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Francie Lynch Jul 2015
Every night is Saturday,
Every Monday's Sunday.
If Tuesday is my lieu day,
Then Wednesday is my luncheon meeting.
Thursdays are long coffee breaks,
And Fridays are my Personal Days.
Saturdays are Saturdays,
And ****,
It might begin again.
Retirement's great. Too bad I have to be so fecking old to get it. Retirement is wasted on the aging population as much as youth is wasted on the young.
Jordan Gee Feb 2022
early retirement                                           2.11.22 Mercury/Pluto conjunction

I’ve been cracking jokes lately,
when in the company of others.
When there was an opening in the conversation
I would insert a comment;
I would joke about my life in early retirement.
I would joke and say that I am retired.
It's obviously funny because I’m only 35;
fairly early in my second Saturn returns.

Over the last 18 months I’ve made modest acquisitions
fit for a retiree;
house slippers, a few extra lines in my face and
even a piccolo pipe with dark cherry Cavendish tobacco.  
They all fit rather nicely,
(according to my eyes)
when worn with my gray cardigan with the red whip stitch
suring up the right pocket;
the same cardigan I wore the night of the accident and the
morning of the ward.
That was an equinox to remember.

Maybe it's in poor taste to joke about early retirement.
Perhaps that it isn’t very funny to go on about,
or maybe it was only funny to me.
It hadn’t quite occurred to me until now that
it may be kind of awkward for a grown man to crack
funnies about his lack of income or industriousness.
I suppose I just gave myself a pass.
Because I figured everyone already knows I’m
a little unhinged-
a little ungrounded-
certainly a bit touched…
and that “he just needs time to heal because he is
an activated Light Worker and the benefits reaped
by his inner struggle to anchor the
Light upon the Earth plane is in everyone’s best interest,
and that it takes an untold exertion of Will to exact such an incarnation,
and that it takes more than a few several months for the
risen Kundalini to come to maturation.
Quick, can someone please get me a tourmaline.

Well, here I am in
southern Jersey
Manchester Township
Ocean County
Riverside retirement community
side of the pond (man made)
composite bench under a gazebo erected on a concrete pad.
Sitting inside my cardigan next to my piccolo pipe and a pen in my hand,
wondering how I could feel so lost and so found at the same time.

I’ve been a stubborn *******.
Afraid to bear my Light within my hands and
expose it to my kin in a meaningful way.
But here I am,
early retirement
on an early afternoon
in a retirement community
full of elders
slinkin through the
early dusk of the
twilight of their lives.
And I don't like it.
I am not equanimous with what is.
I’ve excreted so many toxins that the
re-uptake is nearly too much to bear.
I’ve carried empty green notepads in my back pocket for years.
Pen and pad with scotch tape holding down the binding;
worth about three or four poems max.
“Yea I fancy myself a writer, just not very prolific.”
You can only speak something into being so many times
before the universe starts agreeing with you.
Old man Saturn couldn’t give a **** about
little fears and excuses.
The limits of necessity were only
bad wiring
rendered by
my own hand.
And that goes down smooth like a fish-bone in the throat.

I own enough scarves and robes to
circumambulate the globe a few times.
If only I could fly
it would be in such style
because on the outside I look how I want to feel on the inside.
Before my heart center I hold the dharmachakra mudra and
I stare into a candle flame.
I could of sworn they prescribed this treatment
early in the Rig Veda for guys with ailments like mine;
running mad like beside his shadow and
fleeing all the house flies;
sliding down the side of a waxing crescent moon.

only the moon it is a scythe;
a crescent knife.
Waning in early retirement,
old man Saturn coming for his life.
death and the sickle
hebrew rope
and a buffalo nickle
Rusty McCormick Aug 2013
I have migraine headaches quite often.

Stress could be a factor as
I am a fifty-one year old father of three;
a retiree with too many chits, too many broken nest eggs...

Or it could possibly be my diet:
lots of carbohydrates and complex sugars,
mixed well with large quantities of
diet soda and inactivity...

Or perhaps the trouble lies with allergens;
for my life is inundated with pet dander, pollen,
dust, and grass clippings. Add to that
humidity levels and mold blooms -
who wouldn’t be allergic?

