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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/profile/blog/ripglaedr3/month/4-1-2025
Rated: 18+ · Book · Spiritual · #1149750

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 *Basketball* goes through —   R S = 2 G M c 2

*StarfishY* ~~~*Fishing*~~~*FishB*~~~*Beach*~~~*Swimming*~~~*Sailing*~~~*TrophyG* *Stop* *Fork* ————————- .

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

 
"Note: Poetry: life’s little interruptions amassing int..."
 

Best Poetry Collection Been more than I could imagine or expect here.
Why Mail It In? In Latin

Pluggers:
You are an icon here.*BigSmile*
You suffer, but you suffer brilliantly. Wow, what a great writer.*Heart*


And other people’s (reviewers) words…Review of "The Absence of Wavelength and Sight"
Your poetic muse is on fire! *Fire* Some great emotion, well-balance(d), lovely lyrical qualities -- even the ones that were written out of sadness or anger came through in a clever cadence…It's obvious you've put a lot of work into each entry and the totality of the blog has eye appeal. *Cool*

 
Published four times with one a literary journal, including… *PointRight*   "The Tender Core (Sedona)Open in new Window.
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.

Merit Badge in Taboo Words
[Click For More Info]

Brian,

Congratulations! You won 1st Place in Taboo Words with your fantastic poem, [Link to Book Entry #1027659]. 

I absolutely loved this! *^*Heart*^*

Rachel Merit Badge in Poetry
[Click For More Info]

    Thanks you for supporting the  [Link To Item #power]  with an order to the  [Link To Item #powergifts] ! We appreciate it. *^*Heartv*^* Keep writing the beautiful poetry. [Link to Book Entry #1027659] is an awesome poem! *^*Starv*^* ~Lornda

 
18+ Comment: Love my process constructing and sharing visions in words collected (fuck limitations).

I'm Godzilla
August 28, 2006 this blog opened

BOOK
SuperNova Afterglow Spews Embers of Time Open in new Window. (18+)
All that remains: in afterlife as 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. 20k views
#1300042 by Brian K Compton Author IconMail Icon


No specific aim going forward (2014)

 
What I used to say: 'Maybe, I just don't get it. Watch me fumble with my version of reality, expose ignorance as truth. You don't have to get me, either. But, wish someone would explain me to myself.' Now I say: *Cool* *FacePalm* Now: I was such a whore.
 



             



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: Is that you, Poo? 💩 Secret Back Door
April 23, 2025 at 12:01am
April 23, 2025 at 12:01am
#1087835
Good Night Chair
Molecular time-space personification in hypothesizing theorem

Between 7:48 and 10:21 P.M. time in this space
ceased to exist — though…
momentary recollections of two times, when
four paws and eight pounds of furry black catapulted
upon the blue cotton covered legs,
whisker-rubbed the rubber-bracketed, red tablet edge —
and twice more,
energy thrusts launched the blurry rocket
into tan fiber spaces, as shadows’ mystery kept creeping…
and long since the sun lent light through wide, clear pane
before mental awareness did re-arrive
consciousness displayed as 60 watts overhead,
still burning strong.

Working with assembled alphabet into descriptive words
in dim void, just right…displacement commences.
In sanctuary, ADHD freedom, ping-pong memory
with white returnings. And as yet, all To Dos remain.
In her repose came remarks I still note, about sighing…
that I stop noticing, once meld — in this, somehow?

Past three, one to two hours more eked, I lift,
cleanse, resubmit to a vacuous King-sized bed
adopted by them. So content,
their eyes don’t shimmer in tonight’s gallery
to see gray, one-dimensional depository between
one, two and three…placed just so. I find
void space in our unusual atomic-bonding —
a tangling furry-flesh-cotton-amid-cotton structure
upon Sealy. I lie across the division lump, angle
right calf-foot over bed side, pillow
gathered under neck beneath what’s starless…
and — not disturb slumber-some amid accepting friends.

2024 Quill Awards Finalist

He who is and isn’t, & yet…my inner Bond. Brian, to be precise. Not shaken or stirred.

I’ll figure out breaks, punctuation, theorem expressed in concisest terms, somehow, re-engineering my poetry with the artful science of editing. Who said the two couldn’t co-exist? Haters??

And you just believed them?? — some anon sitcom, as yet recalled (our third medium component added to brain-oven-meld.



Holy Grail of Myth stays the Excalibur.
 
T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚
April 20, 2025 at 5:20am
April 20, 2025 at 5:20am
#1087638
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. *Wink*

What makes a poem romantic?
Me. (never mince words)

*Drink* *HeartBroken* ~ *HeartB* / *Heart*

Something will make your heart grow three sizes one day. *Bigsmile*
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!

He who is and isn’t, & yet…my inner Bond. Brian, to be precise. Not shaken or stirred.
Romance is a good tux for the appropriate soirée and season.
Or, dazzling, flowing evening gown, with someone to check that clutch.

April 10, 2025 at 12:46pm
April 10, 2025 at 12:46pm
#1086980
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.
April 5, 2025 at 12:46pm
April 5, 2025 at 12:46pm
#1086627
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.

April 5, 2025 at 1:44am
April 5, 2025 at 1:44am
#1086597
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.


He who is and isn’t, & yet…my inner Bond. Brian, to be precise. Not shaken or stirred.

Serious…any questions? Can anyone see me??
Holy Grail of Myth stays the Excalibur.
 
T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚

It will go public.
April 2, 2025 at 11:55pm
April 2, 2025 at 11:55pm
#1086481
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. 




2024 Quill Awards Finalist

What I look like as a smug German artist with a turtleneck. Can’t find anything normal.


Holy Grail of Myth stays the Excalibur.
 
T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚

April 2, 2025 at 10:00am
April 2, 2025 at 10:00am
#1086435
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


Lying down on the job.
© Copyright 2006 Brian K Compton (ripglaedr3 at Writing.Com) All rights reserved.



April 1, 2025 at 12:00am
April 1, 2025 at 12:00am
#1086313
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.





© Copyright 2025 Brian K Compton (UN: ripglaedr3 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
Brian K Compton has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/profile/blog/ripglaedr3/month/4-1-2025