At the supermarket, squeeze this,
sniff that. Of course, color is the
first attraction: Fruit should not
be green -- vegetables must be!
So, green is not always best.
Children, take note! (Her daughter,
Little Genie, as ordered, wrote)
And if the same price for
one, choose the largest and weigh...
but scales sometimes are purposely
light, seldom right. (Genie again
wrote) Now let's do this again: I said
vegetables should be green...though
carrots better orange-yellow. Then there
are eggplants, they must be deep
purple. Oh, and the beets should
be nice, round, earthy red. Sweet candy,
gumballs, hot-dogs, highly processed
foods, hormone chicken and beef,
barbecue with artificial flavoring
should be avoided like the class
bully. (Genie wrote, if it taste good
it is probably bad for you) Read labels
on cans: Mono-this, Chlor-what's it,
if you can't say it, never plate it. Make
a list of these chemicals. Genie
used all the reminding pages in her pad.
(ended with, in the future, only go
shopping with dad)
(“The Longest Journey”, 2020, original encaustic)
Along For The Ride
The older I get the less I seem to know
Or even care
And the more I feel a somewhat detached
Observer.
I’m okay with this
Simply because there is no alternative
Although I’m sure a doctor could give me
Some drug or hormone to change my view.
And being okay with it,
Not resisting or striving for something else,
Allows me to see it all
More clearly.
And to appreciate
That my good old apparitional
Body/mind knows what to do,
And that it is still fun to go along for the ride.
(7/22/25)
#Poetic_meal
Dining with words, its my daily enticing meal, the scrumptious juicy sauces, dripping all over my fingers, leaving me with much appetite to dip deeper, my fork and knife into this meal of creativity...
Could hear my intestine, groaning of ravenous intake, fueling my hands of vocabulary to dedicate much effort into this meal of mental nourishment...
My artistic arteries, chanting of thirst and I aiming higher than a mere quench, dilating much spaciousness, for the serving being way beyond just drinking and swallowing nor gnawing but influxing of varieties and intergration of creativity, some artistic manner of dining...
Shedding some radiant and illumination to ones psychological interest of art, beyond just seven colours of paints and brush sizes, painting a masterpiece of centuries of inspired poetic hormone, with my flooding poetic ink expressions. I am Poetic_Ink
#Poetic_Ink
happy hormone
it’s home grown dear
dethrone ego
By 12
By 12 I was
fully grown. My height was
the envy of
the short arses in
my classes. I wasn’t a
porker like
some ... I was
spared fat jokes. My level of
pituitary activity was, well,
excellent. Hormone increases were
too. Ejaculated more than
most. My secondary sex characteristics gave me
some respect. I was the first in
my class to
break their
voice. My thin mo caused awe in
the hairless. Deductive reasoning was
special. My systematic problem finding the answers to
things had triple the
different possibilities thought about, mulled, prior to
the answers being chosen. I was the king of
abstract thoughts, and that
riddled others with
confusion and
anger. It was easier for me to
manipulate abstract concepts than
concrete ones. Hours on
end I’d get lost in
idealistic contemplation of
hypotheticals until I was
clapped out
of it. I spent a lot of
time lost in
identity formation. I soaked in
everything. Long-term memory
ached. I praised daily the
elaboration added to
encoding strategies. I avoided happily interactions with
most. Opposite-peers I avoided
happily. I was
undateable.
We'd go tenting away from city lights;
friends, living on the cutting edge of wow.
And gaze up at the stars on summer nights,
connecting with the universe somehow.
The world was our oyster we'd shuck for pearls,
leaving our fortunes in the hands of fate.
But when we started fighting over girls
our forever friendship morphed into hate.
We drifted apart and said no goodbyes;
but that was then; this is now; we have changed.
We're no longer those hormone-driven guys,
and I believe that we both got short-changed.
We've lost too much time already, my friend;
for fractured friendships don't have to end.
Flashing neon sign danger.
The typical teenager.
And this son wouldn't listen.
Total hormone affliction.
He weed-whacked the old man.
