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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
even the queen doesn't wear as many pompous garments
throughout the year, as she does  upon coronation,
or the annual opening of the parliament -
high almighty she sits, in the chamber
of the house of lords, before the
"commoners" / middle-class pimps
lords of the manor of Cambridgeshire
are later summoned by black rod -
all the knock knock jokes stem from there:
black rod - knock knock.
the commons' - who's there?
black rod - black rod!
the commons' - black rod who?
black rod - black rod you wouldn't even care,
                    the pigs' trough is waiting.
but even the queen doesn't wear
all the garments she's entitled to upon
this occasions - i mean the full garment...
so is the commoner's approach to
vocabulary... on a printed page of a book
a poem looks: so much more menacing!
it's as if i actually have stamped
each poem, and they're not r.t.s. (return
to sender) example of bypassing
and destroying the the royal mail
with a magician's snap of the fingers...
but as honesty goes, the internet made
one magic trick, snap of the fingers,
and a thousand centipedes of postmen
disappeared in a second... gone... flushed
down the social-cohesive toilet...
it's called: improvement... the Chinese
are like: bring them over, we have
a billion and we need the leg work,
done and dusted, the last meaningful
letter i ever received was... i don't remember:
safe to say: never.
i am actually comparing something,
opened a beer, sat on a windowsill,
and thought to myself: after i digest
Stephen King's media outlet with his
many ghost writers, i'll smoke a cigarette
and read that ghastly thing that has my
name and picture printed on it...
it's ****** hard to read your own thoughts
back: given elephant narcissus in the room
and the bay leaf sensation in your mouth
rereading the ******* -
oh, by the way, in my culinary arsenal,
on today's menu: pork tikka masala -
i know, a heresy, tikka masala paste extra,
but to infuriate the palette:
not ground cumin and coriander, seeds,
a bay leaf... cloves (not necessary),
and cardamon pods -
                                freshly chopped tomatoes,
creme freche instead of double cream and
yogurt - garam masala, Kashmiri chilly powder,
paprika, turmeric... anti-dementia exercise:
what the **** did i put in?
50% youth unemployment in Greece,
45% and 40% in Spain and Italy respectively,
well, if you're going to have an existential
crisis, i.e. you're not in denial about old age
and how the Dutch and the Swiss and the Belgians
are the great humanitarians of our time...
might as well have one now.
funny enough, most people will not be saving up
for a pension... they'll be saving up for
euthanasia... honest to god, the lemmings are coming!
the lemmings are coming! in human terms:
that's not a myth.
****... what a digression... even the queen doesn't
wear the many garments presiding over her
role as being understood upon the annual
opening of parliament: in layman's terms,
i mean that to be synonymous with vocabulary...
a.i. says one as an abstract version
of all the other pronouns...
   the royal says we: because there's always
an entourage of lackeys and servants -
all the commoners get stashed in i, the over-exemplified i:
egoism, you, he, she, and the paranoid collective
of the royal's we, i.e. they...
it came to me rereading the Frederick II
Hohenstaufen Linguistic Experiment
-
i realised, because of certain words having
a near ~synonymous status:
mainly because they're so closely bound,
and like triplets, you can't have three different
wombs to get the bunch out
(oh, i have fried twins on toast,
once or twice, twin yokes in one egg,
i wonder: would they ever... er...
become Siamese? division gone awry,
or God teaching angels mathematics,
someone's bound to slip up... oh come on...
give room for some ****** simplicity!) -
what i want to reiterate is: even the queen doesn't
wear all the required authoritarian garments
throughout the year: look at her taste in
frocks... a puppet without a puppeteer -
now that's authority, wink-wink-oi-oi
nudge of the elbow, 'ello 'ello 'ello 'ello;
the same goes for me, you and every other
Jack and Jill... three words...
all statistical... mode... median... mean...
now, i haven't the foggiest how to differentiate
you a meaning for each... thus
looking at the poem i mentioned:
ontological modes - i.e. certain words can't
provide ontological modes -
attacking the verbiage, you honestly haven't
read continental thought, roll a spliff,
****** off... anyway...
it's like the queen's story... let's say her
garments are necessary analogy: she doesn't
wear all the pompous cloth and pearl
every day, unless it's everyday in a painting...
that's the same with vocabulary...
plus mode, median and mean are congested into
an alphabetical coercion -
let's say zoological and anthropoid -
so far apart you can almost keep them freshly
imprinted to a satisfying differential immediacy -
i.e. you can give me a meaning of the two words...
but mean (1) is soon followed by median (2)
                later comes the meaning of mode (3 -
in alphabetical order... even though
the alphabet has only a quantum chronology -
  compact a, first, then b - stranger that it
wasn't supposed to be necessarily e) -
which is why we seem to unhinge from specific
vocabularies - in education we are strained
at times to learn specific vocabularies,
but later discard them, we're actually repelled by
categorised vocabularies: niche vocabularies -
from the moment of hinging unto certain
words, we immediate unhinge from them...
leave school, learn to earn money...
as with the queen: we don't wear all the garments
of the vocabularies we were exposed to...
the difference being: she gets reminded...
the majority of us never get reminders
about using certain words: even in pub trivia
general knowledge quizzing, or that's the last
resort... for the most part, that's
what the dictionary is for:
                            it's prime utility has an
   a posteriori ontology -
                whereas the thesaurus (rex) has an
a priori ontology: which is why writers look up
words on the synonymous scale to create an exotic
jungle, which would otherwise look like the meadows
of Hyde Park... plus the dictionary states a word's
etymology - which doubles the proof that
a dictionary has an a posteriori ontology / nature
    of being used -
                                 in abstract, yes, ontology:
                 nature of being per se - box of chocolates
and Forrest Gump's wisdom on: you never know
what the kaleidoscope will show off and what you'll
get: mint?! yuck!
                             but as i already stated:
even the queen doesn't wear all the garments
required for the annual opening of parliament
every day... as with us and our lesser jewels:
words - not all words are there to be kept on
close surveillance through the year -
                     it's worthwhile remembering that
each of our faculties has a weakness...
and not all words are permanently loyal to us,
primarily through environmental fluctuations
governing their use, outside of a chemists?
would you necessarily hear nouns used in a chemist
outside a chemist? probably not...
so that's how i do mental crosswords -
well, i have absolutely no clues -
you have a bank balance an average Chinese
might have of 3000 ideograms -
    find me the tetraideogrammaton!
    earth wind & fire... & water...
                       but that's how i known i'm doing
crosswords in my head... a long forgotten word...
revisited... and instead of creating clues and guess
work: i have a narrative, anew -
a word once used in an examination paper,
later discarded, now revisited for my pleasure -
but we never have a complete account balance
of our vocabulary, that's always fluctuating like
stock-market share prices -
                we're like the queen without her
authoritarian garments most of the time -
                              we have (on purpose) set up
various bank accounts for specialised topics /
obscure knowledge - i really don't know if this
was a good idea - crosswords and obscure knowledge
trivia - again, like at school, this is a way
to misplace the greatest outlet of memory:
the optic foundation - the photographic something or other...
which, by way of consent has the power to
show us the dark room being opened -
      the Black Dot Eraser - happens all the time:
the Black Dot Eraser is like a concentrated form of
something, prone to insane gravity of pulling everything
into a nano-metre dot... a blind censor -
                      who says: i haven't seen anything prior,
and even with your words attempting to illuminate
the sense that hasn't graciously been bestowed upon me:
i will not see anything after.
                       unappealing the quest for
a unifying sense datum... of the five variations,
      given the five senses, how can we every reach
a simple i i i i i                 rather than a variable
                                      i i I I i?
      it's a basic schematic - a variation of?
some words (datum in exclusiveness) have variations
   in being ascribed sense - given there are give senses,
not every word (datum as exclusive of 4, but inclusive
   of at least 1) can be ascribed a placebo uniformity:
   i i i i i -                           since the nature of a datum is
   to show us fluctuation:
                                      e.g. i i I I i...
   given that different people, react to a word differently
in each sensual medium: the fluctuation of
   being given a piece of information inscribed in a word
when ingested by hearing, seeing, speaking, etc.
well... that's that: 200 camels came by the oasis
and drank 200 litres of water each (that is their
actual capacity after crossing a desert) -
                                                            and that's that:
testimony to the superiority of the oryx.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
the Islam of Malcolm X isn't the Islam of today... it isn't really the prescription of Nietzsche had before the Heraclitus flux took sway and said: waterfall or lottery... it really, really, really doesn't matter. the Islam of the 1960s isn't the Islam of today... too tinged with Sieg Heil... although less the Ave Caesar salute and more akin to: who's up for ****, *******? the Islam has changed... if i was wise enough i'd have converted, to mind you... but i thought: putting my faith by only having a library of only one book... i thought... n'ah... that's a bit extreme, can i at least have a comic book strip to add to that massive library? no? oh well, no, sorry, at least one book mentions several authors who tried to imitate but failed on the last hurdle, at least i can revise that, and completely erase the two extensions that borrowed from Hinduism; 'cos' like it ******* mattered.. don't test me, i'm anticipating death like  suicide-vest child... come on! let's start the Slavic crusade!

