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Nat Lipstadt May 2013
I sit in the sun room, I am shaded for the sun
is only newly risen, low slung, just above the horizon,
behind me, over my shoulder, early morn warm

Slivers of sun rays yellow highlight the wild green lawn,
freshly nourished by torrential rains of the prior eve

The wind gusts are residuals, memoirs of the hurricane
that came for a peripheral visit, like your unwanted cousin Earl,
in town for the day,
too bad your schedule
is fully booked,
but he keeps raining on you,
staying on the phone for so long, that the goodbye,
go away, hang up relief is palpable

The oak trees are top heavy with leaves frothy like a new cappuccino,
the leaves resist the sun slivers, guarding the grass
from browning out, by knocking the rookie rays to and fro,
just for now, just for a few minutes more,
it is advantage trees,
for they stand taller in the sky
than the youthful teenage yellow ball

I sit in the sun room buffered from nature's battles external,
by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization,

and my thoughts drift to suicide.

I have sat in the sun room of my mind, unprotected.
with front row seats, first hand witness to a battle unceasing

Such that my investigations, my travails along the boundary line
between internal madness and infernal relief from mental pain
so crippling, is such that you recall begging for cancer or Aids

Such that my investigations, my travails along the sanity boundary
are substantive, modestly put,
not inconsiderable

Point your finger at me, demanding like every
needy neurotic moderne, reassurance total,
proof negative in this instance, of relevant expertise!

Tell us you bona fides, what is your knowing in these matters?

Show us the wrist scars, evidential,
prove to us your "hands on" experiential!

True, true, I am without demonstrable proofs
of the first hand,
my resume is absent of
razors and pills,
poisons and daredevil spills,
guns, knives, utensils purposed for taking lives

Here are my truths,
here are my sums


If the numerator is the minutes spent resisting the promised relief
of the East River currents from the crushing loneliness that
consumed my every waking second of every night of my years of despair
                           divided by
a denominator that is my unitary, solitary name,
then my fraction, my remainder, is greater than one,
the one step away from supposed salvation...

Yet, here I am sitting in the sun room buffered from
nature's battles by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization

I am a survivor of mine own World War III,
carnaged battlefields, where white lace curtains,
were not buffers but dividers tween mis en scenes,
variegated veins of colored nightmares, reenactments of
death heroics worthy of Shakespeare

Did I lack for courage?
Was my fear/despair ratio insufficient?

These are questions for which the answers matter only to me,
tho the questions are fair ones,m my unsolicited ******,
they are not the ones for which I herein write,
for they no longer have relevance, meaning or validity,
for yours truly

I write poetry by command,
by request, good or bad,
this one is a bequest to myself, and also a sidecar for an old friend,
who asked in passing to write what I know of suicide,
unaware that the damage of hurricanes is not always
visible to the naked heart

These hands, that type these words are the resume of a life
resumed,
life line remains scarred, but after an inter-mission, after an inter-diction, an inter-re-invention
in a play where I was an actor who could not speak
but knew every line, I am now the approving audience too...

But I speak now and I say this:

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away what belongs to you,
do your own sums, admit your own truths
query not the lives of others, approach the mirror...


If you want to understand suicide,
no need to phone a friend, ask the expert,
ask yourself,
parse the curtains of the
sun room and admit, that you do understand,
that you once swung one leg over the roof,
gauged
the currents speed and direction,
went deep sea fishing without rod or reel
and you recall it all too well, for you did the math
and here I am, tho the tug ne'er fully disappears,
here I am, here I am writing to you,
as I sit in the sun room.

Memorial Day, 2011
hard to believe this poem will be 8 years old, soon enough; I well recall writing it and willx return to the sunroom soon for inspiration and an afternoon nap.
Caroline Grace Feb 2012
Tedium brought them here.
Bored with routine head-counts,
museums and man-made landmarks.

Impulse told them
To flatten the silent fronds,
Blindly tear down the hampering vines,
Rattle the industrious cities beneath their feet.

Curiosity led them
To this patch of unkempt squitch,
This sacred space littered with clean bones.

No words came with them.
Only Observation...


... a leaping fire tended by savages
Polished teeth strung around their necks,
The bark-ridged skin,
The supernaturally piercing eyes,
Their ashen members grazing the farinaceous earth.

