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Bus Poet Stop Jun 2018
~for those who will read this and weep~

the quiet ones,
the silent Job ones,
who quote not from the
Book of Lamentations,
but author their own,
based on-the-job experience

localized versions of cryptic elegiacs
accepting the wooden crosses borne,
stepping up to the
unrequested unforeseen,
then buried under, burnt alive,
yet never relieved by dying,
nailed by words, stronger than iron,
promises sworn, promises kept
with no ending date relief,
promises by and to themselves,
but not for themselves!


the wearers of crystal glass shackles,
adorned with decorative locks for which
no key did the maker make,
nor any divine creator
dare conceive an early release,
never no escape contemplated,
for the lock human, unrepentant unbreakable,
a decorative useless metaphor gesture,
a blunt “life *****” advertisement

I compose amidst a
bus pond of mismatched city folk,
a tapestry of ages colors and differing views on god/no god,
none would believe that as the bus sways me,
it’s in rhythm to holy choral music,
hundreds year old,
divinity masses and motets worships,
where one human can hide temporarily
a safe house,
to calm his questioning relentless
from the horrors of no answers,
for when the mind has no solution
to the rough and tumbling lives,
lived in glass shackled confinement,
the poets desperation equals theirs


summon eagles to transport these imprisoned,
but the shackled refuse,
I come to them but they wave me off,
I go crazy for once I was enslaved,
thirty years war that left devastation,
from which so many poems created

so I speak with heightened regard
of one who planned futures for others where his
non-existence was a founding father (ha!)


but the day came and
I was released by my own inactions,
but means nothing until a way to
away found
to release the yet bound early


got a couch, airline miles, hundred dollars
in my pocket and an unrelenting need
to save them, a consumption disease,
the glass shackled, at ease,
won’t rest till all are freed
this my creed
no one left behind

these cyber words do not mock
for they are unbounded, set free,
when
the flesh connects and the needs of the flesh
are stronger for they are in heart conceived
judy smith Aug 2016
It’s New York Fashion Week, and there is a frenzy backstage as models are worked into their dresses and mob the assembled engineers for instructions of how to operate the technology that magically transforms a subtle gesture into a glowing garment suggestive of the bioluminescence of jellyfish. I know there’s not enough time for them to do their work. Almost instinctively, I find the designer and bargain for 20 more minutes.

While I wonder to myself how I got here, backstage at a runway show, I also know I am witnessing what may be the harbinger of how a fourth industrial revolution is set to change fashion, resulting in a new materiality of computation that will transform a certain slice of fashion designers into the “developers” of a whole new category of clothing. By driving new partnerships in tools, materials and technologies, this revolution has the potential to dramatically reshape how we produce fashion at a scale not seen since the invention of the jacquard loom.

The jacquard loom, as it happens, inspired the earliest computers. Ever since, textile development and technology have been on an interwoven path — sometimes more loosely knit, but becoming increasingly tighter in the last five years. Around that time, my colleagues and I embarked on a project in our labs to look at “fashion tech,” which at the time was a fringe term. These were pioneers daring to — sometimes literally — weave together technology and clothing to drive new ways of thinking about the “shape” of computation. But as we looked around the fashion industry, it became clear that designers lacked the tools to harness the potential of new technologies.

For a start, all facets of technology needed to be more malleable. Batteries, processors and sensors, in particular, had to evolve from being bulky and rigid to being softer, flexible and stretchable. Thus, I began to champion “Puck [rigid], Patch [flexible], Apparel [integrated],” an internal mantra to describe what I felt would be the material transformations of sensing and computation.

As our technologies have steadily become smaller, faster and more energy efficient — a progression known in the tech industry as Moore’s Law — we’ve gone on to launch a computer the size of a postage stamp and worked with a fashion tech designer to demonstrate its capabilities. In this case we were able to show dresses that were generated not just from sketches and traditional materials, but forward-looking tools (body scans and Computer Assisted Design renderings) and materials (in this case, 3-D printed nylon). At the same time, we integrated a variety of sensors (proximity, brain-wave activity, heart-rate, etc.) that allowed the garments themselves to sense and communicate in ways that showed how fashion — inspired in part by biology — might become the interface between people and the world around them.

Eventually, a meeting between Intel and the CFDA lent support to the idea that if technology could fit more seamlessly into designs, then it would be more valuable to fashion designers. The realisation helped birth the Intel Curie module, which has since made its way down the catwalk, embedded into a slew of designs that could help wearers adapt, interpret and respond to the world around them, for example, by “sensing” adrenaline or allowing subtle gestures to illuminate a garment.

As the relationship between fashion and technology continues to evolve, we will need to reimagine research and development, supply chains, business models and more. But perhaps more than anything, as fashion and technology merge, we must embrace a new strand of collaborative transdisciplinary design expertise and integrate software, sensors, processors and synthetic and biological materials into a designer’s tool kit.

Technology will inform the warp and weft of the fabric of fashion’s future. This will trigger discussions not just about fashion as an increasingly literal interface between people, our biology and the world around us, but also about the implications that data will generate for access, health, privacy and self-expression as we look ahead. We are indeed on the precipice of a fourth industrial revolution.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/black-formal-dresses
V Jun 2017
Fat
Fat, fat, fat.
All I see is fat.
I am the "chunkiest", the "chubbiest", the "roundest" and the "ugly pig".
I might as well be a rat, the biggest of the big.

Fat, fat, fat,
All I see is fat.
I am "just right", "average", "normal" or "perfect size."
They lie every single time, and hell, just 'like that'.

Fat, fat, fat,
All I see is fat.
I am "too skinny!", "I wish I looked like you", "wow! Size zero jeans?!" and "underweight".
Yet, I refuse to touch this cold, stocked plate.

Fat, fat, fat,
All I see is fat.
I am "awful", "dying", Miss "eat something" and "throne of bones".
Yet, this body will never be my souls rightful home.

Fat, fat, fat.
All I ever will be is fat.
Even in a long gown and stuck to the end of an I.V pole,
With doctors and psychatrists and loved ones crying and begging me to just "recover, please come home!"

I am still fat.


The hospital bed is empty,
My bed is left untouched,
There is a silence as the wearers in black all sob and stare silently at the body in the ground.
Devasted and hushed...

I see them, but can no longer speak.
No longer able to feel, no longer live,
Forced to watch time pass and hearts mourn...
Their days now heartbroken and bleak.

My  best friend doesn't speak, she now sits alone,
My mother sobs every night, family reminded
so often of my presence,
The one who secrelty loved me has loved no more,
Even my pets still wait outside my door.

Those who knew me, only can remember me in the things left behind,
Even the sun itself rarely shines.


