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Johnny Noiπ Sep 2018
Ancient Greece; Greek: Ελλάς, translit. Ellas; was a civilization belonging to a period of Greek history from the Greek Dark Ages of the 12th–9th centuries BC to the end of antiquity (c. AD 600).
Immediately following this period began
          the Early Middle Ages & the Byzantine era;
Roughly three centuries after the Late Bronze Age
collapse of Mycenaean Greece,              Greek urban poleis began
to form in the 8th century BC,        ushering in the Archaic period
& colonization of the Mediterranean Basin.
                     This was followed by            |          Classical Greece;
an era that began w/ the Greco-Persian Wars, lasting
from the 5th to 4th centuries BC.                   Due to the conquests
by Alexander the Great of Macedonia,                    Hellenistic
civilization flourished from Central Asia to the western end
of the Mediterranean Sea; The Hellenistic period coming to an end
w/ the conquests & annexations of the eastern
          Mediterranean by the Roman Republic,
                  first          establishing the Roman province of Macedonia
in Roman Greece, & the later province of Achaea during the Roman Empire;                              Hell, in many religious & folkloric traditions,
is a place of torment & punishment in the afterlife;
                         Religions w/ a linear divine history
                   often depict several hell[s] as eternal resort-like destinations
         analogous
             to exile
         while religions w/ a cyclic history often depict hell
                    as an intermediary layover between fantastical incarnations;
        Typically these traditions locate hell in one or another
                    dimension, or even under the Earth's surface &
often include entrances & exits to & from Hell from the land of the living sky above [many mortal men are known to have traveled to the underworld or consorted w/ devils & demons so-called: Orpheus, Jesus, Faust, Robert Johnson & Aleister Crowley:               Other afterlife destinations include
Heaven, Purgatory, Paradise, & Limbo;
Other traditions,     which do not conceive of the afterlife
as a place of punishment or reward, merely describe Hell
as an abode of the dead, the grave, a neutral place
located under the surface of Earth, for example Sheol & Hades [my old, old neighborhood]; In Greek mythology, Helen of Troy; Greek: Ἑλένη, Helénē, pronounced [helénɛː],               also known as Helen of Sparta,
or simply Helen,                       was said to have been
                                          the most beautiful woman in the world,
who was married to King Menelaus of Sparta,
but was abducted by Prince,       Paris of Troy,    resulting in the Trojan War
  when the Achaeans set out to reclaim her & bring her back to Sparta;
                She was believed to have been the daughter of Zeus & Leda,
     & was the sister of Clytemnestra, Castor and Polydeuces;
Leda & the Swan is a luridly pornographic story involving *******
                   & rarely depicted artistic subject from Greek mythology
in which the god Zeus, in the form of a swan, seduces Leda;   Leda thus bearing Helen & Polydeuces, enchanted godling offspring of Zeus
[thus
                                     Helen was a demigod
              like Orpheus, Heracles, Achilles & Dionysus, fulfilling the rank &
                                    status  of the Biblical Nephilim  /ˈnɛfɪˌlɪm/ (Hebrew: נְפִילִים‬, nefilim) the offspring
of the "sons of God" & the "daughters of men"                before the Deluge, according to Genesis 6:1–4:
A similar or identical biblical Hebrew term,
read as "Nephilim" by some scholars, or as the word "fallen"
                                                         appears in Ezekiel 32:27:
                      When people began to multiply from the face of the ground,
                      rolled into shape & being by the first insects,
     an army of scarabs doing
     clean-up after creation                                 before the invention of ants
                                   to maintain order on the most basic level of newly mined nature & once the creatures made of dung molded in the moist crevices of the earth into the shape best suited to them
      copying the mandrake so to claw their way out of the soupy ionized  
                                                       ­     electrified    mud;
some w/ female bits formed by hatchling sea anemone,
jellyfish & globular secreting sacks,            while some only a stick &
             two rocks hanging in a thin leathery pouch, looking like eggs,
             but Surprise!    [men continuing to be surprised to this day]
                          growing upright & naked,
               sloughing of their insect overlords while taking up insects ways of farming & irrigation,  taking hundreds of centuries
to build the towering hives of their ancestral youth
when the ants & bees & lone beetles taught them how,        the squadrons of
                 butterflies never shared their ability to transform from
                    a segmented crawling garden slug
                  to the highest form of flying insect               regaled majestically
in
the            colorful royal emblems of their tribes]
        & daughters were born to them, the Sons of God seeing that they were fair & took wives for themselves of all that they chose;
Then the Lord said, "My spirit shall not abide in mortals forever,
for they are flesh; their days shall be one hundred twenty years."
The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—& also afterward—
when the sons of God went in to the daughters of humans,
who bore children to them; These were the heroes that were of old,
                                              warriors of renown.
— Genesis 6:1–4,        [New Revised Standard Version]
The word is loosely translated as giants in some Bibles
& left noticably untranslated in others; The "Sons of God" interpreted
      to be fallen angels according to some classical Judaic explanations;
                      while at the same time Leda bore Castor & Clytemnestra,
      children of her mortal husband Tyndareus,                            
                                            the King of Sparta;
                       The Judgement of Paris the event that led to the
        Trojan War, & in slightly later versions to the founding of Rome
I was not trained for this—
no welcome packet, no handbook for gravity.
Just a name that clings like static
and a voice that trembles when spoken too clearly.

