Some Poetry Time


Call me…
If ever I really need a friend to just talk to.
Call me…
If we ever need to work together, to work-out situations.
If, we ever, if we ever, get out of here.
Those rules apply to you.
I have pockets wide open.
But don’t you put something inside them of course.
This fear is passing…
This love is crossing…
This pain is fleeting…
The air which i breathe leaves me wanting more…
But, call me anytime…
Anytime you feel you need to talk to somebody.
I take it serious? Yeah! Why not?
Laughter has a hold on me, doesn’t it. Doesn’t it?
I can’t sleep because the expression on my face will stay stuck that way.
Call me when I’m tired, wake me up.
Call me when I’m alone, so somebody can come over.
Call me a boy cause I don’t wish to grow older.
Just call to mind our avaricious hearts.

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Call me… when I feel so alone like nobody else exists

Call me… when the only sound I’ve heard in days is the beating of my own heart
…or… just call me

Liminal spaces caught between worlds of brutality.
Out of the voidness into boundless grounds, light crosses the mashes.
Venturing off into the omni and meta verses.
Engulfing nebulas in stasis and encapsulating a mask to bare.
Under cold darkened stares. Beneath midnight covers. Stars spoke out again.
Asunder, tearing at the mountains and fields.
The scythe of bountiful harvest rests at his hands again.
In pain, the astrolabe goes with him.
Off rings of Saturn do Celestials ride once more.
Illusionary doors burst open.
Peering out of cataclysmic dust, earth bound, nature sounds.
Clouds wisp through dimensional rifts.
Waves of ember gray seek to revisit sun light again.
Vestige of empirical order give true sight to those blind.
Forgiven of nothing more than the love we shared and left baron.
We can only care so much they said.
They than look the other way, turned away.
He gave a wink, nod, and smile before leaving.

Some act out of their relations like Rimbaud and then dismiss even notoriety as a fluke knowin not who or what they could have been in the mind, less others they may have had, on occasion. If you pick up just one through one cast away writing in a bottle, time, in that very bottle may reoccur by some mystic law, or exgesis through,
and true.

That seminal works disseminate as all that pleasurable down the hatch, or flushed down , as if it never can germinate the oceans of wasted desire!?!

But oh no that’s not what time is, it gets later later , later still , until the late belated later sooner.

(Orchestrated Metamorphosis)
Primordial, I arrived before Christ, from the rising seas into mythology and creating works of art on land in the midst of fire. Taken by a token of air and on that night Secunda was silent, for I was brought by stoichiometry. I met Erubus, Thanatos, and Morpheus through apparitions going against the mortal world in hopes they visit again. The world wide pronoun astonished scholars and lucky patrons alike ie. The fourth and Prime Earth. They were anything but dead or alive. Death with which existed in them found life. Lack of energy from creation made astral projections of faster connections erudition, escapism, confliction, and hylozoism. The cost? Dirtier schools, courts, and hospitals. The mind spoke of trying but failed short every time. Something I’ve snacked on before, yet better near the Brooklyn bridge.

poetry is a beautiful thing
unless it isnt
love and life are wonderful
arent they
or them
or he or him or whatever
do you glide free in the soft ride
the endless groove
between universes
upon the aesthetics of being?
do you see it? know it?
hard stop. lsd in the desert
may guide but tell me later
of the consequences.
im here to listen
a waterfall
of pleasures, peaces, happinesses, worries
a crasy crash crash crash
above in the heart
oh no, no no
just rise, ris rise
but then we are human
here at least,
all of us are
so, why the lockdown
sad evil patterns
in the black waters of existence
you can
i guarantee it
yes you
the one i mean
you know who you are
breathe in that O2
expose the soul in higher real
like always if you need me
just call me
im here

Well, in the end I have found my home,
the land where flawless chiselled letters
guard my name above the grave
where I’m buried, if I have buriers.

