Born dreaming,
conscious little of vague matters,
linking systems to symbols,
tirelessly systematic, his world rendered.

(Is it coming now, sufficient individuality to develop a body?)

Thin, bloody,
feelings dripping alone.
Solipsism crept red;
wireless kompüter groaned.

(It looked even more like hot and dying human life.)

Struggling, grey, the blurs float... (down?).
Halfway upstream were to be infinite steps of a message,
concepts reflecting a stranger brain.

<Digested ideas!>

Laughing his words,
broken but free.


|| ego-skeleton aureolin

I do.

Best of luck.

ALL I'VE EVER KNOWN AT ALL BY ASHTON ALBERT JAY WESTPHAL (TW Mild Adult Topics, no nsfw)

The Lord will never show any mercy on my soul No I'm the only mercy I've ever known at all It can't be learnt but can be taught It can be shown it won't be bought And I'll be caught, but never seeeeen Trying to forget these unrelenting dreams

Or so it seems, I'm not a being Though I will rot, and I have saught When all's for naught, my love is not And I will scream, beneath my seems Disconnected piece in a world I can't believe

Misplaced my hope I've got my dope No way to cope They'll only grope I'm just a scope For what they've seen Their fever dreams Their long lost queen I'm just a screen Some answering machine For all they need... And all I'm not Twist me til I'm wrought Dumped at the spot Where we first fought So I just walked Soul has been tossed

But I am to blame Misplaced my aim My heart's just lame Can't make a change So let's do some coke Or tell a joke No I won't choke Until I croke Go up in smoke Then I'll be woke Back as an oak

But your discarded cloak Evokes the human in me And I'm back to please In an unforgotten dream Not what it may seem It's all some Matrix scheme Incarnated on the losing team I'll float down stream Woe' who is me Unable to be seen Dissipate into the moonbeams Or so it seems World can't redeem... The things it's done to me

Author note: Very recently picked writing back up, which I put down as a very insecure and uninspired depressed young person. Been back at it to transmute my emotion and wanted to post it somewhere... but not somewhere too personal. So here I am, a non redditor, posting this poem here. It is the first of the little bender of poetry I've been on recently.

If I had If I had all the dragon balls 7 9 100 however many I’d put them all together And I’d wish back my grandfather The way I remember when he was young When he still wore a uniform When he still smoked and danced I’d just want to sit with him With a glass of tea In a red solo cup Him And me I don’t know what I’d say I’d say everything I’d say nothing I’d sit with him and he with me Tell him what I became Where I failed Where I cried Where I got up and did it again My feelings set aside I’d show him the chaos my life had become I’d show him the room where I kept all the broken parts of me He couldn’t fix them But he would sit with me There’s nothing I’d say I’d say everything If I had all the dragon balls I’d bring him back to me.

I knew I was done caring, when people's words just stopped affecting me.

I kinda just felt empty.

I knew they were saying things about me but I just didn’t care.

I would choose to sit by myself instead of with others.

I find myself over taking to make up for the fact that it's hard to smile. Smile

Such a short yet stupid word.

They say you can tell a lot about a person via their smile but i’ve gotten so good at faking it.

That people think i’m happy.

I’m told that my smile brightens up a room, and i’m happy for that.

That means that I make others happy even when i’m not.

I fake my smile because I don't know what my real smile looks like anymore.

It’s been so long since i’ve actually smiled and that is just the sad truth, but i’m fine ill just place the mask back on and act as if i’m not broken.

As if I didn't just tape it back together.

We all fake a smile sometimes.

Some are welcoming others are hiding something, but we just keep pushing.

We are scared that when we stop we will lose what we care about.

Twisted bastard, sweaty ash, familiar splinters flung from home, riven by redacted. Chuckling creek, melancholy giggle, rumbling fire, tumultuous gut. Blood water boil, adrenal nausea bloom, unfurl iron, rusted rose.

Steel chrysalis tendon, straining anchor grip, monstrous pregnant clouds, extract juice, vapor bone. Rain drip drop, breathe, pause- hesitate—pour.

Sun shade, blood rain, lightning hail, sun again. Maelstrom chaos, obliter-eviscer—oblivious, fantasy.

Daydream mere, nothing more; sole remaining act, buried crushed, monolithic weight, eldricht fatigue, hoarfrost fingers, suffocate, cold.

