A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, hindered by periphery. |
A.K.A. Solicitors Get Off My Lawn (or I’ll hose you down). La-ah-ah-ah-nuh-uh-uh I’ve lived without love when I didn’t want to, so…(reminded platitudes and false flattery don’t put their hands down these pants). 18-thousand 400-hundred times unseen. It’s still a beautiful thing, with pipes that I sing (while I’m the Angelou bird) My family will have instructions to unhide post mortem. Post Morten, Apple? It’s all around. ————————————————————————- I’ve deleted five times more than what’s seen now. Less to view in future. Mind-boggling the words I’ve produced with low vision. Conditions I live with, the strength it takes to hold it all in, as I’m redacted by cowards in society…no that’s it. I eat more than words, self-repair. How much of it got on you? — your monster? If you prick a caged animal and it doesn’t have to be put down for savoring your flesh, does it not…what? I’m a fool, if I’m played by fools. And, you are…? But, you…know as much of me as you want. What more can I offer you today? I have leftover dignity and steely resolve, reproducing daily. Reason I came here in 2006, before all butterfly fancy and aimless balloon chasings. Thanks. It went…that way… T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ You get hungry as a seldom published author/poet/lyricist, so quit pedaling words and just enjoy the writing process. The bullshit ‘process’ of submitting is submission. End of these days near…ing… --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- My ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() How I see myself create…in the zone Curry Flurry: ▼ Writing ▼ The beautiful mess made: I had a lover's quarrel with the world - Robert Frost | I'm sorry you got caught in the middle. - me Neurodivergent poet ▼ Best Poetry Collection ▼ Been more than I could imagine or expect here. Why Mail It In? In Latin ▼ Pluggers: You are an icon here. ![]() You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer. ![]() And other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "The Absence of Wavelength and Sight" ![]() Your poetic muse is on fire! ![]() ![]() Published four times with one a literary journal, including… ![]() ![]() I don’t submit—too much work with ADHD, OCD, low vision in condensate in mental prison of failing memory. I’ve seen a lot of smoldering and snow. Cynicism bred, work hard at openness and consideration. I'm Godzilla ▼ August 28, 2006 this blog opened ▼
No specific aim going forward (2014) ▼ ![]() ![]() What Was NEW Who am I, you ask? My mirror knows that question, repeated daily. Just trying to create a little buzz, not boost my ego ▼ #amwriting #poetry #blog #contest #freeverse #award #bestpoetry #lyrics #music #video #YouTube #awardwinning Can you believe it took this long for someone to put a quarter in me and push the button GET ANGRY? Mud 4 My Eye: ![]() |
What makes a poem romantic? Having experienced heartbreak. With experience to have loved and lost, a romantic poem can be realized. It’s not lip service she needs. It’s not promises he’ll make. It’s nothing deliberate but a willingness. Messages from destined hearts deliver when eyes first meet, described by the brain to lungs that quick seize. If you know the liberation in a moment serendipity makes, all is possible with time apart and a clutched pen bleeding, ’til again… Can you really cheat a reader in that construct, pouring all vision of romantic desire to finally embrace the hand that receives yours eternal? A broken heart is mended every day, for the writer that can conceive. It’s not for the light-hearted or sport to loosely play with another, unless you’re into that kind of thing. ![]() What makes a poem romantic? Me. (never mince words) ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Something will make your heart grow three sizes one day. ![]() Hold onto love’s memory as long as possible, as romance can be fleeting. Take it from a dreamer dwelling into latest hours, harnessing words of love captured, letting them free again. Love is not possession. Romance is obsession. And what do I know of romance? Not a thing. Let it be mysterious. A good romantic poem is oddly delusional, yet easily conceivable to a convincible reader. 4.20.25 Not originally intended as poem… Don’t listen to this writer. Listen to the palpitations thundering in your chest. But to be sure, consult Robert Palmer’s doctor… We still haven’t learned what makes a poem romantic? You may never, without information from that red organ in your chest. Can I go now? I’m sick of myself. Yuck! ![]() Romance is a good tux for the appropriate soirée and season. Or, dazzling, flowing evening gown, with someone to check that clutch. |