Or maybe it’s just a brain tumor.
Meandering Words Jun 2023
at breakfast
another hotel restaurant
another choice to be made
of mediocre cooked
or bland continental
a fish bowl
of floor to ceiling
panoramic windows
people-watching
strangers passing
insignificantly through
one another's universes
parents desperate
to negotiate the morning
without a scene
suits with shirt and tie
top buttons undone
for now
retiree couples
happy in each others silence
or those lucky ones
who still find words
when alone together
or the curious
solo diners
alone and lost
in their own thoughts
or striving to hide
how they watch
those others
as they go about
their business
of goodness-knows-what
another banquet shared
unbeknownst to all
in attendance
Raj Arumugam Jan 2014
1
if and when I'm retired

I'd expect the world to be kind
and reverential:
so I'd expect when I drive

all people get off the road 

when they see me approach;

and at the bank 
for all to step aside

for a man whose daily 3-time meals

is nothing but baked beans


2
I'd expect the world to be in awe, and to admire
so the women would say: *
”My, look at this retiree
in his psychedelic shirt and rainbow hat
and his bell-bottoms – real cool, baby”
and the men would concur, dazzled:
“Owww - this guy, what planet is he from?”


3
and 
of course I'd expect
 the govt
to send me my cheque
 weekly –
no, wait - EFT
will be the way to go;

and the Minister for the Retired
should call me every 30th

to ask if I’d like a raise

4
Also I’d expect
to wake up each morning
to find a cup of coffee ready on my table
and I’d turn to my wife and say:
“All our lives, you always put the ****** salt
in the coffee”
And I’d expect her to say
(cos that’s always been the way):
“If you want sugar in your coffee
fix your ****** coffee yourself!”*

5
And  all these things I expect
of the world (except of my wife)
to be kind 
and reverential
if and when I’m retired -
but then again, I might just die
at my table at work
after a coffee I fixed myself
a bit of dark humour....or as Polonius says in Hamlet:  "...comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical,  historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical- comical-historical-pastoral..."
Coyote Jan 2011
The child opens his eyes and sees
a million points of light, each one
an open door to an endless
possibility.
The adolescent opens his eyes
and sees a hundred thousand
points of light, each one a door
to new hopes and adventures
The adult opens his eyes and sees
a few hundred points of light,
each one a door beckoning him
to new experiences
The retiree opens his eyes and sees
perhaps a dozen points of light, each
one a door, welcoming him to well
earned relaxation
The old man opens his eyes
and sees but one dimly lit point
of light coming from a single door
from which he hears his name
gently being called
In trepidation, he closes his eyes
and walks slowly towards that
final door, and nervously passes
over it's dark threshold

When he opens his eyes,
he is a child with a million
points of light before him,
each one an open door to
an endless possibility.
CH Gorrie Sep 2012
Can you hear the sound of the indomitable wind?
It breathes in great heaves
through these sun-beaten leaves,
so boisterous it could flow through ears to the mind.
The eucalyptus’ standing in disciplined lines
seem disturbed by it,
and by the sun that’s lit,
illuminating their aging signs.
From some stark desert some miles to the south
bundles of dry wind roll
up, over, and down this grassy knoll
that unknowingly beleaguers the skin of both
infants playing with their blocks on the lawn
and an older patron
visiting from Dayton
who naturally rises some hours before dawn.
The wind can easily uproot and tear the land apart;
it can dishevel
a garden neat and level,
desolating work to which the retiree gives their heart.
The lascivious sound of the southern wind resonates
past the final palm of the mind
where Wallace Stevens’ bird went blind,
lying low in the recesses of cranial plates.
I say that that sound is no sound at all,
just a loosing slip
of the cerebral lip
attached to a thing abstractly beautiful.
But it sings its song all the same.
Perhaps it is physical.
It’s certainly divisible.
It pierces the sky like a transparent flame.
Sebastian Perez May 2014
Everything happens for a reason all must come to an end, it's been long ago since I consider you a friend.

The pain in my heart has turned into fear, I can't imagine life without you near.

More than friends I loved you way too much, I will make you my love and long for your touch.  

Uncertainty became difficult to hide how much you meant to me, through persistence and patience I have time I'm a retiree.  

I would lean on other friends who showed their concerns to, but my friends I left because I couldn't be away from you.  

I guess I just need that one best friend to confide, no matter the difficulty you ignored and put me a side.  

I should have known that you wouldn't be like you said, I tried to force you to think like I did but tears fell from my face as if I bled.

However, we're happy once again, and no matter what struggles we had from our pass this can be a new beginning and let's hope it will last.
Anais Vionet May 2022
I went to Walmart this morning - yes, it was very brave.
My dander was up - I was on high alert - for active shooters and the unmasked.

Then I saw him! A man on the cookie aisle - he looked like he had the monkeypox!
So I kicked him in the nuts and ran - you can’t be too careful out there.

It turns out that he was just an 80-year-old retiree wearing a polka-dot shirt.
I apologized - from a safe distance - as the paramedics carted him away.

