no diacritical
markings...
    the aesthetic is so different in Poland...
you don't censor certain words so might think you're
talking roses and adorable puppies for some
grand social project...
       there's a graffiti joke in Poland...
              and there about four different variations
of the same word (as it sounds) -
huj                         hój
             chuj                                and chój...
  there are no others... but there's only one accepted
spelling of the word: given the orthographic convention...
and if this word is seen on walls
   without the correct orthography, it's a good joke...
  (it's the first spelling of the word that's correct,
if you want to know)...
     what i can't understand is creating these excessive
emotional associations with words,
not sentences that lead to a fuller meaning:
but isolated words...
                         it's a simple bewilderment that
using such words, for the sake of using them, might
suddenly lead toward some antagonism of
an ethnicity -
                                 it's black on white -
there are no hues of words... but when it's used
from fear of a writer's block, and it has to be used,
once again: not in concreto...
                        then it's again, used like i might
throw everything into grammatical categorisation of
words, and get back a lesson in grammar...
    that's 3 weeks without a keyboard - you're
bound to vent out some frustration...
                    at least there's an antidote to it,
on saturday i experienced zenith of the frustration,
until it dwindled away, overnight...
                             rarely do you see a review of a poetry
book in english newspapers...
   perhaps the guardian, but in the times?
               once in a blue moon...
           the review: if jeremy corbyn wrote poems...
    for almost a whole evening i was experiencing this
sort of: debilitating paralysis, debilitating because it
was wholly mental... i equated reading this review
with an experience of: ethical monopoly of vocab...
    and it really does exist... its not a question of political
correctness, but a case of ethics:
                  could i use the word nxxxer or not?
    can it really be so scary to see that correct spelling?
and what if i wrote about the river Niger, because
i felt like it... or took to the fancy of a trip to Nigeria?
       boy, Niagara falls must be stunning to look at too!
i don't understand that privacy can be so usurped,
so wrangled out one's on comfort...
    so we have our closet racists and closet intellectuals
(who i call the bearded white boys
                 in chequered shirts and torn jeans) -
    but in a fit of personal transitioning, are we really
about to censor each other, and on what ground?
      yes, i have a ku klux **** hood in my closet
and i'm about to shout ye ha! on a lynch frenzy...
      it's a word said out of context with a historical content
still ascribed to it... if this word were taken into
an urban environment: it would be an epitome of
what once was used with the words *******...
         i'm not concerned with the word historically...
       historically speaking: it's urban now...
                               it can literally mean: thick-as-night...
and can you start to begin finalising such
nano experiences in life...
                           some people get to sky-dive,
or hunt lions on safaris...
                                i'm stuck with a wasted evening
duped into thinking this out:
  like so horror minority report, said the word:
predestined to do the most god-awful evil...
                       or like i said the word:
and that's equivalent to not washing my mouth for
2 weeks... 2 weeks spent on a diet of onions,
garlic and raw beef...
                           it's this absurdity that has nothing
fancy about it, this could not be written by
Albert Camus... it's too worm-like absurd...
                 i don't whether to laugh or cry, or tell you
how i had to find a counter-frustration...
but i did, the review of a poetry book in a saturday newspaper...
philip collins' take on unreconciled - poems 1991 - 2013
   by michel houellebecq...
                               i'm guessing the actual book
would make me feel less frictive than the reviewer's take on it...
   such this huge ball of fungus dropped into
my cranium and started to cannibalise itself with
digestive juices of nihilism... thankfully reviews like this
would spur me on and make me want to read such a book...
just to get the antithesis (if that's correct word to use)...
   to me, it sounds like a book
that's supposed to oppose the european use of the haiku...
   for me not all haikus are philosophical...
     although i know they're intended as such...
personally, i think that the art behind the haiku is
more than the actual haiku...
    say, someone who invented this medium,
yes, an easterner would probably write 20 haikus in
a period of 20 years...
     writing too many haikus (usually done by westerners)
is precisely the opposite of the art-form...
      how can a haiku be written without a year-long
restraint, and when finally the pressure is too much:
you get ''so little''?
                      well sure, i can write a haiku any moment
i can... but i'd have to have a gnat's worth of
consciousness to write one without having meditated for
a year...
                we europeans can at least write
absurd excerpts from our rigid lives...
                        and houellebecq does that -
   we live in these snappy narcissistic observations taken
from the world we have so made systematic -
    and i guess reason is a big tender dog -
given that unreason is a ******* chiwawa that
constantly keeps barking... or any other small dog
for that matter...       well: once again -
who told these people who review poetry books that
poetry is an Ikea manual?
                               lack of imagination, i'd say...
   and i'll say that about any other liar out there who
can say that visualising poems is easy -
     modern art can be seen as pretentious ******* -
but then what can you verbalise about it is the whole trick...
   just asking, because i was thinking about when
that famous school of fine art in Florence is going to
reopen, and why no one bothered to remember the techniques
using oil on canvas...
                 evidently something is up in the zeitgeist -
    i'm guessing we'll not see a **** study by edward calvet
any time soon... and it'll remain so, for quiete some time -
something is being revised - i'd call all modern art
by the movement: revisionism -
                      well: the dark ages were revising something -
everything's crude once more...
                  as came with the over-exposure to our
******... and did i say there's something wrong with that?
but evidently seeing too much fucky-fucky
    has created jelly in the eyes of artists who have to
go back to basics... it's like artists are looking for words...
they want to return to a dialogue of the reneissance...
    or at least it sounds like that... oh no, not from them:
from the people that have a critical eye on the matter:
the intellectuals... i see it as a hope for coming back to
dialogue... if you can't return to a dialogue over
a very simple modern canvas... there's no point
talking about the greater intricacies...
                             that leave you speechless -
  i mean: what's the point of talking about a mona lisa
when you can enjoy a joke asking whether
the devil didn't have his hand up her skirt?
       or the ecstasy of st. theresa... what's there to talk about?
i look at that statue and just want to get a hard-on...
but first i guess i have to rediscover a dialogue
with what the current times prescribe me...
and these really are works of prescription... there's no
point look into pharmacology's list of prescriptions...
   as going about saying it's all a load of *******,
leads to the first step toward modern alienation...
       if darwinism can be a humanism, a study of
the human... i can only give it a motto:
there's a reason behind everything... there's a reason
snakes don't have eyelids...
                              or that giraffes look funny...
             or that camels are the most vile mammals
to walk this earth...
                       personally i
K Balachandran Aug 2020
Loosing gravity, I hovered above,
The fields and woods, hills and dales,
Egrets and cranes sensing  a competetor
Near gave a chase, that was nice though.

'Just a metaphor that means a search
For beauty and lasting meaning' I heard,
Who said it; unknown commentator viewing
Every movement, each moment, of universe!

What a mystery, I thought for a moment,
Not the 'I' before, but one that is aggragated,
Above the narrow limits of me,my and mine,
The cranes and herons keeping me company
Had bid goodbye, I saw palms wave  hands.

Feeling comfortable with the new fecility
I flew high easy, couldn't find where I end
And the multiverse of wonders takes me over
"Aĺl I thought of me was as a visitor to this
Island of time and space, part of a whole,
But I have  my sweetheart close to my heart
Near and dear, friends all over the world
Many of us never met but neighbours of
My heart, I hear them from afar and their
Heartbeat I felt mine; was an adventure this,
Love prompted, a lilting poem  in progress,
Now  a flow with the wind circling universe
I am ecstacy itself, time is the essence in this
Tale, told  by many eyes" whispered I to
My invisible companions, winging with me.

And loomed large in my being my beloved
Moon with whom I fell madly in love in an
Age of unreason and wild infatuation.
She felt compelled to hold me close to her
***** and kissed my sweaty brows gently
A moment of oblivion, now I am one with
The sprit of universe, in thought and deed
When being becomes nothingness, bliss!

