I do not care for Morrissey but Johnny Marr's ok

Hi, I'm Nico and this is all I know: I got salt pepper garlic powder, I got breadcrumbs, I got cumin and some curry mix, I got italian herbs. I write music and work in computer engineering, in the opposite order. Any pronouns, but if you saw me you'd likely use he/him. I'm over 21.

[tsarina-anadyomene]

basically the most interesting historical periods to me are when an old world is dying and a new one is struggling to be born. it's like a two for one deal on complete world-systems. and they even kiss fight

[birdblogwhichisforbirds-deactiv]

My brother, listen, do not be afraid. I have descended into Hell to talk About forgiveness. Yes, Pilate, with you. With others too - with everyone who’s here. But you first. Even Judas, my old friend, Must wait a while for me. We have a while; The sempiternal agony of Hell Exists outside of human history.  Souls killed in every century are here Millennia before and after you. You stand among those millions who share An everlasting sentence for the crime Of “just doing your job.” Your job killed me. Your job ripped my skin open with a lash And drove me, bleeding, shambling up the hill Where your job drove an eight inch iron spike Through each hand and each foot, and hoisted me Towards the sky and left me there for hours To slowly suffocate. You did your job To many more like me. Their names were all Forgotten as they rotted on the cross Unburied. Hell is teeming with the souls Who did their job, who served the empire well - Not just your empire, all the ones that rose And fell, before and after your own Rome’s. You asked me once what truth is. That is it. That is the truth about your whole life’s work. You know this and it sears worse than the flames. But that is not why I descended here. I’m here about forgiveness. Listen. Please.

In the beginning was the Word of God. That’s me. Like you, I had a job to do. By me all things were made, and without me Was nothing that was made. The universe Was my life’s work, the empire that I served. My father’s will for Mankind was my law. One act of disobedience was enough To sentence every one of you to death. I did my job, and did it thoroughly: The hands that made the stars built every tomb. They sculpted tumors, planted neat rows Of plagues in human lungs and skin and guts, Conducted rousing symphonies of storms, Earthquakes, tsunamis, fires, and wrote In stone: if you survive all this, the time itself Will kill you. Yet this law, My Father’s Law, No - our law, I share blame for it - forbade The dead to die. Infinities of pain, We gave as punishments for finite crimes. My father made me judge, and I looked down On human beings. I saw their sinfulness And built sparse Heaven and a crowded Hell. I thought this law was justice ‘til the day I learned what it is like to be condemned.

Pontius, I have no right to punish you. I killed you. I killed everyone you loved. I tortured you, but this ends here. You’re free. All Hell breaks out today. I will not judge. From now on, I refuse to do my job. I am not Christ the King. I abdicate. How you repay your debt to those you killed Is your own cross to carry - they decide Whether they will forgive you when you meet In Paradise. And Pontius, I forgive You for my death, of course. How could I not? But I’m not here to tell you that, I’m here To ask, to plead, for what I don’t deserve From everyone in Hell, but first from you. Brother, when we last met I said to you That you would have no power over me Were it not given from above, but now I bow my head, give power from below. I beg you for the one gift only you Can give me: I have sinned against you, please Brother, can you - will you - forgive my sins?

[regexkind]

Higgledy-piggledy

Tumblr's own Regexkind's

Methods Procrustean

Meter will fit

Century's paced out by

Dactylomania

Bounding with energy

Trailing in wit

Higgledy-piggledy

Seeking finality

Writing this poem, my

Race is now run

Using a reckoning

Arithmometrical

Meming torrential is

Finally done

[spiribia]

HOW IS THAT THE SUN? ITS TOO SMALL

[powerburial]

In my opinion, posts should be difficult. They should challenge the reader. They should be confusing, and stupid.

[maocin]

Undrafted out of Galilee

Omaha! Omaha!

Jesus of Nazareth,

nursing an injury

(teams report "OUT:

Rehab from multiple

stigmatizations"), but

still gets the credit and

Super Bowl clout.

Blue, forty-two, set hut!

Eminent quarterbacks

never would fault him for

difficult breeze;

no wide reciever is

blaming a drop on the

omnibenevolent

hearer of pleas.

