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Allania Berkey Mar 2016
The clock struck midnight
I was restless and thoughtful as could be
I noticed that I had been tossing and turning to a beat and rhythm that plunged above in the sky
It was a thunder-storm
bang, crash, thump
The sky illuminated in glory
Envy

The thunder roared and crashed in the middle of the night and the trees helplessly yearned for serenity
Ironic
It was calm earlier that day
Imagine
The breeze was right where it should have been and the sun was warmer than a hot skillet on a stove top
Peace
The sky was fostered in a pacific blue
And the clouds resembled dreams
Love
I remember it was 1:05 pm to be exact and I was feeling blissful
I decided to ride my bike through a quaint old town, two miles west of my house
Adventure
I stopped and stared at this little old man painting in the park
He was painting a tree, with pink, red, purple and gray
Odd
I couldn't help, but noticed how he was enticed by his surroundings
Interesting
I continued to bike away
It was now 2:45pm and I was feeling a bit famished
To the right of me stayed a cunning unforgettable coffee shop
I insisted to go in
Hesitation
Something about that coffee shop struck me that day, just like the little old man painting his introspection in the park
The room reeked in comfort and patience
Something I did not understand
Silence
Contemplatively, I bought a cup of coffee--black, I also companied that coffee with a blue berry scone--my favorite
I sat by the window to admire the sunlight and how the warmth cherished my skin
I sipped my coffee--startled
I noticed something peculiar about this coffee shop and this day
Instantly, I was left with an uneasy and unsettled feeling
Thoughtful
My black coffee was much more bitter than usual
It is as if the taste could not go down my throat
Something was wrong, I felt it
As I looked around the room everyone else was enjoying their cup of coffee
They also seemed to lack any hesitation
The tone in their voices create a harmonic rhythm in conversation
I noticed that every time they took a sip of their coffee they found it sweet, rather than bitter
I turned my head and looked out the window for a moment
Suddenly, I noticed that the sky was diminishing in its tints of blue
Wonder
I looked down at my watch
It was 3:35pm, I had to get home
I paid my bill and scurried onto my bike
Remember
The sky was calm throughout the entirety of the day
It was lovely and ideal--until it wasn't