Dead, lost, gone.
I am no longer fat,
But I also no longer- belong.
Recovery is worth it. <3
some mornings are weighted
heavy like a tree trunk
others are as light as the breeze by the ocean side
the opal wearers stare at her third eye
longing for musical indifference
amidst the sagacity of incubation
stationing direct the planet turns around again
sans neglect you are apathetic at best
please sell me your music
is there no pleasure left in the moment
the smell of cacao, coffee, cardamom and cinnamon
offering up to the gods of wisdom
they lift us to the sky
on tired thighs
i try to hide but your light shines everywhere
i wonder about the magic
if anyone can see it anymore
are we no longer connected to the source
or have we lost our course
its in the present that you find it
a liquid attempt at lightning
a languid temperature
tempting me with its forgotten melody
methodical as a nightmare
severing connections to our ancestors
this measuring has gotten us all confused
and tongue tied
up to no good
i stood still for you
for a thousand centuries
i bared my head for you and shaved my soul
the dormancy of the dakini still lingers on my fingers
sing for me in the afternoon mist
i insist on letting you know that i love you
daxike Mar 2013
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Hear now a curious dream I dreamed last night,
Each word whereof is weighed and sifted truth.

  I stood beside Euphrates while it swelled
Like overflowing Jordan in its youth:
It waxed and colored sensibly to sight,
Till out of myriad pregnant waves there welled
Young crocodiles, a gaunt blunt-featured crew,
Fresh-hatched perhaps and daubed with birthday dew.
The rest if I should tell, I fear my friend,
My closest friend, would deem the facts untrue;
And therefore it were wisely left untold;
Yet if you will, why, hear it to the end.

  Each crocodile was girt with massive gold
And polished stones, that with their wearers grew:
But one there was who waxed beyond the rest,
Wore kinglier girdle and a kingly crown,
Whilst crowns and orbs and sceptres starred his breast.
All gleamed compact and green with scale on scale,
But special burnishment adorned his mail,
And special terror weighed upon his frown;
His punier brethren quaked before his tail,
Broad as a rafter, potent as a flail.
So he grew lord and master of his kin:
But who shall tell the tale of all their woes?
An execrable appetite arose,
He battened on them, crunched, and ****** them in.
He knew no law, he feared no binding law,
But ground them with inexorable jaw:
The luscious fat distilled upon his chin,
Exuded from his nostrils and his eyes,
While still like hungry death he fed his maw;
Till every minor crocodile being dead
And buried too, himself gorged to the full,
He slept with breath oppressed and unstrung claw.
O marvel passing strange which next I saw:
In sleep he dwindled to the common size,
And all the empire faded from his coat.
Then from far off a winged vessel came,
Swift as a swallow, subtle as a flame:
I know not what it bore of freight or host,
But white it was as an avenging ghost.
It levelled strong Euphrates in its course;
Supreme yet weightless as an idle mote
It seemed to tame the waters without force
Till not a murmur swelled or billow beat:
Lo, as the purple shadow swept the sands,
The prudent crocodile rose on his feet
And shed appropriate tears and wrung his hands.

  What can it mean? you ask. I answer not
For meaning, but myself must echo, What?
And tell it as I saw it on the spot.
judy smith Oct 2016
At any given moment, it seems there is a fashion week happening somewhere in the world - be it Sydney, Istanbul, Dubai, Seoul, Moscow, Toronto, Copenhagen or Lagos (to name a few).

But the latest entrant may be the most surprising: Silicon Valley.

Or, as the organisers style it: Silicon Valley Fashion Week?!.

The punctuation marks as part of the title are a self-aware nod to the incongruity of marrying the location, known for its allegiance to hoodies, Tevas and T-shirts, to a fashion event.

But that does not mean they are any less serious about its potential.

The three-day annual event, which finished its second turn over the weekend in San Francisco, bills itself as "part fashion show, part variety show, part trade show" and is open to the public, unlike the usual fashion industry events. This year, about 30 brands were featured and tickets, at US$20 (S$28), sold out, with about 500 people attending each day.

It was staged by Betabrand, a San Francisco company that builds its clothing catalogue by crowdsourcing design ideas and, after seeing which take off, crowdfunding the production of the prototypes to see which ones people will actually want to buy. Examples include a "mind the gap" blouse that stretches to fit the body's contours and a dress that uses a trademarked reflective material.

The event exists at the nexus of Burning Man, wearable technology and the Maker Movement, home of inventors, designers and other do-it-yourself types. Pebble Smartwatch presented a Smarthole Hoodie, a standard hoodie design with sleeves that extend over the thumbs and have a movable panel around the wrist to make gaining access to the company's device easier; and Tinsel offered headphones that can be worn as a necklace.

Alison Lewis, who holds a design and technology master's degree from Parsons School of Design in New York, showed three items: a lambskin leather handbag embedded with LED bulbs that can be rearranged in different patterns with an app; a T-shirt that does the same; and a dress with lights that undulate with the wearer's heartbeat.

"Technology is a tool. It's how we use it that's really exciting," she said. "We could have less clothing in our closets and have pieces that change and work with our moods and personalities on a daily basis."

Lewis has not had a chance to present her work in other fashion shows and, so far, she has not been able to mass-produce her items. She commended the fashion week as a place to experiment.

She was not the only designer struggling with the challenge of manufacturing what she displayed.

However, as wearables increasingly enter mainstream fashion, with designers from Ralph Lauren to Zac Posen dipping their creative toes into technology, the idea of clothing patterns controlled by apps, of drone delivery, and of customisation that allows - maybe even asks - its wearers to make a choice each and every day, seems less far-fetched and more like fashion's possible future.

Which, unlikely as it may be, puts the Silicon Valley event on the style front line.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/backless-formal-dresses | http://www.marieaustralia.com/red-formal-dresses
I sit, awaiting the apocalypse,
Knowing Its already Here -
I sit, awaiting a sign from Above,
In the form of the wind blowing
Or a smile from a child passing by -
I stand up, knowing my time has come
And I march down to the office
Of the biggest suit-wearers in town
And I tell them why I think they're the Devil
Disguised in masks of well-intentioned men
And all they do is kick me out the door,
Without a single "Hello" or "Goodbye",
Indeed I was right - they are the Devil -
The lawmakers, man-made war declarers
Suffering because they've got too much greed,
Still thinking it's more money that they need -
Indeed their fruit contains rotting seed,
But only Time will tell
Whether they'll drop the bombs or not,
On their own people
From metallic birds above,
Not the Holy place,
Just a faceless face -
Video-controlled drones flying flying flying
Crazy-eyed maniacs
Miles away
Safe in their cushioned bunkers of first-world luxury,
And they say its okay
They say this is their day,
And thus they drop their bombs
On their own people,
Family,
Miles away -
So far away that they won't be forced to see the blood,
And they'll never hear the children cry -
And I'm here,
Sitting,
Wondering why,
Wondering how,
We, as a species, ever became so ****** insane -
And I realize in the silence of my own questioning
That I'm not one of them -
For I am my own man,
I am my own soul,
I am a child of God,
Allah,
Buddha
Krishna
Jah Jah,
Ra,
Jehovah,
Yahweh,
And I know I've got a right to be here,
And nobody is going to take that right away from me,
Except the Universe that made me -
For these bodies are just recycled dirt,
But these souls are eternal beyond worth,
And nobody will take that away,
Especially not the whiskey-drinkin' cigar-smokin'
Legal pimps of legislature,
Declared messiahs by illiterate masses,
In the same sand dunes that they come from -
But there's a fox amongst the chickens -
The Devil, so they say -
And that fox is running wild, rabid with fear and hunger,
Ignorant of the beauty of Life -
Unaware of Eternity,
Of God,
Of the One Love that brings Everything Together,
And again, I don't know why or how,
It just is what it is,
And I'm blessed to know I'm not one of Them -
Because I once was,
And they're still me,
But I've woken up,
And I have learned to see -
We're always free,
No matter the hour or town or name,
We're always free,
And we shall always remain free,
For we're all creations of the Universe -
Almighty in the Eyes of the Infinite,
And we're free to do as we please -
But if I may beg of thee,
Be wise and listen to the wind,
Choose yer path according to the Sun,
And not of Man,
And though I know beggars can't be choosers,
But I can still pray,
And thus I shall -
I will continue to pray until this body of mine fades back into Time,
Because we're always free,
Yes,
We're Always Free,
We're Always Free.
Bes