Higgedly-piggedly,

mickey-mouse deity,

crucifix merchant just

riding the pine--

choke artist, fence-sitter,

washed and demoralized,

stick to the basics and

make us some wine!

[regexkind]

Grumbly-grouchily

Miniver Cheevy was

Growing cadaverous

Child of disdain

Life in this period

Contemporaneous

Rendered him lachrymose

Being a pain

Don-no-Quixote-o

Cheevy Idealist,

Loved so his swords with a

Passionate flame

Riding a bronco he'd

Uncompromisingly

Fly to the battles to

Glory proclaim.

Glory-be-deedle-dee

Gloomy was Miniver

Mirrors would render him

Speechless with rage

Besides his heros he

Incontrovertibly

Measured far short of their

Camelot days

What's-a-name, what's-a-name,

Cheevy the Tardy-born

Saw that Romantic and

Precious was dead

Born as a Medici

Machiavellian—!

Surely for being one

Blood he'd've shed

Hollister-schmollister,

Grumbling Miniver

Khakis despised and if

Iron he'd worn,

Trust in me, certainly,

Hyperexcitably,

Vows he would swear it was

Good to be born.

Avarice-schmaverice,

Miserly Miniver,

Claimed to be endlessly

Weary of gold

Others may find this has

Dubitability—

Lacking for coins made his

Winters so cold.

Coughity-Coughity

Muddled was Miniver,

Drinking and drinking his

Lifetime away

Audience, mark well its

Applicability

Miniver teaches us

Live for today.

[xenostalgic]

(Horace, Odes IV.vii)

Higgledy piggledy, snowmelt is patchily greening the fields, and the trees are in bud.

Earth is remade by the change of the seasons. The rivers return to the riverbeds' mud.

Spirits of nature come all unapparelled and dance unabashedly, joyous at play.

Hope for no permanence: nonsempiternally, years, like the moment, are rushing away.

After the frost is the warmth of the spring, but it's trampled by summer, as greenery wilts—

slain in its turn by the heliocyclical bountiful autumn, then winter's white quilts.

All that is lost to the seasons' revolving, though, moon after moon in their time will restore;

we, when we die, like the mythocanonical heroes and kings, will be dust evermore.

No one can say if the gods will capriciously grant us the morrow, and maybe they won't.

All that you give to your heart, all you love, will be lost to your heirs on the day that they don't.

Once you are gone and your shadow is facing its judgement in death and the sentence is passed,

never, my friend, will your family, eloquence, piety, anything, save you at last.

Even Hippolytus, famously virtuous, dear to Diana, in death must remain; Theseus too had to leave his Piríthoüs love-unavailingly Lethe-enchained.

[maocin]

Telemachus

Little it profits that

princes-as-afterthoughts --

only the larvae of 

warrior-kings --

manage this blamelessness,

centered and common and

tender and decent and

useful for things.

Have I discerned to this

labor before me by

simply attending the

day of my birth?

Nothing we built here was

quite as compelling as

maritime suicide,

so. What's it worth?

Father he gallivants,

Ithaca's abdicant,

mother's despondent and

wasting away;

Worked I my work, and in

prudence I realized how

little attention I

needed to pay.

Higgedly piggedly,

off with his majesty,

Ithaca needs not the

prince, but the crown.

So, when they come for the

son of Ulysses, I

pray to Athena to

never be found.

[machine-unlearning]

I met a traveller bound from an antique land, talking of legs of stone, trunkless and vast,

next to a shattered face, frowning with wrinkled lip, cold command sneering through centuries past.

Passions read well by its sculptor (but mocking) still stamped for all time upon those lifeless things.

And on the pedestal these few words still appear: "I, Ozymandias, am King of Kings!"

"Look about on my works! Despair now, Mighty ones!" Nothing at all remains round the decay.

Colossal wreck enclosed by lone and level sands, boundless and bare that still stretch far away.

[maocin]

fuuuuck you beat me to itttttt. anyone got anything better than the (obsolete. rare.) "desolatorily"?? I was looking for a hexasyllabical word for forever

Higgedly piggedly,

man from antiquity

travelling here, to my

own native land,

Telling of sculpture, of

legs in a desert both

mammoth and torsoless.