It felt like a close call.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Dander: refers to anger or temper
Classy J Oct 2016
Going through a town that is not my own, fighting against strange monsters and inter-dimensional demons that can turn people to stone. A places full of mysteries, trying to decipher this places history, no time to get all jittery. People are not what they seem, who to trust, who do we allow on our team? Journals and zodiac circles, did the weirdness bring forth these nocturnal spiritual hurdles? Brought here not by choice, just kids with a ploy for adults to hear their voices. There's Dipper, the adventurous curious kind, who wants answers so bad, he makes a deal which leaves him unable to control his body and mind. Then you have Mabel, a sporadic sort with a big heart, who likes art and going with the girls to a boy band concert. Together they're known as the pines twins, who discover crazy and unexplainable things.

Who knew just another boring trip would turn into this, and bring all these interesting relationships? You got Soos, Wendy, Grunkle Stan, Gideon, and later Grunkle Ford, who each hold their own cards. There is a lot to do here, unlike the sign coming into town that says there is nothing to see here. You got shape shifters, Bill Cypher's, Zombies, Gnomes, without the journals it would've been hard walking in against the unknown. Is life really just a hologram, just an illusion, are we just pawns for the universe's amusement? Well wubba lubba dub dub, grab a glass and join the club and while you're at it you can help yourself to some grub. I don't know what the future holds, but I refuse to fold, and waste my time fighting over gold. What sights can I next explore, live for the moment by letting it loose on the dance floor.

Not going to hold any more grudges, not going to let the past keep me on crutches, it's just a part of life to take a couple punches. Why can't we do science and also have some mindless wacky fun, we got to make the most of this run. Nobody exists on purpose, you just have to look beyond the surface, stay determined and keep your eye on target. Nobody belongs anywhere but everywhere, you don't have to prove yourself by killing some multi-bear. Everyone is going to die one day, you have a choice for how you want your life to be portrayed. Come on down and watch some ducktective on TV with me, let's explore the sea on the Stan-o-war 2, because you're never too old; even if you're a retiree.
Emily B Aug 2016
It isn't uncommon for war veterans
To meet
In our little log cabins.

Nice gentleman from Tennessee/Air Force
Was in today
With his attentive son.

Marine vet/fort manager
Thanks him for his service
And wanders off.

Air Force retiree
Asks former army ranger
If he's seen the movie
"We were soldiers".

Who replies
I don't have to see it.
I was there.
Reasons I love my job.
pauldeeeeee Jul 2011
sometimes i miss the touch of your hands that run through my hair.. i miss the way you laugh at me when i swear.. i miss those times when you and i were just unaware of anything but ourselves.. i sing a poem for you.. for me to be able to bear the despair.. sometimes i still say i love you even it hurts most of the time.. but what i do is no crime.. im starting to clean the dirt and grime thats rotting in my mind.. creating rhymes to pass the time.. why is it that  always have to suffer? my whole life has been rougher.. yeah, i know these things have made me tougher.. but now that youre gone, i dont even have a buffer to save my thoughts that are still blurred by who you've become.. you see, i miss the days where it was just you and me.. pushing forward just so we'd be happy.. singing songs even if we were ******.. still seeing each other knowing i was snappy.. i guess after seven years, things change.. feels like having a mobile phone thats out of range.. i find it strange how our lives are now arranged.. thinking i must be out of my mind, deranged.. like a wild dog trapped in a cage.. this is  why i pour my rage on this stage.. wanting to place this insanity on this page..  wanted to write something out of this world.. but this is how this is how this unfurled.. thinking my mind must have left me totally swirled.. i miss those days we were carefree.. seeming like either one of us is a retiree.. but i know i was never a guarantee.. all i knew was to love thee.. to show you what love really meant.. needing nothing but each other, not even a cent.. im not quite sure where all of that went.. suddenly all you felt was discontent.. and all i did was ask myself to represent..to represent something i believed in.. i shared with you what i thought was the best of me that i couldnt segment.. i fixed everything except this dent.. carving a deep hole thats wide enough to pitch a tent.. things were empty for me since you left.. feeling like ive been involved in a theft.. sometimes i miss waking up with you right beside me.. the warmth of your heart was enough to make me feel ecstasy.. but now i find myself alone and  starting to like it.. learning about myself just for the hell of it.. pushing pens out my arms just cause the world is full of ****.. once again i take a hit.. a good **** to avoid my mind being split.. staying away from you cause i got the hint.. drinking a pint just so my world wont get bent.. writing this poem so my soul wont get spent.. so i tuck my head down.. pen in hand, thought in head, spit on page.. halfway through i close my eyes to see what lies beneath this broken spirit.. seeing fires burn where your place used to be.. trying to drown this fire so i can feel free.. fighting off demons and banshees.. thinking of where to go when im out at sea.. oftentimes i thought of you as a burden.. piercing me with the sharpest blade you own.. which was yourself, a clone.. bashing my heart and spirit with a sharp stone.. feeding me with lies, thinking it was a bone.. now though, i really dont know.. unsure if what im feeling is that fire or the snow.. so i close my eyes and go with the flow.. waiting for an attach from this foe.. dodging sharp arrows like a pro.. im thinking to myself that i have to go.. to a place where people will teach me how to grow.. now i know i have to thank you for opening up another path for me to take.. singing a tune cause i know this aint fake.. riding a boat across the lake.. starting to feel better knowing i dont need to punch on the break.. never looking back, cause everything right here and now is really what's at steak..