They asked me if I had room.
I said I had weather.
They asked me if I would disappear.
I said watch me smolder, and stay.

I have loved like a lighthouse
with no shoreline in sight,
signaling to anyone
who mistook reflection for return.

I’ve held their names
like breath under water,
carved pathways through others
just to find my own again.

But I do not sculpt.
I do not steal 'the good stuff'.
I inherit fire
and ask it if it remembers me.

If you see yourself in me,
look again—
I am not a mirror,
I am the window you opened
and forgot to close when the wind picked up.

Still, I arrive,
boots echoing in the hallway
of someone else’s myth,
offering only this:

I will not rewrite you.
I will not finish your sentences.
But I will stand here—
untranslated,
unsaved,
untouched by the need to be anything
other than true.
A draft I shared and forgot about that was requested to be posted publicly!

Wow-wee!
R Saba Jan 2014
god, at this hour
everything feels like poetry
even the silence is blooming
with words
and i don't know
if that's a blessing or a curse
desolation
or just a plain old desire for more
or maybe just an echoed question
that i ask myself, and answer back
becoming my own interpretation
of each cryptic answer

am i going through something
(well, are you going through something)
or do i just wish i was
(do you really wish you were)
for interest's sake?

maybe it's a mistake
a confusing stanza to read, for sure
but hey, that's how it works
swirls around untranslated
in my mind
and i thank my lucky, silent stars
for the ability to strain out the bracketed pieces
and still appear sane to the world

am i going through something
(well, are you going through something)
or do i just wish i was
(do you really wish you were)
for interest's sake?
midnight questions
I awaited naked on the bed
Waiting for the fireworks whilst
Fragrant jasmine clung to the air
My heartbeat hastened
Waiting for you to come
Chastened by my wanton ness
All the while awaiting you
Waiting to be cradled.

Elated by the night's promise
I sparkle in anticipation
Overstimulated I fantasise
Fireworks bang, clash and crash outside
Untranslated lust leave me and
The fireworks illustrated.