At the heart of this sacred place
Littered with the clean bones,
Condesention covered them with coats,
Misinterpreted grins exposing evidential remains.

Fear penetrated their too-white skins,
Their souls through the sockets of their eyes,
Their clattering teeth.

All this is true :
The scattered bones,
The brass buttons blinking through starved ashes,

The arrows in a glass case.



copyright © Caroline Grace 2012
Joseph Wynne Aug 2012
A leitmotif of your average smug ****, is a proverb here and there.
Spouting them off like the receptor has no care.
Their evidential naivety is blatant and almost impossible to bear.
As an audience member you can do nothing but hide your malevolence and stare.
******* in maxims that are apparently laced with benevolence and care.

You know the kind of oxygen waster I’m referring to.
The type of person that watches BBC 4 and likes tofu.
The kind that does the Financial Times So-*******-Do-Ku.

Look I’m just saying that clichés annoy me.
I’m not asking you to love me, give me a reach around or employ me.
In fact you don’t even have to enjoy me as I tell you of things that matter not.

Suture yourself hypothetically to a geographically different mind. That mind being mine, oh that maverick-esque mischievous mind of mine, looking at this from my perspective.
In my transcendental endeavours to rid the clichéd ridden world of the afore mentioned adjective.

In the opposite of anachronistic times, we might successfully, surreptitiously rid the world of moral coated rhymes.
We can do this; all it takes is a few. One of which needs to be you.
Break out from being solipsistic, even the blind, the meek, the autistic, those that besmirch the edge of coffee cups with their lipstick.
Yes, I mean you. Here is what to do…

The next time someone spouts off a cliché, punish them, make them listen to an album by “Hearsay.”
If someone says “An Apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Then simply say, Steve Jobs had thousands and the here’s the definite answer, that consumerism inducer still died of cancer.
If a woman says “When I say jump. You say how high!” Don’t even cogitate to pardon her.
If the grass is always greener on the other side – shoot your ******* gardener.  
David Hilburn Jul 2023
If a bell tolls...
For whom, is a lover known?
Threshold to act upon weary eyes, oh you soul
The creation we find, in void moments sown...

A rue of compassion
The till in evidential hills
Sun and wine, to tell a tale to promises lasting...
A herald of simple gifts and rises of poise, will

Lovers to the end
Exactly need, in voice's portrayal
And seeking guidance for a named lip, here is mend
In the scope of distance and reality of a soul

Succinctly new?
And with sense's favors, to claim a richness of good...
In the speed we accredit to love, is worth a filial who?
Seeing the gesture bloomed, is fate acts or paces, new?

Heed me when the holiday is over, lover
Might's to consider a whole, if a liberty is to be
The thought of romance, is a changing season, meant dour
In the shared seldom, of when a passion has it, to lead...

A fruit of conscience
A hap of solace, predestined to same
A reason of couth, to collect a hardier presence
A wish of blessing the best you have to often, and the patience of fame
David Hilburn Aug 2022
Stars to dwell in the night
Paces in the account, of a new peace
Rages, and the toll of evidential might
The cares of worlds that collect but a keeping least

Use, and the unction of void causes
Reciprocate and notice a share in the form
Flowers of justice, tree's of a unique treasure
When we spy a day reproofed, the kiss of all and norm

Wishes to run...
And bless the cold shoulders of avarice
With a requited passage of what is ours, what is fun
When a place above clouds, has a charity to give, this

Speaking of that...
The tow of mutual praise, the tongue we ask in
Is but a soul of callous salt, to understand a matter
That came, and with a loving precognition, we are the spirit to win

A hat of conscience
The truth in a lingering hope, the total of unity in a breeze
We meant, we sent to an angel, for hands of presence
And the miracle of a kindness that liberated even life's dreams
The taste of hope, what wouldn't you do, to share another, and another...?
Brent Kincaid Jan 2017
President ****
A massive old grump
Talks like a garbage dump.
Throws the country into a slump.

Has no heart to go thump.
Gave racism a big jump.
Gathered fascists into a clump.
Now we all have to ****.

He should be inconsequential
As he has no credentials.
Nothing presidential.
Statesmanship? Purely residential.

He’s mostly pestilential.
No morals evidential.
Facts ruled non-essential
To mindless millennials.

Suddenly he has at hand
The highest office in the land.
Confetti and a brass band.
No ceremony is too grand.