perhaps it's not about not thinking certain thoughts,
or feeling certain emotions...
but perhaps it just is...
i say, we need the Sophists these days to
apply the fishing-net tactic to deciphering or
simply selectively reflecting our vocabularies...
strait-jacket vocabularies are there in plain sight...
i mean... wait a minute...
i jumped from jazz into pop music on the headphones,
from Miles Davis' *kind of blue
defining
moment of the flamenco sketches right into the bog
of one direction - so i guess this is where
the antidote for art being too subjective comes in...
well, they sorted that problem already...
objectivity in art is around us as we speak,
it means "artists" that are manufactured,
art in the age of mechanical reproduction
(Walter Benjamin), it means more props than artists,
the problem got solved, it means reaching an
autocratic plateau of plugging in and sharing
a non-individualistic stream of emotion,
the opposite of democracy is autocracy, it isn't
despotism... i don't know why democracy doesn't
understand that it's ugly sister (autocracy)
is the enemy and not a Genghis Khan style of government...
democracy in the form of autocracy is a failed
attempt at Utopia... it suggests the system is perfect...
it means the institutions go about their daily business
like children in the playground who ******* and wet
themselves (the bankers), and still not one does anything
about it... what was once a demo tape of a indie band
becomes an automatic big seller big grosser E.P.,
just because the tragedy came, and they drove the touring
bus off a bridge in Sveeden... *******...
you ain't fighting dictators, you're fighting your change
from democracy into autocracy... where things
seem so perfect they can hardly ever change,
they're automated, they're not demographically sound...
sure, i'm the clown, i'll juggle a few big words around...
but in term of art? well, pop music has reached
the limit of what "philosophers" argued against...
to be frank... jealousy got to them that argued
for counter-productive constraints...
now they rebel against this objective construct of
artists in the shadows, writing text and tune and needing
some amateur to perform... and where do you
seek their rebellion? in the subjectivity they once
argued against: that famous Rage Against the Machine
protest against the X-factor...
so wait, first you argue against the subjectivity
of the artistic expression, then you postulate the non-existence
of the self: countered as the dasein for all subjectivity,
then you miss artistic objectivity with the karaoke
and what comes as the **** utopia with French
euthanasia tourists in Switzerland and Belgium...
you missed the argument you favoured, i.e.
artistic objectivity, i.e. performers, not people who write
the hit singles, Hiroshima Karaoke,
well, aren't we all objective now, that we have to source
our feelings in the expressions we once made angst against?
odd, isn't it? you never knew how well established
the counter argument became...
it's pop culture, it's evidently going to become viral...
but you see the power of subjective art...
it spreads like an infection, no point arguing against it...
objectivity in art is already a well established
virus, it doesn't really bite into your soul,
it bites, but you just get the odd body chicken ****...
that's what i mean about how a self-assured-without-a-self
democracy morphs into autocracy...
the fake Utopia of the well-established social
institutions actually being bankrupt, starting
with the post-colonial charity companies,
lying sharks and interest rates at 2000% per annum
i'm starting to think of Islam... leeches and hypocrites...
so your pointless critique of the subjectivity of the arts
became your most sling-shot friction strained weapon
to aim at the industry of art objectified,
in the age of mechanical reproduction true art = dodo...
it's on its way out... i hardly think that
50 years from now you'll find someone as idiotic
as me writing poetry for the love of the **** thing...
you'll get Utopian plateaus, anaesthetic democracy in
the realm of humanism, and hanging over you
autocracy... immovable foundations, cos' everything's
just perfect, time to invade another Libya where
some genius ensured the people knew their place
and who kept order on the pretence of
keeping weapons of mass destruction and
dog leashes... but there you will be ****-strapped going
huh? i thought subjectivity in art was bad?
n'ah mate, that's the only thing that made art good...
you got your ******* Karaoke, live with it!
the English Renaissance of the 1960s ain't coming back,
even if you gave Belfast back to the Dublin crew...
i say we need another Protagoras to get
the vocabulary inflation up to speed...
i say devalue the words self, ego... and make the
psychologists bums..
i say devalue the words nation, british and hamburger
to make the anglophile influence on Europe
a bit like sniffing a mortar of ******* off a penny...
i say reestablish the virtues of Japanese feudalism,
scare depressed teenagers with the words:
your only way out is by Hara Kiri.
something must come from a poem like this...
i have rage... you reason with it...
i'm not going to reason a calm into my heart with the words
i just wrote... n'ah... n'ah n'ah... that ain't happening...
it only took one needle in a haystack to give me prompt...
the ailments of subjectivity in art...
that got me, bull's eye reddened mad...
you ain't turning me into Darwinian grey matter!
this is democracy at its most despotic...
let me try democracy first, before i join the legion of dentists
with happy middle-class lives in autocracy...
can't blame ****** in this guise of organising people,
'cos' there just ain't no ******...
that got me hot wired and hired to argue...
first they say: art deserves no subjectivity...
fair enough: 1 man draws a rhombus a 1000 men draw a square...
but now that we can finally see objectivity being applied
to art, we only get pop: **** jazz, classical, rock and speedy-indie...
we get manufacture... as you once hated those with
personal intention to add to the democratic demographic,
now you turn against them for disturbing the status quo...
well, happy are those that come to the sun's repeat jargon
and happily doubt the roundabout...
because criticising art as subjectively orientated
really spared you art having ascribed objectivity to its cause
of attaining mechanical reproduction,
and the subjective placebo... neither thinking nor feeling
anything deeper than nervous yoga twitching dances...
spare me the ******* details if you come up with
a more accurate historical pinpoint.
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2014
If you date a poet, you will know the true meaning of 'swoon' and you will do it often. They know the power of a stunning phrase and it's way hotter than the Hallmark lines a non-poet will default to.

2.  They see the raw beauty in things that others take for granted.

3.  You will never ever need to worry that they aren't telling you something. Poets are ALWAYS trying to tell you something.

4. They're quite handy if you need a graceful way to tell someone off. They can tell em where to go and how far to stick it without using a single foul word.

5. Roses are pretty sub-standard and typical. Instead, you will get hand written love letters and sticky notes with one line *****-wetters. (Yes, I said *****-wetters. You know what it is.)

6. You will never not know the deeper meaning of something. Anything. There is nothing at all that a poet cannot analyze the hell out of. There's an underlying meaning behind EVERY single thing and if you ask a poet, they'll be elated to share it with you.

7. Poets tend to be minimalists. They don't always need a lot to set the butterflies a flutter. If you can come up with a couple of your own expressively charming lines, that will pretty much substitute a $125 dinner date.

8. Poets make curiously good alcoholic beverages. Because poets drink a lot of alcoholic beverages.

9. You'll never be without somewhere to go at any given moment. There's bound to be an open mic night, a poetry slam, a house party centered around poetry, a poetry in the park event, etc. There will always be something poetic going on. And they will know about it.

10. You will know what a true apology sounds like. Poets can apologize like NONE other when they know they have done something wrong.

11.Making love to a poet feels like syllables being whispered along the curve of your spine as you unravel into a million pieces.

12. Poets like smell good stuff. But not obnoxious fruity scents. Poets don't like to smell like fruit baskets. Poets like sandalwood, and amber, and lavender, and patchouli oils. You know...the **** stuff.

