Flash Mobs for Peace

This is the real thing
this is not a drill
this is the beginning
of the end of the kill.

You are my accomplice
you have been all along
i didn’t know it aether
i was just singing my song.

Here is your chance to brandish your bold
with a secret flash mob schreeking mission
the story will be in the aethersphere and re-told
from the Peace capital of Earth Day here is a Vision.

You’ll be helping to let revolutionary history begin,
with the internet + poetry you =ly contribute your voice
poems of positive protest will be read very loud again
scheek at the public transit station in the city of your choice.

With packs of poets and impassioned true-blood friends
your objective is a display of creative peace activism
you will be transmogrifying what has already begun
words of positive peace and responsible hedonism.

Transubstansiatiate at transit stations with each other
observe silence with wheels approaching and leaving
take this sacred relative time to sense your sister and brother
then there is no train or bus your voice should be schreeking.

Why should you do this ?
why should you care ?
What if i’m usually right ?
and you didn’t take the dare ?

Upon us is the curation of our aetherspheric generation
leading creative activism at the hidden Peace Museum in San Francisco
the door has been wide opened with your voice as my final application
if you schreek loud enough, one day soon we’ll meet at an underground disco.

How is something like reality suspend when most people never knew it existed
this is the place to see the future in action and when you do, you can’t get arrested
It’s the only place on earth you can buy a $ 1,000,000 Latte and get a free lunch too
of your voices will reverberate and transmogrify your own personal aethersphere.

The echo of your howling will lead to a posting with the hidden location
this will be like no place on Earth because reality is suspended upon entering
your ‘likes’ will be forever recorded to say that you helped me name the museum
at the end of each poem schreek as loud as you can “Give us Sunchild and Moonbeam.”

Please choose your most inspirational and revolutionary poet and the honour will be mine if you choose me:

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Rhonda’s Transistional Being

Rhonda just isn’t the same person you used to find
her license to be weird and cute will never expire
weak minds don’t matter and dark matter doesn’t mind
there through thick and thin for friends of desire
taking time alone to protect from those who are unkind.

Acceptance of loss has still yet to completely be heeded
spending time alone  sorting out a selective reflection
quiet for a time with sorrow is sometimes what is needed
losing a close soul as another reappears like convection
keeping things stabilised in the midst of being reseeded.

She’ll do anything nice for someone she trusts 100%
not actually gone but far enough away to remain strong
until you display something to doubt or reason to resent
realization and denial will not change to right from wrong
there is little room left for those who are into decent.

She has transmogrified into a better geemosapian being
laughter and loooooove of animals and Brandi too
bubbly wall postings with a funny and crazy thing
the past is in the past and without her so are you
ordering the chaos and determining who lets you sing.

Wading in solitude to keep things from slipping askew
avoiding silence because it brings a disquieting comfort
her attentive door is unlocked for a lucky intuitive few
zero motivation to seek  by herself someone to subvert
not reaching out or seeking superficial company like you.

Her bottom is on the line and finding something very fun
hermitizing from existence to absorb and process it all
making transitional choices on when and where to sun
undeserving feeling suckers always take the final fall
living her illustrious life like the swiss family Robinson.

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Positively Genuine Conception

The society occupies the second floor,
the scents followed me up to the entrance.
The stairs below lead to the front door,
the woman at the desk full of kind pretense.

Fanatical about manners you never ask for more,
you have my permission to do your best friend.
The someone who’s there to kill you isn’t a total boor,
apologies offered graciously never meant to offend.

I’ll be with you very shortly in the next waiting area,
invite me to make myself comfortable then return.
Just the right age, slim, fit and dressed with hysteria,
casual drop-dead elegance let grandmothers burn.

Take your time quickly of course there’s no rush made,
it would not serve the purpose to say so.
Laying is like business stock in the detective trade,
manners will get you much farther than go.

I knew perfectly well that with immediate social reasons,
that would come with flipping and demanding instant information.
The pretext of purity for membership shouldn’t rush seasons,
the topic of the day is how you might pick up more lasting elation.

By listening patiently to whatever is being said,
you’re never really lying and always think it through.
It would be cooler to be part of your club instead,
horrible and very shocking is what they say about you.

Genders and articles there’s no such thing as correct,
as well as with the right order to speak more frequently.
People love language that scores immediate respect,
tell me your price of membership then ask about my frequency.

Bend over the desk as innocently as possible,
give us a moment to notice your perfectly cut hair.
Prospects of horizontal socializing are delightful,
pleasure combined with excursion will take you there.

Words can be translated as loss or pity the martyr,
mourning in a way that’s telling the emotional sounds.
Give me your full attention and make things harder,
make sure I have the right verbs tenses and pronouns.

Dead beat poets and people with red notebooks and pens,
a discerning eye it’s agreed is a beautiful work of perception.
Allow yourself the pleasure of looking at each others sins,
write down something that’s like a positively genuine conception.

Transmogrified from a short story by P. Segal

Lynn Sanchez

Lynn is fed up,
no longer engaging.
The fire in her cup,
is growing and raging.

We all have our twin air,
but we can see yours.
The psychic link that you share,
is out from behind the doors.