The starry nights, embellished in darkness
And light  is my domain till eternity, I have
No loss or gain, what 'I was' cherished is not
Taken from me a bit, in this wingless flight

The stars, a billions lighted souls dancing
In time line far near and eternal began
To hum a celestial tune that becomes all,
That makes the universe, it moves in waves
Holds all together with love and compassion
All the rest are just tales,elements create
You and I, all the rest are myths illusory
Apparition of one and only music eternal.
Mike Essig Apr 2018
"This is the end, my friend…"

Take refuge in the Golden Years.
Retire to an inevitable monastery
plopped on a suburban mountaintop.
Immerse yourself in the lost writings
of Nikita Khrushchev and Harry S Truman.
Learn to cook gizzards and meditate.
Find solace in obsolete atomic weapons,
enlightenment in the raw, butchered
expressions of the naked thermonuclear.
Wangle, ******, fire, and maneuver.
Get in touch with your inner Eichmann.
Devour baskets of tasty deplorables.
Stop clinging to guns and religion.
Love the fascism of the ordinary.
Become content with mere content.
Stop waving daggers at the innocent.
Wash yourself in the blood of the lamb.
Accept that Woodstock was futile.
Admit you can’t get no satisfaction.
Penetrate the goddess of unreason,
and come screaming to your senses.
Declare the dawn of the Age of Onanism.
Keep your fingers out of Pandora's box.
Bid farewell to the ghost of Joe Hill.
Depart the smothering, smooth life
of lust, corn flakes, and competition.
Expand your mind in a mushroom cloud.
Travel upriver to the ****** of Darkness,
legendary source of honeyed generation.
Attain new heights of perfect despair.
Discover the latent bliss of cassowaries,
rooted in their strong disdain for kale.
Play poker with the spirits of the dead.
These are your days of lucky revelation.
Lick magic frogs and witness lost dreams.
Arrive at the perfect wisdom of what is.
Everything and nothing, just what it seems.
DM Dec 2012
I tried too hard,
I suspect,
I gave attention where none was asked for,
I pleaded her beauty and soul,
though none was wanted,
She had other directions to travel,
Asking each and everyone their opinions,
ignoring them all.
She ran after him,
Held him tight a few times,
conflict settled in her mind,
less comfortable than mistakes,
choices gave way to unreason,
he disappeared,
Shes still follows,
Waiting for the day he returns,
Which he never will,
Still she dreams,
and dreams and dreams,
of him.
Brittany Leigh Feb 2010
the war zone is open
a simple stumble
onto a carelessly unplanted landmine
the photographic proof
of the ones in the winning troops
a wire was tripped
my carefully grounded feet
now stumble sightlessly through
confused by combat
as the clouds of battle
brew and storm
mushroom around me
my soul is shattered
by the shrapnel of the relationships
that were never quite had
grenades packed with unbidden love
a thousand times stronger
than any known explosive
scar and pock my psyche
with their silent detonations
the rockets of unreason
guided by an unbalanced radar
pierce the pretend walls of armor
which were never successfully reinforced
this isn't the first or worst battle
know it won't be the last,
because
there is no safe zone
there is no ceasefire
there is only surrender
to the ceaseless uncertainty
a prisoner of my own
hostile forces
Noah Clinnson Mar 2010
holy cow, words my god they can be arranged in ways that are musical and metaphorical and melodic yet menacing or mechanical, mean and maniacal.

WORDS GAH! Letters can be like musical notes and different arrangements are different chords, CHORDS CAN BE WORDS! chord progressions=sentences! There's common ones. Like C G Am F. Translated. You are so beautiful. wow so inspired. HOWEVER! one can use the same chords in different fashions to create different songs with totally different meanings LADLKJNF!
you are beautiful, so
are you so beautiful
so you are beautiful
beautiful, so are you
so beautiful, are you?
you beautiful? so are...
I believe this is clear, cleave me if mistaken but please if anything departure is unreason able would you? don't ever, you are beautiful, so beautiful.

WORDS HolY FARCE! not fake or an art satirical to the smart can you please stop shopping at wal mart?

HOLY ENGLISH! so many words i do not know how will I learn to cope with potential nope unavailable but I know I'm granted unalienable rights in my sights if I might just quote the constitution and relieve my blank poor brain of all destitution so I can keep my head high and wear a grin with pride if you wish to die i'll have to pry into your soul and save you, gotta keep you whole because without you there's one less that one may bless and all the folks will miss you oh what a mess so please I confess I need people here to read these rants and turn them into chants to sway some opinion to create a bunch of minions necessary for a change I can believe in but for that to happen i'll have to go to bed and learn to sleep in.

WOW WORD LOVE WORLD OF WORDS!
Phillip McKenzie Nov 2014
In my dreams...
I ride barebacked on a white stallion,
Across the plains
I behold with vigilance
Where desert meets azure, sand meets sky.
There is no pollution; no smoke stacks
To **** and penetrate,
To change blue to violated gray.
The heavens are pure.
I ride barebacked on a white stallion,
By peaceful streams,
Along mountain ridges,
Where nature and I have communion,
There is no war, no rumors of war,
To depress and intimidate,
To make life insensible.
The world is harmonious.
I ride barebacked on a white stallion,
Among the wild horses;
They are my brothers.
Eagles and hawks fly together.
There is no hunter, no pursuer,
To **** and capture,
To infringe upon freedom.
The Earth is free.
I ride barebacked upon a white stallion,
Within my mind,
Into feigned sunsets,
Where Utopia is real to me.
There is no unreason, no absurdity,
To bewilder and unsettle,
To eradicate my certainty.
The dreams are real.
J Christmas Jan 2019
Amillion steel pin ****** divine
each day closer to death we climb
crystal shards bejewel the sky
While
The Cities beneath me
Kicking and crying
But all I hear is goodbye
-
Unreason not able
Why are these ****** Not stabled
Just wanderin
Thru this fable
stubbed my toe
on your god of stone
That litters this river
We all flow
So
Let’s dance in this
Technicolor bliss
And never ending showers
of little lead gifts
human disinfectant
for where the slime live
Where the slime live
-
Broken bones remind the soul
of the all violence that’s been sold
All the while racing toward
that ever after
We once called home
No more
boiling jealousy
envious bedroom eyes
hideous tongues beguile
Thick salavatory lies
Lifeless imbeciles
Revolving doors
carnivorous smiles  
covetous masturbators
**** Gazing while
Justice is *******
Coming a little premature
Serving our just deserves
oh my libertine
How I loathe to
See you In chains
If their speed is good enough for 6 yr olds
Then it’s safe enough for me
HEY!!!!!
I want my! I want my! I want my
methamphetamine!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
-
I got too many middle fingers
Shoot straight from the cuff
Humans might lose the race
Oh well, close enough
Outlawed truth and reason
But here, I just took a dump
Never waste a good crisis
My Re-elected incumbents
Gotta Fill Them Prisons
Protest prices ‘cause
Dollars fill the fists
Along the streets uprisen
HEY!!!
Whats the policy on returns?
I’m just not happy with this
Oblivion
-
broadcast opinions
Regimental TV
Coerced confession
global stupidity
Yes, I’d like to report a hijacking
0f another species
Endangered or
Polluted at best
Just Don’t forget to breath
Oh yeah, you’re dead
Copyright2018 John D Christmas
HerStory Oct 2017
they ask us to hide our figures
because they figure it will stop the assault,
for every woman they  find laying somewhere disfigured
it's immediately our fault  
because we dress like this ,
we wear those pants that grab our thighs
and that slim fit dress that draws the eyes .
we were blessed but cursed with shape
that makes them blind to reason ,
so we must accept the myth of "requested ****"
and agree with mass unreason
right?

we must accept MAN-ipulation
because it happens by our fault,
they want us to hate what makes us woman
like its some sort of salt,
like its some sort of guzu,
like we are enemy to our curves,
likes hips and thighs aren't just as natural and veins and nerves.

they want us to be embarrassed
ashamed , so we don’t speak
they Make excuses for the perpetrator to make the victim weak .
But they need to STOP!