13. Poets cherish quiet time. Meanwhile, most non-poets you date will probably have the television blasting, music playing, friends climbing over one another and a cell phone conversation on speaker phone...all at the same time...every day.

14. You will always have a crowd-pleaser on your arm. Not all poets are attention ****** at parties BUT all poets know how to say at least one extra deep/witty thing that will have everyone else envious that you are the one dating the poet and not them.

15. Poets can wear the color black during all seasons, during thunderstorms or sunny spring days and make it look extra sophisticated and intentional.

16. Poets break rules...but also enjoy the process of making them. Keeps things interesting.

17. Poets shun conformity. So you know that if your poet bought it for you, said it to you, wrote it for you, etc...it's gonna be something edgy and unique and outside of the normal (boring) box.

18. Poets are great with their hands and even better with their mouths. Enough said.

19. Poets are the gatekeepers AND the rallyers (is that a real word?) of the community. If you don't know what a gatekeeper is...you aren't dating a poet. If you don't know what a rallyer is, it's because there's a possibility that it's not a real word. But you get it.

20. Poets like to make up their own words.

21. Poets don't like to be told that they can't do something. Maybe it's the whole submit and rejection process of writing. Who knows? But tell a poet NO and they'll keep trying until they get a yes. Persistence is way more handy than what can be explained here.

22. Poets read books. Book readers tend to have better vocabularies. A broad vocabulary is usually a trait of a good conversationalist which means no lame dinner convos.

23. Poets can write ugly things beautiful and can ***** up a pristine scene like nobodies business. In other words, when you need a different perspective on something...your poet can provide that for you.

24. A well-written poem can be the most powerful and therapeutic dose of truth and self-realization. Poets write poems. Therefore, dating a poet is like getting free therapy.  

25. Poets don't need a list of 50 things to prove why dating them is the best thing you will ever do.
Found poetry is a type of poetry created by taking words, phrases, and sometimes whole passages from other sources and reframing them as poetry by making changes in spacing and lines, or by adding or deleting text, thus imparting new meaning. The resulting poem can be defined as either treated: changed in a profound and systematic manner; or untreated: virtually unchanged from the order, syntax and meaning of the original.
Seán Mac Falls Jul 2015
( found poem )*

1.  If you date a poet, you will know the true meaning of 'swoon' and you will do it often. They know the power of a stunning phrase and it's way hotter than the Hallmark lines a non-poet will default to.

2.  They see the raw beauty in things that others take for granted.

3.  You will never ever need to worry that they aren't telling you something. Poets are ALWAYS trying to tell you something.

4. They're quite handy if you need a graceful way to tell someone off. They can tell em where to go and how far to stick it without using a single foul word.

5. Roses are pretty sub-standard and typical. Instead, you will get hand written love letters and sticky notes with one line *****-wetters. (Yes, I said *****-wetters. You know what it is.)

6. You will never not know the deeper meaning of something. Anything. There is nothing at all that a poet cannot analyze the hell out of. There's an underlying meaning behind EVERY single thing and if you ask a poet, they'll be elated to share it with you.

7. Poets tend to be minimalists. They don't always need a lot to set the butterflies a flutter. If you can come up with a couple of your own expressively charming lines, that will pretty much substitute a $125 dinner date.

8. Poets make curiously good alcoholic beverages. Because poets drink a lot of alcoholic beverages.

9. You'll never be without somewhere to go at any given moment. There's bound to be an open mic night, a poetry slam, a house party centered around poetry, a poetry in the park event, etc. There will always be something poetic going on. And they will know about it.

10. You will know what a true apology sounds like. Poets can apologize like NONE other when they know they have done something wrong.

11.Making love to a poet feels like syllables being whispered along the curve of your spine as you unravel into a million pieces.

12. Poets like smell good stuff. But not obnoxious fruity scents. Poets don't like to smell like fruit baskets. Poets like sandalwood, and amber, and lavender, and patchouli oils. You know...the **** stuff.

13. Poets cherish quiet time. Meanwhile, most non-poets you date will probably have the television blasting, music playing, friends climbing over one another and a cell phone conversation on speaker phone...all at the same time...every day.

14. You will always have a crowd-pleaser on your arm. Not all poets are attention ****** at parties BUT all poets know how to say at least one extra deep/witty thing that will have everyone else envious that you are the one dating the poet and not them.

15. Poets can wear the color black during all seasons, during thunderstorms or sunny spring days and make it look extra sophisticated and intentional.

16. Poets break rules...but also enjoy the process of making them. Keeps things interesting.

17. Poets shun conformity. So you know that if your poet bought it for you, said it to you, wrote it for you, etc...it's gonna be something edgy and unique and outside of the normal (boring) box.

18. Poets are great with their hands and even better with their mouths. Enough said.

19. Poets are the gatekeepers AND the rallyers (is that a real word?) of the community. If you don't know what a gatekeeper is...you aren't dating a poet. If you don't know what a rallyer is, it's because there's a possibility that it's not a real word. But you get it.

20. Poets like to make up their own words.

21. Poets don't like to be told that they can't do something. Maybe it's the whole submit and rejection process of writing. Who knows? But tell a poet NO and they'll keep trying until they get a yes. Persistence is way more handy than what can be explained here.

22. Poets read books. Book readers tend to have better vocabularies. A broad vocabulary is usually a trait of a good conversationalist which means no lame dinner convos.

23. Poets can write ugly things beautiful and can ***** up a pristine scene like nobodies business. In other words, when you need a different perspective on something...your poet can provide that for you.

24. A well-written poem can be the most powerful and therapeutic dose of truth and self-realization. Poets write poems. Therefore, dating a poet is like getting free therapy.  

25. Poets don't need a list of 50 things to prove why dating them is the best thing you will ever do.
Note:
Found poetry is a type of poetry created by taking words, phrases, and sometimes whole passages from other sources and reframing them as poetry by making changes in spacing and lines, or by adding or deleting text, thus imparting new meaning. The resulting poem can be defined as either treated: changed in a profound and systematic manner; or untreated: virtually unchanged from the order, syntax and meaning of the original.
.
Taylor St Onge Oct 2013
The inadequate bookshelf that sat near the door
that my sister used to call her own was
mostly made up of adolescent reads,
books better suited for preteen girls rather than
intellectually budding young ladies—
juvenile vocabularies and simple, non-complex
plot lines do little to craft and create
worldly, knowledgeable women.

I thought I must spring clean the
naiveté away and replace it with
the works of great authors like
Sylvia Plath
                        Simone de Beauvoir
                                                              Virginia Woolf
                        Margaret Atwood
Betty Friedan;
ingenious femme fatales that cut down
to the brittled bones of the misogynists
and burned their marrow along with the
ashes of bras and aprons and 350 degree oven heat.  

Growing up, to me, seemed like a wonderful epiphany
chock-full of ideas and opinions and
clever, ironic remarks that chased satirical witticisms
like felines to rodents and wolves to deer—
being an adult would guarantee me a say,
a vote
           prior 1920’s America
                                                  play dress up as a suffragette
           women’s rights
femininity personified by dolls in plastic houses.

To be eighteen-years-old,
the goal, the legality, the bright light at the end of the tunnel;
the official womanhood it would bestow upon me
seemed like something almost tangible
with the way that it loomed over my head.

Get good marks
graduate high school
travel back in time sixty years
meet a nice boy
become a “good wife”
have dinner ready by five
bear two beautiful heirs
clean up the messes left in the kitchen
fast-forward to the twenty-first century
go to a good college
find a stable career
settle down if the fancy strikes you
live non-docile and full of passion—
the parallelism of times are severely
di
    lap
          i
            dat
                 ­ ed.

1950’s America would never be a home for me
because I am much too wild to be contained.
wow I got really feministic there. sorry, man.
Madds Dec 2014
I'd like to be able to write again, but the universe is turning too slow in the wrong direction.
My heart drips instead of duh-dums
And my breath slips.

Rhyming sticks to the top of my mouth catching grains of rhythm as I regurgitate yesterday's thoughts.

I haven't been able to write lately, not because I am a bumbling busy body, but because time is frozen, I'm cemented and dissolving into the tasteless air.
Everything is too colourful lately, too... anything for me to understand.