Red welts but no stitches.
So, I had to open a can.
Changed his whole Disposition.
movement of the word "world"
a center of religion
I am its goddess, a goddess of redemption
peering over my soul bounty I see
what appears to be a pillar of Souls all
wrapped up into a spider web
I see many things In quiet resolution
I write them down
I have never known a man nor woman alive
that could perserverer me without being in reknown
my "cibil liberties" are to debate myself
to antagonize growth hormone, and flower
Like a rose petal, I see you through to the end
but like the goddess of forever, I am only a vixen-- a man, yet a woman
incarnate.
I have almost absolved myself from
causing all that emotional mayhem
that a youthful spirit engages upon
not having yet acclimatized itself at all.
Was it my fault if all those
hormone-ridden relationships,
all those peers of mine
that bought only a fake copy of me,
an unedited work in progress
now look back in anger?
Now of course I am acclimatized
to my personal environment,
acclimatized and stabilized
in that cramped, now and again
state of imperfection
most of us aim for.
Nevertheless:-
caveat emptor.
These days William Shakespeare’s “to be or not to be”
Isn’t the question, but a false dichotomy.
Now to be a woman and not to be a man
Is no longer integral to god’s perceived plan.
A nip and a tuck then some hormone therapy
Soon transforms into “they” what was born “he”
or “she”.
In modern times it’s true all the world is a stage,
And gender fluidity is now all the rage.
January 8, 2023
Making it known in the twilight zone,
an unknown, error-prone player reached a milestone
using follicle stimulating hormone
to produce a phytohormone clone of Alicia Silvestone
honed from a fully grown breastbone and stray histones.
Above the wind blown ozone- a moss-grown millstone
the well known capstone of a milestone not foreknown.
Better known was Paula Poundstone
for taking growth hormone when fully grown
who could hold her own against the overblown overtone-
of reggaeton,
to win a starring role in Philosopher’s Stone,
You may think this poem is overblown
An alphabet kaliedophone.
A mining of words that are super unknown
And bemoan its pretentious overtone.
A poem that’s nothing but shadow and stone
Contrived to tickle your funny bone.
They call me the first daughter,
That I am the most privileged,
Of the four who were lucky to come out-
Of my great mother's blessed womb.
They call me the shortest of the four,
That I am a victim of stunted growth,
And they advise me to take growth hormone,
Like they know not,
That my epiphyseal plates are fused.
They also say that,
I have consumed all the money,
From my parents' pockets,
And that my siblings are getting little,
With access to only poor quality education.
They say all things about me,
But I choose to mask up my sorrows,
With smiles and bright eyes.
But deep down,I say to myself,
That I will study and work hard,
With all that I have,
To return to them that have raised me-
And shake off the doubts of those I'm borne with.
Coffee, & Egg Whites,
& MesQuite Smoked Up Brisket...
& Pancakes so good...
that I don’t miss the biscuits.
That's hormone-free Butter
& the most luscious cream....
these are a few of my
favorite things....
Chelsea has been my corazon,
I think I gotta a blue hormone,
Coz my love for it ain't common,
The heart and pride of London,
Always shinning every season.
It's the best team in England,
The finest on air and on land,
Every child, wife and husband,
Sitting on the southwest stand,
Watching players on grassland.
Our boys wearing Royal blue,
Country to country they flew,
Winning many games not few,
Finally in UCL finals they drew,
And our 2012 cup we'll renew.
© Kelmwa
They set to work upon our minds
To market sprays of many kinds
To give the world a different smell
More aerosols they then will sell
But first our minds they must corrupt
To pave the way for new product
So they begin the odour game
And make us feel a sense of shame
Because we have our own odour
Better we smell like a flower
Be gone the smell of pheromone
And other odorous hormone
With chemicals we spray each part
Perfumery becomes our art
We freshen air in every room
Spraying the synthetic perfume
Then carpets and curtains are sprayed
Along with towels and bedspread
And when this done we spray the dog
Now everywhere a perfumed fog
To market sprays of many kinds
They set to work upon our minds
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