There is much more to what we realize,
than what we see with our vision spree.
With our other set of emotional eyes,
there is a twin for us all to a diminished degree.

An eclectic set of senses she has to come by or made,
a big family tree with her very strong branches.
She serves more than food and provides more than shade,
this branch has become a tree that is known everywhere as Sanchez.

Flowing Glances at Cafe Trieste’

I fell in love today all over again,
with the girl next to me at Cafe Trieste’.
Thick red eye lashes and a matching mane flowin’,
my pulse has yet to slow and rest.

The only words we exchanged were regretting,
her telling of the code for the wireless connection.
I’m convinced of in now that while we were sitting,
our feelings had their own multidimensional convection.

I know I’ll never see her again,
it’s really for everyone’s best.
If she were the last love of my life,
what would happen with all the rest?

They come and go on a daily basis,
always with a yearning body and head.
Hold the coffee and glancing races,
give me a bottle of red wine instead.

North Beach Weather

In San Francisco there is no such thing,
as the seasons winter or summer.
It’s always either fall or spring,
of course the fog’s another.

Just around dusk because they care,
the dogs are out walking their owners.
Our North Beach park is called a square,
though it’s round and full of stoners.

Every day from the front to the rear,
travelers drift like a newly formed band.
The backpacks and carriers do appear,
at the beach on the hill with no sand.

Vesuvio Maiden Lane

O’ pretty bar maid at Vesuvio,
I never need to know your name.
A liquid companion from far below,
I know to her we’re the same.
What she pours is a dimension of know,
that is what they say and claim.

In a perfectly poetic world,
it would be you that stand and proclaim.
I am something more than special too,
not just another pretty dame.
In a perfectly other place,
a shower of you upon thee will rain.

If you are wondering who reads and writes by the window,
we’re always sitting alone and thought of as lame.
We’re never little more than a fuzzy shadow,
or another tipper who’s looking inane.
Little do you know for each of our drinks,
you are one click closer to Facebook fame.

 

Ten Spontaneous Automatism Essentials

Write without consciousness like Yeats’ did in a semi-trance MENTAL STATE,
allow your subconscious to take over with interesting prose of the phantasm,
admit you own uninhibited use of modern language as a consciously censorless trait,
write excitedly and swiftly until the cramps in your fingers obey the laws of orgasm,
centered from the periphery with the beclouding of your consciousness of relaxed fate.

The object is SET-UP before the mind in either reality,
just like sketching a landscape teacup or dilapidated old face,
vignette is set wherein it becomes more than an accessible memory,
sketching from memories a definite image-object with an exhaulted pace.

Time is of the essence in being true to the purity of speech,
sketching the PROCEDURE of language in its undisturbed flow,
from the minds of personal secret idea-words conscious does reach,
blowing like a jazz musician on subjects of images upon the distant plateau .

Periods separating sentence-structures are arbitrarily riddled by divisions of a false colon,
timid and needy commas vigorously space dashes while rhetorically breathing in the badness,
jazz musicians draw in breaths between outblown phrases and sounds we hear that are swollen,
measure the time and note it down because pauses are essential to the METHOD of our madness.

Selective expression is following a freely deviated association of mind with limitless rows in seas of thought,
swimming in an ocean of discipline with SCOPING rhythms of rhetorical exhalation and expostulated subconscious statements,
fists coming down on a tables with a bang for each complete utterance deeply written with and without fraught,
satisfy yourself first by fishing deep with the laws of the human mind and receive telepathic shock and meaningful excitements.

No pause to think of proper words because of the infantile pileup,
scatologicaly buildup spontaneous prose till satisfaction is gaining,
a LAG IN PROCEDURE will turn into an empty and cracked cup,
pounding appending rhythms think accordingly with the Great Law of timing.
Nothing is muddy that runs in time to the laws of Shakespearian dramatic stress,
forever hold your obviously rational tongue with no revisions or improper rhyming,
mistakes are accepted insertions in acts of writing and intersecting without digress,
we need to speak and write now in own unalterable way of unconscious TIMING.

Begin from the jewel center of your interest in subjects of image at the moment of writing itself,
toss away preconceived ideas of what to say and write while outwardly swimming in sea of language incest,
peripheral release and pragmatic exhaustion now go blow the song you sing and write to oneself,
painful personal wrung-out and tossed from a cradle of a warm protective mind-tapping CENTER OF INTEREST.
afterthinking is unnecessary to improve or defray impressions except for poetic or p.s.’s to ourself,
ludicrous and spontaneous confessionals are interesting because crafted and not-crafted craft is our best,
the best writers are always the most bad and good while offering a way you can be honest with yourself.

Modern bizarre language structures arise from words being dead,
new themes like transmogrification give the illumination of a new life,
roughly follow outlines in fanning movements over subjects like a river bed,
run your mindflow once to arrive at the jeweled-center of essential pivotal rife,
language is the STRUCTURE OF WORK trying to wire the time-race of dread,
cutting the laws of Deep Form to their natural conclusion like a razor knife,
dim-formed beginnings become a sharp-necessitations ending in red,
last words trickle with the last trickle-night at The End of strife.

Transmogrified from : 9 Essentials of Spontaneous Prose by Jack Kerouac