Maybe I should start reading again, go back to painting stale blue skeleton hands with not enough paint.

Maybe that's my problem... There's not enough paint in my life.
I don't know, I'm trying... Okay?
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2016
one thousand poem children



one thousand poems has mine soul commissioned,
a thousand more neath stone vault doors do attend,
patiently waiting revisions, rescission, catch and release permission,
waiting room patients, looking to buy a more favorable diagnosistician

this prolificacy,
nether curse or blessing,
this profligacy,
poem children fathered by single mom mothered,
borne nightly in dreams borne
from the northern, the southern,
the brains twilighted hemispheres,
who coordinate, drawing deep,
consulting a bartender's manual
a creation guide of mixology,
'how to intoxicate the brain'

cheap gin, multi-generational scotch,
visionary vermouth, the reddened cassis of life,
memories in the white grapes of possibilities,
futures unrealized, colorful takes and retakes,
a directors bespoke make-believe tales,
impossibilities, divine and mundane,
all into one admixture into the venous cavities poured,
nerves to blood to consciousness,
courtesy of the ganglia

the brain stem transmits them
fully formed to my
good morning sunshine
cracked and dried lips for re-emission

nigh head upon the pillow,
the hair trigger,
my rapid eye heartbeats, each a demanding sweetheart,
some performed to a discordant metronome,
in a controlled rage, my mental waste,
eliminated

the residuals,
purified with language as the
orchestrator, debate moderator

dreams, once recoded, once accorded,
the disordering tempestuous,  
neurons cease-to-fire,
now just words, just words, just womb excretions

did I admit to a thousand?

more like tens of ten,
one, two per eventide,
have washed  ashore, for some thirty years recorded

my brain pixilated,
its big shot game controller,
demanding purchase of more;
more storage space, more games,
not admitting in advance,
that it filters blends, conflates and purges

by combining
psalms and ditties, infantile rhymes and
new vocabularies of  human aging idiocies,
though newly acquired, immediately forgot,
so always room enough for
one more episode


I study the brain, I study sleep,
study living and dying occurring at
their point of intermediation,
dreams


*this more knowledge gives no relief,
it becomes this poem becoming,
testifying that I prosecute myself
based on the evidence,
and if insufficient,
dream up nascent visionaries
from places that come unlocked,
tales from the vault vivisected,
the proper verdict
assured

sixty six years
of accumulation,
and still know so little of
proper space utilization,
writing poems proper

but nightly come the dreams,
nightly comes the trial,
comes the judgements,
comes a man-made customized
whitewall tired judgement,
and to you
submitted for
judicial review

strange that each one of you
becomes, adopts, adapts my visage,
my words in you, reflected,
a jury of my peerage peers,
which is why my appeals are
always returned in the file labelled
"denial"

until the next nights dream
Waverly Mar 2012
*******,
hoes,
crazy,
*****.

Catch me on a friday night,
and I might
say them all.

But what I say
and what I feel
is a different
thing.

Because *******,
hoes,
womps,
don't have vocabularies
like boulders.

They can't destroy.

And with a new mindset,
I can say
a few things.

A ***** is a girl
without hope.

A ***
is a girl
that likes ****
and doesn't
like
love.

A crazy one
is a girl that gets by.

A ****
is a girl
that doesn't know the difference
between the three
and operates
on a thin line;
because *******
have treated her like ****
and no new ******
can make her think
any different.

But a girl,
alas
a
girl.

A girl
is full of love
and platitudes.

A girl
has her hands
on your heart
all the time.

She has a vocabulary
and says **** a Webster's
because she's got a new dictionary
that didn't even exist
before she let it out her mouth.

A girl
makes you re-define
the word
love,
with all its
futile resentment
and
disenchantment,
because she'll keep you coming
back
for more,
even as she says
"no,
you're talking crazy,
you gotta
go."

So trust me when I say this,
I could **** with a girl's head before,
but this girl
she's maneuvered me into thinking
about how ****** up
I
really
am.

And that's as smart
as
I've
ever
been.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2018
strike my eyes lovely


for S. B.

by way of introduction,
when you have gone to confession,
freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest,
no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable,
there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs,
one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem,
a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction

so months later you snicker for you have been seriously
self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies,
trite and yellowed overused, and you read
really good poetry and are
slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of
your own no-winsome word-smithy,
no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note,
and it’s the only lasting quality is the
genuine nature of its intent
but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality,
a victim of your dissatisfaction

let me explain better

she messages you while the time difference works in her favor,
she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted,
she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation,
as she cherishes this forgotten one,
with words that cannot be ignored

the poem

                 strikes her eyes lovely

daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged  

for this a compliment that any poet would
weep for, be inspired by, stung into action,
provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better,
what writer could want for anything more!

who can own this ability  
accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification

to strike down lovely
the readers eyes, almost all once,
almost excuses me forever
for trying and failing so many times

you smile
but not in the chest where
lovely
needs to strike you

for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then...
let the moment gleam, and then disappear,
again and again, stored but not restorative

11/21/18
Miami
From Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
     please come flying.
In a cloud of fiery pale chemicals,
     please come flying,
to the rapid rolling of thousands of small blue drums
descending out of the mackerel sky
over the glittering grandstand of harbor-water,
     please come flying.

Whistles, pennants and smoke are blowing.  The ships
are signaling cordially with multitudes of flags
rising and falling like birds all over the harbor.
Enter: two rivers, gracefully bearing
countless little pellucid jellies
in cut-glass epergnes dragging with silver chains.
The flight is safe; the weather is all arranged.
The waves are running in verses this fine morning.
     Please come flying.

Come with the pointed toe of each black shoe
trailing a sapphire highlight,
with a black capeful of butterfly wings and bon-mots,
with heaven knows how many angels all riding
on the broad black brim of your hat,
     please come flying.

Bearing a musical inaudible abacus,
a slight censorious frown, and blue ribbons,
     please come flying.
Facts and skyscrapers glint in the tide; Manhattan
is all awash with morals this fine morning,
     so please come flying.

Mounting the sky with natural heroism,
above the accidents, above the malignant movies,
the taxicabs and injustices at large,
while horns are resounding in your beautiful ears
that simultaneously listen to
a soft uninvented music, fit for the musk deer,
     please come flying.

For whom the grim museums will behave
like courteous male bower-birds,
for whom the agreeable lions lie in wait
on the steps of the Public Library,
eager to rise and follow through the doors
up into the reading rooms,
     please come flying.
We can sit down and weep; we can go shopping,
or play at a game of constantly being wrong
with a priceless set of vocabularies,
or we can bravely deplore, but please
     please come flying.

With dynasties of negative constructions
darkening and dying around you,
with grammar that suddenly turns and shines
like flocks of sandpipers flying,
     please come flying.

Come like a light in the white mackerel sky,
come like a daytime comet
with a long unnebulous train of words,
from Brooklyn, over the Brooklyn Bridge, on this fine morning,
     please come flying.
Fill in the blanks with those vocabularies never ever found in usual discussion, daily comes and goes, never existed even on imaginary world of movies or books.
Fill in the blanks with noise.
Tumult of hallucination whizzing the sound of ambiguity through the sound of the gait of a man galloping smoothly in the long yellow brick route surrounds with fences never expose the way of redemption.
Fill in the blanks with choice.  
The last track of nightingale, maybe, dwells on the far branches of novel blossom tree of best spring with no worrisome regards countable, uncountable, passives, actives, adjectives or nouns.  
Fill in the blanks with skylarks of no boast.  
It is causative by its own, Imagery flying over the untrodden lands inspires the eyes overview the long hair singers hadn’t been observed before. Access is denied!  
Fill in the blanks with liberty of boost.
Aurora …aurora…. Some body calls. Pretending to be wise whole life, how nonsense it was. Being lunatic is secret of joy.
Fill in the blanks with wandering ghosts!
Ghazal# Ebrahimzade# English grammar#
David Barr Dec 2013
It is incumbent upon us to interpret various environments in this multi-dimensional tapestry of holistic landscapes, where celestial ecosystems abound with pulsating organisms of diversity.
So, let us translate our literary concepts in silence, as we traverse cross-cultural vistas of universality.
As indigenous beings reach beyond the sparse and pompous settlements of our ******* city towers; there is something incomprehensible which transcends our ambling walk through this urban pasture, as the train departs from the classical platform of El Chorro.
I am mesmerised by linguistic creativity, as she echoes throughout distant galaxies of enriched and unspoken mystical vocabularies.
As empirical verification is not possible, I must beseech thee: Where are the connoisseurs of this poetic dimension?
Jowlough Jul 2011
Isn't it funny when someone
gave a indirect grin,
not actual, but written on-screen.