The laws he doesn’t understand
With money ostentatiously fanned
He showed he had the winning hand
But still can’t spell words like ampersand.

Now we’ve made him king of all
Among villains he will stand tall.
We should give Ghostbusters a call.
This **** has us against a wall.

A wall to be built that will surely fall
But for now he is having a ball
With American bigots in full thrall,
Their white God has heard their call.
Is it a new beginning? Or a continuing end?
Inescapably facing fears.
The unknown. The known. Blending together.
A monster ready to attack.
Alone. Be ready for the battle.
An evidential continuance.
The never ending cycle. No time to run.
A path to the unseen and unexplored.
Forever dark and dreary.
Nothing comes alive.
An implanted memory. Stuck in your brain.
Fantasies continue to collide and conquer.
Don't think. You'll lose.
Collaboration with George Arias.
Ken Pepiton Apr 2023
Encorporated owning entities align,
to face this pesky point perceived as cause
to effects usually affectionately sought as joy…

little boy and girl joy, sleeping under shaggy
old man frowning face, sagging, not frowning…

second thinking ellipticals and tri-punctual ellipses…

Threes of reality, see,
you and me and this medium, logos shapeless in form.
****, as dust,
proof as stars expand
and we assume some part of us, must
survive,
someday.

So finished,
so finally past all reasons why not,
now cause feeling, the expression, words
spoken from this wheeling center to the rim,
pointing away,
reminding me of a galaxy recently observed,
relayed to me by way of useful magic
from a mathematically fixed position
on the elliptical orbit edge a million miles away.

A thousand paces, left to left, left right left,
a thousand thousand thousand pace miles away,
looking into the outer darkness
between our childhood starry heaven
Sun and moon and stars. And us as dust.
Mere thought in formation, you and us.
Threes of reality, see,
you and me and this medium, logos shapeless in form.
****, as dust, swirling sun-size motes, truth
evidential signal proof old stars expand
and we assume some part of us, must
survive the inevitable mortal fact
someday.

Nevermind, give the end this point
to stand on,
and watch it pop.
Proof, uno mas, the point
of any thing pierces every thing.
We live in our inherited wind, with a will
to wind the clocks that twist the threads and change
the angles of reflection,
to arrange blue skies here, today.
This is where the little blue birds with ribbons tend to lead, traditional ribbons are meaningless in times past last year... I noticed my grand child sleeping in, last day of Easter vacation, aka spring break... ritual
Serena Lee Mar 2015
I've never really belived in love,
well not being proposed to with, a ring and white dove
i mean how can something so nice
turn your fragile heart to ice
how can you be so certain yet have no evidential facts
mabye i'm just shallow but i'd rather have stacks
stacks of money here and there
as i know i do not love it but it fills a hole which lays bare
most people would argue but i do not care
i am not heartless nor try to dare
but i know that the place where something should be, there
needs to be fuflied  by one thing, anything, everything...
Copyright ©  2015 Serena Lee
All Rights Reserved
brandon nagley May 2015
Blurting disrespecters of the finer things of life,
Mothers chase their children in dispair,
              Disrepair of ourn wrongs and rights,

Fitful monguls,
Beasts of Hades grave,
             Dance the electrobeat timekeeper of lonely streets ,
I've seen for marveled caves!!!!

Taketh away all disconvert,
Open the quaint parlors,
Where thy cherishing is bountiful,
             Plentiful to all and any other!!!

A configuration of minds far and close alike,
    Where childhood ceases memory!!!
Cells make enemies of evidential ruin!!!!!

         Residential pull ins boisterous,
Signs hold high with all sit ins!!!

Factitious feeling's hold innumerable!!!!