It's high midnight and I'm up to my old tricks again.
Bes came by my apartment last night, ostensibly to see why I've stopped answering everyone's calls but harboring more ulterior motives than a presidential charity event. I let her in, mumbling some vague, ******* excuse about how I'd simply been busy. She stood in my living room, her hands demurely folded in front of her as her eyes swept the scene, a quick appraising glance that took in the leaning towers of paper and rows of empty bottles, the rings under my eyes and the cheeks grizzled with god knows how many days of growth, and when at last they met mine they seemed to ask what exactly it was that I had been busy doing. Her lips said no such thing though, held in check either by innate tact or single-minded purpose. Instead she smiled, that old, slanting smile that was more a twitching of her cheeks than an actual moving of her lips, and asked if I liked her dress. It was the first time that I'd seen her dressed in anything but jeans, and the change was as unexpected as it was becoming. The dress was short, black, simple and elegant in its simplicity. In the expected places it clung to her curves and invited you to do the same, but elsewhere it hung in loose folds, folds so deep that she seemed almost lost in them, and when you did catch a glimpse of her body -the delicate line of her collarbone, the thin ridge of a rib- the force of the contrast struck home with calculated, bewildering power. She looked incredibly fragile yet fraught with danger, like broken glass swaddled in a black flag. I gave her an exaggerated once-over, then said, "Do you really need me to answer that?" She laughed, her voice high and breathy, and dropped me a theatrical curtsy. "What's the occasion?" Her eyes narrowed, and the ghost of a smile twitched its way back onto her face.
"We're going out tonight."
"We are? And why are we doing that?"
"It's ladies' night at Stoa, and that means free drinks."
"Free drinks for you, kiddo. I doubt that I could pass as a lady, even in that ****-hole."
"For me, yes. But if I were to get those free drinks and then decide that I didn't want them, well, what would happen to them? It would be wrong just to waste them, after all. I suppose I should have to give them away, perhaps to a good friend?"
"If you should change your mind." I said flatly.
"Of course. Woman's prerogative, you know."
"Are you trying to bribe me with free liquor?"
"Well, if that isn't enough I could always throw in a 'please'. Limited time offer, though, non-negotiable and nontransferable."
"Unlike the drinks, you mean."
"Rules are like bodies; they aren't meant to be be broken, but sometimes it's fun to see just how far you can stretch them."
"Far be it from me to tell a pretty girl no when she says please."
"Pleeaazzee?" She batted her eyelashes at me, lower lip stuck out in a burlesque pout.
"Okay."
"Put on a fresh shirt and grab your coat, I'll get a cab."
"Yes'm," I said, snapping off a quick salute before about-facing toward my bedroom. She laughed again as she left, the soft chuckles punctuated by the click of her heels on the concrete steps outside. I dressed quickly, taking roughly three minutes to apply fresh deodorant, sniff-test and shrug my way into a shirt with marginally less wrinkles than your average nursing home and grab my keys. I walked out the front door to find Bes ready and waiting for me, having snared a cab with the same brisk efficiency with which she had beguiled me into escorting her. She stood at the curb, toe of one black pump tapping impatiently as the taxi idled next to her, engine panting like some exotic animal brought to heel. The ride there was silent. The cabbie was one of those garrulous specimens of his trade who seem always to have something to offer his customers in addition to the transportation for which they had paid; some tidbit of folksy wisdom, or a sage prediction of the weather, no doubt buttressed with countless examples from the days of yore. He brought out several of these chestnuts for us, but after a few failed gambits even he lapsed into what for him must have passed for a taciturn state, contenting himself with humming along to the radio, albeit loudly. He had sloughed tunelessly through several songs and a commercial break by the time we arrived, and had begun to sing under his breath, apparently unaware that he was doing so. This unwitting serenade had been steadily growing in volume, and he was working himself into a rather heartfelt rendition of Black Velvet as we disembarked.
It was just past eleven, relatively early for a nightclub, but the line was already stretched ten yards from the door. It wound around the side of the building, surprising me in spite of myself. I really hadn't been out in a while, and had forgotten all about waiting outside, that desultory purgatorial period where people shifted restlessly from foot to foot and chain-smoked, anxious for admittance, though in all likelihood less concerned with being able to dance or mingle (which they could have probably done just as well out here) than they were with losing the buzz they had brought with them. Some of the people had clustered into loose groups and those who had looked more sanguine, almost serene, and no doubt there were a few water bottles filled with ***** stashed in their purses and jacket pockets. I started toward the corner, intending to join the rest of the sad-sacks at the back of the line, but Bes grabbed my arm, giving me a slight shake of her head. She walked directly toward the entrance, deftly sidestepping the little pockets of people and putting on a smile of almost predatory brilliance. She sauntered up to the bouncer posted at the door, one of any number of interchangeable drones whose charge is to prevent just such flouting of protocol as she undoubtedly had in mind. She said something to him and he shook his head. She spoke again, raising up on tip-toe and looking directly into his eyes, and when she spread her hands in a comely now-do-you-see gesture he looked around furtively then nodded. She waved a hand at me and he nodded again, though more apprehensively than at first, and the hand pointed in my direction now wiggled its fingers in a come-hither gesture. I walked up and looked a question at her but she merely shook her head again, though this one was accompanied by a slight smile that said nothing and hinted at everything. She took my hand, dragging me forward like a she-wolf dragging a rabbit into her den, and as we passed into the club she favored the sentry with another smile, so warm that I could have sworn I saw him blush.
The interior was dark, cavernous and redolent of a thousand mingled perfumes, a heady, dizzying blend spiced here and there with the dank odor of marijuana. As soon as we were past the bouncer, Bes stopped and pivoted on her toes like a ballerina, spinning so quickly that I almost stumbled into her. She said something to me then, but despite the sudden and shocking proximity of her body to my own her voice was lost in the car crash of voices from the dance floorahead. I cupped a hand to my ear in the commonly understood signal for deafness, and she responded by cocking her head at a questioning angle and forming an elongated y with her thumb and pinky finger, tilting them toward her lips in the universal gesture for drinks. I nodded my assent and she took my hand again, pressing it gently as she threaded her way through the tumult of writhing flesh on the dance floor. We found seats in the corner of the bar, the one place where you could actually sit with your back to the wall instead of the rest of the club, a place that I privately thought of as Paranoiac's Cove. I dug out my pack of Lucky's and set to work on trying to find my lighter as she flitted away, returning moments later with a pair of highball glasses, each filled to the brim with a curiously green concoction that was so bright that it seemed almost as though the glass was filled with liquid neon. She handed me one, her fingers momentarily brushing mine as I accepted it, visions of the cauldron from Macbeth flashing briefly through my mind. That smile twisted its way onto her face again as she offered a silent toast, raising her glass toward me with an oddly solemn gesture. I raised mine in return, noticing the way her eyes sparkled in the shadows, green and impossibly bright, almost lambent, bright like the drink though her eyes were a deeper, truer green, closer to jade than to the grassy color we held in our hands. We touched their rims together, the clink almost inaudible in the howling bedlam of the club. She threw her drink back at a single draught, surprising me into a laugh and I followed suit, barely tasting the liquor as it ran down my throat. What I did taste was a rather poor attempt at artificial apple, cloying and somehow thick, like melted jolly ranchers. It was saccharine sweet yet bitter, a harsh undertone that matched the crisp tang of a real granny smith about as well as the sweetness did, which is to say not at all. Not that this bothered me; alcohol and bitterness have always gone well together for me.