When someone, reacts, boldly expresses.
get depicted by their cyber mess,
without cleaning their cases.

expand thy network, Make's ourselves classy,
but some emotional outbursts,
looks cheap and fancy

lovers thought, oh how solemn their toasts!
but ninety nine percent see,
that the intimacy was lost.

Cats and dogs fought in style and fashion,
their vocabularies enlightened
when they are in a mad mission

Wanted to express and hit a person.
masters of indirect strikers,
haters for all season.

Vices, come! trends easy as left and right.
Poser-murmurs  see those pouts.
Oh boy,  I just lost my appetite?
O
(c) 2011-7.20 jcjuatco - Going Social
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2017
.
What blur is vision,
When woman, kind,
Naked as the moon,
Shines in such cool
Light as the stars lit,
In ink of night, scribe
Such spell as ancient
Vocabularies mystify,
Without translations,
The heart is drowned
Feeble as fey emotions,
Rosetta of thorny cut,
Blood spilt in desires
Hard as sarsen alone,
About circle rounding,
A universe unbounded,
For love is kind poison
In nightshade of moon.
.
Unfolding into itself, inviolable
in prosaic self-*******,
a boundless repertoire
of shape yearns forth surreptitiously
from inscrutable amniotes to claim
time as its own:

  Here a thicket
  of sycamores, there a baldaquin
    of pinnate branches, yonder
      a periphery of marigolds, below
        a cacophony of hyraxes, above
    the corpuscle of a lynx, the mid-flight
   jink of a darting swift and moribund
  crawl of a mollusk;

     Hymenoptera coaxing
     their haploid broods into teeming
     life as a cell of the swarm
         and viviparous apes cajoling
         suckling chimerae at the fathomless
         fountainhead of a rosy breast;

       Higher still,
       Cirrus cephalopods traversing
       the trench of sky, dandelions
       hitch-hiking the drift of a barren plains'
       wavering hum on cockchafers'
       forewings and a turbine's
       bombinating pulse, the chattering
       of roots ravenous for depth --

Jittering bangtails the hallowed echoes
of lascivious manes --

   inchoate sprout-hood the daedal
   nonage of towering evergreens --

      the plaintive shrift of elegiac
      redbreasts a goad to silent elation --

A likeness unlike
     (vocabularies of vertiginous blinds)
          (the eyes of ignorance closing)
             (the mouth of the mystery)
                that spurns the truth of tongues

                     is nature naturing.
A somewhat uncharacteristic display of vocabulary. Rather than ostentation, my intent here was to convey the scope of nature in vivid but elusive prose.

Proteus, ever changing to remain fundamentally himself, perfectly embodies nature's unity-in-multiplicity. He evinces a dynamic view of nature espoused by Goethe, and in authentic Platonic thinking. Essentially, the entire web of life is a single organism, and each discrete life but a cell therein.

"Nature naturing" (*natura naturata*) is commonly known as "Spinoza's God".
Installed in the Eclectic Parallel World of the invisible portal of Saint John the Evangelist, everything levitated in his sacred basaltic cavern in Katapausis, in the Patmos archipelago (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Chapter 16 / page 114. Editorial Palibrio-USA). They would find themselves in communion with the clan count, resembling being in their proper ectoplasm; conforming to the only part of masonry ruled to redirect them in the messianic workings of the ascension stages. Vernarth; he besieged in the conscious state of him having to adhere to the cavern, after having finished his labors by waiting three months. He risks being consumed by the myriads and conflagrations, retracting them in parapsychological clouded ways, which subsisted to consecrate themselves in the lavish places divided towards the horizon. The iridescence threatens the primary ultraviolet, lifting the carriage of Apollo Citar, a neighbor of the astronomical cave sketch of the Muse Urania. A lame nuance escapes and dissolves from his mathematical prayer, capturing the spiritual intensity that inspired Saint John to build the temple near his cave of the Apocalypse on the island of Patmos, inserted in the death throes of his embryonic revelation, to pour him into the Megaron to build.

The saint appears only on certain days looking at Vernarth from afar, to encourage him in his progress on the rocky rocks of sharp silica, he is seen as a beautiful adonis dressed in a chlamys with delicate pinkish tones. With such scruples, he redounds a psalm of the angel that normally accompanies the Evangelist around him, with greenish and indigo tones in the perspective quadrinomial of heaven, that he was perishing in his most afterlife redemption in the glory of the empyrean. More convenient than the superlative spiritual intelligence irrigated with the aldehyde, and the condensed water of Skalá, in hecatombs that indicated anarchies of the luminous prophetic men and the habit of the exokarstic soil, endowed with a small perforated Epsilon demon, obtaining its chemical weathering in certain limestone rocks, dolomite, and plaster. Diverting the attention of Etréstles that he glowed overwhelmed and charred. He was not stopped by the currents of splendor and the stormy pollutions of Cymopolea, in his hieratic invocation of the scalded typhoons of the drills of Hephaestus. This demon could be Tytillinus timorous in the defections of the deities of Mnemosyne relegating himself from his precepts, which according to this legend induced protervas inclinations of the clergy during the omitted religious services, he is the one that Saint John the Evangelist feared, that he would not give him the Asfalés Pérasma “license” to enter and be able to commission them in tasks that had been predicted for the Katapausis services after the quarterly. The Travertine silica, with residual sedimentary rocks, was partialized from the extrinsic biogenic that is deposited outside, the travertine predicted the monumental rocky karst of Patmos, for the secretions of calcium carbonate, among so much modest certainty taking you through the Invisible Eclectic Portal, and their Mundis Parallel that crashed with attached carbon molecules that, in disarray, manned them. The chasm was a cascade of weathering that became stalactites in the runes of the travertines, Thermo dynamizing the cavities that were conceived in the invisible caverns, under the parallel caves of the translucent travertine and in the sapwood of the troglodyte ghosts, materializing on the top wind tunnel.

Vernarth; I was with everyone working in the building of the Temple near the outside walls of the Cavern of San Juan, there was Etréstles Eurídice, Raeder, Petrobus, and Alikanto immersed in the Aulos who rang about exciting their ears with the royal denotes, which always had a special quality when he remained in Kalimnos. In good ink, knowing that the entire limen of proximity to the cavern was flooded by the enigmatic revulsive with the presence of Tytillinus, all are reordered towards the poles of tangible etherization with Psalms 120 to 132, thus they would give the antipode disposition with the Divine Mercy, to compensate the crown of the fifteen hours in the afternoon, thus disintegrating the agonizing parallel world that coincides with that of the fifteen hours in the morning. Somehow refraining from the northern paragon with the Tytillinus' shadowing, with the hooks of bewilderment and its scathing thoughts. With precisely this conspicuous shape; Vernarth will allow himself to be swallowed by the beast and reside in his abrasive stomach, making him believe that it will be consumed by him, so that he will soon fall close to it when vomited, thus confusing him, to make him believe that he was the same baby from his conceived womb. Vernarth manages to capture this exotic sinister image near the sinkhole, seeing him depressed in the Tytillinus Prisco; where all attentive listened to the textual vocabularies of the beatific, with the fruit of Karpos, for the benefit of a descendant gained by defeating the devil.

The European Sibilla carried the Gladius in his hand but exchanged it with the Xifos alternately for the death of innocents entrusted by Herod the Great, and for the evasion of the Holy family into Egypt. This confirms the liturgical grouping of the Easter Triduum; alluding to the passion of Christ, and perpetrating the pain of the Devout at his death, and triumphant at his resurrection. The sense of surrealism transports Saint John digging in all the layers and hordes of the Faith, his component of tribulation moved in the Egyptian and Greek cartography, mobilizing the triangular areas of the Palan, which moved in a geometric block reaching the edges of the hypotenuse gradient and the wind tunnel that lifted them, cornering the beast that visited them, pretending to be weak and imprecise. The man will carry the simile of his name, with hyperbole more or less in men who dare not to anticipate the conflicts of the gained space.