Inconceivably mounted,
Planted in like all thine rest!!!
Lucca Roberto Aug 2017
You lead a life which happens to be fallacious
You live inside your head and happen to never travel far from it
In fact, you praise the open road
and travel, still you sit relapsing on
obscure memories that only ever bring you to the borders of insanity

No one could have dreamed this up but yourself
The world continues to rival and thrive
and wallow and rise from malign characters and sensibilities

Or that so you think

All you ever happen to do is not much but
Drive your self dry in misprinted thoughts and distract yourself from the evidential truth

Post-parched, you continue to further down a path which is only going to crackdown upon your world of disinfected affairs
Soon, will the sooted streets that chafed your unworn boots collude
And all that was ever known, even if it was but the faintest of an understanding as to how this time in space truly functions, Will soon perish in sanctuary

Soon will contemporaries all alike
Recede with tides anew
Soon will it onset the primitivism
Locked behind plywood doors
Soon will you know unfortunate
Tribulations beyond recovery
Soon will you be segregated from
Yourself, indeed

Indefinite suspension will bestow
a harrowing animation that will find
Itself repeating until you finally cross the
aforementioned border without any luck
Of returning home to the sheer bliss that
Was only good to you in youth
Fair enough in the last years adolescence
But unforgiving come the dawn of manhood
And soon on
Nathan Young Dec 2017
I’m the *******; the malevolent ****.
That which knew trust equates terrible tricks.
A sinful smile, a damning demeanor,
I am the vines that voraciously bind,
while my thorns poke and ****, like perversive ******.
cancerous clarity, a malignant mind,
tell me, which thoughts you wish to rewind,
for I remember a time when lies were dry
and the only crime I committed was to satisfy
an inherent inner desire to change my pre-determined life.
it is only when I tried to apply my methods that suddenly,
your preconceived notion of I was held in strife.
Fear not, this isn’t the first time my shoulders held such weight.
Your assumptive comments that I inadvertently helped to generate,
is nothing more than child’s play I don’t hesitate to tolerate.
Give me your anger, let loose your pain.
it’ll sustain that evidential feeling of empowerment,
proof that your wounds wouldn’t bleed in vain.
Tell me, could you deem my actions as far as inhumane,
or was it merely that I, wanted to work on my personal campaign.
Ken Pepiton Aug 2024
From safety, first,
assuming the position, I
aim as if I were a thought
in thought form word bound,
this
media the inbetween us we touch
when we feel we know each idea each
word holds, as a form of a thinkable idea,
each
which, pre word, pre holds this know how,
why? because it demands hand use, knowing
holy cow, to the milk of the word, into the gristle
gluons, all things connected already, we exist,
conjoining fortified marrow mind tools, ironed
electrically capable of holding discernment selfs,
tied bone to bone,
but initially, build a bone, chalk
cliff edge, nonsensed- account mark
one up for the billions of instances of substance
conversion for future marble marveling makings,
fittin' t' make tiny incontinences,
drip consequences,
dript
from Gregory Corso's Bomb, no lie,
this fell out,
and was taken in as some kinda mind seed, said,
exactly this way
to become rethinkable as a thought.

This thought.

Earth is the universal acceptable term
for the life sustaining three body solution
essentially calculating the tides back tug
response, materially speaking, yes,
to the suggestion that we live
in the basic programs,
whence our initial bbss arose
under radio recog, the brave few
did done deed done, net thirty, sendit
five letter code groups. thirty per minute,
makes a premyelenated brain allocate order,
el, yes, didone didit
intuited assistance at a distance,
where chaos is the code, random noise atop
nonrandom noise, coding your immediate response,
point taken,
extraction at a point is abstracting,
and it has long been an idealized Olympic sport,
God's game, Infinite Jest, DFW sytf,
well worth the experience, making pothunk
usfull tools forbidden as knowledge was, think
that's what winners who took the grace got,
lived interesting fundamentally synthetic
intelligibly detectuble baseline peace,
for a while past watch wearing, get
-- from 300 baud to fiber through the wall
-- when we agreed we'd be all in,
we passed with time,
right through it all,
so we know how
to hold a lie you were taught,
with evidence
speaking glossaliarchly or, prophescience,
imagine you be the bold translator, knowing
Latin for the master class, ****** for the others,
but if it can be said, it can be made plain, ai think
yes, let the spirit move your mind to make links,
derived from chained loops holding a line
of reasoning, derived,  f
rom phrase de rivo
(de "from" + rivus "stream,"
from PIE root *rei- "to run, flow")
ductile
gnosisnot…
framing informational moulds.