pauldeeeeee
3apr2011
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
it's not that i have photogenic choice,
not that i'm exactly handsome -
but perhaps... i have a patience...
this is the second time cemil
took photos of me:
before and after...
       what a strange compliment...
unlike lucian freud
****...
                unruly hair on
the cranium and on the face...
       ah... barber... my artist...
     and the barber is just one tier
of artistry,
   and i think he found his muse...
   ****-eroticism...
   perhaps...
but i suppose he finds its comforting
that i don't really to keep
my eyes open while he ushers
in his brushstrokes with
a pair of scissors, a straight razor...
   and the clippers...
         1st time: before & after...
"luck"... 2nd time?
      he knows i was working on
a canvas...
   roughing myself up...
         so he could peacock his talents...
   no... what, with this drunk's
bloated face, riddled with subtle
dermatological issues of close-up acne...
**** the painters and the nudes...
i'm all for the patronage
of Turkish barbers...
    the 2nd time i became a barber's model...
did i ask for any money?
no... i was asking for the metaphor
akin to a bear's paw trapped in
a bear-trap snap bite...
    a sharp haircut and a trimmed beard...
i could understand the presence
of the Turks in Europe,
beside the kebab shops -
infesting these lands with the Ottoman
barbers...
      unless of course i walked into
a kebab shop,
   and they were mingling pickled
chillies with sauerkraut
         rather than raw red cabbage...
some might call it an "on purpose"
behavior, outlasting a decency of
        aesthetic attire of hair...
   but then...
      i was working on a canvas for him...
and he was just itchy fingers
ready to take a before & after photograph
of his work...
     cemil ustun... of the collier row
roundabout barber shop...
mind you...
                Poland already imports Turkish
drama for the retiree women...
     sure.... tele-novellas...
   but i sat with my grandmother and watched
a few episodes of
   cesur ve güzel,
            starring tuba büyüküstün...
   i always thought would be
         the only reliable buffer zone...
never mind the kebab shops...
       without Turkish barbers i'd be served
by some English queer with no sensibility
of practicality of a haircut
                       or a beard trim...
          well... i come back in half a year
looking like another wildman of Essex...
and i hope...
                 he'll be satisfied with the already
two modelling sessions
of the before & after...
    and who said...
that you had to sit ****,
   before an artists?
               just grow a canvas of hair...
    close your eyes...
  sit through 20 minutes that extends into
an hour's worth of the best ***...
    and then see the result...
     i came in with hair like rags
of a hobo... i came out with hair like
a monocle donning, tux wearing
    new yorker capitalist,
    with a Broadway date, 5 hours shy
from engaging with.
Wk kortas Mar 2020
These gatherings had become somewhat regular,
A short drive for most involved,
Having stayed behind once the mill closed
(There were the odd out-of-state license plates,
Mostly Florida and the Carolinas,
The vehicles' occupants sporting incongruous tans,
And they were treated with a certain reserve,
As if they had breached some faith,
Had broken some covenant)
And they were invariably in the morning,
Leading more than one wag to note
Well, at least we're all on first shift now.
And the talk outside of Wiegert's,
Shambling old funeral home a little more care-worn
With each generation of the family it fell to,
Turned to such things as Butchie's unusual good luck,
How he'd remained more or less unscathed by the mill,
Losing only the tip of a pinkie finger in a roller
(It was said that, back before the dining room
At the Montmorenci House
Had been converted into a tattoo studio,
You always shook hands with the left and right
To ensure a full set of ten fingers in the grip.)
And how he had, even though he was among
The most reticent of men, been a regular
At the retiree luncheons at the diner up in Wilcox
(The timing of such events subject to certain vagaries
As an infrequent February snow storm
Or the less uncommon changes in ownership)
And how he once explained his presence,
And then only when pressed,
By quietly noting Well, I figger my will-be's
To be a solitary thing, and the only folks
I share my used-ta-be's is all of you good people
.
Charles Sturies Oct 2017
McCartney got by with a little help from his friends
I got by with a little help from my little friends
like a broken toothpick
that's come in handy
like for example getting the McDonald's
hamburger meat out
from between my High German
spaced out teeth
or a bent one last cigarette
in a semi-wadded used up soft-pack
of Camel regulars
or that kind of retractor that fir
inside of 45 records
to play an inspirational
song like I Want
You Back by the
Jackson Five was
at the time when I
couldn't find a
friend myself.
McCartney was lucky
with friends.
I had friends too, sure
but I don't think they
know I was down and out
and living on a retiree pay
of $180 a month
and practically supporting 8 black guy
"buddies"
at the same time.
But there always was
a "friend indeed for a friend in need"
so I survived intact
and yes
am still intact
Charles sturies
I have a hard time titling poems that I feel didn't introduce themselves to me?  I just found them hiding underneath the way someones eyelashes hit their cheek unnoticed... Or in the way a retiree shuffles off the bus to buy flowers and tea.
I have a hard time titling words that felt borrowed from a moment, small & bruising.
Is lockdown just a practice run
for the soon to be retiree
or is that just me
thinking
wishfully?