No one expected a storm
No one expected disaster
But somehow, I did

I laid in bed that night waiting in anticipation
Waiting for my world to collide
Thunder and lighting seemed to have fought its way through the sky
Time
There wasn't enough
Concurrently, I felt bitter-- just like my cup of coffee in that cunning old shop
Ambiguity
I was left without answers
I was left without sugar and cream
creek, scratch, thump
The tree branch slid against the slide of my house
I noticed it all
It's starting
All the anticipation and anxiety I felt throughout the day was finally coming to its end or maybe to its start
The sky started to illuminate an illusion of sunlight
It was 11:30 pm and the day it almost to its end
I laid in bed thinking
I thought about my day and everything that it was missing
I notice it all
The little old man in the park painted a tree with a usual set of pigments, he defined ordinary, while sat alone comforted by the mere work of his creativity
The people in the coffee shop arrayed and encompassed patience, harmony and happiness
I was struck by discomfort because I unware of all those wonderful things
I knew all about the thunder and how it was provoked in the sky
I understood the lighting and its wish to shine
I thought of the beat and tempo that they would together make
Sometimes it was bitter, but sometimes it was sweet
I understood thunder and lighting
I understood why they danced viciously in the sky  
Finally, the clock struck midnight and it was now tomorrow
Fear
The storm was coming to its peak
The thunder fought its way with the lighting just as viciously written words floated on a piece of paper
The lighting struck back with ferocious and willful ambition
Relentless
The lighting held its ground, but didn't give up its hope
BANG
Memories
It was 1:05 am
The storm had reached its end
The thunder and lighting seemed to have parted their ways
Their fight was tortious
Nobody won, rather they both lost
It was 1:25 am
The rain had finally stopped
The trees have found their peace
It was 1:42 am
As I laid in bed, I thought about my day
I just want the storm to stop
Just like the the thunder and lightening, the little old man in the park and the people in that cunning old coffee shop, all have found their comfort and patience
The thunder and lightening have similarly found it in their bitter sweet good bye
It was wonderful
I noticed that as much as they fought throughout that darling midnight blue sky, they were attracted to their rhythm—A rhythm that was worth saving
The sweetness was found in their beat as they danced throughout the night
The thunder and lighting created a bittersweet combination
Just like the coffee I wish I would of had
A natural disaster that was intended to create a craze in the sky
The thunder wanted to be sweet, as did the lighting
Two peas in two different pods
Their negativity created the sweet appreciation of warm sunlight
I notice it all
The sun was the sweet
The day was calm
The thunder and lightening both knew it all too well
That night, the reminder of it anyways, I laid in bed and I knew that someday the storm would go away
It was 2:25 am and I finally shut my eyes
I, who erewhile the happy Garden sung
By one man’s disobedience lost, now sing
Recovered Paradise to all mankind,
By one man’s firm obedience fully tried
Through all temptation, and the Tempter foiled
In all his wiles, defeated and repulsed,
And Eden raised in the waste Wilderness.
  Thou Spirit, who led’st this glorious Eremite
Into the desert, his victorious field
Against the spiritual foe, and brought’st him thence        
By proof the undoubted Son of God, inspire,
As thou art wont, my prompted song, else mute,
And bear through highth or depth of Nature’s bounds,
With prosperous wing full summed, to tell of deeds
Above heroic, though in secret done,
And unrecorded left through many an age:
Worthy to have not remained so long unsung.
  Now had the great Proclaimer, with a voice
More awful than the sound of trumpet, cried
Repentance, and Heaven’s kingdom nigh at hand              
To all baptized.  To his great baptism flocked
With awe the regions round, and with them came
From Nazareth the son of Joseph deemed
To the flood Jordan—came as then obscure,
Unmarked, unknown.  But him the Baptist soon
Descried, divinely warned, and witness bore
As to his worthier, and would have resigned
To him his heavenly office.  Nor was long
His witness unconfirmed: on him baptized
Heaven opened, and in likeness of a Dove                    
The Spirit descended, while the Father’s voice
From Heaven pronounced him his beloved Son.
That heard the Adversary, who, roving still
About the world, at that assembly famed
Would not be last, and, with the voice divine
Nigh thunder-struck, the exalted man to whom
Such high attest was given a while surveyed
With wonder; then, with envy fraught and rage,
Flies to his place, nor rests, but in mid air
To council summons all his mighty Peers,                    
Within thick clouds and dark tenfold involved,
A gloomy consistory; and them amidst,
With looks aghast and sad, he thus bespake:—
  “O ancient Powers of Air and this wide World
(For much more willingly I mention Air,
This our old conquest, than remember Hell,
Our hated habitation), well ye know
How many ages, as the years of men,
This Universe we have possessed, and ruled
In manner at our will the affairs of Earth,                
Since Adam and his facile consort Eve
Lost Paradise, deceived by me, though since
With dread attending when that fatal wound
Shall be inflicted by the seed of Eve
Upon my head.  Long the decrees of Heaven
Delay, for longest time to Him is short;
And now, too soon for us, the circling hours
This dreaded time have compassed, wherein we
Must bide the stroke of that long-threatened wound
(At least, if so we can, and by the head                    
Broken be not intended all our power
To be infringed, our freedom and our being
In this fair empire won of Earth and Air)—
For this ill news I bring: The Woman’s Seed,
Destined to this, is late of woman born.
His birth to our just fear gave no small cause;
But his growth now to youth’s full flower, displaying
All virtue, grace and wisdom to achieve
Things highest, greatest, multiplies my fear.
Before him a great Prophet, to proclaim                    
His coming, is sent harbinger, who all
Invites, and in the consecrated stream
Pretends to wash off sin, and fit them so
Purified to receive him pure, or rather
To do him honour as their King.  All come,
And he himself among them was baptized—
Not thence to be more pure, but to receive
The testimony of Heaven, that who he is
Thenceforth the nations may not doubt.  I saw
The Prophet do him reverence; on him, rising                
Out of the water, Heaven above the clouds
Unfold her crystal doors; thence on his head
A perfet Dove descend (whate’er it meant);
And out of Heaven the sovraign voice I heard,
‘This is my Son beloved,—in him am pleased.’
His mother, than, is mortal, but his Sire
He who obtains the monarchy of Heaven;
And what will He not do to advance his Son?
His first-begot we know, and sore have felt,
When his fierce thunder drove us to the Deep;              
Who this is we must learn, for Man he seems
In all his lineaments, though in his face
The glimpses of his Father’s glory shine.
Ye see our danger on the utmost edge
Of hazard, which admits no long debate,
But must with something sudden be opposed
(Not force, but well-couched fraud, well-woven snares),
Ere in the head of nations he appear,
Their king, their leader, and supreme on Earth.
I, when no other durst, sole undertook                      
The dismal expedition to find out
And ruin Adam, and the exploit performed
Successfully: a calmer voyage now
Will waft me; and the way found prosperous once
Induces best to hope of like success.”
  He ended, and his words impression left
Of much amazement to the infernal crew,
Distracted and surprised with deep dismay
At these sad tidings.  But no time was then
For long indulgence to their fears or grief:                
Unanimous they all commit the care
And management of this man enterprise
To him, their great Dictator, whose attempt
At first against mankind so well had thrived
In Adam’s overthrow, and led their march
From Hell’s deep-vaulted den to dwell in light,
Regents, and potentates, and kings, yea gods,
Of many a pleasant realm and province wide.
So to the coast of Jordan he directs
His easy steps, girded with snaky wiles,                    
Where he might likeliest find this new-declared,
This man of men, attested Son of God,
Temptation and all guile on him to try—
So to subvert whom he suspected raised
To end his reign on Earth so long enjoyed:
But, contrary, unweeting he fulfilled
The purposed counsel, pre-ordained and fixed,
Of the Most High, who, in full frequence bright
Of Angels, thus to Gabriel smiling spake:—
  “Gabriel, this day, by proof, thou shalt behold,          
Thou and all Angels conversant on Earth
With Man or men’s affairs, how I begin
To verify that solemn message late,
On which I sent thee to the ****** pure
In Galilee, that she should bear a son,
Great in renown, and called the Son of God.
Then told’st her, doubting how these things could be
To her a ******, that on her should come
The Holy Ghost, and the power of the Highest
O’ershadow her.  This Man, born and now upgrown,            
To shew him worthy of his birth divine
And high prediction, henceforth I expose
To Satan; let him tempt, and now assay
His utmost subtlety, because he boasts
And vaunts of his great cunning to the throng
Of his Apostasy.  He might have learnt
Less overweening, since he failed in Job,
Whose constant perseverance overcame
Whate’er his cruel malice could invent.
He now shall know I can produce a man,                      
Of female seed, far abler to resist
All his solicitations, and at length
All his vast force, and drive him back to Hell—
Winning by conquest what the first man lost
By fallacy surprised.  But first I mean
To exercise him in the Wilderness;
There he shall first lay down the rudiments
Of his great warfare, ere I send him forth
To conquer Sin and Death, the two grand foes.
By humiliation and strong sufferance                        
His weakness shall o’ercome Satanic strength,
And all the world, and mass of sinful flesh;
That all the Angels and aethereal Powers—
They now, and men hereafter—may discern
From what consummate virtue I have chose
This perfet man, by merit called my Son,
To earn salvation for the sons of men.”
  So spake the Eternal Father, and all Heaven
Admiring stood a space; then into hymns
Burst forth, and in celestial measures moved,              
Circling the throne and singing, while the hand
Sung with the voice, and this the argument:—
  “Victory and triumph to the Son of God,
Now entering his great duel, not of arms,
But to vanquish by wisdom hellish wiles!
The Father knows the Son; therefore secure
Ventures his filial virtue, though untried,
Against whate’er may tempt, whate’er ******,
Allure, or terrify, or undermine.
Be frustrate, all ye stratagems of Hell,                    
And, devilish machinations, come to nought!”
  So they in Heaven their odes and vigils tuned.
Meanwhile the Son of God, who yet some days
Lodged in Bethabara, where John baptized,
Musing and much revolving in his breast
How best the mighty work he might begin
Of Saviour to mankind, and which way first
Publish his godlike office now mature,
One day forth walked alone, the Spirit leading
And his deep thoughts, the better to converse              
With solitude, till, far from track of men,
Thought following thought, and step by step led on,
He entered now the bordering Desert wild,
And, with dark shades and rocks environed round,
His holy meditations thus pursued:—
  “O what a multitude of thoughts at once
Awakened in me swarm, while I consider
What from within I feel myself, and hear
What from without comes often to my ears,
Ill sorting with my present state compared!                
When I was yet a child, no childish play
To me was pleasing; all my mind was set
Serious to learn and know, and thence to do,
What might be public good; myself I thought
Born to that end, born to promote all truth,
All righteous things.  Therefore, above my years,
The Law of God I read, and found it sweet;
Made it my whole delight, and in it grew
To such perfection that, ere yet my age
Had measured twice six years, at our great Feast            
I went into the Temple, there to hear
The teachers of our Law, and to propose
What might improve my knowledge or their own,
And was admired by all.  Yet this not all
To which my spirit aspired.  Victorious deeds
Flamed in my heart, heroic acts—one while
To rescue Israel from the Roman yoke;
Then to subdue and quell, o’er all the earth,
Brute violence and proud tyrannic power,
Till truth were freed, and equity restored:                
Yet held it more humane, more heavenly, first
By winning words to conquer willing hearts,
And make persuasion do the work of fear;
At least to try, and teach the erring soul,
Not wilfully misdoing, but unware
Misled; the stubborn only to subdue.
These growing thoughts my mother soon perceiving,
By words at times cast forth, inly rejoiced,
And said to me apart, ‘High are thy thoughts,
O Son! but nourish them, and let them soar                  
To what highth sacred virtue and true worth
Can raise them, though above example high;
By matchless deeds express thy matchless Sire.
For know, thou art no son of mortal man;
Though men esteem thee low of parentage,
Thy Father is the Eternal King who rules
All Heaven and Earth, Angels and sons of men.
A messenger from God foretold thy birth
Conceived in me a ******; he foretold
Thou shouldst be great, and sit on David’s throne,          
And of thy kingdom there should be no end.
At thy nativity a glorious quire
Of Angels, in the fields of Bethlehem, sung
To shepherds, watching at their folds by night,
And told them the Messiah now was born,
Where they might see him; and to thee they came,
Directed to the manger where thou lay’st;
For in the inn was left no better room.
A Star, not seen before, in heaven appearing,
Guided the Wise Men thither from the East,                  
To honour thee with incense, myrrh, and gold;
By whose bright course led on they found the place,
Affirming it thy star, new-graven in heaven,
By which they knew thee King of Israel born.
Just Simeon and prophetic Anna, warned
By vision, found thee in the Temple, and spake,
Before the altar and the vested priest,
Like things of thee to all that present stood.’
This having heart, straight I again revolved
The Law and Prophets, searching what was writ              
Concerning the Messiah, to our scribes
Known partly, and soon found of whom they spake
I am—this chiefly, that my way must lie
Through many a hard assay, even to the death,
Ere I the promised kingdom can attain,
Or work redemption for mankind, whose sins’
Full weight must be transferred upon my head.
Yet, neither thus disheartened or dismayed,
The time prefixed I waited; when behold
The Baptist (of whose birth I oft had heard,                
Not knew by sight) now come, who was to come
Before Messiah, and his way prepare!
I, as all others, to his baptism came,
Which I believed was from above; but he
Straight knew me, and with loudest voice proclaimed
Me him (for it was shewn him so from Heaven)—
Me him whose harbinger he was; and first
Refused on me his baptism to confer,
As much his greater, and was hardly won.
But, as I rose out of the laving stream,                    
Heaven opened her eternal doors, from whence
The Spirit descended on me like a Dove;
And last, the sum of all, my Father’s voice,
Audibly heard from Heaven, pronounced me his,
Me his beloved Son, in whom alone
He was well pleased: by which I knew the time
Now full, that I no more should live obscure,
But openly begin, as best becomes
The authority which I derived from Heaven.
And now by some strong motion I am led                      
Into this wilderness; to what intent
I learn not yet.  Perhaps I need not know;
For what concerns my knowledge God reveals.”
  So spake our Morning Star, then in his rise,
And, looking round, on every side beheld
A pathless desert, dusk with horrid shades.
The way he came, not having marked return,
Was difficult, by human steps untrod;
And he still on was led, but with such thoughts
Accompanied of things past and to come                      
Lodged in his breast as well might recommend
Such solitude before choicest society.
  Full forty days he passed—whether on hill
Sometimes, anon in shady vale, each night
Under the covert of some ancient oak
Or cedar to defend him from the dew,
Or harboured
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.alimony: basically? i don't like paying for something... that i can't keep; savvy?!