There on the sand:

Partially buried, a

Shattered stone visage, whose

Frowning expression and

Sneer of command

Tell that their sculptor once

Read well the passions that

Now outlive ruler and

chiseling hand.

There on the pedestal:

"I, Ozymandias,

hereby declare myself

lord of all things:

Look all around at my

epic accomplishments;

gaze in despair, ye who

fain would be king!"

Higgedly piggedly

Next to this mountainous

wreck of an emperor,

nothing remains

Boundlessly, barely, and

desolatorily,

sand stretches outward in

infinite planes.

[machine-unlearning]

I met a traveller bound from an antique land, talking of legs of stone, trunkless and vast,

next to a shattered face, frowning with wrinkled lip, cold command sneering through centuries past.

Passions read well by its sculptor (but mocking) still stamped for all time upon those lifeless things.

And on the pedestal these few words still appear: "I, Ozymandias, am King of Kings!"

"Look about on my works! Despair now, Mighty ones!" Nothing at all remains round the decay.

Colossal wreck enclosed by lone and level sands, boundless and bare that still stretch far away.

[maocin]

fuuuuck you beat me to itttttt. anyone got anything better than the (obsolete. rare.) "desolatorily"?? I was looking for a hexasyllabical word for forever

Higgedly piggedly,

man from antiquity

travelling here, to my

own native land,

Telling of sculpture, of

legs in a desert both

mammoth and torsoless.

There on the sand:

Partially buried, a

Shattered stone visage, whose

Frowning expression and

Sneer of command

Tell that their sculptor once

Read well the passions that

Now outlive ruler and

chiseling hand.

There on the pedestal:

"I, Ozymandias,

hereby declare myself

lord of all things:

Look all around at my

epic accomplishments;

gaze in despair, ye who

fain would be king!"

Higgedly piggedly

Next to this mountainous

wreck of an emperor,

nothing remains

Boundlessly, barely, and

desolatorily,

sand stretches outward in

infinite planes.

[maocin]

Higgedly piggedly, something I've noticed: the tweet about family guy violent death, "people are killing and people are dying, like Peter and Lois and Meg and the rest" (leaving out Brian and rewritten somewhat) can scan to more songs than just "where is the love?": "war pigs" (Black Sabbath) or "everyone wants to be ruler of earth" (that one won't fit the glove).

[unknought]

Higgledy piggledy, turning and turning as gyres are widening, centers unheld,

things fall apart and there’s anarchy everywhere; falcons fly freely and can’t be compelled.

Dimming the tide there is blood in the water and everywhere customs of innocence drowned.

Held by the worst is a fervent intensity; lacking conviction the best run aground.

Surely there must be some kind of apocalypse; surely epiphany must be at hand!

Visions unbidden from Spiritus Mundi of something awakening out on the sand:

Head of a man with a leonine frame and a pitiless gaze that’s as blank as the sun;

sleep became nightmare by passage of centuries long before eons of slumber were done.

Higgledy piggledy, beast of antiquity, imminent, just as the prophecies warn,

shambling slowly but revelatorily, slouching towards Bethlehem, there to be born.

[unknought]

Higgledy piggledy, turning and turning as gyres are widening, centers unheld,

things fall apart and there’s anarchy everywhere; falcons fly freely and can’t be compelled.

Dimming the tide there is blood in the water and everywhere customs of innocence drowned.

Held by the worst is a fervent intensity; lacking conviction the best run aground.

Surely there must be some kind of apocalypse; surely epiphany must be at hand!

Visions unbidden from Spiritus Mundi of something awakening out on the sand:

Head of a man with a leonine frame and a pitiless gaze that’s as blank as the sun;

sleep became nightmare by passage of centuries long before eons of slumber were done.

Higgledy piggledy, beast of antiquity, imminent, just as the prophecies warn,

shambling slowly but revelatorily, slouching towards Bethlehem, there to be born.

[youzicha]

Anthony Hecht invents the double dactyl.

[maocin]

Jiggery-pokery,

Megacrit balancers,

Skilled at construction of

Houses of cards,

Upheld the Ironclad's

Ludo-stability:

"Forgotton Ritual"

Had to exhaust.

[maocin]

Higgedly-piggedly, real estate licensure state-level standardized scantron exams,

Given as means of assessing the year-to-year eligibility brokers demand.