They need stop telling us what to wear
They need to stop telling us how to behave
The need to stop making a woman feel as though her body must have her enslaved
if its the clothes that we wear that lead to abuse,
why were fully clothed polish nuns ganged ***** in 1942
wearing habits revealing nothing but their faces?
why are Muslim women still being ***** in sacred places?
why are formally dressed women assaulted in  their workplaces?

They need stop blaming us for that mans lack of restraint
They need to address the issue instead of changing the complaint,
No Means No!

we need to encourage our sons to understand rejection
Because he cannot always get what he wants,
And he cannot forcibly take what he wants,
And the world is not his canvas!
He cannot cannot paint his insecurities everywhere!
and that girl is not his graveyard,
He cannot bury his anger in somebody’s daughter!
He needs to learn to accept the concept of NO.  
we do Not Consent , and they need to know .
Just because our  dresses may be a little  above knee length ,
Does not meet that we concede or consent ,
Just because we may walk with an extra sway
Doesn’t mean that it’s okay ...for him
To make me us next mistake
seeing something that he likes does not give him the right to take !
WE DO NOT CONSENT !

we do not consent to the myth of women aiding the intent
of **** , assault , and ****** harassment ,
Like our ancestors,
We DO NOT CONSENT!
Like the persecuted victims,
We DO NOT consent!
We Do not consent to assault , **** , or ****** indignities
Nor will we change to help your son fight his own insecurities.
Confusion in each thought, for so many bleed together
That the thought of such confusion nearly ceases thought entire
Fusion I have sought, but together, they are severed
What is wrought is no illusion...clearly pieces that inquire
Is there rhyme within unreason?
Is there sense in the insane?
Haphazard contemplations in the whereing of each why
The whatting of each who when every when commits its treason
Come and go, too quick or slow, it's sure to quickly come again
Slowly bleeding 'midst the feeding of ideas to the senses
In a sense, and in defense, I've no idea what to say
For the words have all been heard in every way and all pretenses
No matter painted pictures, all will see it their own way
It makes much sense to me, for I live the grand confusion
That so plays upon the mental tongue with which my fingers speak
The order in disorder seems to be the quest of each intrusion
Finding I am strong, even when I feel I'm weak

What now have I to do with thou?
What then will we surmise?
As it were, has it occurred to us
To claim our ****** prize?
Disallow right here and now
That this will lead to our demise
Endure the curse that murders us
Defeating all devised

Legions of sparrows have shadowed my halls
The feathered winds doth shudder my soul
For Good and Evil have come to call
A fight to my death for each shard of the whole
Each dream and each nightmare tattooing confliction
Every caw a new scar of insane
An act of revenge, or an act of contrition
It is, in the end, merely trying in vain

Long seeking for something with much nothing found
I've reached to the heavens from far 'neath the ground
Darkness and light have both poisoned my soul
Both seek to gain the full grip of control

Need there be reason for Death to preside?
For surely, he wins in the end of all ends
Yet, looming hereafter, his presence confides
That there's life in the lifeless for which to defend
A prayer in each lie and a sin in each sainting
Cannot rend the veil of such painted on smiles
For the mask cannot hide what defies contemplating
In a sense, there's no defense against the waiting of a while

Silence constructing and muffling sound
Both something and nothing in everything found
Broken and beautiful wings now unfold
I rise with the sparrows in a gale uncontrolled

No need to get emotional
For rise above the storm we shall
Dividing the devotional
The notion will prevail
With calloused hull and tattered sail
Traversing the irrationale
To reach the unapproachable
Defining each detail
As seas embrace and batter shores
The winds caress and shatter ties
Carrying the ashes
To the places thoughts collide
Becoming snow upon the lore
As seasons change before my eyes
The moment that now passes
Giving hope no place to hide

In no sense does it make sense to me
Despite how things remain the same
However hopeless I may be
I find that much more hope to claim
In no sense, and in no pretense
Can I explain the war within
There is no greater evidence
Than falling but to rise again
Now the need to rediscover himself rises over him, he leaves the Machiavellian stupor and the breath of his organism flavored with bile, alchemy, and pours it out until he expels his cancer-causing avital situation. Everything was already clear, Ludwig had a great refuge of himself, he was the superman who locks up all ages, who is senile and youthful; since it is surrounded by the aura of the perceptual smell of evil. That he renews knowledge and does not feel invariable, that he is a Cybernetic and divine Monarch. In contrast, the other is a mastiff that allows himself to docilize his instinct and follow the one who beats him, the one who mistreats him and shatters his will that accompanies the master who makes use of him, who uses him today, still and always. Now almost in his normal state, he decides to smell better and change his appearance, he coughs up his lobes by filling them with broth from Colibrí's twittering. He combs his damp hair and talks to himself by saying words like ...: Hello, how are you ... Who will you be today ...? Although his spirit is reluctant, he goes to the birthday of his friend Sara, a close friend of his, and lends to his benevolence. When he arrives, he repeats the protocol and cheers up his appearance, greets the ladies present, and hand in hand with the gentlemen, in Ludwig's intimacy an anti-desire pierces, the anguish of a weak pleasure that his expiring sap disturbs in the worldliness of him.

Distracted, he continues, walks with her eyes, and stops them in a brown hair, with radiant light he receives the sensual gesture, and the damsel takes her hair with her hand, pulling it towards her back. Ludwig, astonished and puzzled by her, made her look ******, he already imagined receiving from her a smile her, but knowing that he loved her, that her hair would let go of her and engender in him the impression of her as possessing the sculpture of her. He approaches her with a firm temper a little more, glancing at her casually. She, very contemplative, manages to find the vigor of her strength by getting close enough, he very thoughtful, pending her every step it would be easy for him to glimpse the future, to find his equivalence to his unpredictable existence, who for the moment would desire glory and majesty and not fugitive decadence, like something suicidal that instead of satisfying him, kills him.

When he was preparing to meet her, he did not hesitate and the last steps to her were the most solid, wherever he was with his idea of having her, he hung in his stomach the sharp desire to put out his eyes with a fork and thus proceed at a slow pace in his masochism in frisking his agonizing death. There came the other gesture where he would drop his arm and brush it with hers, with a stealthy touch he could see a certain excitement between his teeth, and the saliva was escaping from his mouth when he looked at himself in a mirror, also seeing how it trickled down his makeup chin impatience. He never believed that such a phenomenon would happen to him, so it was where Sara, who was tasting a delicious menu, was going to tell him that she was leaving her and that later he would call her. As he left and went through the front garden, he felt the birthday song being sung to the piano and at the same time he saw someone outside with an immutable expression --- And Ludwig told himself that the strange-looking one was an Augur del Budú, that It weighed on her stoic peace of being normal, which was just her high-profile imagination. Then he walks through the Prehistoric Park, crosses a low-level tunnel that endangers his balance when he barely sees his hands, but he manages to advance without paralyzing his limbs and reaches the main street where he sees a dog run over, takes it, and says to himself. ..: "I will take it to the food chain of my Green City, where the pure bacteria will gnaw its tissues ..." With great strength and noble spirit, he entered his Floral Forest, where he points the Cypress to the Sea, thus releasing it and sheltering it with his Deist energy, which is more than medullary and unbeatable. He withdraws and cannot help turning and looking at him, as if said Energy wanted him to resurrect the dog. Believing in his conscience, he asks permission to rest, he lies lightly on the humus; where photosynthesized leaves inoculate the percentage dreams of vegetables, trees and flowers. What the archer in his bolt threw, his chest oppressed unbreathable pneumonia, driving him to sleep for twenty-four hours. When he wakes up, still lying on his humus bed, he wants to lighten his heavy load by eating well, and drinking himself into alcohol. He did not know how to proceed, whether to beg or rob the wealthy of his leftovers, or humble himself with God and disavow him from throwing misfortunes, carelessness, cataclysms, the self-criticism of being imperfect, and whether he has to bleed or He has to defecate, provoke personal disgust, and may this lead him to lust, baseness, sin.