so "these" people,
have no problem in exploiting
your girls into becoming
their advert agents?!

the girl who advertises
free-lance style,
but doesn't get paid
for the advertisement,
per se?

no problem?
i have a problem...
  a real ******* problem!
so... you basically
reinvented the Marx / Engels
critique of child labor?!

so you have this advertisement
dynamic, with unware
children, pushing your products?
making the slightest mark
on the buck...
    
            you have children pushers...
you have children mmaking
the profit margins...
    yes?
             you, *******, ****-tards!
    so the children
you "employ", are doing the hard
stuff, to incubate your
bureaucratic employees?
and keep them in employment
positions of mediocre power?

you have to be,
******* kidding me!

   your type of people are beyond
fake news....
you're paedo-news...
some of us would care
to denote at: covert excuses...

   take ashley wicka...
a corporate pimped *****...
how old is she?
barely 15?
         looks like the advertising
community, really needed
first person advertisers...
   first person accounts....
esp. young people...
  because?
  the older generations,
"the gap": wasn't paying into
the gimmick...
    
i actually abhor what they
allowed themselves to do with
the young people...
   i'm sick, tired, and
almost feigning fatigue from
the list of excuses
that surmounts the excuse for
ethical practice...
   which is never was,
and never will be...

       i'm too lazy to give a ****...
give me a .gif contra
a **** movie extract....
          have your little siesta
of ******...
   have it, **** me...
saves me a gym deliberation...
not ending up a
gymnast...
          rather, a pivot for  bending
knee...
             i've learned **** the lazy, lax way...
when asked by a Bulgarian
*******,
if i wanted to girls for an hour,
i replied the Joker's reply...
comparing the differential
of, a world, divided
into men who ****** one girl,
and men who ****** two girls...

i'm like a dog chasing cars...
if i caught one?!
i wouldn't know what to do with one!
in this instance?
i wouldn't know what to do
with two!

           have your anti-****** boast-trip....
your ******* innuendo,
your ego / ******* sized over-trip...
****... let me stretch your *****
out for you...

           point being?
i don't have to own, what i ****,
or... don't ****...
but you do...
    your self-esteem is dependent
on a form of closure...
so?
     you **** it?! you own it!
hello! surrogate phantom pater!

where's your
elephantiasis
****-size glorification,
now?

        oh, right... sorry...
forgot...
now comes the alimony;

look at me, doing the Pontius Pilate
Houdini trick!
or showing you,
the disappearing, *******!
Taylor Price Jun 2014
Flowing aimlessly
Through the wells of my mind
Unware of where I am
Unable to connect the thoughts that are racing
I hear my heartbeat
Slow and dim
As if it were far far away
It fades and becomes almost translucent

I pray it to stop
But am never answered
Awake in agony
I wish to fade away to nothing
To become nothing
To transcend
Ophelia Jan 2014
Melancholy is sitting in front of me
My man is hiding from me, hell yeah
I don't want to live that way anymore
'Cause yesterday I was a different person

Melancholy is holding my hands
My man is unware about me, hell yeah
I don't want to live that way anymore
Trying to hide my indecent past
I'm really trying, but it's harder than I thought

Every girl is like a mad gun
Have I gone mad?

I want to empty my home
I want to empty my life of Max
I will be wearing pink pyjamas
And listening to oldies

Melancholy is living in my neighbourhood
What should I do now?
I just wanna drink, hell yeah
Save me, my man!

Melancholy is knocking on my doors
Trying to escape, hell yeah
I'm really trying, but it's harder than I tought
Oh please don't drop me home, my man

Every girl is like a mad gun
Have I gone mad?

I want to empty my home
I want to empty my life of Max
I will be wearing pink pyjamas
And listening to oldies

Take me to your place, anywhere
I don't care anymore
I don't care
I don't care
I don't care

Every girl is like a mad gun
Have I gone mad?