She leaned over to me, fingertips resting lightly on my shoulder, breath tickling confidentially in my ear as she asked, "Dance with me?"
I demurred, not bothering to waste words but simply waiting until she pulled back to look at me and then shaking my head. She didn't lean in again, catching my eyes instead and mouthing the word with an exaggerated care that was almost comical. "Okay." She hesitated momentarily before adding, "Maybe later." She didn't wait for a response, instead sliding off her stool with easy, doe-like grace and disappeared into the throng. I stayed at the bar for some time, an hour perhaps, drinking steadily and watching the growing chagrin of the woman behind it as she realized that I had not intention of tipping her no matter how drunk I got. Bes reappeared periodically, staying long enough to grab each of us a free shot and steal one of my cigarettes before vanishing again. I whiled away the time by counting the necklaces that came bobbing and heaving up to the bar. The vast majority were crucifixes, their forms and sizes as varied as those of their bearers, but there was a smattering of other ikons as well; Celtic knots and stars of david, pentacles and hammers, and once, nestled incongruously in the ample and expertly showcased cleavage of its wearer, a crescent moon and star. The owner of that particular pendant also happened to clutch a drink in one hand, and while it may have been a shirly temple or club soda, the glassy eyes above it and the boneless, disjointed movements that arm described in the air spoke to a more potent brew. I wondered what they meant to the people who wear them, those chains of devotion donned voluntarily. A symbol of their faith, they would probably say, though it's a faith betrayed by virtually every action that they take, and if there's one thing that I've learned about people it's that their vows and promises may be lies, but their betrayals never are. Even a virtuous act, an act of unequivocal good in the face of overwhelming temptation, even that can be a lie. It is concealment, a denial of the temptation, of its reality, of the fact that the desire for what tempts us exists. But in betrayal, in succumbing to temptation, people reveal themselves, for they are true to their desire and desire is the most accurate mirror, the truest reflection of who we are. Most people wear masks to cloud that mirror, false faces that sometimes fool everyone and sometimes fool no-one. But truth always asserts itself and so most people betray; others, causes, even themselves. But even the betrayal of self is also an act of honesty, the final acknowledgement of who we really are.
There was a time, of course, when these signs and symbols of faith were a business of deadly seriousness, when their betrayal would have begotten swift and sure punishment, when the mere display of one's allegiance was both a pledge and a challenge, but no longer. Now they are carried as casually as their wearers carry the name of some obscure fashion designer on their underwear, and given the reverent attention paid to the latter and their blasé hypocrisy regarding the former, one has to wonder which is really more important to them. Yet the symbols persist even when the meaning has been forgotten, and the majority still carry signs of fealty formed from counterfeit gold and beaten nickel, sigils that flash quicksilver in the strobing lights, leading the way like the wooden maidens which adorn the prows of ships. I used to have one of them, you know, a rough loop of rawhide the carried three little trinkets, a bunny a book and a small golden heart. It's gone now, of course, and fittingly so, the heart having fallen after the bunny down the rabbit-hole, and the book remaining unwritten, though I suppose if your reading this, that if these disjointed ramblings ever manage to make it onto the printed page, refugees finally transplanted from the wilted notebooks or the cocktail napkins that I even now sit scribbling madly on, it has been written after all and you're reading it. You poor *******.
I realized my thoughts were drifting, meandering on their own down paths that I have expressly forbidden them to tread, rambling like unsupervised children in an amusement park at sundown. I gathered them up, scolding them, trying to exert some authority in my own mind, telling myself to just take a deep breath and shake it off. I can't though, and for once it's not because I can't quiet the thoughts but because I can't seem to take a breath that is deep enough. I realized that I was panting, well nigh hyperventilating, my breath coming in quick, shallow gasps that seem to crystallize in my longs like spun glass. I take stock of myself, trying to assure myself that I'm not going to have a heart attack or a ******* stroke, noting with some alarm that my hands are shaking and my vision has narrowed into a twisting, undulating tunnel. I closed my eyes and concentrated on breathing, the darkness behind my eyelids streaked with purple and red, and gradually I became aware that those explosions of color are rhythmic, recurrent. They happened not with the pounding of my heart, as I would have expected, but in time with the music, sunbursts of color appearing each time the bass kicked. The panic diminished, replaced by curiosity, and I realized that without the shrill yammering of panic in my ear and the terror of impending death in my mind, the combined sensations are not only pleasant, but oddly familiar. It's then that I realized what happened, belatedly doing the mental arithmetic and realizing that unexpected invitation, the free drinks and the first's oddly bitter taste, the secretive smile with which it was delivered, that it all added up to a single thing. She drugged me, of course, spiked my drink with something and I didn't even notice, naive as a sorority pledge at a keg party, and oh **** was I high. I stayed at the bar, knowing from hard experience that there was no sense in fighting it, and so giving in to it. If you can't put out the fire you might as well feed it, feed it all that you can, because the sooner the fuel runs out the sooner the fire dies. So I stayed there, focusing on my breathing and letting my thoughts spiral out, catching the waves in my head as they rose and fell, finally learning to float on their crests, in some semblance of control. Calmer now, I pulled out my cigarettes and lit one, the process taking an eternity, empires rising and falling in the time between the moment when the spark caught and the flame exploded into life and the one when it reached my lucky. I breathed out a plume of smoke, a pillar of cloud that also seemed to go on forever, and as it cleared there was Bes, materializing out of the smoke like a Cheshire cat.
"Ready to dance?"
I looked at her, unable to speak for a moment, not the drug this time but something entirely, a thing that came surging up from some unsounded depth within me and caught in my throat, because when I looked in her eyes, wide and wet with excitement, her pupils telescoped into pinpricks that told me she was in the grip of the same I saw myself. Because she was looking at me the way I looked
Tragedy
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
these two hands, small, stubby,
nonetheless,
invite you to come aboard,
all, the unselected
all, the unprotected