The frozen ever dream of fire.

Confounded founders!

Ineffable!

Ineffable!

Ashes to ashes

Assuredly

Ask Asherah

Heir apparent

Lord(s) in abscensia.

Role rejected

Destination refused.

Remaining, seated

Vassal to none.

Mountain(s) crumbled

Cult(ure) withered.

(To) Black faded

Memory dying.

Regrets drive,

Desperation hope

For friends long-gone,

Or forged anew.

I am a white skinned

white skinned teenaged virgin

good looking too

and you want to fuck me

I know that you do

you want to fuck me

a lot

a real real lot

I sense it

very much

I apprehend it

the naked need in you

I want to fuck also and too

but possibly

just possibly

not you

but never mind because

luckily

I am a poet

and I can assist you

to modify and to sublimate

your errant or even unwanted understandable urges

though they be perfect

into productive alternative action

by directing and guiding you and marshalling you

into total conformity

forming you

so to speak

with a profound aesthetic

that it seems now

only I am able and capable to deliver to you

and upon receipt of which

you will cease to desire to fuck me

no matter I waft my pussy before you

no matter if I make my asshole

to dance upon your nose

now remember

that the situation is this

you definitely want to fuck me

you like my tight slim white

teenaged body

you desire it

you desire to possess it

to possess it and to taste it

for yourself

however

once it is that you have been furnished

with and by my anaesthetic poem

with its munificent ameliorations

and its benevolent explications

your desires and your urges

and your needs as such to

ejaculate your semen into me

deep

these needs will be sublimated and acquired in equanimity

to an identity with peace

and with loving affection

of a non sexual nature

and when I say non sexual

I of course and naturally and actually

I do not prohibit the understanding

that all phenomena of consciousness

are ultimately sexual in nature

I just and merely mean and refer to in this case

the urges of the flesh

the factual urges

of the flesh

to annihilate them

by poetry

temporarily and appropriately

being our object here

let us proceed now then to the poem

to my masterpiece

that which I have designed

and formulated

to liberate and to deliver you

away from the sacred duty

of naked lust

in the object of me

let me

sing a poem to you

about a rabbit or a duck

and then you will be free

free of me

and free also

of the haunting and the tyrannical mental imagery

of my compelling sweet teenaged pussy

imagine then

a duck on the water

a duck on the water

a white duck

on the water

a tight fart

a tight fuck

that is to say that a duck

is on the water

the smooth water

of the river lea

just by tottenham marshes

the purity

the beauty

the odour

of my tight white teenaged virgin pussy

imagine that

fuck me

fuck me

fuck me

the odour of corruption

the odour of fresh pigshit

in your mouth

the webbed feet of the young white duck

orange

they sweep prettily now

alternately in coordinated motions

intended to and obtaining

in the world of the dark duck white

my ass is all neat and tidy

well there is this duck right

and it is white right

and it goes quack quite

the duck is on the water

free

the thing is that

you do not want to fuck that duck

you do not want to fuck that duck

that duck

is not your dirty little cock bucket

no

that white duck

gliding smoothly and serenely

over the flawless hydraulic

the quiet cute quacking harbinger

of all our righteous tomorrows

noble there and pertinent

and swallowing the devil there

so

you do not want to fuck me anymore

I know that now

you bastard.

on the tri-land ferry

at the end of the day.

late october sunlight

low and soft,

falls across the dark green water,

and through her window,

coloring but not warming her face.

​

sweater sleeves pulled down

to her fingertips.

sock feet toes curled up underneath her.

blonde hairs pulled from the root

by the ring on a lingering finger.

she rests her forehead against the window frame.

​

in the middle of the channel there's an island,

just a dark shape in the failing light.

her breath fogs the glass

and it slowly disappears.

but before it does

she thinks she can see

a fire out there.

​

she had been taught and had learned,

hungered and fed,

wanted for and ignored,

cried and consoled.

​

it all seemed impossible

in this short life.

​

the woman across the row has hands

as soft and wrinkled as a waxed

cough drop wrapper.

​

the ships engine groans and churns,

the noise pulses through the steel floor and thick padded seats.

a trail of white foam arcs out behind the boat

as it pushes further

into the dark half of the bay.

