Long Consumption Poems
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A weasel wibble wobbling can be said to have ingested copious amounts of indemonstrable indelible ink today as it soared into doorways, hallways, cloakrooms, and buffet tables. Buffet tables are neither buffaloes or bongos. In fact they are a pleasant sight to behold. Many colours. Many tastes. And the sounds of chatting from the sandwich stack is delightful especially when the mayonnaise is chuckling away at the jokes told by the ham and cheese. Little dainty cup cakes are immature so a quality conversation cannot be held. And the large jug is rather unintelligible and uninteresting as it yawns away the hours before the consumption takes place. The operatic oversized plate of soprano pineapples and chords of cheese with onions today but the mighty weight of the plate of rice and pasta salad bangs away and interrupts the acts really so the sauces must line up and push the nuisance plate to the floor and this they did. The dog was very very pleased and lay down after eating it all for a doze. And over half a dozen eggs kept jumping up and down and throwing their mayonnaise hats off. We font want these hats. We want whipped cream they shouted. The despondent tablecloth groaned. Another booming buffering buffet. And then the cutlery began having races between the foods. Zoom zoom zoom. Wow. The might of the jar of gherkins was being prayed to by the punnet of strawberries. And the profiteroles were preforming Pilates to an amused potatoe salad. The salt and pepper were arguing over who got used the most. And the coleslaw was diving on and off the pizza slices which annoyed the pepperoni who shouted go away in a very high pitched voice. Buffet battling bemusingly being buttering breadsticks. And now the time had arrived. The hungry swans and tulip people were here. They saw the mess. Blamed the dog. Then walked out in disgust. Oh dear. The tablecloth picked itself up and all it's contents too then went out of the back door and soared off in the air. It landed on a busy beach where it fed lots of little sea urchins. Who were grateful. They gave the tablecloth an ice cream to say thanks. Then the tablecloth went into the sea and swam to the island of the nine figs. Great isn't it. Ha ha the waves want wands. Hahaha boats bouncing into the sky. Left angled fueled fuel vision of a visionary variant spelling of mid. Xxxxx contemplation z z z z in a kiosk z
Form:
FrUm thE NUMB TuM Of A BuM RuM sPiL
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hE sAyZ RUnUuM kILLZ the LIvEr
BUut LoVe KiLLZ mY HeARt
IvE CoNcluded ThAt thEIR Both
the ReasONZ I bEcAmE A BuM
FrUm ThE sTART
FrUm thE NUMB TuM Of A BuM RuM sPiL
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(BuRp) CaNt wAit tO BEEE rICh aGAIN
AnD NoOo mAtteR hOW BiG hEr aSs is
I woOonT gEt mRried toO a GolD DIGGin
HarLeT AgAin NoO nOT AGaiN mY fRienD
bEcominG 1 WiHT ThE EsSeNce oF HuMbLe
POveRty IZ tHe The BesT wAy To EvaDe tHe
DeViLs traps WiZe & HuMble Are ThOse WHo
SeTtle foR whAt YOu wOuld CaaaLL ScrAPs &
KNowinG ONe DAy JESUS WILL COME B
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A M R A - - - - - K
AnD WhEn He DoeS MY ONLY SIN wILL bE ConsumptioN Of rUM
sO yOU CAN LAuGH At at ummmmmmm
oh yea laugh at us DruKeN BuMMMMmms
BuT iN HeaveN We wIll HaVe morE ThAn a CrumB and A bottlE of rUm
AND wHeN tHe LoRD DenieS YOU at the gate please dont Ask how COME
Because he wiLl say yOU were
SelfisH,GREEDY,And called the
BuMS STInkyy and DuMMMMMM
And pluS aLL You gave Him WaS a CRUMMMM!!!
I SWEar you RicH Folks Are DuMMMMMMMMM!!!!
FrUm thE NUMB TuM Of A BuM RuM sPiL
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with
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When I was a kid, my county was 'dry'; meaning that alcoholic beverages could not be purchased legally. But there was always plenty of it, because there were home-made stills, and the next county was 'wet'. In my home, it was often seen in the refrigerator, especially on weekends. Seems my occasional stares and curiosity would never end until one day, looking all around less I get caught, I could resist no longer. One sip and I knew that I had never tasted anything stronger. I did not see smoke, but my head must have become a fiery furnish shooting flames from every exit point in my little body. I wondered how anyone enjoyed drinking such wild fire. One sip set my feet racing away from any future desire.
I never saw grandma drink; Mama, once in a while; daddy, every weekend. Some people did bad things when they consumed alcohol; daddy slept a lot. Seems he was nicer toward us, always saying, "I'm going out west where the eagles build their nest". I guess he only desired to go west when he was drinking, because he never moved.