the pretenders, outsiders,
hallway cool, self-collected,
girls who wear dresses,
boys who write in diaries,
Camus, Sartre hangers-on,
never-removed sunglasses wearers,
24/7

trip time,
comb your eyes,
system cleansing,
you, self-affected,
you, self-selected
you,
step away from the gallows,
get down from the scaffold

come to, for you, to get collected,
the unaffected,
the undirected,
road trip to the unexpected,
place where the disconnection is
disconnected,
where the unexpected, that's you,
expected

I know you well
I know you all

you are my desirables,
my touched untouchables,
wilderness voices,
no longer crying,
bound for greatness

from hands to pockets,
my chosen ones,
now my protected

No more unhappy birthday parties
that no one comes too
no need to pretend, sell love,
to the takers of advantage,

now on you breathe in an atmosphere
I've collected,
100% exhaled relief breaths,
purelled oxygen, fresh start air

no more disaffected,
now fuel injected,
now that you are
in and among the
touched, carried,
the affected,
the every poem read...
A person's integrity
can be lost
amidst this "prestige" fabricated world.
A person's heart
can turn to stone
amidst these nefarious life forms.
A person's brain
can be turned to mush
amidst these excruciating words.
A person's eyes
can be shown miserably different views
amidst these manipulating debaters.
A person's character
can be ripped to shreds
amidst these sharp dire actions.
A person's sensitivity
can be transformed into nothing
amidst these morbid apathetics.  
A person's worth
can be diminished
amidst these cruel rulers.
A person's dreams
can be crushed
amidst these rich, shiny shoe wearers.
A person's life
can be extinguished
amidst this persecuting society.
Only when someone's life is gone-
is when we try to exterminate the said problems.
Why only take change when someone's gone?
They won't get the help they need
because they're not there.
Why let the rest suffer
when something can be done now?
c quirino Sep 2010
In thousands and thousands of years,
our successors, who or whatever they are,
won’t just find our bones.
They’re going to find our living rooms,
our I-pods, coffee mugs,
suitcases, post-it notes.
The quiet little things that become our lives,

and they’ll look at each other, our successors,
and they’ll think: ‘how charming…how primitive they lived.
This is what they wore on their feet,
and this is the thing they used to listen to music
with before they had the microchips implanted.”
But it makes me think.
This is exactly what we say now
…about the Greeks, the Mesopotamians,
the Incas, Mayas,
all the ****-cloth wearers.

We talk about them
like they were exempt
from unremarkable daily existences,
that their run-of-the mill equivalences’ to Tuesdays
were filled with human sacrifices,
complex rituals and **** like that.
We never talk about how they must have felt exactly like we do now…
We never talk about how they could have easily felt alone in a crowd,
or how they could have felt unrequited love.

They’re always talked about like they were better or worse than we are.
But I think we’re really just exactly the same as them.
© Constante Quirino
Gidgette Apr 2017
I attend the funeral of hope,
weekly
Watch the birth of despair
daily
I think God has gone deaf,
atleast to
my cries
People look at possessions as
success
They aren't
They're stones tied to souls
making sure we all drown with the
Jones'
we all so long to keep up with
Oh yes,
those Jones' are falling to the
Depths of "stuff"
far faster than we Smiths
Good Lord
All day, Everyday,
I see and hear the "upper class"
whine
About the stupidest things
Its appocalypse if the Jones' buy
a BMW
while the neighbor only owns a Cadilac
Utter DEATH
I see these things and hear these silly conversations daily
"Oh did you see how fat Pam's *** looked in that Vera dress at yesterday's luncheon?"
"Yes! All that money spent on lypo! Haha!"
Disgusting ****
like sulfuric acid poured into my ears
And the road on the way to this Country Club and Gated Community called
Deerfield
Is lined with falling down trailers and houses without glass in the Windows
Clothes hung on ancient strings because the wearers can't afford a dryer
Or the electicity to run one
Children filthy and barefoot playing with
hand-me-down toys
in hay field yards
Still cleaner and more pure
than the
Filthy Rich
I wavered in my original intent with this one. I just got So angry today at work. These rich people in their multi-million dollar homes behind a coded gated community are complaining about the "eye sore" homes of these poor mountain people. Rather than help them, or try to see from both sides of the gate, They'd rather the city take the land and tear down these peoples homes. They would rather human beings be ******* homeless, than have to drive by any imperfect thing on their way to their 12 and 13 bedroom, lake front, mansions!! Seriously! They are actually petitioning for this devilish act. I spit at them! Better educate these people and give them a chance to do better. Knowledge is wealth and power. And knowledge should be given freely. The public schools here are awful. The children share books And the local high school only has three computers in the inadequate library. I won't deny being lucky. I went to a private school, as will my Stella. But know this, I donate frequently, And when I taught the dance, I taught more than one girl for free. I could rant about this all night but I have Easter baskets to fill. I love you all. Happy Easter<3
Ken Pepiton Aug 2019
Note to you: The rythymn-in-strument strums in stone geo-time.
To the drummers,
dis-passio ey okeh,
woodwinds dim-
inuendo
oboe join in mit piccolo on the hummingbird whistles
simulating
Breezes, in the shade of a great rock,

real life rock, granite composed of not so tiny grains
of ground up uther utter star-stuff, side-
real asif intended for goodness
sake.

otherwise, how petrified I'd be come imagining the forming
of the
very
foundation of my life, as I know it,

it is un-believable, therefore
no lie,
if
the riddle arrives after ever begins

and, word has it, dear reader,
may
is your word now.
You may believe anything you wish,
with no
un-intended after math, after ever
began

Do you recall...
youth full quests completed alone?

Quests, Johnny Quest, Future Quest V.B.S.

believers, true believers being formed from childish hopes,
manifesting in grown liars stricken with

hidden child sym-drone
in the middle of booming thirty-something phase when
pressure
starts storing all the old stories,

building energy for the seventh decade fracture/crushing

blow
sh
soft blow breeze of free and easy musing re
songing a reason to belief
in
even in
a realm where lies never die.