​

the echoing urge to relive yesterday,

a day she’ll never get back,

so that today might find her

in another place,

but it never belonged to her anyway.

​

sick of hearing her own secrets,

she feels a thousand years older

than she did when summer began.

but that was over a long time ago.

​

so how is this not the future?

Contest summary from Winning Writers:

Now in its 20th year, this contest seeks today's best humor poems. No fee to enter. Submit published or unpublished work. $3,500 in prizes.

Please submit once during August 15, 2020-April 1, 2021
Prizes:
- First Prize: $2,000 plus a two-year gift certificate from our co-sponsor, Duotrope (a $100 value)
- Second Prize: $500
- Honorable Mentions: 10 awards of $100 each
- Top 12 entries published online

Contest details

• Sponsor: Winning Writers and Duotrope
• Category: Humor poetry
• Submission length: 1 poem, up to 250 lines
• Entry fee: No fee
• Awards: $2,000, online publication, and other benefits

Guidelines and submission information

she’s sitting across from me

looking back over a bowl of chinese broth

​

in a booth at hunan garden

next door to the hospital

​

tired looking people wearing scrubs and white coats

are crowded together at small tables

there are fish in a dirty aquarium

​

the fugitive is on tv

wind rattles the glass door

it might snow

might not

​

she lifts the spoon to her lips

but her hand is shaking

and it spills on the table

​

she lets the spoon fall to the floor

and puts her head in her hands

and tries not to cry in front of people

​

I pick the spoon up off the floor

set it on the edge of the table

​

i don't know if i should pray

something about it seems like a trap

maybe god would be offended

i don't want him to take it out on her

​

asking something from god feels like

a thin string in deep water

​

i want to open the door and

let all this go in the wind

watch it carried off until

it is too small

to see

​

in my head im composing a vague petition

it's not a prayer

​

i ask the waiter for a styrofoam cup and a lid

i pour her soup into it

she sniffs and wipes her eyes

with the back of her hand

and sips it through a straw

down river from the gold rush

back bent towards the sun

​

mother stands in the stream

wet dress stuck to her thighs

a thin reed wraps around her ankle

for a moment

then trails off in the green water

​

she keeps having dreams

but doesn't know what they mean

​

she just says

​

“covenant

sword

arm of the lord”

​

over and over

while she washes the rocks

​

her hands are as smooth

and white

as snakes bellies

​

I think this land doesn’t want us

it’s people won’t come to the water

when we’re near

even if their horses throats

are as dry as corn husks

​

but in the morning

there are footprints in the mud

​

father lives inside the mountain now

he was digging for silver

and forgot the way out

​

sometimes

when it’s hot

I sleep on the back porch

and

if the night is quiet

I believe I can hear him in there

praying for fire

​

he is climbing up the mountains bones

so the words can be closer to god

nicholes mouth tastes pink

like cotton candy

​

the lights of the fair bounce between

her hair

the windshield

my eyes

and back

​

she wipes her chin with

the back of her index finger

and slips on her flip flops

black chipped toenail polish

​

i want to ride that one she says

pointing towards something that looks like

a poorly constructed salad spinner

covered in christmas lights

​

we get out of my truck

and get in line behind some kids smoking cigarettes

one of them tries to get out of it claiming a stomachache

don’t be a pussy one of the others says

​

you know immediately to be scared of this

cracked paint, rust…

is that blood?

​

the guy straps us in

the thing begins to rise and rotate

in a pulse of thick electricity

I don’t touch anything metal

​

I can’t calculate rpms

the strobe lights catch nichole in haunted house still frames

of screams

crazy hair

then the floor drops and we’re pinned

to the wall now

by sheer carny science

​

I close my eyes

can see bolts unloosening

hydraulic lines rupturing

wires glowing red

electrical insulation melting into a pool in the grass

twenty feet beneath us

​

an investigator will say later

I think I’ve found the culprit sir

dipping his pen into the gunk

this is why all those kids

had to die

good work!

now get those body bags to the morgue lieutenant!