I want to empty my home
I want to empty my life of Max
I will be wearing pink pyjamas
And listening to oldies
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2022
promise me! promise me to get me out of this hell-hole i put myself in! promise me! i don't know why i put myself through, several days of transcribing a snippet, this was merely a snippet from Kierkegaard's oeuvre, but, how unbelievable! each word was a labour, prop up the book in the right place, read, don't look at the keyboard, let the devil find work for idle hands... look for the devil who would be able to write like he might read Braille! my god, the punctuation, ****** an elephant's ***...the essential Kierkegaard - edited by howard v. hong & edna h. hong: hurt my sensibilities, or, rather, my pedantry, when it comes to punctuation... transcribing is not plagiarism... its brick-layer toils... one word, after another... if i were translating from Danish, i think i'd punctuate the text better: to give it some... panache! some: oomph! you know? this is my dedication, i'm supposed to be awake at 7am... i already shined my shoes, i've already prepped my white shirt, black trousers, black clip on tie, i have my papers (credentials) in order... tomorrow i'll be at the London Stadium overlooking West Ham take on Leeds United in the FA cup... like always, i'll be more interested in the crowd... spotting a pretty girl among the "yobs"... because i truly care about football when it's on the t.v.: in real life... i once stood with three cans of beer and watched a non-league / non-professional match compromising of enthusiasts in a park, at a distance... i couldn't see much... i still don't see much difference... unless it's on the t.v.: the stadium doesnt really "frighten" me... but this one time in the park, i sort of looked the Michael Myers part... headphones in... one young woman was trying to... communicate to this older woman: also walking her dog... about confronting me... i think i "said": gaze... i looked at them... the younger woman was trying to tell the older woman about confronting me... the older woman told the younger woman: YOU, HAVE, NOTHING, TO TALK ABOUT, WITH THIS, MAN! i was drinking a beer, standing... a decent distance from the football match: but i also remember that... that 1995 Charity Shield game at the Old Wembley between Manchester United & Newcastle: ants kicking a grain of sand... obviously i didn't understand why i might pretend to be a *****... my new favorite word... *****... alias for paedohpile... if i don't look menacing and some woman can "think" she stands a chance against me: merely posturing... then we have issues... oh **** me... transcribing... that's worse than plagiarism.... i once did the most pristine plagiarism job on some... social-science course up in Edinburgh... i was having to make up credit scores, being the romantic idiot... losing my virginity to Isabella of Grenoble... oh, get a French girlfriend, take up French... i hate the language... they write what they don't speak: phonetically... which is sort of in line with my prior ambition for the plunge - to transcribe some Kierkegaard, but also translate some SZYMON STAROWOLSKI observations... circa... 1650... the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth... sorry.. it's not going to happen... i've done enough transcribing enough *******'s worth of: this punctuation needs to... "go"... to better understand myself... through this iron maiden of: someone else wrote: what someone else wrote... i'll leave ol' SIMON for another take... given... transcribing is a labour... writing, freely... idiosyncratically: appealing to my, appeal...  how, why, when... oh i can deal with that, these days... it's not even concerning what sort of thesaurus peacocking exfoliation is being used / abused by the writer... i'm... more allured... by... punctuation... since i don't bother to rhyme, since i find all lyricism a tad bit... crass... what else is there? the measure of: how to stop... how to begin... how to "objectify" the conjunction-intermediacy of... punctuation... no manner of human speech can be / could be encapsulated by comparing it to a river... point being... i'd rather write as freely as i can, about the most mundane events in my own life: prop up my subjectivity than... somehow... "somehow"... succumb to some sensible objective reality... objectivity does not give me a drive... it does not equip me with a manly persevence... it's antithetical to what i understand as human nature simply because... ha ha... objectivity has been owned by the English... it's their lot of being sensible... like watching would-be journalists looking at what's currently happening in Kazakhstan... then trying to compare it to... the posturing: the civilian security of protests in Ham-Ham-H'America... and it's like... so what? the people are simply, expected to, take it?! the liberty's of the individual that believes himself to be outside the collective will... sure... well... sounds nice... unless of course... the hive really does come after you... i'm all for individual liberties, after all... i own a private library that could put the public library where i live to shame... although... i'll give them a sly one: Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus... they owned it, i simply loaned it... fair enough... but i'd rather write about women... i was having my haircut done... closed my eyes... because... hell... the mirror and ****... with my eyes closed i was stroked by this blonde bombshell... we talked about owning dogs, about owning cats... Alsatians? oh, i really have a hard-on for them... i used to own a dobberman... prior to it being illegal to snip their ears and cut their tails... she was a cat that does that to her? like she looks to be self-harming? perhaps she should nickname him Freddy Krueger?! my maine ****? oh... it's rainy, he just sleeps in my bed... he usually sleeps with me.. what?! the bed's big enough for the both of us... i'd love to own a boxer... i'd love to own a rottweiler... i'd also love to own a Triumph bike...

one of my replies... you know, a liter of whiskey can go down well... i get double drunk from good conversation, i rarely encounter what i'd consider a good conversation... that's why... i much prefer to drink alone, of note... i had more fun pretending to talk to myself than expecting "talking" to be an anti-canvas with some, living, breathing: might have kidney failure, etc. punk or, sociopathic? here's the script:

see you now,, i'm just about to rewrite a Kierkegaard transcript.... i can't imagine it being much fun... the whole process is so unoriginal... but oh, oh so necessary... that i sort of don't want to live without it... bonus points... i''ve drank enough to make it... bearable... trans-scripting....i danced a little in my bedroom, donned my cat with a pair of sunglasses.... thank god i'm not kind of a sort of H'american version of a... "winner"... so much of life can be tolerated when it's not being competed for!...

i've just filled out an induction form for the West Ham stadium, played niceties with my supervisor, sent her an emoticon, LOLz back... i'm pumped up, ready to smack a few teenage boys into shape, what, could possibly go wrong? speaking below the depth of breath / audibility, watching the birds... i want, i want to give them a second, a third, a fourth... chance... let me give these people a chance... i know their failures... but... the possibility of being loved by one of them, whether man, or woman, whether pseudo-woman... i'll go as far as to say... i wouldn't mind a "Thai surprise"... i know they're capable of it... give me this already acquired heart of stone... and i'll show you... that they'll bleed rivers of honesty... just a little while... that is all i ask...

this is all, of course, before the plunge begins...
wait...l of course there's more, there have to be constellations
involved!

it was originally titled: Private Library Allure...
now, i'm "thinking": two ripe mangoes...
a mango curry or a mango chutney,
or perhaps, both?!

i have this one particular constellation in mind, that's visible to the naked eye, don't worry about - wait... let me take a second look:


                  •


                    •
      •



           •


    

            •          (circa)... the big wheel...
the grizzly she... in terms of gods & men...
there's an replica: much smaller...
so i guess this is the microscope: since it is enlarged
while the identical constellation
is a telescope...
       no matter... i'm thinking of this constellation

                                 •
                          
                          •
      
                   •
                       •
                    

                          •
                             •
                                •



              •
          ­                                            •

the scorpion constellation, it only appeared once
(to my knowledge) in pop culture,
in Dreamworks' the Prince of Egypt...

now wouldn't that be a waste... me simply drinking,
not allowing alcohol to be the extra calorie intake
that might require me to scribble...
waste of a good whiskey: should i simply drink it
and not focus on scribbling...

point being, i'm about to undertake something
i'm not very keen on, to prove a point,
i'm about to transcript two of the most profound pieces
of writing that recently caught my attention...

not to mention i'm reserving bragging rights...
my private library is... richer...
than the public library of the town of Romford...
i might be an alcoholic,
but i'm also a bibliophile...
there's nothing more precious thank a book...
perhaps a tonne of bricks...

why did i decide to cycle in these temperatures...
****'s sake... i'm old school,
i don't "trust" wi-fi cordless earphones...
the temperature dipped so low that
now the wires are performing at sub-optimal standards...
sort of hushed...
mind you... i love the cold of the January nights...
******* get such a hard-on for the wind
that they almost feel like they've been pierced...

none of the following will be original content,
but i just have to transcript it...
maybe a whiskey refill... a cigarette...
i need to get into the groove of typing up
someone else's work...
oh ****, there are two of them...
well... at least one of them i will not have to translate...
however: do i want to include the original...
all those diacritical markers (ctrl + c / ctrl + p)
will be rather fiddly... do i have the time?

- oh, right... i'm here... the above was...
"somewhere" / "sometime" else...
a sort of... quantum-dasein...
past-participle... black hole... blah blah...
i'm still gearing up for the transcript
of Kierkegaard...
the translation of that ****** equivalent
of the Czech: YAN HUß

-------------------------------------- (pending line)

the pending line is not moving... i've already
written a pre-scriptum a day "late"...
i think i'll manage the Kierkegaard...
but none of the ****** "crap": since...
i'm not about to translate...

once more, please refer to the essential Kierkegaard...
edited by howard. v. hong...
& edna h. hong...
            hong? i too have a terrible surname...
a bit like ******, or Stalin...
people see Elert... they immediately prompt me
with: so... you're AH-LERT?!
i never hit them back with with...
you sort of missed this zeppelin...
it's etymologically german...
in earnest... it's missing: SCH...
that's... ESCHLERT...
          but i have no trouble with people
who like... low hanging fruit...
pedestrian interactions...
         a peasant among among peasants...
a peasant who can discriminate against
peasants...
my given surname at birth was no much better...
fellow countrymen...
oh... i remember it... this one time...
tricked me...
open your mouth...
so i opened my mouth...
then quickly closed it...
i was spat at... a fellow countryman spat
in my face...
although he was aiming at my mouth...
i hold... not allegiance to the English...
1997... why was i deported?
for being an economical migrant?!
oh... the world is now, somehow, ******* welcome?!
i hold not allegiance to the English:
to the tongue: all...
but i also hold not allegiance to my inherent
****** reference... i'd rather just call it
a "reference"...