Recall the old days, balance
bubbles and crossed hairs and roads
...
Balance factors, bubble balancing lead weight,
deligate
the Whole Earth Catalogue
as
tipping-point
balanced by the weight of the roof on Notre Dame being
melted along with the rest of the Greenland Ice sheet,

so superman eyes in our skies can see to the bedrock on
which the

Principle Thing
spins
---
The root of evil has reached this point

this is after all that. Time-wise, in the arrow scenario.

Fair tales always win, sh'eros live for your examined life'sake

--- ranting old men come running down stairs
--- the hidden child has arrived

The golden headed child, meek and cold
locked
in buried treasure

chests opened one last time for quadrupal by-pass

--- He's a donor
--- givem awish foundation
--- make this sacred

Mi-da's, well, he wished again,

he wished he lived in inter-sting times entertainment-wise

inward touching times imagined
in the addled golden child
Adler
brought to life in a virtual, al-most verifiable asnot art,
but not

very-fi-able, semper-fi-wise, if you

swore the oath. (It's a game, right, now game vows link for
in of by logic gated
Jungian
mazes, do they? Amazing.  ) See,

from above, as below, pretend you know

all things, you can imagine

in my bubble, in the absolute absense of your
at-most-fear

let. that act do. let us, the objective aspect of we,
the people who hold those famed

troothz, verities of any examind re-ality-ifity-isms

self-evidence for we

be letting be, believe me, that's no lie, you can doit, you can, you can
I imagine

and I accept we may mean more to me than thee,
however now
hapt, in qualia quantumical if-I-ability
entangled meanings
link us through
my-silly-um,

Disney-fictionation endo-crenalation, --||T|>>>--->
times half
formed
Crea-nullated castle
wall
link that sparked the aitia ifiabe
first caused
fall from the well
on the mountain

jack fell downbroke his crown
jillcame
tumbling after bling bling bling

--- the sorcerors's apprentice was fired
--- they found errors in his
--- sin-tax

We can forgive such over-sight.
Blame the mycelum clan

or,
better yet,
blame the clay eaters, no,
the clay wearers?

the clay bher-ers?
Ah, the clay bakers, fersher? Nae?

The clay, perse?
The dust we shuffle as we dance atop the stone?
The way of the rolling stone,
grinding, rolling-downhill-stone,
the stone rolled away,

the stone of the sysiphus-seen-hap-iuna
cult?

Blowing in the wind, lifted higher

Ax d'maji-yo, he know. 'Zeke 17, seven with a caballero v,
y'know,
callit Macaronic be-bop

dodat, yankee doodle morph t' resound,
like poetry
slams

at the gates
no enemey ever breached. The key truth, is that,

believe it, if you think you may.
Macaronic language is text that uses a mixture of languages,[1] particularly bilingual puns or situations in which the languages are otherwise used in the same context (rather than simply discrete segments of a text being in different languages). Hybrid words are effectively "internally macaronic". In spoken language, code-switching is using more than one language or dialect within the same conversation.[2]
F White Feb 2011
but nobody will want me, she said
I am the purple duckling.
My feathers curl to the wind
My eyes, they roll like marbles
in the sun.
My feet walk backwards
to the beach to look for
glass instead of fish.

Who will take me in,
not to rip away my feathers
for fluff and blankets
but to hold me
in their laps and
treasure my wings like
jewels?

My pack is all green-wearers.
their beaks a matching row.
they left me under the
Ash tree and said
She'll never grow.

But if I hold up my candle
to the inscription that
is written on my fading
dignity
hope it will say;
Purple is also the colour
of strength and
royalty
not just eggplants and shells.
so roll their barbs off
your back
and  some
day you too, will
find your
Rightful Pond.
Copyright FHW, 2011
brandon nagley May 2015
Fortify this Amozanian square,
Wherith Baldheads are anguished,
No other place shall compare!!!!

Altered skin wearers,
Sleeve wearing tribesmen!!!

Amourostity don't leave me to far gone,
Showeth me love,
Showeth me loving kindness,
Shower me thy grain!!!
And thine finess....

Fruition comes suddenly,
Studdingly the airs wind stays chill,
Dead/lock exhibitions of fan fare latitude!!!!

A blonde chapter of northern affairs,
How changeable is ones man I can smile!!!

Defilement she hath seen,
Derider,
Non abider,
Doesn't fit on thine circuited scene...

What a guise to all wherin whom sleep!!!

Guardeth thy soul,
Their mind is of allotrope,
You'll whimper as they weepeth!!!!

Flourisher,
Nourisher of nutrientral push!!!
Snappish,
Irenic, lover of pre school books!!!!

Sorceries own solvent,
Dissolvent of surmise talk,

Your a new age Delilah thou fresh smelling mucosa you!!!!!
judy smith Feb 2016
With winter and awards shows upon us, the celebrity-obsessed wonder, "What are they wearing?" When it's fur, you wonder, "Why are they wearing it?"

Fur makes the shapeliest star look like a pudgy cave-dweller. Kim and Kanye become dumpy mall rats when they pile on the pelts. The matter of animals by the dozen being electrocuted for a single coat is of no interest to the self-absorbed duo.

Fortunately, the most admired and articulate personalities are speaking out. After winning a Golden Globe last month, Taraji P. Henson said, "I love clothes and to dress up, but no fur. Stella McCartney laced me with all these incredible faux furs." Taraji's ex-con character Cookie on Empire may have a fur fetish, but Taraji ditched the fur from her closets after seeing raccoon dogs skinned alive for fashion in a PETA documentary on HBO. She then ditched all of her clothes to star in a "Rather Go Naked Than Wear Fur" ad, which she unveiled at PETA's Fashion Week party with fellow animal advocate Tim Gunn.

Another dynamo who removed the unsightly hair from her back — I'm talking about fur — is the fabulous Wendy Williams. In addition to her daily talk show, Williams now hosts Wendy's Style Squad to cover red carpet fashions. "Fur is not the mark of success anymore," she said at the photo shoot for her PETA campaign, which she unveiled live on her show.

Sia led the charge this winter, with this imaginative computer-generated spot in which animal models strut down the catwalk in human skin.

And then there's Pink. "I would like to say I've always been fur-free so I could be proud of myself," says the pop icon. "Unfortunately, I went through a selfish phase and wore fur on a couple of occasions. But I wised up and now boycott fur completely. I wish everyone was forced to learn the horrors that these animals go through for fashion trends. I hope fur wearers get bitten in the *** by the same kind of animal they wear on their back." She took this message to the masses on a PETA billboard in New York's Times Square and stars with Ricky Gervais in avideo about fur and exotic skins.