You, are finally here
My need to be consummated takes hold
You dominate my fire worked state of mind and nakedness
I shake and convulse like a sated rocket
Assassinated on the bed, we culminate
Wasted, elated
Blazoned lovers out animate
The fireworks.
© JLB
Patrick Moloney May 2017
Edison’s last breath is in a jar in Michigan
Caught by his son as he died.
Where will my last breath have been by the time it travels through me?
Will it have been spit it the gutter of Mumbai?
Coughed by a panting Senator?
Was it a small sigh at a child’s amazement of a world just opening in his eye?
Will it have travel to space and back?
Was it farted into an airplane seat
Or laughed with a bit of spittle at some barmaids’ misfortune?
This air, this stuff, that expands and contracts us,
the universe even
doesn’t get the credit the heart does.
This invisible life
a language that travels well untranslated
by the heart or mind.
I know you by our breathes
shared exhalations, bits of us.
Air opens us- all of us- to living
from the Yogi to the thief.
Edison who breathed caught light into a jar
a thing unseen until then
now shines breath back at me from this screen
from all screens.
A chain–un broken
passed between us
exhaled into forever’s jar – our breathes
Peeka Jul 2014
I found a part of myself on the banks of a distant river
This girl that will stand up for something
Hope for more
Look beyond the murky waters to an endless sky
Float along the banks
With a purpose in life
We trudged along, sailing past lives
Put on our boots and discovered another side
In between the lines
These people, they changed my perspective in a week
Thank you to the people that ponder and read
One hundred books a year
Whose purpose and future is clear
Those who have been in the eighth grade for years
Once were part of the swat team - so I hear
Who tell jokes that remain untranslated
Found hope away from home and built dreams, settled down far away with their family
Braid like no one's watching (Thank you for your braiding talent - honestly)
Wear fedoras confidently
Break out the world record book
And bring people together under one cause
To travel away to the Amazon
Trying to help those on another continent
Water filters, guarana,
Guitars, and farinha
A caiman aboard
I found a part of myself in this land, untamed
Because of the people, the songs, and the rain
No goodbyes, friends for life
Setting our hopes high
There's this boat out on the river
That honks to call you in
This blue majestic gift that holds our memories within.
Recollections of a humanitarian trip to the Amazon River.
Liz Devine Jan 2012
They're just words
Written in pen on clean paper
Whispered gently, and
thrown around
Unraveled, untangled
Untranslated thoughts

Symbols placed together
Neatly, thoughtfully
Clustered and chaotic

But these "words" set me free
They take away the pain
**** the poison from the bite
And make me sane
Keep me healed
And soothe my head
That buzzes and churns

Words clear the clouds from my sun
They make me who I am

When I'm lost in the dark city
Lips pressed to the bottle
Short skirt and,
cigarette smoke
Words guide me back
Writing makes me remember
The little girl I hide away
Sara Brummer Aug 2020
Frailer than dreams, love came,
soft as a song, shy as a glance,
but perfectly alive, into
the unkempt meadow of
my heart.

How to measure love…
a trillion nano-seconds
untranslated, flowers that
guess and miss, stars that
don’t exsit and what excuse
for not except « of course »
and « maybe »

For the syntax of love
is feeling, when chemistry
approves and life’s more
that a paragraph and death
a mere paraenthesis.
Safana Feb 2022
There's itch in the heart
The itch is untranslated
To the air and infiltrate...
Singing in falsetto...
Not singing at all...
Leaving Kauai
And returning to the
Urban of:

Big fish in a little pond
Or the little fish in a big pond...

I left Kauai and
Upon leaving
I was notified:
Crows are being introduced
On the island of Maui...

Trickle of people
a river a sea a rip...
First impressions of new york

The smells of new york
Like stink
Like children playing
In the sandpit *******
For yellow calcium
My rotten tooth
And 36 tongues to lick it...

My flight was supposed
To leave at 6pm
With a 11h layover
So I went tripping
Looking for Little London
And some familiar Essex
But no no I didn't find it

I actually walked toward
Myself the tallest giraffe
But still not enough tall buildings
To give me orientation
While the avenues exposed
The long enough direction
Shorty came shortest
Cutting through the Labyrinth
Ever so slightly

And I could never have thought
To find so many crazed folk
Because that's how you make
Caramelised walnuts
With enough sugar and butter
And to my count:
Pulling and tugging me into
The twilight with two nights and
Threw days of waiting for
Ugly duckling quack...
Lost in this symphony of sounds
I truly disliked or rather
I didn't like new york
I didn't not like new york...
I just remembered new york
Being important when 9/11
Happened...