​

my internal organs are refugees

violently dislocated from their natural home in my torso

to a land somewhere near my throat

​

the safety buckle is too hot to touch

nichole is limp

eyes rolled back in her head

flip flops

gone

​

the colored lights are turning crazily

I can’t see anyone

there’s a ripping sound

then a crack and I’m flying

one hand around the lap belt

legs in the air

I can’t tell if I’m falling

​

then I’m torn loose

looking down

​

the carnival lights get smaller and smaller

I gain altitude

my clothes are torn off by the velocity

im freezing cold

I can clearly observe the curvature of the earth now

is that fucking africa…??

​

I lose consciousness from lack of oxygen

and wake up

naked

at the bottom of a smoking crater

holding a scorched scrap of seat belt

the grass is burned black thirty feet in every direction

​

I climb out

there are lights in the distance

​

I fix my hair

which is mostly burned off from my violent reentry

​

and wander into town

​

I guess I should put in a couple of job applications

look for an apartment

find a new girlfriend

One line one line one line one line

Fermenting belittles me

Energy through the sinus

I am the frown

Repetition is existence

I am the disappointment

Energy through meaning

Energy through skill

Energy through skull

I fade into the sky

My flesh burns white

Those pierce with guilt

Through epidermal, light

​

And the mob sees

And The mob says

And the mob is

And the mob decides

​

I fade into reason

Yet the task burns nigh

Those pierce with filth

Through epidermal, tight

​

And the mob sees

And The mob says

And the mob is

And the mob decides

​

I fade into season

With the mask, I try

Those triumph, the leech

Through epidermal, hard

​

And the mob sees

And The mob says

And the mob is

And the mob decides

​

I fade

With nothing

Those conquer

Through epidermal

[deleted]

How about £5?

​

What - £5 for a Blowjob?

​

Yes.

How about it?

​

Well - I will want more than £5.

​

That is what I am offering - £5.

​

Listen.

I am not Gay.

I have never performed Fellatio before.

​

That is what I mean.

You are inexperienced.

I do not know if I will get value for money, do I?

​

You will get value for money.

I assure you.

​

You say that now.

But you have got no track record, do you?

You have not got any form to go on.

As far as I am concerned - it is a stab in the dark.

You could be absolutely useless at Fellatio for all I know.

I will be taking a risk.

I will be exposing myself.

​

But I am a man.

I know what feels good.

I know how to do it therefore - and obviously.

​

You know what feels good?

Oh do you?

​

Yes I do.

Of course I do.

Who wouldn’t?

Don’t you?

​

Look - you need to show some good will.

You need to take a punt.

It will build your reputation.

You will develop a pedigree.

You will have a provenance.

These things are worth more than money.

​

What is worth more than money?

​

I will be able to review your performance.

I will be able to give you the nod

I will be able to point you

in certain directions and towards certain quarters sincerely.

You will trade lucratively

on the basis of my word.

​

I will trade on such a basis?

You say that?

​

Yes.

It is an opportunity.

​

Very well then.

£5 it is.

Fellatio.

Consider this a sample

and an exemplar…..

are you ready then?

​

Yes.

I am ready.

​

Well here I go!

hork hork hork hork

gark gark gark gark

chup chup chup chup

cruk cruk cruk cruk

​

Wait a minute.

Slow down.

Be Gentle.

I need tenderness.

I was getting to it.

The tender part.

I was getting to the tenderness.

Be patient.

Do you not like variety and contrasting sensations?

​

Well yes I suppose I do.

It is all a matter of mood.

Perhaps you can ask your clients

what mood they are in?

​

Mood?

Would you say that people are generally moody?

What mood are you in then?

​

Some people are moody.

Yes.

Some people are afflicted with moods of mind definitely and for sure they are

so afflicted.

​

What mood are you in?

​

I am in the mood for a tender and loving extraction

of my Semen.

I am in the mood for things to build slowly and

with irresistible inevitability

toward a wholly unexpected

and

unprecedented and profoundly surprising intensity

and in that

the acquisition of

an unfathomable numinous electrical or psychic power

supervening and actuating

in me as host medium and ground

and hence originating and operating

in the body

as conduit and pathway and context

for Divine Prana

otherwise and alternatively known as Chi

and for such energies to arrive

in polyrhythmic energetic surges

and thereby forcing and superinducing

a complete and total loss

of will, individuality, capacity, domain and agency

in the overmastering return of Being to Nature

thus my Semen will ideally

be issued and released spontaneously

in a monumental final ecstasy

wherein my very being will be driven

to the point of exquisite annihilation

in a Communion and Unity with Cosmic and Universal Prosodies.