i abhor both parties... one for sort of telling me to
******* because:
they're now the church-going party of people
and my grandfather was conflated with being
a communist party member:
sure... since... socialism in a soviet
satellite was very much the same sort of shin-dig
as it was in RaSHa... ROSIYA...
*******... wanking me off a little...
**** Poland... **** England...
both can sink... to... whatever they deem
to be acceptable by their standards of...
oh... in England... peer Lord Ahmed... *****...
Rotherham... fun times!
i don't even want to know anything about
Poland.... my ethnic class by birth...
i'd rather ******* and create trans-ethnic mongrel
gremlins with a a girl from Kenya...
in Kenya...
yeah... me... in Kenya... creating a pseudo-Brazillian
republic of... copper-skinned polymaths &
multilingual freaks!
sign me up!
                  
i really didn't expect to mind much of me...
it's nice that... they read so little nd watch so much regurgitation
of a t.v...

like i once pointed out: objectivity is...
overrated... hell... it's more than that...
by now it has been hijacked by fake-news and
anti-science pseudo-narratives...

which tells you a lot about a people who
seemingly tolerate Muslims...
tolerating Muslims that don't tolerate Sufism...
i'm good with the Turkish barbers...
anything else... you better ask a Hindu...
how do Hindus "tolerate" Islam... if, at all?

these are not my words... they are a verbatim
transcript that most public libraries will not own,
but i own... ergo...

the subjective existing thinker is aware of the dialectic of communication. whereas objective thinking is indifferent to the thinking subject and his existence, the subjective thinker as existing is essentially interested in his own thinking, is existing in it.

(insert: my own questioning furthered from the genesis of this 19th century Danish thinker... point aside... i am... the queen's subject... i am not, the queen's object... the queen is not forcing me to be subjectively objectionable to... say... building a new wing for Windsor Castle... i can't be, regarded as the queen's object... constitutional monarchy doesn't work through the expedience of extension... i am the queen's subject, i am not her object... i am subjected to the queen... the monarch... but i'm not... "objected"? i'm not objecting to the hierarchy she presupposes, predisposes with... it's almost a "paradox"... but as a subject... in the most immediacy... as a subject... i am not her object... i am not her servant! that some people, within her immediacy are her objects, by regal extension, her guards, her... ******* tea nannies... sure... but... i am beyond her claim for being objectified... i am "subjectified"... how? i can fester... concern for the monarch, i can adorn her with "dasein": care... but her regal extension dilutes itself... her regal power... the cut-off point... is... when she can no longer objectify me... i can be no more her ******* tea-*****-nanny... her soldier... hell... a police officer is not made a police officer by some royal decree.... a police officer is a subject of the regal authority... a soldier? an object of the regal authority... why? the soldier serves the crown... the police officer? serves the public: the subject of the subject(s)... not... like the solider: the object of the object... to be subjected to "something": is hardly demeaning when otherwise the supposed stance of being "demeaned" is to be: objectified... counter to any sort of "argument": to be objectified... is to be spared... the experience of being: subjected to... i.e. / e.g. to objectify a woman... is a synonymous expression for... not subjecting a woman to... what objectifying her in the first place might... entail... by objectifying a woman... you're at least not subjecting her to... the undercurrents of objectification per se...

even i am thinking to myself: this sounds stupid...
the fox is currently having an asthmatic fit of giggles
come 2:20am...
if i am objectifying a woman as a "thinking thing"...
then... i'll be less likely to subject her to: think...
if i am objectifying a woman as a hammer...
then... i'll be less likely to ask her to:
also bring some nails along...
that's the positive on the micro-scale...
because on the macro-scale?
i'd rather be the queen's subject than...
be her... well... the extension of the queen:
her object... her tea-*****-nanny...
her soldier... her... prime minister...
it's a ******* weird dynamic... but...
it's the most pristine that has ever existed... period...

constitutional monarchy ought to be
the envy of the world, for some of the bad apples...
it still i... it should never be undermined...
should it ever be... i'd call that... treason!
to the very fabric of reality!
and as someone who was diagnosed as schizophrenic?!
go figure... but don't come cryuig to me...
make, sure...
you have some "ice-cream" **** readily available
to sa e you, some Rotherham **** heart-throb...
why oh why... having lived n these Isles...
for as long as i have...
the would me mothers of my would be children...
i'm not even going to beg to, ask...
low i.q. breeds low i.q.:
naive... people(s)...
           genius is an aberration...
it's a  mutation...better stuid and reproductive...
work along: plenty for the ants..
*******, ants...
and once they age?
darts?! football matches?

i can't blame them!
i have yet to cite them proper...
although: thank god the filter
of having to invest in having to read...
in people actually reading

therefore, his thinking has another kind of reflection, specifically, that of inwardness, of possession, whereby it belongs to the subject and to no one else. whereas objective thinking invests everything in the result and assists all humankind  to cheat by copying and reeling off the results and answers, subjective thinking invests everything in the process of becoming and omits the result, partly because this belongs to him, since he possesses the way, partly because he as existing is continually in the process of becoming, as is every human being who has not permitted himself to be tricked into becoming objective, into inhumanly becoming speculative thought.

the reflection of inwardness is the subjective thinker's double-reflection. in thinking, he thinks the universal, but, as existing in this thinking, as acquiring this in his inwardness, he becomes more and more subjectively isolated.

the difference between subjective and objective thinking must also manifest itself in the form of communication ˣ. this means that the subjective thinker must promptly become aware that the form of communication must artistically possess just as much reflection as he himself, existing in his thinking, possesses. artistically, please note, for the secret does not consist in his enunciating the double-reflection directly, since such an enunciation is a direct contradiction.

ordinary communication between one human being and another is entirely immediate, because people ordinarily exist in immediacy. when one person sttes something and another acknowledges the same thing verbatim, they are assumed to be in agreement and to have understood each other. yet because the one making the statement is unware of the duplexity (dobbelthed) of thought-existence, he is also unable to be aware of the double-reflection of communication. therefore, he has no intimation that this kind of agreement can be the greatest misunderstanding and naturally has no intimation that, just as the subjective existing thinker has set himself free by the duplexity, so the secret of communication specifically hinges on setting the other free, and for that very reason he must not communicate himself directly; indeed, it is even irreligious to do so. this latter applies in proportion to the essentiality of the subjective and consequently applies first and foremost within the religious domain, that is, if the communicator is not god himself or does not presume to appeal to the miraculous authority of an apostle but is just a human being and also cares to have meaning in what he says and what he does.

objective thinking is completely indifferent to subjectivity and thereby to inwardness and appropriation; its communication is therefore direct. it is obvious that it does not therefore have to be easy. but it is direct, it does not have the illusiveness and the art of double-reflection. it does not have that god-fearing and humane soliciude of subjective thinking in communicating itself; it can be understood directly; it can be reeled off. objective thinking is therefore aware only of itself and is therefore no communication, at least no artistic communication, inasmuch as it would always be required to think of the receiver and to pay attention to the form of communication in relation to the receiver's misunderstanding. objective thinking is, like most people, so fervently kind and communicative; it communicates right away and at most resorts to assurances about its truth, to recommendations and promises about how all people someday will accept this truth - so sure is it. or perhaps rather so unsure, because the assurances are recommendations are the promises, which are indeed for the sake of those others who are supposed to accept this truth, might also be for the sake of the teacher, who needs the security and dependability of a majority vote. if his contemporaries deny him this, he will draw on posterity - so sure is he. this security has something in common with the independence that, independent of the world, needs the world as witness to one's independenceso as to be certain of being independent.