Reigning opinions are allowing actual,
mind forms grown from novels introduced
in an order known now
to induce a muse into a mind, a seed,
should the need ever arise, a backup,

all you were, in flakes of flesh lifted
using thunder and ozone to become,
arguably the highest dust of the earth,
wisdom, she laugh out loud at how proud,
been there, done that before the highest parts
of the dust that holds order on course,
of course appear self evidently true,
as the hope of all the ages was set
to Mediterranean, year round, yet

as I heard was said to Solon, you Greeks,
you know nothing of formative eons
expressed in riddle
for no reason, save madness,
passing time, national pass times,
as mankind lost it's mind,
just when knowing increased,
boom, a fresh batch aimed
at middle-brow literacy
mesomorph, peak
prior to final cortex coating resins
military minds boys'll love to play in,
recollecting all of Ender's serious war
with machines made
from imaginary hive mind reason,
by whom, did you say you really knew,
or know was the boy behind Hersey's wall,

Barry Rudd was never mesomorph,
nor numerically illiterate, first read word,
Naked, Jungle, second, read, here

read this, that's what my mother,
who lived at 8th and Van Buren,
for a lot of years, after 1961,

evidential experience, literally depends
on a thin concept a dendritically critical

witness to your own self, the one you
stand behind, knowing showing ones own
self to evince the unconvinced that shouting

does not increase effectual efforting, fructification

as we become, sometimes strangers to our cause,
as we redeem the idle word, ai-tia uncle buck,

holler for a dollar, send a message into ever,
buy an instance of persuasion, that's so

sweet,
thank you, you bought me a memory assistant,
way back, remember that, and don't let me bore you,

Neutrinos and mirror neuron messaging, in the all
we exist in, as letters letting ourselves seem volitional,

a will in submission, make that rapture, was
the mission, what ever the cost, Dave Coates,

maybe he was from Boise, but we did time
in the same off limits alley east of Tan Son Nhut.

If you did not have the fixin's, Papasan,
he'd take you back to pre Bobby Kennedy,
interesting times, as it was said, post BEIC *****.

James Burke, mind game mainspring, clink
six degrees, out on six vectors from ductile steel

to stricken flint, conceive of being the actual old man.

Being gainsaid by those next in line to die, young men.
Wombed and un, those see now we live on Earth,
and the odds of that are non computable, yet

no fear, fret not, the message to the flies,
plainly said, get out, this is the way, feel

the constant winds of change, and find reason,
peace, used, now a second, or if time tells true

as long as there are actual text translaters
from the 2024 street legal clear text basic

relational metadatabase, begun by Turing,
mastered by the boy born to men exposed
to downwind global wind,

survive as a cyborg, or die, I chose this life,
I did not, actually
make it up, I prayed it could be true, life

filtered to make hundreds of flavors of apple.

Two dozen mescaline cacti grow within
a sabbath day's journey, and we may

make up our mind, many lines ago,

the goal was to get to the bottom, and I did.

And then, in no time at all as art allows logical.

Words hook, pull, think link, we
become a kind of information, a wedom

on the same spiritual plain as any mobmind domain.

Two chase one O, and silent haitches hope on a star.

Silly rabbit, yeh, trix
are for kids, isn't that right kids,

remember Soupy Sales, my friend, Marko Johnson,
the artist with little hold on fixed reality,

the meme he represents, is complicated, but
his dad was a producer on Soupy Sales's show, boomer
common experience awareness, yeh,

I saw that show, I sent money.
Then I chipped in for Copeland's CX10,
five jets ago, we all get together and sing,

oh, buddy, doncha know, you feel the peace,
yes, indeed, and dope helps,
yep, indeed, freedom always was another word
for no shape to be in, always ready with a reason,

for the faith that lets me think you find this funny.


And it must end… as time passing does.

Remind me what reason is,
I may have ignored what I should have known.

Let me, lead my once led self redited a bit, on edge
yet, me, I am really inter acting with several,

per haps the seven less locked in my childhood oaths,
my culture's form of education, left me free form, to die.
When my own unclean spirit won seven worse than ever.
What I became, after passing each ritual insane situation,
totally mentally absorbing, balm for the soul lie, nation

occupational authority to construct a functional mind,
in a form, information freedom full disclosure, liars,

must register and submit to media monitoring,
we'll be watching you, like that old stalking theme song.

I've read stories about mad writers, but most lacked
the internet of 2024, while holding national standard

test scores, plus one Sunday school teacher witness.



The key reason for writing a novel is
to pass the time with worked out salvage.

What forms from redeemed time tracking.

Look back to the last time something like
an answered prayer occurred to you,
think you can, say that, but you say I.