Cold Open: Nearly every time. Writing can be like a conversation with myself, and prompts learning new things (google, research) about what caused me to initiate. I find a tenuous grasp/orientation of something becomes more informed the further I go. A notion for something to write is only the impetus. With an open mind, hyper-focused, everything transcends, hopefully beautiful, while educating me. In regards to "Note: View this Note" Do I sometimes wind up writing something different than what I planned? 4/10/25 Everyone claims it’s a mystery, muses, a symptom of a malfunctioning mind. It’s simply a process of discovery. You have your own ‘choose your adventure’ when you write, preconceived or not. You can lock in and ignore or oblivious should a mind question concept, flaws in the fabric, or strategy to forced outcome and more. I have to consider what doesn’t add up, sometimes find errors due to ignorantly informed preconceptions. I allow myself room for error and correction, answer only to myself in these matters. I’m open to debate, yet the only thing that approaches are other’s subjective opinions. I consider facts/what’s true, or predominating circumstantial information. I’m bloviating now. Fact. Just checked myself and hid mind-directives to steer away from the original topic. |
Chose your own relation adventure: Self-editing the informing chromosomes leant by them in a redacted, daily life of repeated recompose. Redaction, editing me from myself Would require a rewrite, enmbellishment, A life not lived, but from experience. Reduce personal pronouns to rubble In the town called yslf and fake it Until you don’t recognize the author. Reduction result could catapult, But likely indignantly insult me. Yslf couldn’t flourish without me. Whitewash a wan face, aged, recalling Nothing noteworthy, knowledge gained In a recreation-ist image worthy Of another’s homage to self-deceit. We trade our mirrors that deflect, reflect Into clear pools of time, whitewashed. The silt of soul, not so far below as we reach, scoop the unrecognizable image floating. Alone, we walk this journey — aimless — as yslf doesn’t incorporate with me. Looking on at the former, not reinvented, Not used for spare parts without catalyst, Disparaged, stolen, paved over in yslf. Only the mechanic knows which vehicle true. He only maintains the two, less narrative. He’ll continue polishing the windows But none can get a vision passing through yslf. Inhabitants are far and between, not so near To know the former as spirited, impassioned soul, But lobotomized, unsanctioned, on life parole. Roaming the villages of yslf, only me knows. Bright lights, broad avenues, all leading nowhere, As yslf is a never ending journey back to the start. Only the mechanic understands the navigational, Having tested this vehicle himself. Wheel-locked, Parked in yslf, a memory glimpsed jump starts me. And I begin by writing a litany of odes to myself. I’m what’s important, not what others may think. 4.5.25 Concert in yslf, raising awareness for lost souls to reclaim (placeholder)… The introduction as summary is all one needs to read to know, apart from the absurdity that forces (placeholder) underneath. There is no ground. ‘Pencil pushers’ I wouldn’t have guessed when I selected yslf’s ceremonial band song. Video even in darkness. R.I.P. to that band. Stay tuned. Predicting the future of yslf: どうもありがと Mr. Roboto どうもありがと Mr. Roboto また会う日まで どうもありがと Mr. Roboto 秘密を知りたい Influence forces the town underneath from fire-breathing creatures ‘10 stories’ high. Whether or not it translates, me doesn’t care. I’m always in rewrite. So were the barn walls of yslf. |
Allegorical (placeholder) fantasy, a creative exercise in indulgence, once more Hit it boys!. Stage Direction: Everyone in their places, were reading to roll. Narrator: 2006 — an empty stage sets our scene. Our witless writer is cued to walk in… Direction: Action! In that comfortable chair with drink, put on that music you like and write with Chekhov’s gun in your lap. Type words on all the world’s screens. A scene protracts — a sullied oracle wrestles with gray mystery, lingers in doubt — expansion into black, a coded void of silence. Adjust the nuisance, wobbly backrest, unquenched, Rhythms create a boundary in space, thirst. Going back in, the second scene arrives with a writer unholstered. There is a clueless, murderous lot, I gander? Ignorant