Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

At the university of transgressions,
between offensiveness and escalation,
classes dismiss for the afternoon,

students out-flowing to the toxicity-plaza from various buildings:

The police-brutality-building to the north,
abuse-of-the-word-“snowflake”-building to the east,
half-the-country-in-deep-denial-building to the south,
wrongly-ascribed-as-an-INCEL-building to the west.

The students converge in the middle
and head to the cafeteria, rundown, seedy,
and potentially dangerous; anybody can be a sexist racist nationalist.

Apolitical-Douche-Bag-Brad and justice-warrior-bitch-Britney,
in a love/hate relationship, sit down at a table with their lunches.

“I can’t believe my professor,” says Britney, “First off, can a man teach this class?” She’s in a class called toxic femininity-studies,

Image by Nicholas Demetriades from Pixabay

To vacation in purgatory,
I pull a waterfall’s slipknot

and enter an alleyway-maze of in-betweenness
where ordinary life exists. I find no city streets,
no reincarnation-booth, transcending to extraordinariness. On one side,

there’s hell on earth. On the other,
there’s a publisher’s future email,

Accepted living, or a rejection-death:

Schrödinger’s cat,

well-traveled through probabilities,

waiting in the dark

for a possible return to the world.

While we can’t achieve immaculate bliss of another life,
we settle with throwing pleasurable little stones,
skipping across day’s pond. How far can my will’s birds —

stalk the trajectory
through sky’s miniature golf course of…

Image by athree23 from Pixabay

Rainbowing language,

over flowing white,

bridges one brain to the other
and colorizes the space between.

Perceptive red is shaded with logical purple,

leaping its faith to intuitive orange

of gathering said meaning,

unspoken understanding,
if not there’s conversational self-correction:

“What do you mean?”
a prompt to readjust the makings of primitive poetry. Then the method in which we’re understood changes; Reinvention of the how
to better communicate the why. “
Oh, I see,”

which is vocal eyes gazing into the other’s soulful valley.

A wall of antisocial foliage erects itself!

Laconic insectile words crawl through. “Excuse me?” I reply,

to the pain of articulating to oneself to…

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

“What’s your date of birth?” The orienting question,
fixing the self-vantage which peters out to
the mirror:

an infinite-headed cat of history,
that closes all its eyes but one,
which calculates the rest of itself.

It calls the fractionated reflection you.

“What’s the date of my unbirthday?
What’s the date of my death?”
I answer with questions.

The crawlspace between 1984 and my death,
is the expanse of which I exist.

Please check the correct box until you die.
I mark the bum’s cardboard box of consciousness,
homeless in the cosmos. “WILL WORK FOR TRANSCENDENCE”

“I heard he works a…

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay

An atom awakened from a dream of being a human.

“Is life itself too big for your mind?” the words echoed from a world away to wherever the atom was. Then it saw its neighbouring atoms, consisting of something.

“Is the scope of the world far too massive for you to process and shape to your will?”

The mind’s eye of the atom pictured a pot as a human pictured a body, but where was it? “Well, now you can design your own personally customizable future, and graft it onto your life seamlessly!”

What future can escape this?

Image by Macb3t from Pixabay

Internet’s anesthesia projects planktonic capsules of stimuli
that drift into his eyes’ devouring-bristles,

and release pixels of happenings,
numbing his beloved void in case he feels pain in his lonesome.
The binary of the digital and imagination compose together,
and influence his thinking,
extending to megabytes,
virtualizing an ineffable experience:
encountering a poetry podcast, an engineered airborne virus,
by chance wafting in the direction of his browsing. Before he knows it,
sound infects his ears, hearing:

[“Today we have ‘I’m Totally Humble, and Not a Douchebag’ Brad,”

says the interviewing host. “He’s graced with net-fame by an audience wanting fame…

Image by Comfreak from Pixabay

I only knew grandpa from photographs:

the stone past heated to lava

burns the present

like inventions,

erupting from a mind’s volcanic ghost to a touchable idea.

Its intangible self swims in the river of historical cloudiness, flowing beneath

skyscrapers of the concrete now.

My niece’s imaginary friend is a robot.

Artificial intelligence is her conceptual plaything,

borrowed toys from humanity’s theoretical airwaves.

Her brain accepts the transmission,

so she can extrapolate the life-effects of

having a robot as a friend.

At four years old,

she mourns impermanence, of technology

when her iPhone dies.

That’s when she conjures her robot friend.

She never wept for…

My journey to articulating a mind-bending experience, and helpful tips you can use to express yourself more succinctly

Image by Grae Dickason from Pixabay

I suffered a psychotic episode fifteen years ago at twenty. While most twenty-somethings usually went out, drinking and partying, I stayed at home questioning my reality in the form of writing poetry. Honing my craft painstakingly tormented me because my writing failed to resemble my waking dream, a lurid phantasma.

I was psychotic after a breakdown from the cumulation of tragedies: my brother’s death, my sister’s overdose, causing brain damage, and my father’s fatal heart attack, the fateful trigger. However, I figured out how to express myself amongst emotional and mental chaos.

Writing cohesively from a confusing experience

It was impossible to describe the psychotic episode…

Image by tatlin from Pixabay

Child watchfulness absorbs a window, of rainwater.

And spaciousness floods the living room,

dwelling in the glass as its apparitional counterpart,

wearing droplets, trickling talkatively.

All vocalize narrative aquariums in a world of opposites,

mirrored numerously into warpages upon warpages,

so galactic whales wage war with Aztec seahorses,

and humanoid-seascapes swim to the stars.

The two converging,

the whales make peace with the seahorses via the diplomatic seascapes.

In a harmonious Aztec ocean,

tiding into the galaxy,

one droplet’s in a transparent Ferrari,

cruising through life. One is steady,

undulating happily. One’s satisfied

in moderation. One is complacent

in stagnancy. The child,

beaming encouragement,

wills the droplet to motion,

Steven Clifford

Clifford is a writer and poet from Long Island, NY. He’s “mentally Ill” but considers it a gift with consequences from a generous muse.

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