Vernarth, plots to continue insinuating with his labors, sees with optimism escape from this calamity, calls everyone to be close to the law ..., once they continued taking the steps towards the cavern. He emerges from convulsions on all edges of the cave, leaving everything dark and with vanities deterred at the end of the temporal Mundis Parallel. In the intermission, Saint John towards the response of Psalm 120 to 132, the fiery roar of the playful roar of the Tytillinus interferes, banishing the shaking of its **** to banish it from the Basilisk's egg, avoiding creating its heavy monarchy over them by prostrating them, as if to dissent. by being repentant or beheaded. Saint John the Evangelist will be an egregious demonologist, compiling thick volumes with the names of the attributions of each of the demons of infernal hierarchy. In this Venusian Aion symmetry, he moves them interconnecting with sublime periods where the intuition of the zafral of the human scale is lost, and of the archetype of Satanism or Satagenesis, with austere precision that includes Leviathan, ruler of the demons, to Ukobach, procurator of keeping the infernal flames alive. So that the manumission of slavery finally reigns according to one's own demonized moral individuality. The amount of an invocation of this type is always the soul of the unconscious individual, who will end up going to be squeezed into the underworld. The demons are invoked and they will invoke themselves in their dawn, to walk in their own darkness of the stagnant past, the mechanized present, and the multidimensional conscious future by means of exclusive enchantments that will be found here in the Mundi Parallel of the Invisible Eclectic Portal.
Codex XXIII - Mundis Parallel Portal Eclectic Invisible
bulletcookie Apr 2016
This translation machine is broken-
trying to say love and it says hate
put in a phrase of friendship tokens
and it levels one at hell's gate

"New-Speak" and Homeland insecurities
una máquina rota, spells of discontent
What breaks borders other language;
Is it bred of complacent, lazy lengua ?

Languishing in privileged syllables
boiling over rice stew vocabularies
slamming with a hip-go spiritual
trying to make sadza in this crucible

This hairpin empire vomits convolutions
history, her-story, suffer culture's debt
education's deficit mouths a babble revolution
while a classicist argument tattles future threats

Talk a tale of totem's gift in parable or song
spill some beans and climb a stalk up a golden path
Give tongue your peace with liberal speech along
while some may grunt we sing a verdant poem

-cec



sadza - in Shona, Ugali in East Africa, is a cooked cornmeal that is the staple food in Zimbabwe and other parts of southern and eastern Africa. This food is cooked widely in other countries of the region. Sadza in appearance is a thickened porridge.
island poet Aug 2020
pick a word, let it lead you astray, then (soil)


a poem to exclaim, refracting the sun rays emerging
from the curves of your chested heart, the waggle of
ten fingers conducting your inner song, the baton first
waved swipe to earth pointing, let us commence there:

think of yourself, entirety, as soil, you the potter,
what has been planted by others, nourished by others,
along sides of your ingestions, you the grower, seeded
anew, each word, hybrid edging with existing vocabularies

the sun from without, the sun from within, the rivulets
of water, the arterial pathways, feed the treasure chest,
and you, farmer, planter, grower, picker, plucker of the
produce, serve us, baskets grown on the fruited plain of

poems’ soil consisting of the writings grown in the
unique you,
all of you,
body & soul
Sharina Saad Jun 2014
A poet is a diplomatic kind of person
She lies metaphorically
Revealing the truths figuratively...
Being cynical in between the lines...
Sometimes swear in similes
Provocative in a classy way
vocabularies are sewn with elegance
A diplomatic poet's way!
night unkind Jul 2020
new words for an old day that’s just begun

even I, author of the conundrum above,
confused but let us sort it out as we
descend into the elixir that is our combo
of noises, prejudices, limited vocabularies

time noted, not even the nine o’clock mark,
so the day qualifies as new, but it’s an aged
sun rising, skills displaying, historical precedent,
ancient practice, adjusted for atmosphericals

the lawn is speckled, mottled, as light ray guns
through the defending battalion branches and
platoons of leaves facing up, to a certain death
later than sooner, no killing fields till September

the oak tree generals, wisdomed experiential,
prepare plans, take light a prisoner in sufficient
quantity to nourish the troops, yet, not too much,
for the sun can be fickle, a flame thrower machina

all that vision leads me to this pronouncement:
*Oh Lord, bountiful be provided, beloved, inscribed,
this day, its mega-millennium predecessors and
successors gifted precision amounts needed, then,

Cast me gently into morning,
For the night has been unkind,
Take me to a, a place so holy,
That I can wash this from my mind,
The memory of choosing not to fight.


Sara Mclachlan “The Answer”




9:18am Thu Jul 9 ‘20
Angela Rose Nov 2017
I grew up around strong women
I grew up around unapologetic *******
And you think I should be "more lady like"
And you think I am going to stop swearing and make my way to the kitchen?
And you think I am going to give up my dreams for a man?
And you think I am going to cross my legs and pretend I don't burp?
And you think I am going to keep mum when we discuss politics?
And you think I am going put on a tiny little dress and sky high heels because that is what Y O U want?
And you think I am going to be someone's perfect trophy wife and mother?
I grew up around bad-*** women with foul vocabularies
I grew up around women who climbed their career ladders in unconventional ways and still ended up on top
I grew up around inspirational, take no **** from no man women
And you expect me to be anything less?
Kimberly Heart Jul 2015
Poetry is not :
Just words that rhyme,
Words for attention
Or words of depression.

Poetry is not :
Only for the dark and deep hearted.
For ones with high vocabularies
Or talent and skill.

But rather for the unspoken.
Who are afraid to be judged
by words of the spoken.

Poetry :
Is a place where words are free
I was also one to judge poetry
But it changed my life ...
JAM Feb 2016
RECORD: INSOMNIAC OLYMPICS
FROGMAN: BLOCHEAD

Suzy's: Then it heard The Word:

You are not special.
You're not a beautiful and unique saltflake.
You're the same decaying mental laughter as everything else.
We're all part of the same info heap.

We're all singing,
all dancing
data of the word.
-- Tyler Durden, Tacky Frogman

I mean just try to

Imagine a Johnny waking up one moment and thinking,

"This is an interesting thought I find myself in —
an interesting wHole I find myself in —
guides me rather neatly, doesn't it?
In fact it guides me staggeringly well,
must have been made to have me in it!"

This is such a powerful throught that as the sun rises in the mind
and the clouds heat up
and as, gradually, the throught gets
smaller
and
smaller,

she's still frantically stinging on the notion that everything's going to be aulgburight,
because The Word was meant to have him in it,
was written to have her in it;
so the moment that reappears, caches them rather in reprise.

I think this may be something we need to be on the waytch-out for.
We all know that at some point in the future the throughts will come to an end
and at some other point,
considerably in advance from that but still not instinctually re-pleasing,
the Sun will rexploade.

We think there's plenty of throught to tarry on about that,
but on the other Read DeadHead
throught ’s a very anger-ous ink to lay.
-- Douglas Adams, Frogman

Johnny's: So,

We just ought To Be.
-- You and Me and Everyone We See

Suzy's: And it would be nice if

A Brad and Janet could change their mind,
plan a din-stinction,
butcher a clog,
conn-a-fusion,
design a dream,
write a union,
balance brains,
build a wall,
set a tone,
belay the lying,
make orders,
live orders,
cooperate,
act alone,
solve self equations,
analyze a new corruption,
throw info lure,
program a harmed-brain-puter,
hook a hasty mind,
fight self efficiently,
receive truth carefully.
But all-selfse destruction is their mode.
-- Robert A. Heinlein, Frogman

Johnny's: In other words,

Show me one Brad or one Janet alone and I'll show you a saint.
Give me two and they'll fall in love.
Give me three and they'll reinvent the char-ming thing we call 'Propriety'.

Give me four and they'll build a panic.
Give me five and they'll make one a Number.
Give me six and they'll reinvent Master's affair.
Give me nine and in nine moments they'll reinvent ludechrist.