gossip embellishes amongst them, defaming him — as toilet stall slander scrawls a journey, endless. Wheels catch carpet, can’t roll or lean in. Empty tumbler, favorites fading into unknown songs spinning. In this saddle, every word and unspoken thing frozen sets. Truth, or fiction? I get a whiff of it again, unending — serialized and practiced from those cornflakes slamming a paywall dispenser. Signs point him, ambling hombre, into a horizon-spectrum, spreading. This play — not well-constructed craft, failing. Frankly, non-sense. There never is a second act of our own choosing — just charade for interlopers intermingling, time depending. A crafted, glorious scene, hyperbolic, awaits each dreamer. This man is gun, mis-typed, ill-conceived, and crumpled, clicked and heaved into a corner bin. Make sure to eat those cookies. Do writers ever think about that? Words disposal is as easy as typing lies into truth — cause, Bang! Finger-pistols aim at the inner Chekhov. ——————————————————— Epilogue: All other writers have handed in their papers. He looks up, watches exodus departure, one by one. The entire room depixelates him from characters in blank scene. Never more un-real in the legacy of this white sea, me. 4.5.25 / 4.9.25 58 lines to here, free verse . Peruse further at your own risk. (mind still needs purge, produces further on below…) ——————————————————- I never said I was a good writer — you did, before unpinning that pride from my lapel. Dust indent-ion tweaks (still) the tinkered verses, rearranging. —————————————————— Who’s writing this life story? Me? Me, right? No? What’s narr-a-tive? Is there a question and answer, or…?? *reads litigant-provoking bathroom stalls.* —————————————————— Can’t read handwriting or intentions, ever-flowing in collaborated vortex full of witless fury provoked, as witnessed in grade two. When world, hear this voice (as intended)? *with tablet key, on pixel board he holds, but it won’t motivate a character to move. Not like you. ![]() Serious…any questions? Can anyone see me?? ![]() T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ It will go public. |
What I’d Say Tell ‘em Ray If you get the blues, Want to feel the right way, While the night in loquacious verbs …is what I ’d say. Writing is spinning The most indolent dreams That go the right/write way …by any means. Get your red dress on, Is what I’d say. We’ll dance all night long …whatever night brings. I suppose, dancing about Leaves no lingering in doubt So, that’s what I’d say …go out and play. Write-them-blues-away We deserve joy; Poetry, I’m your boy. I see you real …this the exception. Ray say what I say, Do what you feel, Write the right way; Ain’t no big deal. 4.2.25 https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=6uTDa3771HM If you mean to say you're making an educated guess or a tentative answer, you could say "I'm guessing" or "I'd say". Here's a breakdown of different ways to express that you're making a guess: "I'm guessing..." - straightforward way to indicate you're not certain but are offering a possible answer. (Ray Charles)…"I'd say..." - phrase implies you're making a tentative statement or offering a guess. "My guess is..." - This is a more formal way of expressing a guess (game show/board game). "I suppose..." - phrase can be used to express a guess or an opinion, especially when you're not entirely sure (my parent’s acquiescence). "I reckon..." - Similar to "I suppose," more informal way to express a guess or opinion. (Not confused with reckoning) “Your guess is as good as mine" - phrase used when you don't know the answer, saying the person you are talking to has no more information than you. ![]() ![]() ![]() T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
Vote (Robocall fatigue) One nation Under universal suffrage Without liberty for all. One person With one vote Mails it in, Or doesn’t choose — A voice too small. Amplitude could be unity But in a house divided? 4.2.25 https://www.britannica.com/topic/election-political-science ![]() © Copyright 2006 Brian K Compton (ripglaedr3 at Writing.Com) All rights reserved. |
What Words These? Folly, signifying Reckless fool. Gold in these words? A foolish act or idea. Whether whimsical, Extravagant structure Or theatrical revue, The French "folie," Is "madness, stupidity". Evoke in poem As imprudent, rash, Lacking good judgment? Poor fool. Often eccentric, whimsical nature Is my folly. A fool and his words… Folly to covet This bit of Gold. 3.31.25 © Copyright 2006 Brian K Compton (ripglaedr3 at Writing.Com) All rights reserved. |