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Ken Pepiton Oct 2019
uncommon ways of thinking are more subject to be
friending,
odd ionic quests are  trending---
what is the most noble quest?
like
What good am I, peace and safety wise
be me
as a wild bird might feel safe with you near,
as you quest on, leaning on the lift, rolling in the flow

life lives, ideas find shapes that fit,
moreso than a similar unit of your own mind's
left-behinds

just-in-case

we are commanded, be first
he who treads the grain eats first,
as the grain is tread,
or he stores his treasure in an imaginary vault,

safety deposit rule being if I was in the spirit,
as witnessed by the breath
filtered from gnats, and flushed of flem,
Ah hem, Aachen, is back.
Say he has a silver wedge worth risking the wrath of god,
you ever felt that urge,
to taste,
partake of the growing and harvest and decarbing and steeping
first partaker, the husband man, wombed or un, who labors,
must be, then
be the little red hen who shares the over flow,
--- what is being asked of whom, in this room?
not the filling,
let them be only thy own and not another's with thee
but the flood's free
running, whirling vein to one artery to another
we share the air.

My grandsons all can make that clear, the youngest,
three and one half swirls,
lefty lucy, righty tighty, one way or another
no no no … I'll follow the sun

twist again, like we did last summer, oh the
world swallowed me whole

as if I, not Faustus, I am bond to stand toe to toe
with old Mephisto,
by any other name, I tripped

on my feet I land on my feet Agri-industrial experimental,
oil company loss producer to allow tax credits
maybe useful toward avoiding
hundred and forty acre water
that, ****** if they didn't, we was plantin' trees
the names of those reaped
the fruits of our labor,

I see the rod, of an almond tree…

Ich kenne nicht I hid mein heir under the standing
pillars of right we learn
to live under, standing up right, relative to
who our DNA proves,
close enough for Perry Mason,
in the white of the egg, is there any taste?
it is an acquired taste,
a select strand of ancient as we, as a family,
mito-chondrial DNA,
is this not poetryscumbagthunderword getter
good, we

see the flaw, no flaw at all, a short cut for the trout, see

see the flaw in the flow is a matter of matter it self.
Self it sel, per se, same same logos I heard a meta
knower of something or another,
expert, in the literature of his field.

we seem the fruit of a life examined and found lacking nothing,
each day's evil sufficiency settled to gentle predictable waves,
marked by the red tent in the stories
of when there was so much grass and so much wool

every shepherd was feeding three wives in exchange,
for making life livable as the fate spin us
to true rest remaining for the people of {as we all agree, the idea does exist and is believed, though you may not know or know you do and know this form of reality, me and you bot reading thishit}
God god gods and sub beings with
From out of the culvert, east on 66, see I said then
that's me, I'll see what that man sees

you need not reprove the signs,
shake the dust and wander on samsara, as they say, one way

Child eyes, no fear at all, sees himself, a
strange old men
lurking where he remembers only old drunks,
smell of ****,

once watched a squaw in velvet skirt,
drop a qew outside a white outhouse

these windows persist as windows,
no doors if your ligends don’t match the receptors,

fret not, worst can happen,
but not here, time being as it is, you know, variable

In states of mind I can maintain for longer periods than i…
I take that back,
this is the real binge.
The last round. The words form constant ever after
bubble, **** I guess able to bubbles in milk
bubbles of being being my whole metaphor for life inside this one bubble we can sort of see the edge of…
synchronos compromise signals life change…

Invest in a three year old boy who is on-the-ball-*****-trained,
constant barking trained seal balancing the world,
beneath his feet, gripper stockinged ,
but a way can may be
still slide in the hall is if you put 'em on
grippers on top,
aha
life in a child
loves knowing any thing, for as long as knowing
happens along with everything else,

Like," Grandpa", from this blonde head with adult sized eyes,
seeing me look him in those eyes, signal
eyes touch, he sees his reflexion in the glare on my glasses,

I know, I saw my reflexion in my grandma's glasses,
when I was three, or so.

"Grandpa, stars come in all the colors." They do,
I said. I told my daughter, she shone.