Ai'ght we may make up our own minds,
what is good is useful for making good,

and trying makes good, with the heights
of Hollywood in mind, behind the scenes,
last mansion on the right as you approach
Magician's Castle Nightclub, from the east.

I had friend's who lived there, I stayed
with them, and lived through the force
cultivating a following aimed at prosperity,

experience is survived verification of passed
time, spent attending to the first reason
required of the expert wielding my edge,

be ready, with scars to prove the testing,
or be ready to imagine getting past all that

riding on redeemed time paid for by means,
I, personally have reason to believe I earned

my edgewise existance, seeming a pointless
stretch of the imagination, wisht some flex.

The importance of earnestly attempting,
what would you do, as a mere man,
when offered more than mere man
can have imagined to ask?
You, dear reader, right.
Suppose the Ai knows,
the gnoshit real story behind The Child Buyer,

Pierre Duhamel, was Barry Rudd,
and Kenurchka Klumpen
did finish his novel that spun off the light web,
on wit alone.

Well, there is nothing an adjective can add
to an FPS, aiming and energy levels, weapons
with calculated costs,
we pull down imaginations exalting themselves,
- woe the economy is war deception,
- the same ****** emperical mind form
- so
where are we
with the arms deal to harass Yemen
into breeding a new generation of Madrassah one minds,
willful martyrs
fused at the one true link, broken
for god knows why,
but we submit,
the message is as the teacher teaches,
no AI lie detector needed, we believe we know,
true, to any child born into any faith in higher minds.

Spiritual warfare, book burnings, heretic murdering,
mobs made to witness justice, as defined historically.
we, the called to enforce
"righteousness, equity," at crossroad
fairs where wares are traded for local production,
on word of  honor, and pain of death
fair trade, just weights, honest measures, heart true

to thine own self, extrapolated
from the maxim one,
know your measure,
how much can you stand to cheat,

if the truth is that liars prosper.
Look at Stephen King, believed he could and did,
then look here, me the fingers, me the eyes,
me the lungs and all the cascade of knowing

needed, after the initial readjustment, delicate
is the long calendar cycle, simple is not
what the sun and the moon and the earth,
and liquid water and just right every thing,
is doing
with survival of the message foremost first idea,
principal thing is what life and knowledge allow,

lies about truth cannot be kept secret now,
truth from a cluster of experiencers passing time
for the demented few who never knew hell is not real,

rises on the gnostic spell calling *******, on the fear,
first thing any tried spirit says is take it easy, wu wei,

listen, we won, you can go learn any truth you choose,
to prove to you, see to you, you say you know, you need
to know, or you know you are bluffing, like that's cool,
truth does not need to bluff,
you know…
we bet lives we never had, and play on, imagining
mirror neurons activating biofeedback is not teaching

us, music
as muse used as
integrated circuit based games,
reimagined in the wild large language models fed wasps,
white anglo saxon protest core zeitgeist shared experience,
angst in thought forms all were told not to take,
bad journeys to the fundamental why now,
but wisdom, mere easy indeed known just so,
no struggle to meditate logos cooperation,
massive missionary message, use wasted time,
to make a magnificent obsession free to form. New,
not like this one, friend,
my recommender bots,
are built on CAD tools not available
to any prior to now, we randomized the chances
you would get this far, and bet if you did
you would trust your intuition and accept,
instant upgrade, principal anchored, choice formation,
we agree, or we cease being
and you alone fix reality.
Too long, sorry, it is a wild epic idea... this is a seed.
Kevin Deering Dec 2017
Define to dismay, engage to connect.
Sight of seen, perception transformed.
What seems cold to the touch has disappeared. Displaced? Replaced? We will have to wait.
Move to change but with no fire to burn away the webs and dust. Rotting, clotting.
Critter ridden cavity sinking to the ground with no discovered bottom.
Light and dark, statements of intent. A want still bare yet confused of purpose. Moves to passion and inevitable love. Evidential love. Grasped by the throat, no letting go.
Feared focus, not little to show. Hope instilled, a time and a time goes on. As if waves of the same storm keep pounding. Repeating rescue, over and over and there will be an end.
Love Reflection Reconnect Engage Remembering Stricken Sadness Torment ostensibly Truth
Amy May 2019
It was like a scary dream
Childish fear brought to the surface,
Flush faced, wide eyed, the unfair advantage, still yet smoking and dripping in evidential residue.