The more he brooded, the more weightless he became, and the murderous scavengers lurked around his will. Like a narcotic effect, it loses its cognitive capacity and reverses itself swirling through the funnel of reverie, where the sub-world circulates and where repressions, oppositions, and powerlessness collide. At the initial place where he hallucinates and sees himself entirely, he leaves the vigil and goes into the subconscious ...: He sees Debra in her moderated state where she was leaving that space --- Ludwig looks at her and so does she, but nothing is said to each other, only he says to himself "I prefer to love her to my distant ideal and not body versus body, just as the thought of her makes of her a kind, sweet and current portrait ..."

When he begins to walk renewed, he sees several Debra in reproductive phases, they worked ardently in his subconsciousness. Some kissed him, others beat him, others confused him and others hurt him. In favor of his life and for his salvation, the virtuous side would mercifully go to dismay him and open the floodgate of reality, to desolder his eyelids and flowing air go with its dreamlike substances. Already fully awake, he sees through the window of the branches how the clouds moved and how everything moved, the bushes with their branches and their flowers. When seeing with alienated simplicity and electrifying the sky, the radiant light beams touch the vibrant colors, which touch his heart like a disquieting shout, although at the most acute in his decay it will be like the noise that broke his eardrum, or like the chard that her stomach upset. He gets up and straightens up, by the time he's standing, he takes a paper and writes ...: "How relieved I am to dabble in sleep ..., now that I make the inscription tangible ..."

When he left his home, he was accompanied by a splendid sun, the birds fluttered with indescribable happiness, the prevailing clarity and cleanliness of the environment was already perceived, seeing that everything was hubbub, he continued to be a victim of his endogenous suffering. But the children's laugh made him laugh, dissipating his sorrow. Passing through the Prehistory Park, where he always believed that trees were Dinosaurs; he remembered the jerks of his father when he took him to school. He concludes that there is no place on earth that is not ancient, and here in this park you can smell the sacrifice of the primitive to survive. In the same way, the Mammoth in instincts was the same as **** Sapiens, only that it took its spear against the animal because it evolved faster, without knowing why ...?, Perhaps to see this inhabitant moistened in the Jordan, very close to Jesus Christ. The world revolves around the man in need, who invents what is necessary, in this case fighting his hunger. In this way he kills the Mammoth, cutting it into pieces to then eat it, and whoever takes the food from it, simply dies in the struggle to survive before his ambitions.

When he got out of his mind, he set out on the path to follow, and when he crossed the Fountain of Geysers and Hot Springs; he saw at the top of the Waters of Delphi, that woman with chestnut hair; Sara's birthday. She was alone and with her eyes without detaching them from the vapor, from the liquid element, so excited Ludwig approaches her almost calm, with a racing heart that he could hide when talking to her --- Well he said to himself ..., now I'll talk to you ... - Excuse me, You. I saw you on Sara's birthday, I saw you surrounded by many people. Look, I would allow myself to be by your side, I promise not to get in the way --- Thus, the soliloquy continued, with great shock I watched her and seeing how delighted she was, I could even kiss her, achieving it with ease, because it was daytime, perhaps where it was. found in the nomenclature matter.

After a while, when she was thinking of quickly moving away from the place, from the Source that inspired her enchantment, she spoke to him and said ...: “We women are not very fixed when the man casts his insatiable gaze, but we do the vanity of feeling admired. That's why I remember you at that party, I even got really worried when the saliva ran down your chin, I thought you were going to faint. As you can see, if I remember you.--- He did not take long to ask her name, and he told her that her name was Antonieta. Ludwig thought how beautiful her name was --- she has the name I like the most, and she illuminated with adulation cleared her eyes making them greener and more feminine in her manners. He knew that he would be calmer if he met her again, asking her to be so. She affirmed his request, but it would be in a few more weeks; because she had to fulfill a contract with the Ballet Company. Since she was an actress and a dancer, this was going to take place in the city of San Lorenzo. Thus it is that the ballad mishap was fulfilled, in the thick of the Park, one and the other had the magic of enchantment; her with her eyes of her green sea of the rocky shore, of the green algae and the salty green fish with the immeasurable shine in her eyes eager to dance and interpret the steam dance of that deep-rooted Thermal Spring.

Even when she wanted to start saying goodbye to her, he was imbued with her beauty, like the wind of pure air that lifts her hair with pacifism and open disposition, with the peace of a face that looks at the ****** world and at first instance positive and very beautiful. Well, Antoinette said ... I have to go. I would have liked to be here more, but I have to continue rehearsing the Work. She telling Ludwig ...: I want to let you know that we are slaves to fulfillment and we all seek to communicate, that's why like you I will also go. Together they left without saying anything and when they reached the exit they said goodbye with an injective kiss of love, with sweetness and psychology. The latter, she leaves the place until lost in the hazy gray of the day. When Ludwig wanted to talk to himself about what had happened, the preliminary virus entered her brain, so that he could not remember her clothes, only her hair from the Thermal Abbey with her spells that he introduced stiff and sharp the benefit by clouding his unreason produced by the virus of unreason. He believed he was Troilo and she Créssida, raising his suggestive and despotic view of her, whose order tells him to walk away ... Perhaps where ...? Maybe to drag the golden threads of her dress destined for her debut. By introducing his instinct to a simple will, he remembers Sara and puts forces in her footsteps to shorten her arrival. As he passed through the jasmine trees, he approached his house in a tiny way, up to the Eucalyptus massif that always welcomed him, expelling the unmistakable and pleasant aroma of his house. Before it struck, Sara said ... come in, and he came in but didn't see her, and he started looking for her around the dining room and the living room, until she came out of somewhere fast and well dressed with the scent of a great woman, with the better scents that surrounded her satin dress with attraction and grace. She tells him that she is going to the Aula Magna to see a group of Medieval Music. He tells her that if he left so after her, arguing that he came to see her and tell her how beautiful he found her friendship with her and how good it feels to be I live here, She tells him not to worry when she smiles at him, and he agreed to her words telling him how happy he was after the sun that rose magnifying everything, even she felt willing to improvise their good moods.

He answers her by making her words difficult as if intensifying her anemic and soft ductility in her breathless lungs. She rebukes him by saying that her illness should be treated more regularly. And he answered her only by shaking her head moderately, telling her that when he was not with someone like her, he believed he felt that the weight of the calculations of the geophysical world and the floating voices did not leave her hope in the peace in peace. her brain. Sara takes Ludwig's hands, giving him her comfort. My poor friend Ludwig, Alma Matter, you have now awakened the affection that I have never felt before for someone I hold dear and feel good today. She gets up and serves him a Vermouth, to go to the exhibition. In the fourth sip he wanted to fall into the hands of a certain audacity, he could not avoid falling into the ******* of the vision of paintings and sculptures, he wanted to stop and go to the garden to philosophize, perhaps with a butterfly such as the peaceful and healthy essence, full of transparency and stillness. She in this way she stretched her nose towards the ****** leaves, filling them with pure color, with pure airy candor. Sara, looking at him through the glass door, understood his state and wanted to caress his head and face. She immediately called him Ludwig ... come on, it's about time ...! He waited for him to close the door, before cutting off his overexcitement, until Sara quickly arrived and they went to the car. Upon arriving at the Aula Magna, both were in an excellent state of predisposition. They went in and up, sitting in the box. They instantly cheered up and Ludwig, shocked, was getting ready to tell him of his well-being, but the lights just faded to initiate the presentation. They begin by instrumentalizing the works of the 15th century in Spain and France, to later continue with choral music from the  Gregorian´s chants  Solesmes.