ˣ double-reflection is already implicit in the ideas of communication itself: that the subjective individual (why by inwardness wants to express the life of the eternal, in which all sociality and all companionship are inconceivable because the existence-category, movement, is inconceivable here, and hence essential communication is also inconceivable because everyone must be assumed to possess everything essentially), existing in the isolation of inwardness, wants to communicate himself, consequently that he simultaneously wants to keep his thinking in the inwardness of his subjective existence and yet wants to communicate himself. it is not possible (except for thoughtlessness, for which ll things are indeed possible) for this contradiction to become manifest in a direct form. - it is not so difficult, however, to understand that a subject existing in this way may want to communicate himself. a person in love, for instance, to whom his ****** love is his very inwardness, may well want to communicate himself, but not directly, just because the inwardness of ****** love is the main thing for him. essentially occupied with continually acquiring the inwardness of ****** love, he has no result and is never finished, but he may nevertheless want to communicate; yet for that very reason he can never use a direct form, since that presupposes results and completion. so it is also in a god-relationship. just because he himself is continually in the process of becoming in an inward direction, that is, in inwardness, he can never communicate himself directly, since the movement is here the very opposite. direct communication requires certainty, but certainty is impossible for a person in the process of becoming, and it is indeed a deception. thus, to employ an ****** relationship, if a maiden in love yearns for the wedding day because this would give her assured certainty, if she wanted to make herself comfortable in legal security as a spouse, if she preferred marital yawning to maidenly yearning, then the man would rightfully deplore her unfaithfulness, although she indeed did not love anyone else, because she would have lost the idea and actually did not love him. and this, after all, is the essential unfaithfulness in an ****** relationship, the incidental unfaithfulness is to love someone else.


as a side-note... these impossible, to my mind:
imaginary "problems"...
say, for example...
the racist... the non-racist... and the... anti-racist...
do i use racial slurs, sure, but i always tend
to "translate" them to by implicitly urban scenario
tokens... i'm a "******" if i don't get on time,
i'm supposed to work for free...
i think of racism along the lines...
well... you, know... that Pakistani grooming
gang in Rotherham...
it doesn't affect me personally,
i'm a bachelor, i don't have a daughter...
but... even on my level, since i'm so far away
from the issue... i start to get affected...
**** is the lowest of the low...
i once ****** a *******... all giggly and drunk
at first... but then... she started crying during *******...
a burn-out moment on her behalf...
i had to stop... o.k. you're selling yourself... willingly...
but... i'm not going to... whatever...
if she might have claimed p.t.s.d.
i could also claim the same...

*** is ugly... just before perching myself on the windowsill
once the night arrived...
i heard a voice in the darkness... thanking me...
at the end of my garden... i wasn't exactly listening:
i never listen... but these words of: thank you
sort of penetrated me...
where is the supposed "Ummah"
when it comes to the Uyghurs?!
the fond fellows of Arabia... would rather send
their suicide virgins to the western land
with prospect of conquest, with prospect of seeking
our proselytes... than...
keep their Ummah intact... do the Arabs really think
that their Chinese believers are...
worth so little to them?
           where are the attacks on China?!
eh... Pakistani uncle said grandma
then decided to **** some cousin...
  sorry... low... hanging... fruit...
   i need a drink...
                            
        i can understand racism... esp. given the attempt
at a multicultural society...
i rather think of myself as a non-racist...
****** a black girl, ****** a Thai girl...
****** an Indian girl...
but... this... white, female, anti-racism stance?
i don't get it... daddy issues?
they must be daddy issues... parental issues...
you have to purposively make yourself anti-racist...
affirmative action buzzwords...
you can never be: the highest pinnacle of negation:
not-racist... you have to be actively: anti-racist...
you can never be passively: non-racist...
you have to... do... "x, y & z"...

these words shouldn't even see the light of day...
so much *******...
all of it... crass...
as much as the Brazil-Project of interracial
new-Arab interbreeding sounds great...
newly tanned "Spaniards"... "Arabs"...
"Indians"... if you've ever visited Kenya...
i remember being approached by these three gorgeous
Kenyan girls working the pandering circuit...
black skin glistening in the moonlight...
as if someone rubbed them with butter...
plump... one of the local Kenyan boys asked whether
i'd like to visit a local bar... i declined...
i forgot myself... took to the hammock...
slept the whole night in the open...
some ****** stole my cognac while i was asleep...
me? we best interact...
but... interracial breeding sort of disrespects...
the seeming aeons of... what allowed black people
to be black... what allowed white people to be
white...
it's no good, like... black girls are not angry
when the white girls are giving up so much ***
to their male counterparts?

if i'm supposed to "think" about race... sure... i'll give
it a short shot... because i'm expected...
i have a furry river and.. by now:
i'm more res vanus than res cogitans...
i don't think i need to think on the basis of
narration... i'll just be reactionary...
not because it's easier... it just seems rather...
necessary...

anti-racist: tropes! they are just that... people try
so hard to not-be... X... that they almost forget that...
they are X... because they are compensating for
the environment they were brought up in...
daddy's sins... mother's opinions...
by now a racist is better suited for conversation
than an anti-racist... who the ****** bleached "us"?
it's like: i can't the difference between people...
like... Somalis don't look more ancient than the rest
of the Africans?! maybe i should find more Ethiopians...

i sometimes think of "existing" in a way that...
elevates the posit of: exiting...
sure... cogito, ergo... blah blah...
but that's not enough... to exist is also readying
yourself to exit... existing is a pseudo-continuum
of rented... time, body... in order to...
make the banal finalities of / for an exit...
Sonali Sethi Oct 2014
You lie asleep on your bed
The monsters wait underneath;
To grab you with their scaly hands.
They smile with their crooked teeth

The gremlins dance in the shadows
As your closed eyes start to dream
They crawl along your room, just
Waiting to pounce; to make you scream

In your slumber, you don't hear,
Fingernails drag across your window
By the bony hands of a hooded figure;
The ghost of a soldier's widow.

Safe and warm in your blanket,
You sleep completely unware
Of the howling trees and tortured wails Carried along by the cold nights air

You rest, immersed in your dream,
You don't hear your floorboards creek
Or smell the stench of a ghouls breath
Or see the sights that would make you shriek

You sleep, all cozy and snug
You think that everything's alright
Oblivious you are to all the creatures
And things that go bump in the night

The sun rises and back into
Their holes and corners they scurry.
You awaken, well rested and fresh
And continue on without a worry.

You'll never know what went on
While you dreamed of happy times
The horrors that once lurked in your room
Wait, hidden,  for a chance to strike...
Hannah Thomas May 2014
Golden dust will form your in eyes
Over the long time they stay shut
Of course, you are unware
Dreams are flowing through your head

Now, just relax
I am here
Giving nightmares nightmares
Holding down the fort
Till the sun shines on dew drops

Lay your head down
In case I leave
Teddy will be here
Taking my place
Looking out for you
Exactly as I do

Oh, my little one
Night will soon be over
Enjoy your dreams while they last
alex loya May 2014
I never wanna tell u
What I really wanna say
I'm just here too help u no need to runaway
My words are my best friends
That I won't ever chase
Wont beg for attention dont need u too stay

If you dont want
Break up that bond
Got it all wrong now u wake up all gone ..
Nothing is permanent
Just take my word for it
You'll be returning quick thinkin you learned new tricks
Not here to disappoint u but I have no choice
Notice destruction you cannot avoid
Lost in the noise flanted my voice
Traded my toys for songs I enjoyed
No one will help u until ur heart stops
Wat ever u know prove ur heart is on top
Ignoring the news while my art hopes for props showed u the thruth and u started too pause
Look at the view like a portrait that's rare
Looking at u becuz ur unware
Too late for mistakes no need too compare
Living day by day fully prepared
I'm not here too force
I just wanna help
Get lost in the course I keep hurting myself
Mission abort give it too someone else
Lying in court Dont know how I felt
This is what happens when your way too passive

Notice the damage no need 2 panic
Took off the bandage locked in the attic
Just like an addict look how I had it
On Automatic till it fell off a cliff
Last cigarette
Before hell gets dim
Hilighted the meaning
Gave u full emphasis
Lucidly dreaming
Dont need too remenis
Super nintendo sega genesis
When I was younger I couldn't picture this
Random world in tabu why keep
Locking eyes
One bite 2 her lip just too start up the ride ...
Jonathan Nunez Jun 2018
I am in a box.
A box that I am trapped in.
The warm sun does not enter.
I am isolated inside this cold, dark, lonely box.