But when I took the Kazakhs and
And Uzbekhs through
The chill of selling counterfeit
Purses
And Times Sq is so blatantly
Not Trafalgar
It's a "square" that's not a square
With otherwise all the other square
And oh god the ⬛️
The the the...

As a sketch this will have to do...
What was I supposed to be expecting
When life truly happens
On the outskirts of the city
But on the outskirts of new york
People live in wooden  houses
Like it's an imitation
Of Scandinavia
And there is so little imitation
Of England since no one
Has a back-garden no flock
Of grass...

From JFK I emerged out
Of the rat serpentine at
circa the Rockefeller ...
became mesmerised by sparrows
Didn't see any pigeons...
London is full of them!
Central London is filled with pigeons!
But New York?
In the centre of New York?
Sparrows!
Sparrows of New York!
At least in London
There's the Pigeon Mafia...
But not in New York...

The people of New York designed
The city so that the pigeons
Have no orientation
But sparrows do...
I think that the Empire St building
Looked like a pencil sharpened
Not really tall...
As one urban rat speaking
To another urban rat...
What was my greatest
Observation of New York...
city, regardles of the architecture
and the busy chomp chomp
Chummy eating gorge
I witnessed the standing WTC 3
and the memorial gaping hole
But then only metres away
and entire street of street vendors
Selling Al-Qaeda spiced grub
like the incision happened
but only 100 years later will
New York remain untranslated
Just like the war on terror
Happened for the people
who enjoyed a 10 sec prospect of:
What?

On the subway
on the outskirts
Near Jamaica Centre
too many names and also too
few: whatever 21st and 5rd
arch to no avenue no view...
there was but the little me
and the little sparrows
And I think that was most
Wonderful, staggering
Staggering to make these buildings
Fold... a city of such magnitude
that allowed sparrows
but deemed pigeons lepers
Unwelcome...
There's only this much to remember
About New York...
the sparrows on
6th Avenue between west 47th
and 52nd streets...
Like Leviathan of old,
the rough, angry ocean
pummels the basalt shore
and coughs up its denizens
of the deep

California Gray Whales
breach the surface of
the autumnal Oregon waters, slide
over the waves like seals
on a hunt,
their colors mingling perfectly
with the yellow-tinged whitecaps,
their bodies aimed perfectly
at migration south.

How innocent they sound
as their songs penetrate
the cacophony of the
crashing surf.

How magnificent they sound;
untranslated poetry, haunting
love lyrics, caressing
the beloved with a sonata
of sonar.

Like a child, they sing for joy,
and the sea turns a deaf ear.

But I hear them. and am transfixed
by their emotion and intelligence.
They sing to me, a mammalian
serenade at dusk.

I dare not sing back
for fear of failure. Of foolishness.

Yet I weep to hear them sing again,
once more, before their majestic
passing to the milder seas of Mexico.
(A Nostalgic Embodiment)

I. Prologue: The Imbalance

Beneath a sky of indeterminate hue,
Where metaphors dripped from the lamplight’s view,
There stood a figure with storied might—
Whose IMAGINATION burned too bright.

They bent the frame of every law,
Wrote truths in smoke, in blood, in straw.
But every time they raised their pen,
They found the void looked back again.

"Too light," the voice beneath the bedframe hissed.
"Too bright to cast the proper fist.
Where is the weight? Where is the gloom?
You walk through myths but leave no tomb."


II. The Oath Beneath the Neon

So in a diner that only exists when it’s raining,
They ordered black coffee and called it training.
No sugar. No cream. No need to explain.
Just sipped from the cup like a priest in pain.