Other than put my daddy to sleep, alcohol served no good purpose in our home. Strong drink consumption and smoking perhaps contributed to his early demise at 58. No, I think that alcohol was a curse and a terrorist that never did anything good in my community. When drinking, people were loud and fought like cats and dogs. Like fools, men drove their cars faster, or staggered all over town acting like clowns. We say that people get high when they drink alcohol, but seems to me they always go low, and sink to the bottom.
Alcohol is one of the greatest abusers; and it is unashamedly villainous. The opinions expressed are my own. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.
10152017 PS Contest, Alcohol, TS *Proverbs 20:1
Cultural and Social Terms
Idol: In Persian poetry, often refers to the beloved, particularly one who is non-Muslim. The term carries complex connotations of forbidden desire and spiritual challenge.
Veil: Refers both to the physical head covering and the metaphysical veil between the material and spiritual worlds in Sufi thought.
Fate's Wheel: The wheel of fortune or destiny (charkh-e falak), a common motif in Persian literature representing the unpredictable nature of fate.
Character Names
Giti: A Persian name meaning "world" or "universe," suggesting the beloved encompasses all existence for the lover.
Saeed: An Arabic name meaning "happy" or "blessed," ironic given the character's suffering in love.
Poetic Devices and Concepts
Ghazal tradition: Though this is a masnavi, it draws heavily from the ghazal (lyric poem) tradition of Persian literature, with its emphasis on unrequited love and spiritual longing.
Tavern: In Sufi poetry, the tavern represents the place of spiritual gathering and divine intoxication, not literal alcohol consumption.
Cup and Wine: The cup represents the heart or soul, while wine represents divine love or spiritual knowledge.
Dawn: Often symbolizes spiritual awakening, hope, or the appearance of the beloved.
Mystical Concepts
Fana: The Sufi concept of self-annihilation or dissolution of the ego in divine love, reflected in the lovers' ultimate union where individual identity dissolves.
Ishq: Divine or passionate love that transcends ordinary human affection, central to Sufi thought and Persian poetry.
Longing (Hijr): The pain of separation from the beloved, considered a necessary stage in spiritual development.
Historical Context
Persian Literary Tradition: This work draws from the rich tradition of Persian mystical poetry, including works by Rumi, Hafez, Saadi, and others who used love poetry as a vehicle for spiritual expression.
Courtly Love: The formal, ritualized expression of love that characterized medieval Persian court culture, with its emphasis on patience, suffering, and devotion.
____________________________________
Note: Many terms in Persian mystical poetry carry multiple layers of meaning - literal, romantic, and spiritual - simultaneously. This ambiguity is intentional and central to the tradition's power and enduring appeal.
The rising of the seventh moon in an ornamental lampshade is equivalent to a nice round smiley dinner plate that had been recently washed,
Recently washed is neither a rotating wimpy wishing walker and neither is it a raspberry wafer wobbling,
It takes a lot of effort to squeeze a giant igloo through the eye of a needle,
And this is not pleasant for the spectating polar bears whose fish was being fried inside the dwelling holes,
But only a mini strawberry could flex the muscles effectively to cause a jam in a mile of traffic,
That is not good news for the jars who are already late and to be late is said to be as irrational as using a fork to make a morning brew,
A stew is far more intelligent than a gravy as many components equal more experience and more experience means that even a metric metre of labelled combinations could entice a bear from a sleeping hole,
But only when wearing a jacket made from paper,
It is nice and neat and true to form,
But format was often found to be a flame of frog leg on a carpet of mystical swirling frogspawn,
It is wise to offer up a little cup of cat milk to the buds then sit back as the colours loop in and swirl in a sky of answers,
But this can simply not be achieved nor archived when the moon is in the bin and the sailors are racing in the sun ship,
A trade is traditional and traditional trade can be nothing more then a hyper-fluted mini skirt of a skating rabbit on a promenade wearing 60 pairs of headphones,
Metronomes moaning making moronic motionless mixes,
And a nice little pair of glasses on the mantle-piece was swaying in the wind but not swearing for swearing was reserved for those who act out tanker talks,
Themes then?
Yes.
Where there were many now there are few.
But in fuse boxes the conversations are often quite absurd and who would put a floating camel in a tank then send it into a plane to cross the clouds,
Criss cross is a cleaning duty for a mission opinionated cloth wearing layers of clothing,
So what will one bring to the fair?
A mare
A single bud
A sanctified saint cushion with sparkles and satin.
And a heron in a pan of water with 60 fish to eat.
Consummation is the creational consumption cream of cropped chartered chunks. Said the 90 feet of cat by a door.
Z Leptailurus serval Z at 54 lemon sponge cakes laughing at 21 empty flan cases.
Form:
I hope I would
find a difference
between cooperative masturbation
and making passionate love
if I could
I wonder if I should
recognize ego's fulfillment
as more leftbrain secularized
and the other
as Old Green EcoSchool sacred
and red-blooded.