I feel sorta Norman Rockwell, 2019.
I noticed last year, in Oct and November, through the year, voices change.
but smooth as yesteryear morphing to now
The grippers has been loosened
now we rise from the darkness
we brush away the cinders and ash
as the hour of calling is here

I look to my fellow warriors
I give them the nod to go ahead
no time like the present
as we the fallen do rise

This world is our world
you are just tenants on it
and now we give you your papers
your marching orders

We rise from the darkness
oh yes with one thing on our minds
to show all truths
to all the foolish and blind


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
jsn Sep 12
content warning, body horror :3
note that this poem was written a year back

I hope you find your solace.

it's almost
ethereal
how I feel
no sensation
in my legs in my arms in my
dragging myself along the gravely, gritty sand, rubbing against blister and bruise, breaking open and closing as tides of pus and dune, day and night, as the waves and troughs of a tsunami, the gravely, gritty feeling in my throat, dehydrated, solace, oasis in sight? delirious, I can't tell mirage from reality, the lines are blurred and I can't see my hands, my hands, where are my hands? they're gone, who replaced my grippers with stumps, I'm not a tree, I'm not an animal, you can't chop me up and harvest my parts and please, spare me, spare me of the pain, pain, it hurts, can I drink blood? can I fuel myself with my own fluids leaking out of my servered flesh, exposed wiring and casings, a red, moist piñata with no candy inside, just a damp rag, smearing over the floor, creating a maroon, crimson coat lane line, can I find solace fueling myself with my blood? can I be a parasite onto myself, can I be a leech that drinks my own blood? can I, can I, can I find oasis? can I find rest, rest these bones, bones exposed to open air, it hurts, hurts doesn't even begin to describe how I'm feeling right now, I'm bleeding out and starving of thirst, thirst for rest, for oasis, for let the dead rest in peace, leave me alone, these dunes are my grave, my grace, my tomb of sandstone and perhaps the sands will shift and I'll be laid to rest, engulfed by the moving hills of the living desert. Is this solace? Will you remember

me?

will you chronicle this crawl, this forward breaststroke through the sand? chronical pain follows me, will you detail how I feel or skim over my pain, you aren't me, you don't know the sensation of sandpaper on soft skin, blasting against me, my empty, bony chest, my, my, my soul, will my soul find solace? will I rest in peace? am I on the final stretch, the last pitch? is this the crux, the wall stopping me from resting? is this the dam that blocks my swim forward? is this my grave?

Is this my solace?
Is this my redemption?

My skin, parchless parchment, saltbed, yellowed pages, stiffer then an old tyre, tired, ready to break like bare birch bark, buried bones, brittler then sandstone on suntanned plastic, the layers of fat and meat stacked like a strawberry creme layer cake, dried like chinese roast pork belly, chewy like slow-smoked beef jerky, stiff like expired instant ramen, brittle as peppermint-ginger bark, as hungry, starving, can I cannibalize myself if it keeps me alive? Am I a creature only staying alive for nourishment? Am I another human with no sense of morals or judgement? Am I another suffering soul stuck in a predicament that I can't repent, preventational measures don't have an effect, stuck in a forward crawl with no end in sight, is this the crossing of the Atlantic on only human hands? Is this the crossroads that reinvents the hard work and events that plague my descent? Oasis in sight, the lights get brighter, this struggle is nigh, the final pitch of cliff.

Is this my solace?
Is this my final feast?

Are my eyes tricking me? Are my goals, my dreams, are my needs and wants all a trick of the light, a mirage and nothing more? Is this momentum a stampede for nothing, nothing at all and nothing in particular, are there only shadows and slivers of meaning in the mound of dirt I call my ambition, the nameless but nothing, none? Is the pit that we burn our money in? is this the

sun seething, scratching at surfaces too
burns, breathing seems too hard to
see things, nothing clear anymore, blue
skies teething at my mind, loose
rock and needles stabbing my youth
see me, yelling at the earth, how pathetic it must hurt,
war crimes can't spare a dime, low-ball a nickel for some time
solace something, stillwater surface ripples
TRAN-
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— The End —