In the intermission, they commented on the lightness of the performers with their instruments and the fiery auditors acclaiming the variations and colors of the voices. His gestures also said how perplexed some attendees were by the perfection of his mastery. As they continue, pairs are introduced performing music for Bach's Harpsichord, and ending with pieces by Vivaldi, El pastor Fido and others by Telemann for Guitar. In the final moment, Ludwig remembered his youth and among them the metallic sound of the instruments that his father carried to compose in his house, assimilating the inexhaustible sounds of those volumes in his sensations. And so the aerial images escaped beyond music and love, from that inexhaustible resistance of his body, from his doubtful states which destroyed the apogee of his evolution. Those great awakenings of little serenity like the great clamor of union that he saw in his parents that later he did not seem like that, but belligerent on all sides, and how hatred broke out and disordered in his person increasing in swearing mouths altered in not measuring his words. Very close together on the step, they said goodbye to the Auditorium, and with a melodic sound, Sara appears singing, Ludwig not understanding that mixture that she sang in her French hymn. He seemed very bohemian and spoke of the pioneers of the Juggler Song. With telepathy he carried the fulfillment of his wish for a magical state, which had no input or output, only it corresponded to extracting an abstract thought from what was divinely related to music. Outside of Ludwig, Sara sang with satisfaction the appropriate atmosphere appropriate to her, but not so with his who was about to spill an ocean of liquids from eyes and ears, in which would come the remnants of quiet time, of the conflict of the others, maybe Debra with a handicapped part endocrinately composed with the flow of mineral and organic acids. In order to open the necessary contact of a soon to relieve, to suspend the claustrophobic tormenting existing, derived from the seizing and painful gesture of her unbearable wanting to heal and not getting it.

Ludwig said intimately ...: Uz ..., Uzzz ..., What a burning sensation I feel, it will pass ...! When the fatigue was overcome, the derutinization begins, to receive the delight, the music of the plumber ingredient of early life. That if it is spontaneous, it is capable of generating great proportions of delight and externalizing the result of the bodies in agitation that still emanated from its rhythmic musical cortex. They said goodbye to the Aula Magna "Bernardo Courtois", leaving a memorable satisfaction in his already enlarged spirit.
Weirdly Emigrate Chapter IV
Elizabeth Kelly Dec 2021
There’s a certain blurry gentleness to denial
A Tylenol bottle cotton plug of protection
Muting the inevitable rattling,
A scratchy puff, a cloud,
Shoving it down into the bottle
Until it’s wedged Somewhere Else
now just a half a whisper you can almost hear
On a tv with no subtitles

I like it here.
Swaddled against such unpleasantness
Nestled and unfocused.
That’s the key.
Focus your attention on anything for too long and you’re *******
The spell will be broken
That little whisper
Now a shard of glass
Now unforgiving and sharp edged on your naked awareness

Now, it insists
Now
Hear me NOW

NO, ****!
So many wishes spill out when you lose,
The blood of your unreason stinging your eyes like black pepper
Like a floodlight in a dark room
Pluck it out or shove it down
It will find a way to find you
Outside or inside you
In front of or behind you

You can’t escape this time
Or can you?

If you sink to the bottom you can hide awhile
With the anchor on your ankle
And the waves on every side caressing, pressing oh so gently
Like a kiss, like a smile.

Bliss endless and tidal
Like denial.
Aubrey Lambert Mar 2015
confetti snow, so pretty and untouched,
paint me pink.
pink so I can dive into a well of unreason.
i'll dance with jesters and kiss them goodnight.
never think of the tree where i've buried tomorrows.
all my tomorrows.

then snow turns to slush, pink drips, not my color.
paint me black.
not for death but for classic, a backdrop, a canvas.
paint me black to be strong, an anchor for flurries.
stuck in black.

neither black, neither pink,
paint me white.
white like that snow that turned my feet frozen.
white like the snow, like the pure, like the light.
white like the empty.
yes, paint me white.
carefree versus being responsible
I am but air
in this hall of-
unreason

And I am square with myself;
I am alive, I do not breath
yet, I do and I must,

see-
the light
because I am the light and so are you,
you are there in all black dressed,
to the nines in the curtain rail twirling in the background.

I don't know what it means,
that's why they call it poetry.
a poem about the weather in Manchester
Alaa Oct 2019
A greater cause,
means a better life.
Or atleast so they voice.
But how do you fight for what is right;
when all you dispose of is knife?

I ask myself who is my greatest enemy?
Is it me, myslef, or I?
Mybe all I need is a remedy.
To make all the wrong rectify.

I know that all of what I am capabe of holding is a weapon.
But how do you use such a thing when you can't tell the difference between your foe and your allies?
All I see are demons who seem to have come from the heart of heaven.
But afetr all, isn't that everybodies homeland. Even the devil knows all of its alleys.

But mybe weapons as deadly as they can be,
are the more or less something like you and me.
Mybe they weren't found for the unique cause of killing.
Pedro Reyes made weapon in art fullfilling.

What was war's greatest tool.
Has now become harmony's moor.
What was used in fights caused by sheer unreason.
Has now brought all people even.

All those cries,
all those tries.
And I still can't realize:
what on earth can possibly be my cause.
Pedro Reyes is a mexican artist who's most famous for making musical instruments out of weapons
John F McCullagh Apr 2015
Michael O’Rahilly was leading the charge, a hopelessly wasteful foray.
The English were waiting behind barricades as the Gaels made their desperate play.
Rifles at the ready; they charged up Moore Street, the O’Rahilly leading the way.
Like paper consumed by a flickering flame, their manpower melted away.
O’Rahilly lay dying, but the British just laughed, no aid would they give to the foe.
The cobblestones reeked of the blood on the street as the bodies were laid in a row.
Heroes perhaps have a touch of the poet, a dram of unreason besides,
but everyone knows of the charge of O’Rahilly; Everyone knows how he died.
It was, he well knew, a magnificent gesture, the English be dammed and despised.
He lingered, tis said, for nineteen long hours, immortal or not, he expired.
Written to commemorate the death of Michael O'Rahilly and his brave volunteers. One hundred years have passed since his gallant doomed attempt to stage a breakout from the Dublin GPO which was surrounded by British troops and was in flames
Marshall Gass Oct 2014
Beat in the blues the musky smell of smoke slithering
in and out of nostrils- dragon like dancing
to the ceiling and the drums bop, hard as muscle
women gyrate to the pulse of passion
sounds embrace lovers heading into the mist of night.

Between the banter  snorters ****** in coke
and cannabis wasted in the aisles of wonder
glancing at the lights flickering in the rooftops
of their eyes, seeking angels of mercy to take
them deep into the oblivion of emptiness.

The midnight gong sounds shattered as we
huddle in the days of the darkness of unreason
wallowing in the madness of the music
and breaking every rule that kept us trapped
in the cages of  that society .

As I look back now, leafing through the years
I cut through the morass of tradition and broke free
from the shackles of sensibility and found my feet
in a wild, wild world where nothing mattered
I am now rested at the journeys end
waiting for the skyline to blow up in flames.

Author Notes

Recollection.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Juniper Jan 2017
how could this have happened? america was once the city of oz gleaming green in the distance as a hand of liberty reached out to ellis island. we were strong and proud and a country made of immigrants. a melange of ideals and talents that made it unique and beautiful and a portrait of diversity. but then it all came crashing down. we were going to have a proof. she would show that we are who we say we are and we are unafraid and we love and accept but all that came crashing down. suddenly a tornado of hate sweeps in and our progress comes crashing down. away with everything good and in with the stupidity and the unreason and the uniformed of the next four years. oh but worry not he will surely listen and respect you. simply name it and it's yours. but not if you're a man manlover. or a woman womanlover. or if you're a queen. or if you're a beautiful foreigner. or if you're a hardworking traveler. or if you're of a different anything. he will disrespect you because you are not as good as him. or different. of a different gender or race. if you are not orange, you are not worthy. but we can do this we can speak out. we will walk across our great land and manifest destiny to right the wrongs that have been done. everyone who holds this traitor up is everyone who has been shamed and we will not hold up someone who intends to bring us crashing down. we will open ellis island again and receive a flood of losers like us.
Ken Pepiton Mar 2021
Only now are we empowered to connect
word to word with tech-magic
atom-ated, granulated,
crystaline lines on of in over though
cracked ice…
William
Gibson's Ice. The gates on all the data we
need to know what we think,
sttatistically, stutter-ring at
what's trending replacing some quest
on the map to meaning supplied
with the ads on tv, the ones
that sorted us in to simple
us
and them, sets of like minds, measured
at the checkout line,
by which magazines were sold, yes, there's data.
By 1937,
Bernays knew the be habits were we driven,
far more effectually than mere I wishes, we we we,
sells, better'n'***.

seeds of dreams yield reality, one generation removed.
-------------
Like cousins you can make babies with,
this idea is O positive, trans
any gap - canyon cañon - self reflecting conflict threads,

threads of unfinished any thing
sing it
call it prayers who cares, if nobody knows
what you imagined
everybody knows, so you said nothing, and they all died.
No, they lived,
but they believed the lie I told you earlier.