"I will not seek to shine, but to echo.
I will not rhyme, but I may bellow.
Let my next line land like a crowbar sigh—
And may every metaphor taste like goodbye."


III. Inventory: Shifting the Look

They stole a coat from a thrift store rack,
Stitched with echoes and shadows and tact.
A pocket held grief. A button held sleep.
The collar was silence folded three layers deep.

Brooch of regret? Clipped on with pride.
Gloves stitched from dreams they let die outside.
Boots that thudded with post-symbolic weight—
Enough SEPULCHRITUDE to intimidate fate.

IV. The One-Line Training Grounds

A stranger asked, “Hey, how’s your week been?”
The figure exhaled, and leaned back in:

“The sky still owes me an answer.”

“I fed the clock and buried the receipt.”

“This smile is just teeth doing damage control.”

They never repeated the same line twice.
And soon, small talk became a heist.

V. The Silence Shaped Like a Weapon

Not a glare. Not a scoff.
Just a pause you could hang your regrets off.

They stared down compliments like loaded dice,
And left parties through walls carved of ice.

A simple nod became a reckoning.
Laughter died before it could echo.
The power of not replying
Was now a blade drawn slow.

VI. The Private Page

In candlelight drawn from doubt and dusk,
They penned a letter in funeral husk:

“To the lighthouse that never was—
I named every wave after you.
You still didn’t show.”


Sealed it with wax. Buried it in a drawer.
A secret they’d never need to weaponize—
Because it already was.

VII. The Theme Song of Collapse

They walked with the sound of dead air breathing,
Their footsteps aligned with Godspeed, you’re leaving.

Every room slowed to grayscale time,
As their aura hummed a fading rhyme:
A jazz tune played through broken glass,
A dirge dressed in sepia mass.

People whispered, “Was that… a soundtrack?”
But none remembered the melody.

VIII. The Overpass of Refusal

Someone tagged “I ♥ A-Pug” on the wall of their work.
They looked once.
Tilted their head.
And punched the metaphor in the snout
to assert dominance.

Then walked away.

That was the moment the SEPULCHRITUDE clicked.

IX. Boss Battle: The Final Balance
Their IMAGINATION rose like a cathedral in flames.
Their SEPULCHRITUDE stood like the ash that remained.

Two stats. One form. A perfected glitch.
They could now speak truth or curse with a twitch.

The balance wasn’t symmetry.
It was sovereignty.
It was the right to choose what tone to carry
and leave the rest unsaid.

X. Epilogue: The Window Left Open

Someone once asked,

“What are you?”

They replied, without turning:

“The part of the myth that never resolved.
The page that folded back on itself.
A sigh mistaken for closure.”


And just like that—
They vanished,
boots echoing,
window wide,
untranslated,
unsaved,
untouched
by the need to be anything
other than true.

XI. Endgame Stats:


IMAGINATION: MAXED

SEPULCHRITUDE: PERFECTLY CALIBRATED

AURA: [NOIR / STORM / VELVET REDACTED]

STATUS: Myth Adjacent

CURRENT LOCATION: Unknown (possibly Portland)

[END]
A silly, silly thing I wrote while reminiscing on Problem Sleuth--the third  MS Paint Adventure
Keegan Jun 5
Some of us are handed tangled maps,
roads inked in sorrow, street signs missing.
We grow up reading silence like scripture,
learning to smile while unraveling inside.

They say life is a journey
but what if your compass was grief?
What if the stars you followed
were the bruises you pretended not to feel?

It’s a strange kind of labor,
to unlearn the voice that whispers
you are too much, or never enough
to untie the knots in your soul
and call the frayed parts sacred.

Sometimes healing feels like forgetting
how to walk in the shoes that hurt you.
Sometimes it’s standing barefoot
in the wreckage of old beliefs,
and daring to rebuild with trembling hands.

But oh, what beauty lives in the broken
not in the cracks, but in the light that slips through them.
Not in being fixed, but in being real.