WhoMans may have been made in the image of nature,
but Brads and Janets were made in the tincture of their opposite Number,
and they're always trying to get back to The Hearth.
-- Glen Bateman, Frogman

Suzy's: Picking up the Data Crumbs as they go, like High Speech. And yet

Brads and Janets do not seem certain of how they gained the ability to speak.
It is theorized that they began dinning objects with iniornticulacy,
until eventually the din became more organized—

still tumultuous clamour,
just a bit more meat in the current day.

If this is true,
it means that to attain bsproken thought the Brad and Janet brain created a specific system for language and a way to code it—working largely off the constantly developing faculty for memory. It is an idea revealed by bit com-partitian-alization of throught data threw the structure of language; re-veiled in the way that Brads and Janets peak or wrighte using their memorized vocabularies and concepts.

This mind fore Toe-ing mortgaged itself to the e-x-ternal word,
and Brads and Janets found power in pontification of life.

Then dawned Ninetbeen.

If the systems of Ninetbeen were enhanced then a more dominant Reality presentce resulted. The most refissiont equation became the most dominant, but
the most efficient equation is not the best.

There are many sacrifices made for effishinsea.

For the most dominant Brads and Janets it became an obsession
to control every aspect of the nature from which they Rose,
sacrificing natural progression

(Of course, it does seem like this is the natural progression,
Brad's and Janet's predetermined path—
a relief that is a symptom of the most engineered systems of code).

Unfortunately,
these systems are destroying Brads and Janets,
and raw rEffissionsea,
Pure confusions,
will not save them.
-- Thrusher Swainson, Bear M.B.

STOP: TURN THOUGHT
The Letter-Ing: word
tenth or last
in a series of poems made of quotes
one part to a whole
its sum has yet to be totaled
may be more than its parts
subject to change
Seán Mac Falls Nov 2016
.
What blur is vision,
When woman, kind,
Naked as the moon,
Shines in such cool
Light as the stars lit,
In ink of night, scribe
Such spell as ancient
Vocabularies mystify,
Without translations,
The heart is drowned
Feeble as emotions,
Rosetta of thorny cut,
Blood spilt in desires
Hard as sarsen alone,
About circle rounding,
A universe unbounded,
For love is kind poison
In nightshade of moon.
a shroud approaches me from the side
it's grey with wide, wide eyes
it follows me and brings a melancholy
it's wide eyes are like bloodshot
wolves in water
why does it follow me
what have i done, i know not
i do know it means to cause
an uncalled for resentment
where the implement of death
will furrow the fields
and blood uncalled for becomes  
a withering harvest of tongues
that cast upon the world
vile, putrid and villainous words
whose untruth becomes the cause
of bloodstained vocabularies
way beyond all compass
giving speech to black shadows
where these congregated silhouettes
dump their nightmares  
and two perfectly disturbing towers
plant signs in defiant ground
ignoring the tragedy this setting shall provide
causing a destruction as it goes
destroying the sparkle of the universe
through all the ages
ending in an eternity of shrouds
Anonymous Freak Oct 2017
Golden cheesy pasta,
And golden shining hair.
Comfy clothes and cuddling.
Look at us,
Our family's sinners
Rotten to our cores.

We've got painted toe nails,
And colorful vocabularies.
I got the first tattoo in our
Conservative family,
And you're our first
Real
Live
Gay.

I sit in the sanctuary
Of my religion,
And lay in my bed of sin.
You live in a back country town,
Where all the boys want to
"Turn you straight."

We're a couple of museum
Rejects,
Kicked out of the family
Hall of fame.
But it's okay,
It's okay,
Because Goonies
Never say die.
Mike Essig Jul 2015
Writers often mistake themselves
for serious people because
they write about serious subjects.

Give this some serious thought.

We might be just be *******
with  excellent vocabularies.

The two are not the same thing,
nor do they have the same value.

  ~mce
kaycog Mar 2017
talk is cheap
I can't afford words
with a pocket full of cash
I'll use inflation as my scapegoat
when you're a store clerk
I'm a kid with troubled eyes
I'll spend my vacant stares like currency
and spare change on vocabularies
Andre Diaz Jan 2015
This isn't a poem.
This isn't a work of art.
This is just a moment of my life.

This evening a girl whom i had recently met confessed something to me, she cupped her hands and looked down at her feet, then slowly tilted her head up a few degrees just enough for my eyes to capture a glimpse of her lips as she spoke. She than said "Youre dangerous..i can tell..aren't you?" To further explain what had happened allow me to backtrack for a moment. A few minutes prior to this we had been talking, and suddenly as per usual upon meeting someone, sometimes even as often as just having a conversation with someone who sparks  my inner interests, she had found herself in contact with the person i become when i speak. I completely dissolve my previous persona and manifest myself in an entirely new personality that seems to have the innate ability to perform human speech at an incredible level. What do i mean? Speech. The humane ability to  vocalize human communication. It is based upon the syntactic combination of lexicals and names that are drawn from very large vocabularies. Speech. Once i start talking i cannot help myself, my words just flow and they seem to always find a way to properly cascade out of my mouth and almost form that of a river. They just stream so precisely as if it were planned however the honesty in the words i choose and the way i speak is something you cannot deny. She asked me questions regarding who i am, what i am,w ** do i want to be. She further asked what do i believe, my interests, my passions, my ideology behind love and hate. I answered each one with the way i have always answered them and with each passing answer, with each passing sentence she began to grow more intrigued almost mesmerized by the way i was able to collect my thoughts so rapidly yet create such a vivid mental picture out of nothing. She then said that this was dangerous, because people like me, we know how to talk, we know how to word the things we want. Were 'persuasive'. Shes right, this is a horrible ability, its both a gift and a curse. To be able to always get what you want but, not me. When it comes down to speaking out for the things and people i want most, i am at a loss for words. All my thought process becomes is sand to water, useless. Just another speck in an endless void waiting for a chance to collect with another grain of sand in the hopes that maybe, ill reach above water level.
In the end, i'm a bird that can soar but becomes far too afraid when he flies too high.
But nothing will ever stop me from perfecting my ability to talk.
i want to create riots in peoples blood as i speak.
I want you to feel something when i speak.
I have a new dream now.
L T Winter Jan 2015
Why--
Are-trees-growing-smaller--
The hippocampus un-decipher-able
With black-vortex-branches

Wielding buried-
White-holes sparring mass.
We the curiouser,

Feel with butterfly bones
Singing silently in silicon-
Chantries-

Isolated to our heads
Together theres a warmth of
Cheeks--
Others bleed cold.

Ever-changing vocabularies
Are blurring pain-
And love into-
One.
Meagan Moore Feb 2014
His arm’s with anger
and suddenly bending to the child’s face he shouted:
“People don’t think caterpillars are a different species from the moths they become.”

The four vocabularies of obscenity vomited
in a silence.
He was identified.
A silence that merely emphasized
the hideousness of that which interrupted it.

All the elation of anger and hatred,
all the distracting excitement,
died away, and -
he was left with nothing
but the naked,
negative experience
of revulsion.

They may have gained
a deeper sense of what is
relative
and
what is universal;
aware,
of what may be global themes
while also having discerned
what could only be produced
in one particular language.