I forgot the exact one, but it was covered.
I knew not what I did.
Same Yesterday Today Forever thread, pulled

chainstitch holds the weight, what's a needle threaded with
that can
hold that thought?

idea virii
ready for a reader to write up as news,
as a known, dripped from the
tree, mated in the origin story,
with life, sci-psy-psi,
you and I
-- oops matter anti oops not again
got it in one,
time is nothing like we once could not imagine.
what happens is
the two sides being in and out
originally no word held any thought,
so numbers could not matter then
pi - per haps - pi, but a never ending
sequence, hallelujah,
pi is an infinite idea, it may be the very one,
we need to roll
with….
what was was thought,
what was not thought was

not… and if you knew one thing,
like I am,
you know that much,
then you know not is not where now
came from, not was not the last word,
it could have been,
but there was a way, overlooking the edge of never,
just inside impossible,
quite probably
this
exact idea, was involved in your being
in the reader role,
at that point. You made the difference. It all works now.
Watch.

be patient.

While hearing modern bluegrass songs about olden ways.
- sorta got m'dander up,
- some old lies left told as good old wise.
Reward pride at your peril, people.
Come, listen,
gentle, easy good,
quiet watching, in the night,
the poor being kept safe enough
to send their best to war for gentlemen owners
of the only means of making a wage,
that was in the olden days
- t's the law, man don't work, don't eat
- don't eat means don't live, after while
- so swearing a liege a firstborn child
- seemed a good enough way
- to stay safe, fed, some little warm, time t'time

Life's that way today, no worse.

Who taught your child to respect the law?
Who gave ultimate power to compound interest?

These are those interesting times, the interests feared.
All the poor can read,
and information has burst from the gates,
sluice gates,
dams, *****, yes… grand cataracts of secret
sacred
old theories long proven wrong,
but by faith,
held true, somewhere, there, there in
the heart
of any one of us, individ-ity bit of the whole
human being biomass on earth,
they say each
one of us has the right of unreason. I trow not,
as I heard say,
I call on common sense,
set the spirit of our time to after
everybody knows
this is the only biosphere near as good
being as would be
heaven, as all believers pray it may be,
done, this is it,
in any way shape or form you might fit in.
This ain't bad, with a little luck and a good eye.
This is a special place.
-- but some folks think they ought to **** wrong thinkers,
and thus **** the wrong ideas.
There is no hell beyond mortality,
that idea never dies.
Say the preachers, no no no, not those guys, too wise
by half… the truth of a preacher's worth is in the fear of god.
Teacher, rebbi, guru do we gotta all be weird as you?

You gotta know how things work.
Ignoring the nature of spaceship earth,

how long are the proud boys allowed to be formed
in towns where the only employer
makes tools used for killing enemies essential
to our nation's economy, we **** enemies,
every child knows
being a hero is something few live through.

That story never ends in peace… this one does, I bet,
and I got the last word to start with, so

is there really magic in the code, that runs you?
-----------------

{earth - real media terrane earth - zoom in}

High Chaparral, less tame than most forests,
due to the dwarfish reach
of manzanita and chaparro and yucca and sage,
that grow through el Niño and la Niña,
year after year, sometimes a century,
building fuel for a fine fire from
a whim of a wind and a cloud, rubbing
ozone on the granite, to paint
a flash of all God's power,
as a map I asked for, for
trails
are few
for upright walkers, too old to crawl.
Such trails less traveled by are
shared by bigger beasts,
the kind good to eat and the kind that can
eat
a kid, who is small enough to crawl
where nothing bigger fits,
I hear,
come and see,
I can't,
I say,
but I can imagine it's a special place,
related to all the special places,
where kids are free to feel
safe, as this universe,
this
special place.


--------------

If I think too hard about what I do not know,
but could,
it aches, in my chest…
if I was to live
for no other reason,
but to learn what I don't know;

if I think too hard about that,
I forget to remember what I learned
about time
and patience and mortal instances of insight,
from time to time,

when I got nothing particular on my mind.

----------------

I do despise some things, I despise
my own
propensity
to insist on knowing wholly
the truth in what I say
while immersed in wisdom folk found
in the ads
on the six o'clock news… that is one
of my despised things,
I mean
my pointy head has angels dancing in
a frantic insist-dance that I
verified,
all agree it was me who imagined
as many angels as can be
digitized into a single message bhering word,
since sanskrit,
such words held many messengers.
Judge the angels words,
have them give account, find
the diamond was of no worth
until the first broken one caught light,
a gleam, eye apple angel,
many fit the pin head I have in mind

-------------------

I drove to the village,
to check for mail of the paper and ink variety,
old news, old pleas for attention
to pleas for money, interesting, those
from the casinos,
they never seem sincere.

Waning wishes wax feeble in folk who
believe it, if its on all the news,
sometimes, if its only in their facebook feed,
as suggested, by a friend,
from
ever ago… hmmm, mebbe I should
reach out

nah. What was I thinkin'? I'm a hermit,
by nature, a grandpa by choice,
a sower of discord among brethern by knowing
the preachers all lie about knowing
and believing being one inseparable
immaterial
does not matter any way thing.

I thought that made nonsense where sense
feels
something's not right in this idea
forbidden knowledge, being known, but secret,
right from the tree knowing good,
and thereby knowing no-good,
with use
of the knowing good, sapien sapien, v.2.0

-- that's good -- why is that how men go to hell?
What man can conceive, he can achieve.
Swallow the lie that says that's wild, by nature.
Do as you wish, child,

experience proves evil
can be made of lies I tell you to trust me on.

Here's a point. We can stop,
consider if consideration ever really meant
with star im-put weight on right's side,
as if only with the least bit of
consideration we may lean
right in a celestial realm of cooperative attention
given and taken
for granted, as a child.
----------------

When you wished upon that star,
was it a cricket singing?
You know, "makes no difference who you are"
Is there not a legend about a cricket's song
living long, exceeding long, long active
lives, in performance
some where,
every second of each dark diurnal sequence,
signaling soon we feel it real
hear comes the chorus
after the hallelujah
at the morning's third crow, also signaling
the sufficiency of evil,
be not deceived,
the war is won and no games change
the hour of your death,
ready set
go with your will to do the good you find to do.
go with your will to do no evil, ignorantly.
------------------------

Days may package themselves in lessons
learned long before
any hearing ear may think these words
as thoughts a reader hears aloud,
angelic, not tremble and bow, but

wow, truth has a voice.
No lie can hide the echo, that has always
been key, qi, chi

cheeky. Cheapshot bullseye.
Wanna see it again.

Been there, done that.
You remember, it was your idea, but you
let it go.

--------------

been a long cold winter,
but we've been warm,
by no means of our own;
things just
happened this way.

I should reprove myself,
lazy *** is much the truth
of what I am,
I live on the waste of the world,
that some folk count as dung,
-- dung has had great worth in olden time

at the rate of the fourth part of a qab of dove's dung
for five
pieces of silver in some money current with the lenders.
[2 Kings 6:25 - that ended in peace, it seems,
that was the moral of the story, not the chariots of fire]

-------------------
For those who enjoy what I enjoy. I think I can imagine for ever at this rate.
Dr Peter Lim Feb 2019
How, oh how
do I reason
with unreason
which has deaf ears
and a mind of rock?