I hope a brief career
as a prostitute
was brief because I could not produce
a sultry fascinated look
for commercial leftbrain purposes.
I would not
because I could not
and perhaps it is not a flaw
in character
that the issue of should not
never co-arose.
I also wonder about my brief career
as a model.
I could not produce
the gift of an impassioned smile
for commercial purposes,
or at least not a smile
photographers found resonant,
nor sufficiently resilient
for longer term consumption.
Again, I would not
because I could not
force what my rightbrain felt
should co-arisingly
responsively flow from wealth
of safe and co-relational health,
secular and sacred.
I had a not brief enough career
as a commercial writer
for human development,
childhood
and young adult
and cooperative community development
agencies
for more warm than polite
politically empowering agency.
I could not fail to notice
how commercial professional fundraisers,
also known as competitive Executive Directors,
could not resonantly replace original founders
whose hearts co-empathically arose
with compassion to serve
and live in personal
and familial,
even tribal and global, solidarity
with all poor in spirit
disenfranchised from Earth's sacred nature.
I retired
when I could not fail to notice
I was a white male privileged
commercial writer
for a straight white privileged
corporate culture
no longer even dreaming
of non-commercial solidarity
with those we were white privileged
to serve with increasingly secularized
mediocrity
of indentured servants
rather than rightbrain co-empathically committed
to robustly co-relational
co-passionate
cooperative attachments
Within EarthTribe's unprostituted
organically whole
yet spiritually open
co-empowering relationships.
I wonder if I would
find a difference
between codependent political masturbation,
between Trumpian self-serving administration,
and founding democratic Fathers
making passionate non-commercial love
multicultural compassion
if I could
and should.
Wake.
Commute.
Work.
Repeat.
They call this living?
I call it the hamster wheel—
spinning faster each year
while the cage only shrinks.
Three jobs to afford one roof.
Two hours of daylight between shifts.
One life slipping through fingers
calloused from climbing ladders
that only lead to more ladders.
We've normalized exhaustion,
wear our burnout like medals of honor.
"Busy" is our battle cry.
Our worth measured in productivity units,
our time sold at wholesale prices.
We scroll through highlight reels
of lives we're too tired to pursue,
while notifications remind us
there's always more to want,
always more to owe.
They say "Rise and grind"
But never ask
what's being ground down.
It's us.
Our dreams. Our wonder.
Our capacity to stare at stars
without calculating their worth.
When did we accept that breathing
was enough to call it living?
When did we decide that survival
was something we should be grateful for?
I want more than to exist in the margins
of my own life—
stealing moments between obligations,
budgeting minutes like loose change.
Living is not this endless math
of hours versus dollars.
Living is not this constant fear
that one misstep, one illness,
one market crash
could erase everything.
To merely survive
is to be haunted by the ghost
of the life you might have lived
if you weren't always running out of time,
running out of energy,
running out of hope.
We were meant for more than this—
More than automated responses.
More than weekend recoveries.
More than counting down days
until we're free, at last,
too old to use that freedom.
So tell me,
when do we stop surviving
and start living?
When do we reclaim our heartbeats
from the timeclocks?
When do we refuse to measure our worth
by our economic output?
Because I am not a machine
designed for consumption and production.
I am flesh and blood and wonder.
And I want my life back.
I want all of our lives back.
This existence of barely making it—
it's not life.
It's a sentence.
And I'm demanding a pardon.
Right now.
Today.
Before the next alarm.
Before the next bill.
Before the next "I'll live later."
Because later keeps getting later,
until later becomes never.
And I refuse to call my one wild existence
a mere survival story.
Take me Away, Alive or Awake
by ~CrimsonSmolder
In the lands of consumption
On the edge that is so narrow
Take me away; alive or awake
Take me away; by force or compulsion
Oh malicious being you..
Capture me whole and breathing
Drug me high
And pain me less
And you shall gain
What other lacked to impress
In a room so velvet
Blood is mistaken for carpet
Curtains turn to shadows
Take me there; Alive or awake
Lay me down on a bed of roses
In a dress of scarlet and pale light black
With hair so curly that shines solid lust
Where candles are lit and halos are exposed
Drug me high
To pain me less
As I stare in those passionate eyes of black
Genuine, yet unveiling
As the drug gives me nausea but keeps me awake
I Lay so still, so wordless
As you rid me from my clothes slowly and gently
And I just stare into those exquisite eyes of yours
Lashes as dark and long
I stare onto that black soft hair
As it falls perfectly to all sides
That built muscular rigid torso and lean abs
That open shirt of yours waiting for the skin to expose
You put yours hands to my sides
Tough yet it feels so soft
As you enter me whole
Introducing feelings of excitement, of tension, of delight
Yet I still lay motionless and still
With eyes so indifferent
And a heart beating so fast
And yet you pause, and produce a dagger
Hidden in thee black silk
Its poison, peering silver, visible at the hilt
I notice, but no reaction follows
You pierce me lightly in the neck and breast
Slipping it lightly, yet in some places deeper into the skin
You lower your aim and strike it slowly yet smotherly to my stomach
A bit of blood escapes my mouth; you wipe it tentatively with your hand
You aim lower, cut deep into the abdomen
Yet you continue to kiss me, and caress my check, leaving scars of red everywhere
Droplets of a beautiful color ooze soothingly from thee cuts
A feeling of lust consumes me
A rage of vulnerability conquers me
A sick pleasure overwhelms me
I try. I will.
