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In my mind,
I am in the deep south,
Dancing with Cowboys,
Singing folk songs.
Herding cattle,
Chasing outlaws.

In my mind,
I am in Paris, France,
Waking up with you beside me,
Strolling in the lazy streets.
Chatting with the News-Man,
Drinking coffee at the Cafe.

In my mind,
I'm where I want to be,
I'm with all my buddies.
Time never seems to pass,
How can I get all of that?
Sometimes it feels as if I'm writing to her
I don't speak often,
When I do I don't speak up,
But that can change.

Two colors rule my mind,
A blue hue,
A red fool.

That doesn't me I'll fight,
It certainly doesn't mean I'll lay down to die.
Monkey Writes Apr 17
I knew she was bad news
when we met
at Terminal One in Vegas,
but my thinking brain
was in limbic limbo
— strong-armed
by the scent of Cinnabon
and new car smell.

You might say we got lucky.
What are the odds of finding
a chapel open at midnight?
Lui si atteggia da grande,
sembra che pensi, sempre,
si vede dalle sue espressioni
le idee che gli passano per la testa.

Il suo sguardo si muove veloce,
da destra, a sinistra, a destra ancora,
molto brutti e cattivi i suoi occhi,
solo un poco ingenui, liberi.

Forse ha paura, si vede,
ha le spalle alzate,
un po’ piegato in avanti,
con la testa bassa. Triste. Ma contento.

Ma all’improvviso si trasforma:
si muove come un prestigiatore,
le sopracciglia saltano come grilli,
e tante risate tra il barbone e il prete.

///

He acts like a grown-up,
he seems to be thinking, always,
you can see from his expressions
the ideas that pass through his head.

His gaze moves quickly,
from right, to left, to right again,
very ugly and evil his eyes,
just a little naive, free.

Maybe he is afraid, you can see it,
his shoulders are raised,
a little bent forward,
with his head down. Sad. But happy.

But suddenly he transforms:
he moves like a magician,
his eyebrows jump like crickets,
and lots of laughter between the ***** and the priest.
What beautiful creatures lives in this world
Visvod Apr 16
My heart sometimes thumps in a normal pace.
Then confuses itself and loses rhythm.
My chest flutters, my breathing shutters
But I keep living.

What does it mean to exist?
Well quite literally, that your heart persists.

Between the beats, there's a moment of quiet.
Stillness that precedes another thump
or serves as an epilogue to the last one.

I am painfully aware of my heartbeat.
So much that it hurts.
I don't want exercise to speed it up and use up my remaining beats
Nor alcohol to plummet it to a state where it beats no more.

But then I lay in bed at night and listen to the soft thumps in my chest.
And it reminds me of its purpose.
Whether or not it unexpectedly stops one day
or beats till it can't beat any more

I'll do my best to love and nurture this erratic, fickle heart of mine.
Arrythmias are annoying.
Zywa Apr 6
Will it start soon? Or

has it already started?


Is it war right now?
Novella "Tralievader" (1991, "Nightfather", 1994, Carl Friedman), chapter 'Greuelmärchen' (Atrocity story)

Collection "Thinkles Lusionless"
Zywa Mar 28
The table top is

sticky, the handle too, I'll --


better wash my hands?
Poem "Het plakt" ("Sticky", 2019, Leander Vaes), included in the collection "Poëziejongens" ("Poetry Boys") by Mustafa Kör

Collection "Here &Now&"
I learned to spar with my stray thoughts,
Every ounce of fear or anxiety,
Becomes a battle of wit.

Though that may not work for everyone,
Some just build lanterns,
A way to see through the night.

Others learn to silence their worries,
Utilizing weapons to wipe away their nightmares,
Burning holes where there once was doubt.
Everyone has their own cure.
The truth is,
There's no elite thinker's society,
We're all elite in our own respect.
We evolved from bent over forms,
Working for raw survival.
But as we grew, some of us split away,
Faded from simple survival,
Growing a taste for art.
So were born the sculptors,
The painters, and the poets.
Clever as they were,
The old artists.
They formed a secret society,
For elite thinkers to survive.
Can we take that idea and use it to save those who've avoided the brainwashing?
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