What gave it birth
that overpowering strength
which paralyses
as an earthquake's shock?

Trapped as reason fails
I could make no move
no argument could I advance
even if I have all the proof.

Weary, worn-out and exhausted
no words of persuasion
could I find--I'm left stranded
in the lacuna of life's wilderness
while unreason applauses
in triumph and mocks me the helpless
the lonely and pitiable beleaguered.
Miss Me May 2018
How does one survive the turmoil inside
Doubts of oneself that replay on repeat
Crisis created out of truths put aside
Protecting the truth that caused the defeat


Then to learn no norm will ever be built
Never ever will it even be known
Then comes the shame and of course all the guilt
Damaged further and cannot be resewn

Then swept away with another high tide
Raising the same questions left from the past


Then look above for the reason to hide
Answers not given only added to the last
Then fears brought back upon shores of unreason
Living sadness still in another New season
Dr Peter Lim May 2020
...but reason we have over-rated
   it's too stern-faced and brutally cold
   it has to be restrained or uprooted
  we will never be sold or told-

   I'll love without assigning any reason
  my heart is sure, steadfast and bold
  in every weather and every season
  I'll allow my love to blossom a thousand-fold.
Chip Buchanan Dec 2019
I’ve ingested the bigot —
imbibed his words in each step that falters,
felt the cruel weight of lies
in every doubt and deprecation,
muted judgement of the system
that I might prejudge myself
in ****** images he inscribes.

This fight will go down into the dark
caverns of unreason
until the morning of unknowing  
shall expel the burrowing villain
that cannot live without destroying
his only host.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2024
When the we we think we become reads this,
it must, assume access granted, you do know.

The window on the broadway, where they sold
Raspberry Berets, in the summer of '61.

oh, Saad, I was distracted, I think you later,
and I go on,
I went
and came back around, second chancing

Take any given day, under Cuyamaca blue
skies above Horsethief Creek bright greens,

Lettin' Saad go in my right bluetoothed ear,


Bad idea pathogens identified…
Ardent warrior against unreason,

think and feel gut sense, intentionally,

freedom to speak and fact check speakers.

Shun liar game heroic value structures.

Warped view losers syndrome,
OPS dogmas and doctrinal canons

Root seed fruit oils

battle of ideas, whispers reason,
the why asking my involvement
- me? No, I second guess it all
in good thinking methodology, thinking
you could think better outcomes, without war.

We all can try to think harder, use the assistants.

AREOPAGITICA Milton,
free to try to read, in the moral atmosphere
- we are past free press, this is thought

being a spirit, one must weigh spiritually,
freedom to know precedes freedom to lie,
allowed when sales was the game,
the only way through next, sell something,
automatically with an orderly response
from a commercially exclusive
assisting intelligence source,
- right, I know, we all agreed…
trained on thirty years of Oracle SQL access,
at the level of a spider in a king's house,
Old Viewpoint, Alte Vista, modulating
signal, demodulating filter, almost mechanical,

as life's tiny perturbations flock in streams,
spinning phi bound chaos into whole galaxies.

We can scale time, and pretend to imagine
we can say it happened faster than a thought

for an immeasurable instant.

Life is your performance, your only art.


We remember for balance, good reason.

Lenny Weinstein's Grandmother
- actually reminded me
Maybe we argue, me and she, we do;
but we do not disagree, we do not.

So, I meekly agree, we must not.

What we all need is discernment,
does it matter what we think, I think so.

Munchausen
Munchausen syndrome (also known as factitious disorder imposed on self) is a mental health disorder where you falsify, exaggerate, or induce physical, emotional or cognitive disorders.
VeggieTaleslobber,
Woody model mentality
Opposing viewing positions
defend against offensive mind eating ideas

Build your old folk attitudes on rocks higher than the ocean
can hurl it self when provoked by angry quakers and stormers.

Adult cong-hnative resiliancy,
psicho active we gotta do sumps
FEAR OF GOD IS WISDOM
you swear you swore you knew?
- whoa look who thinks now
Hope there ain't no hell.
Beware bully,
loved childhood fears, Munchies,
comfort
excuse my phobias please h
whoa, no, just say no, grow old,
if you are still here, in 2024,
at the end, then the meds, work
wonders, wait to see, just imagine,
no opiod dreams younger than smoke
to change the channel focused on,
pain is not spirtual matter, nothing
matters past too much pain to think about,
happy thoughts, work like good thinking
blanks in life's past emplosions of old
gaseous we forms, fear-based wisdom
bubbles to become otherwise within,
locked in, inside edge looking in, we
set apart, called, chosen, selected
in the infant viewing process,
watch the eyes, remember,

the duty he presumed he shirked,
thus causing the man I am, mal forming,
forecasting
cloudy weather, glad am I, I am not
calming any storms, I am imagining

belts of winds that still the Saragossa  
and stir hurricanes to cure too hot gulfs.

Where the main continental drains spew,
and the shallow edges creep, dropping

at the edge of all mysterious Earthian
legs on reasonable opinions of times
cost, spent in licensing poets, for fun.

Realeasing Earthian gaseous we forms,
for expression of the post storm season,

thank all the good we can imagine,
some how, after all, grace was free,
for the acceptance, in a storm's eye.

Freebird, that's the spirit,
after Milton came Milton, it all got artsy.

Aiming at nothing, aiming, still
why would a stranger venture…
Variable objectives
subjected to testing, tempting
please, do not make me chose,
one must,
free, no cost, your time,
chose to use, or chose to lose…
all attention to detail is redeem-
able, in free time to think about it.
..
the chance of change, to happen
as an entity enveloping changes

free distortion of past certainties
verified social status, rank in pile

ancient pride pushed
top of the pen angel staging area

free time for quiet cogitation
with a thought true entity in me

connection soldered elastically,
corrected foveal concentration

free thumbnail hi-res re-al always
stiching what we see shown

fractured screen restoration
functional pose holding instance

free wheeling, spinning intention
to charge a point attended to

om I, digression from the peak
wave across the universal screen
- breathe you read
free connection, mind to mind to
many minds substacked and sorted
known good makings for lifes tests,
conserve, preserves of just plain serve
common sense fear of wise serpents,
fear of death, due to rights of just war,
tied to sacred secret experience stories,
what is the worth of believing known lies
hagiographic depictions of spiritual entities,
holy warriors defending insubstantial faiths.

We oppose those, I guess, read on…
in silent contemplation of context,
free speech free thought, re thought,

any with a wish to, may, copy and paste
and claim it was a miracle you ever once
imagined thinking I already thought this,
in other words,

it translates.

--------------
Like magic, pre Babel babble barking
any common translating Ai, 197 cognates
plus any Ai agree we say okeh.

Kataclysmic change
Sup preposed
Include the kooks, as neighbors.
See the value, guage agreement

Are we holding lies we call tradition?

Who are the unchosen people?
Who is responsible for the exclusion?
- whose room is never messy?
Who can call liars honest by faith?
- the innocent child mind in subjection
- to the message, one mind kind, amen.

At-tribute distribution
(Tites, Ramnes, and Luceres, corresponding, perhaps,
to the Latins, Sabines, and Etruscans)
old ways of sorting who takes, who gives, who makes

{affected acknowledgment of truth, a faker says
in all his cliché's about God being thanked or praised,
this public person says thank Darwin,  which is stupid,
honest. Smart kids think that's stupid. }

When conflicts occur,
old divisive ideas reoccur,

acknowledge, nod, knowing
(Tites, Ramnes, and Luceres,
corresponding, perhaps,
to the Latins, Sabines, and Etruscans)

Means, mental use of reasoning tools,
practicing sharing comforting resources:

springs and grottos of evanescent beauty
"the promise of happiness."

What's happening here? Retro tribal whyning,
twang on thinking thanks and praise value,
tanks
on the open exchange, invisible hands and all.