If human-kind perceptions are
always under revision,
responding to our shifting circumstances –
with ever-changing answer to
ever-changing questions - posed
by life –
then they won’t be permanent.
tyjhtysj Jul 2015
era generation
For your Owen preparation
i got message for you nation
We are not the generation
You think we are
For your own information
I am explain to you so stop the investigation or the thing you call survey youth
Stop blaming us for your destroyed imagination
That got destroyed by your application
These time is the time you sit your *** down listen
And Stop talking of how your generation was better than these generation
Let me start by saying we are
The result of the combination of your fuckt up generation
So forgive us if we did not respect the invention
Forgive us if we did not do first the presentation      
**** your forgiveness
Clear the board
I am educate you all
Since you call it  education
All the war decisions
That cause the separations
Between son and mother father daughter wife husband
All the colonisations
Over taking sociocultural evolution
Cultural lost identities
Change history even the cover of the book
All cooperation and organization standing
To remind us the limitation
Depending of our identification
That led to these civilization
Answerless, ignorant,
Observe but no comment
Why and answer most called out vocabularies
i don't know has been their most replied
But they forgot they define our mind galaxy
And you can’t colonies galaxies
All the corrupt systems
In the name of salvation
All the company build for production of destruction
Industries of Capitalism
Creating the classes of
We rule you
We fool you
We shoot at you
We eat for you
And you work and i think it said we feed you too
All your fuckt up ways of your legislation,
How one get up and one thrown down
And we both know which one is who is asking  why
Which one is doing his work and sleeping in the house don’t even know what is the house made of.
How to blind to the one who see
Make the blind believe he can see twisted ****
All the discrimination
That's keeping us no elevation zoon foundation
And it funny how
Every time they say there a solution
At same time there mission
For different condition
Empowering deferent situation
Violation the untold and modern view of justice
Justice of the peace no promise you fool us
Now we are in darkness why do you look nervous
**** the immigration and their regulation
So my advice is
Don’t **** with our reputation
Because our equation is
e.r generation
Extend and release
We gonna extended and release our creations
And release with new operation
Of liberation
So stop ******* blaming us
For our ways of adapting to observe
From The system that you create to block our observation
Jowlough Dec 2010
He sits on his bed,
mourns on memories,
stare on the wall,
digests his vocabularies

Wanting to unload
to clean up some cobwebs,
Save thy bleeding soul
encountered in world's progress

Inked experienced dooms,
writes down his mess.
To release the pain,
that infested his chest

drank a bottle,
stays late at night,
A scene of ego and self,
making a fight!

to write by the heart,
yes a lonely sad writer.
He see's the cruel world,
letter by letter

poured the due
stating life's mysteries,
oh pounded heart!
What heavy load he carries.
(c) Dec 16 - Midnight writer * jcjuatco
Jaide Lynne Mar 2014
Starlight star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may I wish I might have this wish I wish tonight.

I wish for world peace

I wish dreams were reality and reality was like a dream

I wish for a world where the underdogs can thrive and the top dogs still survive

I wish that there would be no more fighting, no war.

I wish to live in a world where there is a cure for every disease, where no one ever cries.

I want to live in a world without anxiety, without lies.

I wish for a world where everyone smiles because they can, not because they have to.

I wish to live in a world where I’m fine isn’t a lie, and the word poor wasn’t in our vocabularies.

I want a world with only love, not hate.

But with out pain there would be no comfort,

without lies there would be no truth,

with out frowns there would be no smiles, no laughs.

Without death we couldn’t fully appreciate life, without illness there could be no health.

Without fear and anxiety there would be no relaxation

Without sadness no one could be happy.

Without lies how could there be truth
Yes, I wish that this world was more accepting of everyone, despite their differences, but where’s the fun in that?

because If we couldn’t cry, we also wouldn’t be able to smile.

Because if we didn’t have our battle wounds how would we show we are winning the war?

Because as my grandmother used to say to my mother as she wound her hair into tight painful braids, beauty hurts.

because you can’t give up the negatives in this world without sacrificing the positives too.

So after the sun has set, and when the world has gone quiet,I  wish on that one little star, but I wish no longer wish for happiness, I just wish for balance.
This one is a bit of a work in progress.
Nick Moser Jan 2015
Are you scared?
Because I am.
I live my life everyday being scared of something.
I can't stand it.
I know I'm fine.
But my mind is telling me different.
It's like a constant devil on my shoulder.
Except its in my head.

Are you tired?
Because I am.
I live my life everyday being tired of the day to day operation of my being.
From school to home life, it's all a mess.
I keep forgetting to do things because I am suddenly remembering to do things.
Get it?
Cause I don't.

Are you fed up?
Because I am.
I'm fed up with how life moves on and forgets you.
Like when something extreme happens in your life.
You just want people to stop and ask you what's wrong.
And sometimes, you just want them to hold you.
But you realize they don't.
People have their own lives to live.
The world moves on, even if you don't.

But that doesn't mean you have to quit.
As individuals, we all have our own intricate vocabularies populated by words we find intriguing not only to our tongues, but other's ears.
And in that vocabulary, there should never be the word: quit.
Quitting is something that we should be allergic to.
We should hate.
We despise.
Because if after all we've been through we want to quit, we're not realizing our full potential.
Reach for it.
Grab it.
We have to chase our ambitions.
Our ambitions won't come to us.
But quitting will.
It will rear its ugly head at every turn.
But we must never give up.

Are you a survivor?
Because I am.
Galbraith Frase Oct 2017
I knew it was an error,
Because we did not click.
Even if we are only searching for a signal.
There is a boundary that will brick.

In the eyes of the sky, we crave for falling stars,
Clouding our minds with comforting lies behind bars.
Mustard themes, they say, "Save the bees",
Each demon crept through the willow trees.

Undescribable feelings and censored words,
None of our vocabularies soar to be absurd.
Our sunset travels weaken thy footsteps,
We are just hopeless youngsters, reaching out for help.

The arriving moonlight, there a universe awaits.
Treacherous promises left in different places.
We are the written sentences lost in hoary library shelves,
Forever damaged, oh, what have we done to ourselves?

Male and female body parts blended like jigsaw puzzle pieces.
They want the beast with wallop lips and flat kisses.
Most of us touched the pixelated features,
We are the broken frames in the tortured pictures.

Those smiles and giggles are all gone and crashed.
We are the wounded teens, tossed like standard trash.
A game with many levels  but without the signs of "Game Overs",
Once again, we are the lurking kids with a bunch of errors.
It's undeniable to say that this is beautifully written.
Nothing but a masterpiece :)
Sharina Saad Jun 2013
I am writing a letter for you..
I am stuck in the middle i cant continue
Even the finest vocabularies fail to describe how I feel
for you
what is the most appropriate diction to encapsulate
this tangle heart of mine..
Funny sometimes when we lost all kind of words from our heart.
Only to convey some simple feelings
or state of minds
and....
The search for words will continue...
Amanda Kay Burke Nov 2019
1.) Temptation from other women doesn't worry because all free time is spent together

2.) Being with the only person on Earth who can match your twisted sense of humor

3.) Not eating the last slice of pie so they can eat it instead is considered a romantic gesture

4.) You accept eachother for the ******* you have become without judgement

5.) Whenever you can't find something they know exactly where to look and vice versa

6.) They can order for you at a restaurant/bar without being told what to order first

7.) They make appointments for you because they know about your irrational fear of talking on the phone

8.) In return, you fill out all paperwork because his handwriting isn't always legible

9.) The word "awkward" doesn't exist in your vocabularies so you always have a second opinion on those personal subjects

10.) They always know how to make you crack a smile NO MATTER WHAT!
To Paul; my best ******* friend forever <3

Day 11: write a list poem
STLR Nov 2016
The Return of The Poet Freak

I've come back
this time with a yarn full

Let's end stupidity here and get ride of the barn fools

I sense the humidity here is that of a bar stool, intoxication is common, don't drink with the wrong tools

I've come with sharp words that crash like death from above

Yet create a flow equivalent to the flight of a dove

My might is of night an it's lust
my words are of fights in the dust

**** with me, and at night I will come
To terrorize then surprise with a rush

They say I have no access

All I need is your first name,
email or IP address

Your location can be found
habits can be studied

Once preparation is complete,
I will attack with no sound

unbounded pursuit, my well grounded efficiency is
complemented by proof

Gaze at my past history
words silently slaughtered in victory
My code of honor is made of dignity

My coat of armor is coated with words of potency

No witnesses needed, you can be apart of this 1st degree

******, I hope you scream ****** ******, Whenever you decide to breath

I've written to many ******* poems
I hope that you can see

These words are nothing but text reflected upon a screen..

These words are nothing but a message relayed upon a stream

Of constantly moving data that's scattered for all to see

My mental anomalies injected into the net via tech that is obsolete

Visual vacancies filled with verbal alliterations, attractively sound good
To current generation

Generation Text, Hexa-Decimal

Generation ******* #SuckMy Testicles

Generation I've learned code in middle school

but thats nothing it's just minuscule

I could spit a rhyme colder
then any individual

The eruption of my vocabularies volcano is visible

My concussions due to rhyming words over percussion are critical

These are my final words in the land that is digital

The poet freak is back, this time with words that are more cynical

— The End —