Because those who have wept
know the weight of another’s tears.
Those who have been silenced
can hear pain even when it's whispered.

You are not wrong for finding it hard
this life was not written in straight lines.
But your scars are constellations,
your wounds untranslated poetry.

And though the path is crooked,
you walk it with uncommon grace,
offering your empathy like a lantern
to those still stumbling in the dark.
Jonathan Moya May 28
Aftermath  

The crash happens, and then everything waits.

The tow truck arrives—sleek and gleaming,  
its midnight-black paint absorbing the streetlights  
in a perfect, polished hush.
It is not a wrecker—it is a machine with purpose,  
its curved chassis hugging the ground like a race car—  
the quiet arrogance of a predator.
The hydraulic arm unfolds with practiced precision,  
chrome glinting, not a speck of rust anywhere.

My car, foreign but familiar, hesitates in its wreckage.
A midsize sedan manufactured in a plant  
where workers assembled it with American hands,  
yet its heritage lingers in every curve,  
a design caught between old and new.
Its paint—a muted slate, unassuming—  
shows years of careful touch-ups,  
my own hands smoothing over time and dents itself.
Next to the tow truck, it looks misplaced,  
a junker entered as a joke for the Daytona 500.

The insurance company—AllFarmressive—  
calls twice, their scripted reassurances tumbling  
into contradictions.
"We’ll expedite your claim," they promise,  
but attach an additional note:  
"Due to unforeseen delays,  
processing times may be adjusted  
without prior notice."  
The website insists everything is  
"streamlined and efficient,"  
but each link loops back to the homepage.
Every representative sounds the same,  
pausing at the same beats,  
reading from a script that never quite  
answers the question asked.

The rental car resists.
The screen blinks erratically,  
menus nested inside menus,  
each button press yielding nonsense—  
"Safety Belts Huggings Allowed,"  
"Start Not Start? “  
I jab at the touch screen,  
scrolling through untranslated menus,  
attempting to override locked settings.
Each swipe resets the interface,  
bringing me back to the same blank screen,  
blinking in stubborn refusal.
It moves with a sluggish, uneven pull,  
dragging toward the right,  
forcing me to correct, over and over,  
a silent, insistent opposition.
It does not trust me.
It wants to remind me what happened.

The bumper stays on the sidewalk for three days.
A fractured artifact, curled at one edge,  
its metal warped—something half-melted, half-chewed.
Every dent tells a story,  
some shallow, some deep—  
one an open palm shape,  
another., the edge of a key.
The torn plastic lining exposes the layers beneath,  
each piece folding inward,  
a body returning to itself.
By day four, it is gone.

The streetlights flicker when I drive past.
The pavement hums under my tires,  
a restless, steady vibration.
Somewhere ahead, a distant car horn wails,  
too long, too sharp, disappearing into silence.
The shadows stretch unnaturally in the glow  
of a traffic signal that no longer changes.
Something has shifted.
Something is lingering.

I watch the headlights stretch ahead,  
the road tightens, then vanishes into silence

I know the crash is over,  
but I don’t think it’s done with me.
oUt Of sYNc Jun 9
To be loved is to be seen,
and to be seen is to be studied—
noticed, dissected, explored,
investigated, pondered upon,
familiarized, nitpicked, even at times.
Bibliolepsy is a sign of depravity,
craving, longing and yearning—
and I yearn for you.

I trace your margins with trembling fingers,
annotate your silences,
highlight the pauses between your sighs,
memorize the italic curve of your thoughts.
Your footnotes haunt me.
Your ellipses ******.

You are earmarked in my memory,
creased in the corners of every chapter
I write alone at night.
Your spine, fragile with use,
still holds the weight of my need.

To read you once is to read you forever—
a manuscript inked in breath and glance,
revised by time, but never forgotten.
You are the first edition of desire,
untranslated, unabridged,
and wholly mine to interpret.

— The End —