The weather outside is fine,
With the clouds parting with each other.
The warmth of the sun cannot reach my darkened heart.

The outside is full of people
Who are blissfully unware of my pain.
They don’t know or care that I am trapped inside.

The pain from this loneliness is slowly killing me.
I know I have got to break free,
But I have abandoned all hope.

I reach out for help,
But the bitterness in my soul from being trapped
Repels them away from me.

Until one man offers to help.
Out of bitterness, I demand he leave me.
I have given up on my dream to be free.
I doubt he can help anyway.

To my surprise, he comes back
And offers to help me again.
I tell him that it is impossible
As he struggles to break me free.

Bit by bit he makes little progress.
For the first time in ages,
I feel a small glimmer of hope.
I start to make an effort to break out.

After some time, I finally burst out.
I am finally free.
I thank the man with tears in my eyes.
He rejects the thanks,
Saying that most of the effort came from me.

“I only got you started,” he says
“You freed yourself.”
Please let me know what you think of this poem. The idea came to me when I was trying to help a certain person.
Adelaide London Dec 2016
Artist
That’s what you said you were.

But are you really?

Coming to my doorstep with the promise of blues
And reds
And all shades of purple.
With your paintbrushes
Set and new.
You said every stroke
Was me and unique
That every curve was
Drawn
and accentuated
to perfection.

Unware was I to what you were going to steal…

Because what you left me with was raw
Blacks
and reds
in crisscrosses
and arms
legs and
hearts torn apart
with bitter irony.
Every stroke
was inevitable
and laced with
the real scent
of horror.

I was the canvas.
But did that make me a work of art?
When the picture someone paints is nothing like what they made it out to be.
Muck monster Sep 2016
I murdered someone
In cold blood and hate
I murdered someone
And it felt as if it were fate

I held the knife
Held it like a mighty sword
I released myself of strife
And spoke in harsh words

It was there indifference
It feuled my anger
No longer struggling with dissonance
Yearning to strangle her

They cheared me on!
Like a gladiater in a pit
Words with venom spun
The victim not worth the spit!

Entertainment, they cackled with a grin
They loved watching the blood drain
A place where they vented there sin
So i let the blade slide, let violence reign

Blood dripping from the sides
The voices became quiet in return
The indifference back in their eyes
Echoing not an ounce of concern

I lay there drenched in crimson
An empty vessel with a hard shell
Able to take a beating, no hazed vision
Adranaline gone, i've succumbed to hell

They dragged me out in my state of confusion
Society had destroyed yet another soul
Im both victim and ******, we are one
They watched me **** myself, unware of what they stole

There is more that one way to **** a man
Judgement and hate can be a gun
Shooting you down and you cant understand
So you shut down, realizing there is nowhere to run

It's easier like this being indifferent
Feeling numb in exchange to stop the pain
It's easier like this, not being spent
A calm mind in exhange for cut veins

I murdered someone
In cold blood and hate
I murdered someone
And it felt as if it were fate
thyreez-thy Apr 23
I sit exhausted every night
Not a single off day in my sights
Working as I wake up, and until I dose off
So busy, my dehydration is discovered by a dry cough

To busy to eat, yet too hungry to carry on
Taking even a little break causes progress to be gone
Disappeared are the days of weekends being a reprieve
As I wipe the tears and carry on by rolling up my sleeves

Some call it growing up, others call it existing
Here I am throwing up, unware of how exhausting
this all truly is
The human body was made for pressure, yet I cannot reassure
If I am tired out of hard work, or hardly getting things to work

The weapons must have succeeded, the attacks seem to have landed
Stuck in this workflow I feel stranded, and yet life has still demanded
I wake up and smile, and sleep with the same expression
Is this depression, a lesson, or a trial for heaven?

Sitting down is wasting time, and working with no success is just as worse
Is this a challenge set before me, or some invisible curse
Time and time again, clocking in and clocking out
I sit still, letting it boil, as all I want to do is shout
Stuck in a bit of a rut and wrote this on the fly. Not sure how to feel about it but I try to keep my writing up to avoid growing dull again, thanks for reading!
Seema Sep 2017
Walking by an old graveyard
On a late Sunday afternoon
I noticed a figure at guard
Waiting for the peek of the full moon

Dressed in a black robe
Doing sort of prayer ritual
His hand hanging like a lobe
A rare type to my own visual

I dared not to go near the figure
As it looked busy praying
Unable to control my eager
Too keen to see, what it was doing

As I moved closer to the bushes
I heard voices chanting something
A chill up my spine, I felt the pushes
But on notice, there was nothing

I read somewhere that chanting has power
To see if it really worked
I stayed to witness for another hour
Than I became totally shocked

***** of fire floating away with each chant
My vision widened to see what it wants
A step nearer to the place of ritual
I must admit am purely spiritual

Black smoke rouse in the air
Like thousand tongues, the voices grew
Two robe figures sitting in a pair
I was thrilled by the astonishing view

Almost watching for nearly two hours
I was scared as well as inquisitive
Then came the heavy pouring showers
Yet the floating flames were active

I was unware as I was being watched
Caring less they continued to pray
They had a sweet tooth for carcass, washed
Hungrily they grabbed in to prey

Running home, as I caught up with my breath
What I saw today was a crazy unbelievable ****
Such rituals of what!! for people after death
I rather change my route,
                     before they show me their wrath...


©sim
From my imaginative mind to yours :)
When she looks in the mirror
She sees work that needs to be done,
Thinks things should be changed,
But I see the love of my life
And think she’s no less than perfect.
PYRO May 2018
She brings a goosebumps feeling,
Though without empathy does she shatter your bones, runs a spear through that which gives life.
If she could pay attetion she would hear the blood drops from pierced hearts.  
She's unware of the pain she inflicts,
Or the joy she brings
The floodgates have been opened,
catching me unware
I'm caught
beneath the onslaught of rushing water,
As I am being tumbled
to the bottom
I know I need to move
But as much as I try
My efforts are furtile
But I still try
Without success
tompoet rwanda Jul 2018
The fact that i didn't care
The lisses that i didn't share
Was just a matter of welfare
And so she sat sadly on her black chair
Waiting for my spare
So that she doesn't hear any sound
of despair
And i had gone to work somewhere
Not cheating her ,i swear
But she didn't listen not even dare
She took time to get dressed
And brush her black shiny hair
Sitting there in a short armchair
She took all  her clothes even the
Underwears
Then she left me unware
I should have released all my tears
but i realised that what she did
was not fair
and i had to move on for better.
True story
jeffrey conyers Aug 2016
I must go numb before I won't adore you more.
To the point I'm very unware of you completely in my heart.
Well, least until all the feelings are gone.

I will know this just by the mentioning of your name.
When I don't react to hearing it.
But for now, you're my love purpose.
Whatever that means?
jeffrey conyers Sep 2016
Two eyes, sending you messages.
Two arms, seeking you too.
But you unaware of all these things.
Like my voice calling out your name.