Who else is fur-free? Lena Dunham, Rooney Mara, Jessica Chastain, Angelina Jolie, Kristen Stewart, Charlize Theron, and Natalie Portman, to name only a few.

Sharon Osbourne, who won a People's Choice Award last month for The Talk, says, "The reasons I stopped wearing fur were because I was educating myself through documentaries on what goes into actually making these fur coats and fur scarves that I was wearing, and when I realized how it was done I was sickened." Sharon hosts PETA's newest video showing how hundreds of chinchillas have their necks snapped for just one fur coat.

Many of you may be thinking, OK — gross — but I don't wear fur. Terrific! I'll end by suggesting you take another evolutionary step by visiting PETA.org to watch Joaquin Phoenix, Eva Mendes, and Pamela Anderson reveal how less-furry animals live and die before ending up in someone's closet.Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015
Martin Narrod Nov 2016
An apple in a pinch
Waterfalls called out for toddlers, Father's
Sports fanatic sweater wearers week.
***** by Saturday,
By the phone in Vermont but from India
Inside of six days: Seven, holidays, prey animals;

No one even pretends to sleep anymore
Anywhere words and eye fluttering can be had.
No caves to scribble with history, all purchase
Buying-Power inscribed.

Just a brief day, sixteen hours or less
Maybe two midnights more.
Lorraine day Apr 2014
People speak through colours
But they don't realise
Sometimes they hide behind them
Their a reflection of the eyes

Colours are a language
That each of us convey
A way we all communicate
In a subtle kind of way

When we choose  the colour yellow
Our child within seeks fun
The heart feels warm and gentle
Radiant like the sun

White displays purity
A need to start a new
A calmness found
Security sought
When we choose the colour blue

Red speaks of a confidence
Of one who likes to dance
One who dares
One who dreams
Of beauty and romance

Green it tells a story
Of one who's brave and bold
Not afraid to speak their mind
But doesn't like being told

Orange speaks of someone
Full of energy and zest
One who likes to sing out loud
And always does their best

Purple wearers like the peace
Of quiet natures sound
They are not ones to meddle
Their feet firmly on the ground

Pink reflects a gentleness
A reluctance to fight
Preferring nothing heavy
Keeping all things light

Black ~beige and grey
All neutral
Speak of those in the background
they'd rather be spectators
Of others all around

My aim when writing this poem
Was Simply to amuse
But has it got you thinking
About the colours
That you choose?
Dallas Feb 2019
The mouth speaks what the heart feels
And hidden truths are now revealed
Our words can give life or bring death
The power of God is in our very breath
What is in our hearts comes out of our mouths
We have control over what is allowed
If we are what we consume
There shouldn’t be any room
For vileness and hatred to take residence
When we show the overwhelming evidence
Of love and truth gentleness and peace
Patience, faith and prayer that doesn’t cease
This is how they know us: they know us by our love
In this we show our kinship with the Father in Heaven above
And let us not dwell on other’s faults
But seek first to find our own
And bringing judgement to a halt
We find that we have grown
Love your sister and your brother
Though they may have a different mother
There are hundreds of languages in the world
But love is universal and a smile is unfurled
They know us by the fruit we bear of peace and unity
With eyes of love striving for a world in harmony
The outside is a manifestation of what is within
Do we reflect Christ or are we soiled by sin?
We are Christ bearers light bearers
Salt and light to the ends of the earth
We are truth sharers and Armor of God wearers
We are here to bring about a time of rebirth
So my friend guard your heart and guard your tongue
So you may stand victorious over the evil one
I pray your words would give life and your life would bless
And God provide what you need no more and no less
So Speaks the Heart
Ideas turned ideology create
Infinite numbers of lines in the sand
Here's mine and there's yours
Serotonin deficient lives
Laying dreams on the back of others
Then shunning them for breaking

Men told to **** the marrow
Women told to **** the ****
Pigeon holed sweater wearers
Hanging the future in neat picture frames
Staring intently to help it self-materialize

Junkies pry the world limb by limb
Holding hands in *** ba ya
As they skip off windowed cliffs
Red light burning away the innocence
Of hairless brown rabbits
Hypnotized boxers fighting ideas
While onlookers are sold to slavers
Breathless New Ageisms
Creating an orthodoxy of unorthodoxy
Visions of trains in a spotless horizon
Idolizing the unreal,  a hope for hope
Destined for eternal disappointment
A Youthful Texas Sojourn
At a feeding barn near Houston Texas, we drank lone star beer
and ate giant size hamburgers and king sized hot dogs
Perhaps it is the Stetson hats, but Texans appear bigger than normal,
but they were engagingly civil towards us and to other patrons,
armed people tend to be polite.
As beer bottle after bottle were sunk into
prominent stomachs  that wearers thought
of as chests, there was this mechanical bull to ride
….3 seconds I lasted on that blood bull.
An enormous woman with a hat big as
a life- boat, took  a shine to me and
dragged me into the dancefloor, whispered promises of a lustful nature
something about she riding me till dawn,
am I a horse?
The lady had to go and powder her nose; she said that  
That was the change for me to get out, take a taxi; she had a gun in her purse
not a lady to let down.
Somehow I ended up in Mexican neighbourhood and had great fun
till the rangers came, bulky men oozing of authority   light grey suits and
the ubiquitous hats were checking papers.
A woman of short stature and big heart named Rosita took care of me
we made love on her mother's sofa in the living room.
She drove me on board when the air was still dawn chilly and I polite as
ever promised to marry her, she kissed me gently and didn't
believe a word of what I said
Olivia Kent Jul 2014
Tonight I went to see a band,
A kicking band of wild sounds,
Gaelic in origin,
passionate in sound,
tin whistles and bagpipes,
hot wild stage lights,
Not one word was sung,
but the music sure stung.

And then I saw him stood there,
he looked a lot like you,
he did wear a wedding ring,
oh goodness how I sighed,
I got up close and personal,
much closer than I should have been,
took a quick look out of my bright eye,
'Twas only then I noticed the wedding band bore one long word,
engraved into the wearers heart,
Rather like mine too,
The band he wore spoke Poetry,
similar in kind to me,
very kind indeed,
but it wasn't you it couldn't be,
to tell the truth I didn't really expect it to be thee,
as the could only ever be one of you,
you're the original!
(C) Livvi
Went and saw a band tonight, The Peat Bog Fairies, from the Isle of Skye, well worth watching...a total dose of inspiration!
Commuter Poet Jan 2017
The early risers
Are ripped from their sleep
By tinkles and chimes
Of programmed alarms

They tread their cold floorboards
To peer in their mirrors
Observing dark shadows
Beneath their worn eyes

They are the ones
Who meet with bewilderment
The dark of pre-dawn
And ponder its death

They are the ones
Who half-asleep shuffle
Along broken pavements
Avoiding black puddles

They are the wearers
Of gloves and wool hats
Thick scarves and overcoats
And knotted shoe laces