The good thing about masks
is
you get to see the eyes
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
as a somehow... perpetually
kissing the trough...
(that best... the spectacle of
a symphony of oinks and gruntling;
snorkeling-grit of stowing
earth with banknote promises:
like an imitation
of the dwarfian act of... mining)...
this debilitating fear:
   and kissing the feet of some
antithesis semite of
a god at the root of all temples...
i am tired of...
an arachnophobia
that has little or, rather,
nothing to do with spiders...
or a claustrophobia
that has little or no...
concern for confined space...
and such is time: relative...
that nostalgia is boasted about...
peacocking dawning sturt...
i want to live a day with
enough sufficient fear
to stage the proper: hormonal
stressors to play their role...
it's not enough to merely...
drink a numbing cushion...
         the will to life has
a precursor within the confines
of a will that never bothers
or teases the structures of
hierarchical power envy...
             i should have been
best designated for the role
of a bus-driver..
               it's not like i made
this sallow choosing of grief...
                 i wish for meeting friends
in a restaurant...
or neighbours in a supermarket
like the best of the best:
retiree...
                like the precursor years
are some new underlay of
Ultricht...
                 or Antwerp...
i'm tired of life...
this non-eventual safety seizing
plot...
              i want to marry death...
i can't begin to imagine
marriage with life: in that most
secluded sub-:
                               enim timor
                ex deus...
                 a sort of paralysis that
no seljuk turk or ottoman
hijacker care to mind...

             i'm terribly tired...
              that i wish for me death as prior
to the death of a mother...
that i sort of wield contortion
excavation loops in: "asunder":
that i cop-out...
when is it believed...
the fungus rot of the brain
without the transcending hallucination
prospects?

            my average my nuanced: "new"..
this antithesis achilles..
my southern average...
my mediocre...
           my left hook concerning broke...
time is... relative...
a death by carrying weight...
   but this... god no god...
               mors naturalis...

                 can't we find ourselves...
before... choking on...
the adventure of death:
the innocent died upon the cross...
            can't the same innocence
be shared with those willing
to make death more relative?
can't there be an unwillingness
to live this... caustic... retract rebellion
  persistence of mrs. quasi?
        
        there is absolutely no
compensation of arguments...
          my words: my little words...
        pauloverbis...
               i do advertise the prospect
of the thumb ruling in
favour of: by death confined...
i will allow the strategy of the less
exempt to rise to their highest
scope of invitation...

                         villain of words...
i am no better than the next:
and the next... no better...
                      i am subsequently
hardly a heart surgeon...
but i am also not...
a left-leaning activist...
             i carry my worth of life
on the posit for:
these words are debasing...
depressive... all the required
connotations of a negative spectrum...
because?
      death is a marriage...
             i am conscious of the:
          
quadratic!

geocentric / vs. heliocentric...
mors-centric / vs. vita-centric...

                     it really doesn't bother me:
some new Darwinistic attache of truth -
i have to be devoid of "truth"
come the: sun "above" the earth...
or the earth "beyond" an extension
of gravity... in linear...
the stars are but photographs...

it's such an itching itch
without a witness of a scratching that...
the very basic... mundane...
so censored... experiences of life...
have become...
iron curtain lifting...
   crown of thorns skidding...
                   this my little:
***** of a nuance...
last reflected upon within
the confines of some pickled
lungs... and some...
choicest of the choicest baltic sushi herrings.
Arek Sep 2019
no way i'm playing bingo
when i'm a retiree
i'd rather be like Ringo
and live under the sea

in an octopuses garden
somewhere in the shade
as my arteries harden
while my last hairs greyed

for one year from people free
while my numbers mix
until the day comes when i'll be
clickety click 66
Tom Shields Aug 2020
Elongated, I've long waited, to be off the scale since I've been weighted, predestined arousal, I hitched my string to an anvil, I was mentally ill-fated, suited, sunshine beaming down when the radiant light of a message hit my phone, endorphins like a jazz blues saxophone, chemically polluted, a rubberband gun, I snap on my own, land off somewhere alone, wind me up and shoot it, recall and fall flat on my face straight from orbit in a hotel in outer space plant through the dinner table in time to join hands for grace, I burned up with cabin fever on re-entry, I've gone plum stir crazy, somebody let me out of this place!