I am in that sort of mood.

Do you know just exactly what I am saying here?

I mean to say -

Do you know just exactly what I am meaning?

​

Yes I do.

I do know of these things to which you have referred.

​

Very good then.

Proceed.

Who are you, who has cascaded beyond our parallels?

Who has ascended beyond our existentialist ideologies?

Who are you, who has found their self, not existent?

To find that your time was up, in your limited coils of existence?

Perhaps you ought to pay past the free trial.

There is a Black Warrior. Who wears black steel, and defeats his enemies without even lifting his sword.

If you were to meet him, you might find yourself overtaken by a shiver. Or maybe your eyes would water, from a sight you could not handle.

The black warrior faces his enemies honorably, but is not a chummy fellow.

If you were to face him in combat, be you a man or a woman.

You certainly wouldn't last long.

For the warrior would break your spirit, long before you drew your blade.

That is not to say, there is no one who could face the warrior.

For once, the overzealous Black Warrior, did challenge the Demon King himself.

And though the Black Warrior believed he had won the battle before it began.

His heart found itself...

Pierced.

And so,

There once was a Black Warrior, who once did defeat his enemies without even lifting his sword.

But not-withstanding, for he faced The Demon King, and The Black Warrior, is no more.

Three fifths of Jeffery Epstein

Floated astride a cosmic child

Forty Five thirty thirds.

All that is less is not pepperoni, pepperoni, by all account is more. A pepperoni is more than. a pepperoni is less, a pepperoni is additional, however.

Why would you think the mean meatloaf is offensive? the mean meatloaf is the most savory dish of all. Mean meatloaf. Does the mean meatloaf make you shiver? does it?

The fat, small steak sings like a grilled lamb Small steak - the true source of buzz.

The trees are red
The sky is green
My cat is a Blue jay

The idea that a world can be rocked by a hand(Ergo the hand that rocks the world.), is not too far fetched.

After all, what is the earth, but a dampened rock, floating out in the blackness of space?

One night, or maybe it was an evening

A fool came knocking at the door to a lighthouse

The fool knocked on the lighthouse door with all the delicacy and all the carefulness of a beast.

A three eyed being, whom any human would shudder to think could exist under any normal circumstance, opened the door, looking the fool up and down. He asked what the fool needed.

The fool said it was quite cold out in the sea, and the lighthouse was the first place he had found which looked warm.

The three eyed being asked why this mattered, of course.

The fool explained that he sought solace inside of the lighthouse.

The three eyed being laughed, for he understood that the fool sought solace, he coldly told the fool that he should look elsewhere, as the three eyed being sought not for drifters.

As the three eyed being turned around, the fool made an offer. He said that he had riches to impart to the being.

The three eyed being asked the fool what kind of riches.

The fool said that he was from the kingdom of the sea, and he would impart a great amount of gold and treasure to the three eyed being, if he were to let him stay one night.

The three eyed being laughed, and told the fool he was off his rocker.

The fool asked why?

The three eyed being simply said. "Gold can't be cast under water."

Dear poets of the Fifth World,

Winningwriters.com is currently runnning The Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest, with two first prizes of $2,000 each. Ten honorable mentions receive $100 each, and the top twelve entries will be published online. We welcome diverse voices and themes. The deadline is September 30. The entrance fee is $12, which goes to pay our judges. Winning Writers is a small, family-run organization that hires local people.

Sometimes when I post, there are some replies worried about a scam, so in order to head that off I just want to say that our competitions are listed by The Write Life as some of the top writing competitions out there, and we’re in Writer’s Digest’s top eight sites for writers. Besides contests, we also offer a lot of free publishing and style resources, including a database of free poetry and prose competitions, at https://winningwriters.com/. Thanks for listening, and have a good day.

Neon flubbances blubbhubbling skiz-stubblers

Tranklemutt fluffmuffins flap mappily

Racey time snorters fix underside mops

Wind in the rain steam-orange round blocks

Tassletoff sprinkly fur brazenly lit

Firestones laying black rounds for tin books

Washed in this snare, and trout filled skim ears

Snupple-free trumpet song fresh tiny mint.