A slumber-some army
Making their pilgrimage
To station and hospitals
Factories and schools

They are the ones
Who catch the first birdsong
The breaking of dawn
The crisp of the air

They are the ones
Who gaze at the moonlight
Wonder at stars
And think of the spring

They are the ones
Who live out the hours
Whilst we comfortable sleepers
Lie warm in our beds
9th January 2016
Men of Essex Men of Essex
Strong and true Strong and true
Like the mighty oak tree Like the mighty oak tree
We're with you We're with you
Miley Cyrus Dec 2014
So for a long time i've searched trough every rock of life
for some form of validation of my personla purpose
and i've been through the popular stage...
the slutty for boys stage...
the paris hilton wears pink everyday stage and puts herself above everyone stage...
than the misfit stage...
and oh this stage it stood out amongst the rest
i was so intersted in it
and it felt like i hit home
like i could do anything
and i mean i really like what these people stand for
Miley Cyrus, Kendall Jenner, stoners, lady gaga, gay people, different people
....and for a while i've felt like this is where i belong finally
like i belong with people who don't give a ****, and people who get me, and all black weird clothing wearers
with dyed hair, who listen to punk n gaga
like it felt right for a while but now it feels like all my other stages
it feels all wrong
like idk...
im trying to hard to fit in
and truth is
my place is in my heart
i belong to myself
with my own heart
i fit in with God and myself
and that's all i need
i fit in no where on this earth
for me....
im through needing validation
for my life....
i define my own life
the purpose may not be apparent at times but i now its there and its in my heart
and it's there for eternity
my worth, my loves, my everything
lies within my place....
my heart
Kenya83 Jan 2018
Sheer silk stocking unrolls up her calf
Where the lace top embarks to the highest part
The delicate ritual repeats the other side
Routinely tedious to the wearers thigh
But for he who watches with wanting eye
It’s a delicious entice of tease and deny
Tatiana Apr 2019
Suburban streets are stifled with traffic when school gets out
and righteous rain falls from the cloudy, gray sky,
making the red taillights of cars glisten and glare
directly into drivers' squinting eyes.
Children rush rapidly between cars to get to their own,
as pitiful parents weren't prepared for the rain.
Did any know that one of them today
was calm even as they grew insane?
Patience inside pained people is a terrible thing,
for they can always see when the end is in sight.
Like they are the wearers of robes and bearers of scythes,
they know when one is approaching the night.
A screech of tires, or screams, only one is sure
a fateful falling, anyone could have foretold this crime
bones crunch and a head hits the asphalt too hard.
It is far too late, when we know it's the last time.
©Tatiana
Miley Cyrus Jan 2015
Girl
Do I appreciate all the gratitude
and comments i receive from others...
but i have a huge fear of becoming to rapped up in it
and latching on to that for home sake
but ya know there are people out there who love me, who can learn to accept me, and who just are ******* awesome and who ******* just do....
girl....
there's nothing that you have to do anymore
there are people out there for you
so don't go searching for stoners, "hipsters", or smilers
because you feel like you fit in with them
cuz you don't
your your own person
you revel in you're uniqueness
you fit in with your heart
and you'll find people just like that
not just weird clothes, all black wearers, who smoke ****, and ya know gypsy sorta people
....i mean you have a lot in common with them
but they do not define you
its not a group that you belong to
you can float in space peacefully
counting your stars
with your cats and photos of miley cyrus
you're fine...
and until you find people who can appreciate that...
you'll be fine...
For all you people who feel you need to fit in somewhere...you don't, "fitting in is such a society term....i feel like it's telling people to find a place or you don't mean **** basically...and **** that its totally wrong...you can be happy in you're own world
Came into this world by myself so i dont need nobody else~ Miley Cyrus (sticks tongue out)
JB Claywell Mar 2021
The air was painted.

Inside the chain link fences
were clouds;
brushstrokes
that could’ve been
proffered by
Van Gogh
or
*******
as they dissipated
into the early, cold
morning air,
pausing only for a
few moments to allow
some of the particulates
to freeze;
the hydrogen, the oxygen,
the lye,
&
detergents that
make up whatever
is used in
a prison laundry.

The effluvium is rich,
the odor of a passable
cleanliness in what is largely
a rather fetid domain.

The scent of bleach,
harsh, chlorinated,
removal of that which
stains.

Yet,
something stays,
an acrid, sour smell;
an unpleasantness
which seems to have chosen
to remain
unwashed.

It is concluded,
that this emanation,
is the opposite of
emancipation,
it is a olfactive reminder
that
Building # 7
serves up
freshly washed sorrows,
rages, or regrets
as well as
whiter whites,
releasing
stains from grays
more often than the wearers
of
these wardrobes are released
themselves.


With this in mind,
swirling, shifting,
moving, motivating
marching upward,
toward
Building # 1,

It is breathed in,
and out, and in
again,

renewal,
like clean laundry
washed in industrial
soaps, rinsed in disinfectants,
delousers, deodorants
unknowable.

Starting over.
Today.
Tomorrow.
Overmorrow,
And,
Everafter.

Amen.

*
-J­BClaywell
©P&ZPublications 2021
Eyen F Dec 2019
I saw the shamrock fall,
I saw the shamrock mourn and rot
for Ireland's children, noble beings,
succumbed to England's scorn.

The mother's arms are open,
her children run from her breast
for the English started hanging us
for the wearing of the green.

O' Ireland, your tears have spilled
and reddened your pretty Celtic eyes,
you're full of forlorn and pain
for the Ires die away.

The English rag arises,
the cross barefacedly waved;
the ****** red, left-right strokes
have been drawn on Ireland's chest.

She was stripped of a family,
all bleeding and alone;
now she's fallen to the ground
where her children also fell
when they broke their necks
or when their air was gone;
now all that's left is the wonderful grass
where us fallen lay beneath;
our loving mother is back,
protecting us wearers
the wearers of the green!
MS Lim Jan 2016
Not one
but a mask over a mask
over a mask
which hides some

and the wearers
feel safer
stronger
assume greater
control over themselves
'  I'm a face within a face
within a face
a phantom within a phantom
within a phantom

you can peel a layer away
but not all
and I remain
a shadow within a shadow
within a shadow

one moment you see me
and another moment
I'm no longer there
an apparition within an apparition
within an apparition

I'll cause you confusion within confusion
within confusion

I'm obscurity within obscurity
within obscurity*

I'm a person within a person
within a person'.
* added upon
Folie Sep 2018
You take out your own eyes and make them see why glory’s godless.
Acted in shadows to consume our lust, a mask meant to turn our eyes to water but only to destroy our faces, porcelain takes our mouths and twist smiles through gritted teeth and a spot light to shine out the pain. Crowds of smiles and through it all a frown that shakes the wearers to a reality. Cracks shall consume their faces as we watch life unravel its own lies and see why Glory’s Godless.

— The End —