But you been unaware for sometime that you been the object of this certain guy.

Two ears, loves to hear your voice.
Two hands, wants to touch you so much.
But you unaware of all of this.
Least of these two lips that wants to give you a sweet, sweet kiss.

Now, maybe the blame lies with me.
For to you these things never been explained.
So unware of my true feeling for you.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
the little people: and their grand words...
some within reaching the stasus
of colossus,
       while others groveling like
maggots, come back to the collective
unconscious (memory):
        with a stalled craft to make
the morbid fusion of an impetus...
        the grand people:
          and their concern for the lexicon;
secularism had but one advantage,
the holiness of the subconsciousness
of lingua...
              but, apparently, the communist
didn't teach anyone anything,
other than what needed to be minded:
a reiteration of the winding back
of ******* symbolism,
          back: into the clock-face of
resembling an impeding loss of
a status quo...
                         before the altar of
unmoved pieces of chess,
the current, unfathomability of
a "sudden" move...
                  pawn-broker: pawn-maker,
crude: the collection of
   a tsunami mingling with
the antithesis of the holy ghost within
the shackles of:
                            a zeitgeist...
bounty and beauty bound to
the same curator,
            of the fallen curtain
revealing the androids of future
depictions of kings, raised,
subsequently toppled,
   yet nonetheless kept:
   at a leisure...
                         toad-markings
of the first supposed bite...
like a kiss of the enchanted prince...
who kissess, before
             the other churns a bite?!

i might laugh at attire, but,
all of the fashion industry is
structured around ******-*******...

there is still not greater insult
than what other people eat...
and i can't stomach culinary insults...
the omnivore that i am...

how i ate those dried-out fish-snacks
with a St. Petersburg drinker,
and that every-man's orange caviar
i won't even bother to question...
culinary insults... doesn't matter:
can dress the ***,
                   in a king's tug & ware...

culinary insults are the depth upon
which you base making
           fashion "statements"...
    
see... the western concept of the "left"
is Mongolian to me...
                   i, simply, cannot
comprehend it...
                    one would expect:
a rule of thumb;
  instead one receives a conclave
of giving "it": the index finger...

           which isn't even a forfeit of
tipping into narratives of
the current circumstance...    
         in the omnipresent:
membrane - of -
      fragility within the confines
of: being reactant to
whatever enzyme is made
adjusted to thrill,
  or make *******,
             of a future without
                                            a yesterday.

who let the "idiots" in?
mind you: there are no idiots among
pawns, merely sacrificial lambs...
       and who said that grammar
          could be given a religiosity,
and a deconstructionist-dogma-medium
readily stalked, and subsequently
made: unfathomable?
                it could have worked...
    the anti-nationalistic agenda...
         but given the attempts to
puruse a feat of ridiculing the basic
foundation of a, coherent expression
of a coherent acquisition of language,
with not real basis of nation,
  but erroding the prime of
the individual to start a zoology-creep
invigoration?
                
             there are sensibilities than
transcend nationalism...
    as there are sensibilities than make
"transgressions"
      of globalisation...
         grammar is the only orthodoxy
that remains intact from
the segregation of the church and state...

        i already stated that i am,
blissfully unware of a need to take to
engaging in the catholic bureaucracy of
confirmation...
             but a direct attack on grammar
is a self-defeatist mishandling of
secularism...
                             grammar = dogma...

         since can         dada,           truly rule?!

sure, attack grammar,
  with an unconventionality of the use
of language,
   that doesn't assertain a use of language
with the social focus of
    the pleasantries of formalism...
transgress language formalism...
                and, suddenly,
all cobblers become death-aspiring
"artists"...

                  why isn't artist deemed to
by synonymous with gambler?!

      what a bleak picture,
    a fiction that's the fiction of Dicken's
bleak:
                     something or other...

     yet i love being attached to
a current narrative...
          this: culprit conversation
interlude of a people...
                        
               beside the canadian pronoun
incident...
        and using grammar orientated
words...
       can anyone tell me why english
uses so much conjunction-preposition
shrapnel of a bullet to the letter
to the gun with an aimed word?

        papa germanicus uses a lot of
Faustian... conventionality,
of making words into:
  hydrocrabon-length words...
    compounds...
                          without these little
in-between bothersome flies...
        and he is: papa germanicus...
given his:
   well... he's not regarded as
anglo-pomeranian...
            or anglo-bavarian...
aber: ein: schwab!
                     aber: ein anglo-sächsisch...

petulance of a foreign son:
    before an aged, almost non-existent,
father -

gereiztheit von ein fremdsohn,
    vor eine alt, nahezu nicht-gabe,
                     die vater.

zorn: manchmal
            ertriken mein verstand...
  für ein blick von ein herz!

i can't imagine the remants of
Saxon, to be of must gesticulation
in cultural norms,
          when the remains
of the *****,
           are made to stand... schtill.

ęgleesh will not even begin
to bleach me...
           have the globalists and
their tattooed bodies...
           cheap franchise of
a coulrophobia circus...
               now i have a tattoo:
1410!
                                      1918!
apparently eating fungus
         is but one route...
                  of the spider Atlantis-mythos
monkey...
        as became the common practice
of eating
               remnants of
    aquatic genitalia embodied
by oysters:
  ******* poetics,
as in...
                 once you devour the desire
to ****...
               who the **** needs
to paint like a van gogh within
the origins of the trans-African
                      highway toward a today?
FuzzyFluffy Nov 2019
Standing in the queue zombified and hypnotized... consuming the proverbial apple

Becoming Eve

domesticated and silent... cattles from the society farm  trying to act "human"  happily kept captive and unware of their  own hypocrisy
Many  a times,
A door of imagination
Pretendingly kept open
To allure
To steal the emotional waves
captured...
Mocked and gained...
Wholesale
..
Unware
Be aware
...
Somebody is watching you...


.
.
.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
if animals can orgam in silence,
then there are already, in place,
innate, rules,
         intuitive, silent,
understand of what is needed,
what is desired...
   why bring god into a brothel,
why bring the word
into the whole affair...
you either **** like an animal...
reducing yourself to the least:
an onomatopoeia...
or...      
              you do the ritual
equivalent of prayer whole *******...
there's no surrogate inhibition
figure to "catch you
unware"...
            you either apply
the snippet of the *******...
but also have religous rigour
to comply with this:
revisionist ease...
            or you have the snippet...
and all the clarifications
of a secular world,
   and some:
one in a million chance of
a clown, who ends uo securing
his critique focus,
with nothing more than an...
oops;
play maestro! play!
        some of us already know
the roots of the cause...
a spike in paedohpilia is in no
way associated with
an increase in the aggresiveness
of women...
   no... completely unrelated...
once again:
if i'm right or if i'm wrong:
oops.
Michael John Oct 30
i
i

lily are you a
witch?
not sure?

probably are..
many are unware..
a shadow woman..

you are kin
to the cats
umbra feline..

and you know
what i´m thinking..
your aura a flittering bat

in a long forgotten
or bats..
cornish cove

where dwell stange
nymph
and what not..

sun and moon
happy and fair
size 10 airware..

ii

it is easy to flex
my cosmic doo-da
and low hex

or spell-(let me
consult thesaurus..)
and abracadabra..

just a question of
discovery
there is magic

in nature-it is undeniable
power in beauty
and beauty into power

cats and bats
and hedgehogs
ears of the devil

can it be transmited
from one heart
in a circular

fashion to another?
there is healing
love and rebirth..?

iii

in perfection her
reflections
in the mirror

where they see
past and future
omni-presence

do you think
she says-will it rain
should i take

an umbrella
the twain meet
the clouds break..

— The End —