Every word a poet uses should have meaning in the body of their poem, I just broke through the window in the fourth wall, set off the alarm, stumbling through the darkness in my home, trying to be quite so no one suspects, but my foot is wearing the skullcap of a garden gnome, while I'm rifling through the fridge drinking alka seltzer, my head kills but my mouth just gathers foam, hold on, I surveyed the view of the lake and lack of a fireplace, living room, kitchen, and outdoors landscape, for my sanity's sake, what I saw portrayed was all alarming and auspiciously fake, how many broken scramblings through paradise can one mouth on legs make?

This is not real reality, it's a placebo for those who are being phased out, meditative foresight and hindsight are afforded their luxury, they sit comfortably, eyes bloodshot fixed on TV while the rats around them scurry to assure their streaming services and first world marvels of electricity are seemingly self-maintained in a hurry, your muzzles and blue collars soaked with worry, this nauseating, intoxicating, hypnotizing paralysis is a product of a dream-selling industry, the commercialism sweeps the Lynchian faults under the rug and collects the filth in its dustpan with a flurry, it's not living, it's dying slowly, rest assuredly, I have never aspired or admired, been inspired or desired an upper middle class castle handed to me from my family, the reason being one of three, responsible legacy, it will forever weigh on me, and I will be guilty should an empire be something I ever see, no, living does not happen here, but it is my house, and I will man my station until I stand the last retiree, even then, inheritance and ignorance are a tunnel and tunnel vision, treading on my head with their dance of misery, all the best intentions are all that matters when they are borne of love from the two over one of three, if nothing else I'll board up the windows and serve you honorably, with no anger, only hope at heart for peace eternally

That's what you get when your life is given away and you have to pay, suddenly an equation occurs, you're lucky if it's long enough to buy into by more than the day, and all the compromise and anguish to say: I am done, I give up, I have to quit and take the best life for us that I can get, I'm sorry son, I've been all shut up, for years I was barricaded from you and I never let myself through it, but now we're here, and as we go on every year, I hope you and I can grow near, because we've had our struggles, but I've always loved you dear, as time goes on, now I hear, your barricade is growing, you are growing, my chance to be with my family is slowly going, I was a good man, you think I was the best, but I made mistakes, did what good I can, didn't pass every test, caused some heartaches, I will pass on knowing you were more like me than you should ever be,

an antiquated patriot who bought into peace of mind

sold in America

and handed it down

I wish I was more like you, is that bad?
I don't care, there's so much more good I could do,
if I could just tell you I love you, and I always will, both my mom and dad.
write
please read and enjoy
Bard Jan 2021
We talked the other day you said you wanted to die
Even if its what you want I'd rather you be okay
Just going day by day
Sleeping, spending, nothing to say
Bingeing, barely breathing, letting threads fray
I ask hows it going you say you feel empty
Its relatabley the same I wish what I wished for me
I wished someone would save me
Never prayed but twice I was on my knees
Once to ask for anything set my life free
Once to ask the same for every friend of me
No reply, now just hope you don't become an amputee
Not like me, living without a guarantee
Stay surrounded by people that want you happy
A new year to go towards your own family
And one day relax as a retiree
Even if its a grim reality
And a ****** country
There's more in life to see
VL Shade Feb 27
k
in the bottoms
the lowest points
tesseract echos
of clicking jaws
clamping down
clacking shut
with voices
murmuring in between
the soft augur
exfoliating down
a sandpaper of teeth
garrote out
in such
kind supply
and velvet layers
fluttering through
so soft
this psyche
crash pad
a spiral
funneled down
or out?
dunno but
scribbly sounds
reverb around
greatful dead
demonic retiree
homely calling
there there
even evil
gives a break
just be
all ideas
struggle to
swim so
float a spell
zebra 3d
NEWSFLASH: Man, 78, Self-Rebrands as Teenage Femme Bombshell — Nation Loses Grip on Timeline:
EXPOSÉ | The Chrysalis Suite: How One Man’s Transition Shook the Foundations of Memorial General Hospital
Byline: by C. Vallée, Staff Writer for The Subcutaneous Ledger

FROM NURSING HOME TO NIGHTCLUB Parallel reports suggest the revolution began earlier than suspected, when an unnamed 78-year-old male nursing home resident unveiled a Y2K-era makeover and soft-launched as a seventeen year old femme via Instagram named ******. “He looked like the ghost of a prom I never attended,” said one Gen Z influencer. “My sense of time and gender hasn’t recovered.”
Now dubbed bio-camp insurgency by cultural theorists, this movement collapses diagnosis into drag, anatomy into allegory. “Clinical procedure is now performance art,” said Dr. Noor El-Amine, professor of somatic aesthetics at RISD Med.