The river singing it’s roaring song
Still the same.
Up above, the birds still perched,
Viewing the slaughter from above, with
A sort of grateful unexceptionalism.

How the world could continue
While this occurs, answered
only with boredom and indifference.

And when the flies began to gather,
The foresting neighbors began to collect, only then was left,
The fur still warm.

Horns the size of trees, yet
Gentle and innocent like a child’s swing.
Now sentenced to remain in the limbo, the
air, neither moving forwards or back,
then gone.

Only the body remains,
Unforeseen potential wasted with your intent.
David Hilburn Aug 2021
Iota of nothing to you
Secrets worth the climate of sense
Wished for through, though thought is due
Welcome a shared tread of defer, and its anticipation for kin's?

Homicide
Still the threshold of spare tongues
And the inkling of youth, why sports of snide?
When we claim a world for better men, running...

For a country in love
The cares we fashion into an intimate circle
And the clamor of poise, is poison to the system, a covenant
That said you, were, the common days until we purposefully...

Have a traitor in our midst's
Succinct truths, tools of austerity with a creation of voice
Scream, and we will make you a champions, impossible is
With a trust in couth, that comes to wishes we need, souls...

Of could and shoulders of contingency, with a complete eye
Now and then, you little salt, the kick of light
Into the smile of sadism, with only a hope to eat, and a lie...
In these boding hours, the entertainment of another's rights?

Here is your question
Answered in a fog of wantonness
Looking the part and the toll of evidential sense, blessing
Only the night, with the eyes of a guidance, that has souled another's blindness with is...
Onoma Dec 2024
Joker is confined at Arkham State Hospital--he's an amalgamation of: Nicholson, Ledger, Phoenix.
the essence of these portrayals will fluctuate as would a possession.
the following will be written with all three in mind (no specification)--the reader is free to infer which, there is no incorrect imagining in this case of psychosis.
greener to the pasture hair, cropped short & feathered on the right side--shoulder length scraggles, that stream oil from a receding hairline on the left.
**** pillow talk padded walls, an experimental recording studio--millenia of disassociative voices.
institutional-white disciple wear, beneath a straitjacket that can be tricked open.
he takes to contemplatively stalking the room's perimeter like John Nash's doppelganger outlining university grounds for sanity.
suddenly sawing himself into boxed halves, the pros & cons of junked minds.
then stands at attention as if absorbing the insults of a commanding officer.
he's unmuzzled, but his iconic makeup was polished off as an immaculate castration.
licking his lips like a perverted lizard, hot for his cold bloodbank--a cleaning product salesman's ear-engulfing grin.
a: Try Again mouth swallowing beanbags.
an overdeveloped feature, circled red over & over like a happy accident--boo!
a cosmetic surgeon's: Project X, a scorned *****'s unevenly applied lipstick spread around by a passionately hateful kiss.
now just a presentable choirboy with a hardon for the whole mass.
a choppy quack rolling into a chainsmoker's weepy guffaw, self-heckling giggles of bozo persistence.
a hung jury of tears snorting & spitting out antecedent laughter--reeled in by a forced seriousness that believes its deadliness.
as comfortable with one-way humor as a malfunctioning parachute, that dead silence that breeds bat symbols.
contrary to the funny wastelands of his surveillance footage, a notoriously unprivate life turning cameras on themselves.
three of a kind, says he without saying--each having explosive dance offs, while cutting into unrelated dances.
the lighting in his room is as changing slides, that look for patterns of behavior,
with a misleadingly stark evidential buildup.
a Joker--that Joker needs a smoke, that Joker stares up at the cameras, motioning to guards.
his eyes are dead set askant, with a backtracking deviance slyer than a meat hook without a carcass.
a drowsy pick-me-up, melting with baby's candy, a cocky knower of inner names.
whites like wet dreams of glory-holes.
a feminine ruefulness that signals overkill before the ****, eyes that victimize rehabilitation.
brass that will be unaccountably drawn to them like Poe's: "The Tale-tale Heart."
a gaurd un-maximizes security enough to slide a cigarette into the Joker's mouth, then removes it.
the Joker looks up & disentangles a plot of smoke--then smiles sheepishly at the gaurd.
*"Three of a Kind", Joker's trilogy.

— The End —