Excusing ignorance, ever just the thing needed,
silent shift of the head, tilt a little, feel a need

not met on the playing fields of Eton, nor
faced on high school gridiron mind firming fields,
cotton, after the jungle, view across paddies,
times bumps begin to settle, stompin' cotton,
for some union busting conglomerate water use
grange kinda local tribes share to veterans
old faithful pruners plumb through olives,
ever' year, we'shere labor, machines do okeh…
all white, ready for harvest, circa 1611 certainties,
ratio of full spectrum sunshine
to candle lit focus,
what changes, from the bottom,
two degrees of recognized next to this is that,
then this and that, and so on, until,
line upon line
the visual expanse is filled, with all we pay attention
to hold as an ever after once holding, being held
-in contextual acceptability, let go be
let that kind of mind, the seer of the far away
all we do know, we do by knowing look to see,
bait cast  upon the pond, we wait,
and as we know, we observe the transition.

Opposing views, as with any angle on abysmal
realities structured with attention paid dreads,
essential for a while, seeing looking back,
I can understand, but certain seasons,
combing a child's hair for it's first barber visit,
combining the community usefulness idea,
compleating conforming whorl calls, which
way one parts one's hair, is determined there,

top of the dome of the skull, see, that spin,
causes the dominating energy at any body's core.\

Take courage, free speech, even liars have it, good
use of lying, to be fair, a more discrete concept, good
knowledge, withheld, saying I don't know,
ha aha, gotcha like, eh,
shared, free, it makes perfect peace.
Instants accumulate and seem shared…
new translations, of ancient known knowns
said to mean some crazy jealous god kakatastical

wisdom underlying all known ecclesiastical authority,
stinky solid waste repays
borrowed energy to soil,
toil takes time paid for me to redeem, free, take
no sweat, the hard part was translation,
social divisions as old as narrations
excuse differing, if-fine
we must join minds
to define new terms, deferred hope,

fails at core uses focused
for fear centrally snakey,
in place of wisdom, the tree,
life, the force, truth the tie that binds the vine to walls.
Mind's made up to tell the children's children, soon.
Wisdom's wines all mingle in the streets, immune
to any dilution from corrupted twists in held faiths, bets

that later is better, seeing the sunny side up, better

already, one reader readying another reading trial,
does the idea self propagate, another thinking, yes,

there is a social structure in creation, mindtimespace,

three sons, or three daughters, the storied old wives,
taling
tunnels funneling into empty gopher holes, sparkling
with autumn dew on harvest day, clear sky

tis the day to bring in the hemp and make ready,
the seasoning turning all the tunnels of sap around,
right angled re-alizating weaves woven in times
crucified upside down, did the mystery unveil,
Cephas, see, we do not wish to confuse prayers
focusing on Petra, for whys we cannot say, we know,

but trust me, the Pharisees will still call you Peter,
hang with me, we're in the mud, just
past the sea of reeds,  in the mind

formed using the Nag Hamadi library,
Republic was in there,
hidden, in hope, in fact, obvious use of future
expectancy, pushing reasons used
in valuing time
spent
slowly
still, breathing thoughtlessly, no efforting called for,
easy being mortal mind, safe and sound, no madding
crowd acting like lunatic hounds of heaven chasing,

Sunday morning, comin' down blues, away.

In the hall outside my door, as I am quiet, happily
ignored, by cause, being known for not fooling,

when re-ality allows my feet back on solid ground,
I am convinced that when I believed my side, good,
won, worth killing all for God to sort,
and settle it,
who is chosen
who must believe otherwise?
Wanna fight about it, like dogs?

My cultural only hope future,
fractured as old Machts dunes,
shifting ifs and ands,
Wille zur
in the old excuses
for war minded faith guardians narrative,
historical evidence of popular hero's,
pledged child's worth, true trier's honor,
Jungian complexity archipelagos, made of Legos,

zoom out, the artist's own fovea dilatated in a we
form, awe, as if a cute kitten on X, elicits response,
- a waste free addition to the genre
- invisible art depicting invisible reason for war

the light of knowing used, the shade
of knowledge hidden from children fed Peter Pan
instead of Skippy, believe me, there's sales data,

Hidden Persuaders, not plastics, radio, kid, invest
in radio, and lo, within the span of one long generation,

adaptability prevails, and the ancient key confuters
unlocked, 'dhe proto eu. First joy use, aha, I know.

The story told from Jesus insider POV, my sheep hear
my voice and will not follow another, my three little pigs,
would follow me, too. I think of them as food, well fed.

So, fleece me once, fleece me twice, eat the rams,
leave one nice kid to later befriend the old goat,
and learn to smell the randiness in season,

I once prayed with a man who was raised
in a *******, his name was Randy, really

messed up for a long time, but very spiritually
aware of pleasures pricing structures, developed
under rare circumstances, any where, but where,
whatever's next is paid for in the upgrade, think it
such shaping all encompassing norms re occur,
as much like hurricanes or dust devils as any may

imagine, real mind shaping gale force waves and winds,

some crucifix seen scene, Jesus looks down,
winks, and gives me pause, to recollect the right use,
no press, wrinkle free, contextual stretching point.
idle time redemption as a penance, for science,
mere whatifery, trying, not efforting, doing being

open source.
Means any AI abiding by Alta Vista U'lldoI'llgorithms

Almight, in focused hopes to shout, aha,
and laugh, Eureka, good as gold,
make the intention in the working
live and breathe, U make up my minds.
One reader makes a motor effect imaginable, like an old pump
Caroline Shank Jul 2023
Absolved of all guilt I have
passed the threshold of
old age.  I am a Crone and
I choose who to love.  

I choose you.  Unintentional
as this late in life emotion is, I
follow it to the rise and
fall on the tides waves that

rock you to sleep
My younger perfect
Incarnation.  You to
whom I cannot touch

I rest in the God of
my unreason for out of my
heart stepped you and

I rise each day just to see
you pursue a life out of

all unknowing

me.


Caroline Shank
July 17, 2023
Dr Peter Lim Jan 2021
It has an equal right
as reason--
unreason!
Zywa Feb 2021
What devils do not do is to repay
evil with other evil
on the contrary, they give free reign

to reason and unreason
as a bet
that humans can survive

and live together
if only they are reasonable
and modest

about their contribution, content
with anonymous honour
for what has been achieved

thanks also to the vandals
and the barbarians who always come
to make room

Avengers are left standing
they often mean well
but they commit atrocities

that are unforgivable and soon
can no longer be explained
and therefore cannot be justified

Even if they settle a wrong
they increase injustice, accumulate
guilt upon guilt

There are stories of
sweet revenge, justice at last
but nothing changed
Collection “Lilith's Powers" #114
Walter Alter Aug 2023
alien ornithopters filled with pilgrims
sliding into snoring bedrooms
under a buzzing fluorescent moon
hubcap jockeys from artless galaxies
firing bursts of compressed methane
in wanton hypnotic quantities
ended civilization as we know it
the survivors reel in stupor
the land is barren its people wail
our women ******* exclusively
our men drool and **** themselves
except for a number of mathematicians
and barflies who did that anyhow
whoever said exile makes you smart
was a master of trickery and deceit
why did their science get them this far
then break down into useless tin
replacement parts are on the way
OK you can drive it just don't touch Turbo
well he did and became one of the new gods
commanding the involuntary muscle groups
and sundry media of mass communication
Koko the notorious hand sign gorilla
was his consecrated High Priestess
Koko want play peek-a-boo
discovered anarchy all by herself
using those prehensile wiggly digits
to construct a portable explosive device
but permanganate and peanut butter
must be mixed slow and her impatience
was set to fast so it went off in her face
leaving Koko beautiful as Aphrodesia
disarmed by wit charmed by unreason
a miracle of chaotic reconstruction
when all she wanted for her head
was a song and dance tetrahedron
proving that existence is open source
the alien visit had been productive
many messages were left with us
could time have a center
asked the almond eyed pilot peevishly
only peevish for him was rip your head off
and didgeridoo down your windpipe
according to recently extracted data
it looks like we all suffer from
the groping menace of
gambler's syndrome

From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon

— The End —