OUTBREAK OF FABULOUS:
Velcro Orthopedics Rebranded as Adaptive Runway wear
Anatomy Textbooks Recalled Nationwide
Mascara-Smeared Manifestos Appear in Hospital Chapels

Editor’s Note: Panic
ALERT LEVEL Code Cherry: From Pension to Prom Queen — Local Man Time-Travels via Gender Rebrand
In another story that has jolted the local medical community and sent ripples through the hospital’s institutional crust, 67-year-old unnamed man, once a retiree from Radiology with two hip replacements and a fondness for crossword puzzles, emerged last Tuesday reintroduced as Valentina D., cloaked in satin, grace, and unapologetic glamour.

Scrubs Abandoned, Mascara Weaponized — Security Reviews Footage: Surveillance records now archived under “mystic anomalies” show Walter — now Valentina — vanishing into the women’s locker room only to reappear hours later in full regalia: tulle, rhinestones, and a defiant contoured cheekbone. She made her promenade down the East Wing with the resolve of a pageant queen and the mystique of an oracle. Eyewitnesses confirm that several seasoned nurses dropped their clipboards.
What began as a low-key wellness check-up became something closer to myth.

EYEWITNESS: “She Glowed Like the Exit Sign,” says Janitor on Break
Oscar F., night janitor and amateur astrologer, describes the event as “radiant… like an omen or the ****** of a rapture dream.” He adds, “She didn’t walk. She hovered. She beamed. I ain’t been right since.”

HEADS UP: Orthopedics Floor Now Runway — Proceed with Caution
Orthopedics, once home to bedpans and broken pelvises, has reportedly been rebranded as “Ward 9¾,” a liminal space where gender norms go missing and gowns turn to trains. Staff have been advised not to interrupt the newly christened “transitory pageants,” now scheduled every full moon.

EXCLUSIVE: Hospital Insider Leaks Tiara Protocol Draft
A confidential memo outlines a now-shelved set of procedures titled “Operation Glamour Reclamation,” suggesting staff be trained in both trauma care and ballroom etiquette. The document refers to “emergent expressions of divine femininity” and encourages clinicians to “honor shimmer as a legitimate symptom.”

DECONSTRUCTED: Body, Binary, and Other Disposables
Medical ethicists and performance theorists have begun swarming Memorial General, calling the incident “a sacred deconstruction.” Dr. Nina Vega of Queer Phenomena Institute claims, “This isn’t just a personal transition — it’s a metaphysical jailbreak. The patient has successfully trespassed the clinic’s ontology.”
The hospital has yet to issue a formal statement, though a new sign now hangs in the atrium: “BE ADVISED: GENDER MAY NOT BE STABILIZED IN THIS AREA.”

Metro Dispatch — Boston, MA, 3:03 AM
Later that day in an act described by one witness as “the most glamorous Code Red I’ve ever seen,” a third-year medical student at Brightmore University Hospital stunned staff, bloggers, and bioethicists alike after reportedly removing their own genitalia in a hospital restroom and re-emerging 27 minutes later in a backless red sequined dress, a rhinestone tiara, and crystal-strap Jimmy Choo Bings.
Security footage shows the student — formerly known as Stanley G. — strutting down the corridor trailing blood and glitter, hips oscillating somewhere between agony and glamour.
“I thought someone had been attacked,” said orderly Mason Liu. “But then she walked out like she’d just invented gender and fashion in the same breath. I almost saluted.” A faint scent of rosewater and antiseptic lingered.
The hospital declined to comment on whether disciplinary action would be taken. Unofficial sources say a new emergency protocol is being drafted under the title “Code Cherry.”

QUOTE OF THE HOUR
“My body was a curriculum. Now it’s a manifesto.” — She tells stunned cardiology staff, tiara tilted. And when asked by reporters what drove him to it? He smiled through smeared mascara, shook his hips — still glistening with gauze, blood, and rebellion — and said: “I just wanted to feel cute.”
The line has since trended across platforms, emblazoned on tank tops, titanium scalpels, and protest placards across five continents.