Ime, hát megleltem hazámat (first stanza), translated by Edwin Morgan, Attila József

Attila József was born in Ferencváros, a poor district of Budapest, in 1905 to Áron József, a soap factory worker of Székely and Romanian origin from Banat, and Borbála Pőcze, a Hungarian peasant girl with Cuman ancestry;[4] he had two elder sisters, Eta and Jolán. When József was three years old, he was sent to live with foster parents after his father abandoned the family and his mother became ill. At the time of his birth, Attila was not a well known name; because of this, his foster parents called him Pista, a nickname for the Hungarian version of Stephen.[5][6][3]

From ages seven to fourteen, József returned to living with his mother until she died of cancer in 1919, aged only 43.[6][3] While also attending school, he worked many odd jobs and was a self-described street urchin. After the death of his mother, the teenage József was looked after by his brother-in-law, Ödön Makai, who was relatively wealthy and could pay for his education in a good secondary school.[3]

In 1924, József entered Franz Joseph University to study Hungarian and French literature, with the intention of becoming a secondary school teacher. He was expelled from the university, deemed unfit to be a teacher, after he wrote the provocative and revolutionary poem, Tiszta szívvel (“With clear heart” or “With all my heart”). With his manuscripts, he traveled to Vienna in 1925 where he made a living by selling newspapers and cleaning dormitories, and then to Paris for the following two years, where he studied at the Sorbonne. During this period he read Hegeland Karl Marx, whose call for revolution appealed to him as well as the work of François Villon, the famous poet and thief from the 15th-century. Financially, József was supported by the little money he earned by publishing his poems as well as by his patron, Lajos Hatvany. He returned to Hungary and studied at Pest University for a year. József then worked for the Foreign Trade Institute as a French correspondent and, later, was the editor of the literary journal Szép Szó (Beautiful Word.)[3]

A supporter of the working class, József joined the illegal Communist Party of Hungary (KMP) in 1930.[6] His 1931 work Döntsd a tőkét (Blow down the block/capital) was confiscated by the public prosecutor. József’s later essay “Literature and Socialism” (Irodalom és szocializmus) led to indictment. In 1936, he was expelled from the Hungarian Communist Party due to his independence and interest in Freud.[3]

Beginning in childhood, József began showing signs of mental illness and was treated by psychiatrists for depression and schizophrenia. In adulthood, he was sent by the state to a sanatorium and was diagnosed with “neurasthenia gravis.”[3] Modern scholars believe that he likely had borderline personality disorder.[7] He never married and only had a small number of affairs, but frequently fell in love with the women who were treating him.[citation needed]

József died on 3 December 1937, aged 32, in Balatonszárszó. At the time, he was staying at the house of his sister and brother-in-law. He was killed while crawling through railway tracks where he was crushed by a starting train. There is a memorial to him not far from the location where he died. The most widely accepted view is that he committed suicide, which he had previously attempted; he wrote five farewell letters that day.[citation needed]


Statue of József near the University of Szeged

József published his first volume of poetry A szépség koldusa (Beauty’s beggar) in 1922; at the time of publishing, he was seventeen and still in school.

In 1925, József published his second collection of poems, Nem én kiáltok (It’s not me who shouts). József’s works were praised by such internationally known Hungarian researchers and critics as Béla Balázs and György Lukács. In 1927, several French magazines published József’s poems.

József’s third collection of poems, Nincsen apám se anyám (1929) (I have neither father nor mother), showed the influence of French surrealism and Hungarian poets Endre Ady, Gyula Juhász and Lajos Kassák.

In the 1930s, József turned his focus from a search for beauty to the plight of the working class and reflected his interest in Communism.[6] In 1932, Külvárosi éj (Night in the outskirts), a mature collection of poems, was published. His most famous love poem, Óda (“Ode”), from 1933, took the reader for a journey around and inside the body of the beloved woman.

József’s last two books were Medvetánc (Bear dance) and Nagyon fáj (It hurts very much), published in 1934 and 1936 respectively. With these works he gained wide critical attention. Ideologically, he had started to advocate humane socialism and alliance with all democratic forces. It was Attila József who first formulated the ars poetica of transrealismin his 1937 poem Welcome to Thomas Mann.[8] József’s political essays were later included in Volume 3. of his Collected Works (1958).[9]



Cyborg me

Instant time sensitive poem by meno4

Now is the time for all
Good men,
To come here, by fate and/or firtune
To describe intention
Of crying children want to reborn over-

All , cause having had no chance in the world before trillions of incantations hadn’t moved time’s eyed hour glass,

The Sun dials up and gets no answer

It is prerocirded and voiced male!

Here in Male another taxi ride for sights unseen,

This fate derides it’s detractors


For it was fate bringing the toil’s of lost forgotten benefits , to the gain of prized harvest

That prayer could transcend, so that singular lives’ trophy’s can bring proof of those toes thus affected/affected.

It is through fate that the necessity of Faustian promises recalled, but for in this moment, then so quickly forgotten, in it whole It briefly touches ‘me serve, through which (unknown and moved) through the purity of the amalgam can be sifted through.