And I produce all might to put my hands behind your neck
My legs around your waist
And I kiss you and love you
And sense fades yet the heart still wants
Still lusts, still orders
Yet the blood continues to pour
The body begins to suffer
And pain a bit I begin to sense
As I wince, surrendering my arms to my chest
There's a 2nd part, please do read it c:
June 1 Relationship to God Bible Meditations Based on Psalms 57-62
Key Verse – Psalm 57:1 Be merciful unto me, O God, be merciful unto me: for my soul trusteth in thee: yea, in the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast.
LORD GOD, YOU ARE MY MERCIFUL REFUGE
Lord God, You are my merciful refuge,
quickening my soul against calamities
Thank You for quenching my cries caused by infirmities and difficulties
Quiet me please from reproaches of adversities
Qualify me to serve You by Your truth-certainties.
Lord God, You are my merciful refuge,
quickening my spirit by Your righteousness
Thank You for quenching my fears due to violence of wickedness
Quiet me please from whirlwind of destruction brought by haughtiness
Qualify me to receive Your commendation of faithfulness.
Lord God, You are my merciful refuge,
quickening my futility to desire Your divine contentment
Thank You for quenching my pride that propels foolish engagement
Quiet me please from consumption of fleshly defilement
Qualify me to fulfill Your will, pleasing You with faith by Your empowerment.
Lord God, You are my merciful refuge,
quickening my defenselessness with Your deliverance
Thank You for quenching my iniquities that break my endurance
Quiet me please from transgressions’ noise fortifying ignorance
Qualify me to wait upon You and for Your glorious appearance.
Lord God, You are my merciful refuge,
quickening my bad attitude so displeasing
Thank You for quenching my brokenness by Your healing’s cleansing
Quiet me please from despair of frustration’s cursing
Qualify me to follow You and Your leadership for spiritual blessing.
Lord God, You are my merciful refuge,
quickening my prayerlessness toward supplication-delight
Thank You for quenching my struggles against overwhelming doubt’s might
Quiet me please from troubles of insecurity-plight
Qualify me to perform my vows for You through Your wisdom’s insight.
Lord God, You are my merciful refuge,
quickening my joy of salvation and peace of redemption
Thank You for quenching my mischief as You guard me with compassion
Quiet me please from disturbance of deceit’s confusion
Qualify me to render to You my best, marked by sincere devotion.
June 1, 2023
At any rate, it was not quite a ‘history repeating itself event', but it was close. It was the same place and close to the same time but a different day, separated by nearly a year. Like then, I was watering, there was a spider. and there was a yard bug trapped in a spider’s web. However, unlike then, there would be no rescue by me of an entangled bug, but rather a large catch by the spider.
It was Saturday morning at 7:20 on the 4th of July, and the fireworks would not be blasting away for several hours. However, the yard bug in question would not be around to hear the sounds of patriotic celebrations on this holiday. It appears also that this time, I was just a bit late to hear the sounds of “Help me!”.
Walking out my front door to water the flowers, I bent over to turn on the water faucet and noticed a most interesting encounter. A Black Widow Spider had begun processing its food supply at the expense of a yard bug. The bug was trapped in the spider’s web, and there would be no getting away this time.
After observing this wildlife ritual for a minute or two, I went back into the house to fetch pen and paper to record what I saw. When I returned at 7:30 to continue my observation, I must say that I was surprised that the spider and the bug were nowhere to be found. Not being educated on the eating ways of spiders, I thought that the spider would consume its prey in the web. Apparently, she had a better location for storage and eating purposes.
As I thought upon this wild-life tale, I began to realize that the bug was only slightly smaller than the spider. This meant that there was enough bug food for several days. So the Black Widow was dismantling its prey from the web to tuck it away for future consumption. The big catch was sufficient enough supply for the whole Black Widow family.
I could not help but recall my similar observation of last August 18th, when I was able to rescue the bug from the trap of the spider. It could have been, but I doubt that it was the same bug. I think perhaps he would have been smarter than to return to the same danger zone. But who knows? However, I have every reason to believe that this was the same Black Widow, who this time, beat me to the bug.
07042015 PS Contest, At Any Rate, It Will Be Fast Moving, Julia Ward