OUTBREAK OF FABULOUS
Velcro Orthopedics Rebranded as Adaptive Runway wear
New Protocol “Code Cherry” Goes into Effect Across Multiple Wards
Slay-or-Suture” TikTok Challenge Overtakes Academic Med Tok
Anatomy Textbooks Pulled Pending Emergency Revision: “The Body May No Longer Be Binary”

BREAKING: Elderly Man Reincarnates into Viral Ingénue — Science, Ethics, and TikTok Implode ALERT LEVEL: From Pension to Prom Queen — Local Man Time-Travels via Gender Rebrand
Officials confirm the hospital is reviewing footage under a new emergency classification: “Code Cherry.” A leaked draft of the “Tiara Protocol” is currently circulating on MedTok, where footage of the transformation has sparked the #SlayOrSutureChallenge — now banned in six countries.
A spokesperson for Brightmore declined to comment, citing an ongoing review of hospital guidelines on gender autonomy and aesthetic insurgency. Meanwhile, medical schools across the country are reconsidering curricular materials in light of recent anatomical reinterpretations. As one faculty statement read: “The body may no longer be binary. We’re… reassessing.”

Lady Gaga… just follow the glitter trail. The revolution wears heels now — try to keep up, *******.

Executive Summary:
This document outlines the unprecedented destabilization of national, medical, and moral order catalyzed by the Brightmore Event, now dubbed Operation: Crimson Rebirth. The subject — hereafter referred to as “Entity Cuterina” — has initiated a high-speed cultural insurgency rooted in glamour-fueled gender mutiny, rendering all traditional ideological safeguards inert.

Post-Binary Aesthetic Weaponization (PBAW).
Primary Concerns:
Cultural Reach: Within 18 hours of the incident, #ICU Glamour surpassed national defense hashtags in digital engagement. TikTok influencers have begun performing simulated scalpeless rebirths to the tune of “Like a Prayer.”

Architectural Contagion: Hospital bathrooms — once strongholds of fluorescent despair — have begun emitting a low hum of possibility. Early reports indicate patients refusing to return to gendered wings unless “a proper lighting palette is installed.”

Moral Collapse of Youth: Gen Z+ have adopted red sequined gowns as daily wear. Reports abound of high school students submitting term papers as fragrance.

Doctrinal Schisms: Several prominent clergy members have defected to the movement, performing rites in press-on nails and singing updated verses of “How Great Thou Art” in full falsetto.

Institute Recommendations: Tactical Aesthetic Suppression Immediately requisition all remaining stocks of matte foundation and khaki. Subdue sparkle with “neutral-tone patriotism” campaigns.

Counter-Incantation Protocols Begin circulation of phrase “Respect the Binary. Revere the Clipboard.” Secure trademark rights to “Feeling cute is not a strategy.”

Gender Neutrality Containment Zones (GNCZs) Establish federally monitored “no-pronoun safe rooms” equipped with fluorescent lighting, Muzak, and damp beige chairs.

Emergency Moral Consultants Rehire Jordan Peterson in holographic format to whisper cautionary parables into hospital vents.

Incident Fallout:
AMA board chair Dr. Felix Grunberg reportedly sighted sobbing into a bedazzled otoscope.
Four interns from the think tank’s Youth Policy Unit have defected — citing “irreversible shimmer awakening.” They left a note reading: “My body is a mood board, not your metric.”
One analyst was discovered lip-syncing policy drafts in the breakroom mirror, now presumed radicalized.

The National Spasm: Monitoring the Margins Since the Enlightenment Got Weird
…..News Flash

The Brightmore Incident has made it clear that we were unprepared for ontological improvisation in heels. Institutional binaries are dissolving in real time, and no amount of comb-over rationalism can contain the spread.
We hereby request an emergency 500 million USD “Glitter Defense Fund” to research matte-resistant ideology, reinforce conservative bathroom architecture, and develop voice-based gender verification drones.
“Time is running out while normalcy is on life support. In the meantime, she’s still dancing.”
a poem wearing heels on linoleum— a drag-ball elegy inscribed in hospital ink, a manifesto disguised as discharge paperwork slipped beneath the tongue like a sublingual truth.

🩰 A Performance Poem
Meant not just to be read but embodied— hips swaying, mascara weeping, clipboard dropping. Where each stanza struts.

🌙 A Surrealist Hymn
Warping logic the way gender warps in dream, where sequins echo sutures and blood smells like rosewater, where the rules of medicine dissolve into moonlit pageantry.

🩸 A Lyric of the Flesh Rewritten
Whispered from within gauze and rebellion, blending Judith Butler with Vogue magazine, making a tiara out of trauma, and sashaying toward the divine.

🖋️ A Found Poem
Pieced together from leaked hospital memos, janitor testimony, glitter-stained clinic notes, Instagram captions and coded diagnoses: Patient presents with fabulous.

Trailing glitter and ellipses... or loop back to the beginning, because no metamorphosis ever really ends.

— The End —