In dubbing her latest "catchphrase" a neoterism, she was actually making a complete ass of herself... The quotation she claimed to have invented was, in fact, a repetition of phrase coined a mere 6 years prior.
Please let me know if my overzealous use of neoterisms metastasizes into neoterrorism.
hotchpot \HOCH-pot\ noun
the bringing together of shares or properties in order to divide them equally.
There was a spark of excitement in the air as eighteen women gathered in Molly's basement. Seventeen of them were anxious to split the profits from the Beanie Baby sales; Molly, on the other hand, was loath to discuss the results of the hotchpot -- having quickly learned from eBay that the once-coveted toys were no longer.
i lack birr to make this more than words.
sometimes i surprise myself,
sitting here on the earth as my creations soar.
but not this one.
this one will remain grounded, humble, simple.
this blurb will not attempt to overcome its label.
this one is not obsessed with "legacy" --
it is perfectly content to be skimmed through today
with no need for it tomorrow.
sometimes i want that for myself.
sometimes i fear the same.
why worry about the future when the present is perfectly adequate?
humanity doesn't work that way, though.
we were built to overcome -- "we shall", we're told --
the bad? the past?
perhaps if i can just overcome the conditional
and model myself after this simple string of words,
my mediocrity will be shaped into a higher being.
sometimes i want that for myself.
sometimes i fear the same.
wants i grasped firmly when branches held crisping leaves still linger... part of me remains green as the leaves this unexpected spring coax out of trees' limbs -- part of me wants to be entranced by you. that road leads to a cliff and neither of us cares to make the ultimate sacrifice for something so petty. i need to extinguish the want inside, a spark i've allowed to burn for far too long.
it's time to conciliate my wants and needs. i want to be needed. i need to be wanted. he can fill me like no one can. with the tangible and that which remains unseen. if i remember nothing else,
i need just remember
my wants and needs are him alone.
conciliate \kuhn-SIL-ee-eyt\ verb 1. To overcome the distrust or hostility of; placate; win over. 2. To win or gain (goodwill, regard, or favor). 3. To make compatible; reconcile. 4. To become agreeable or reconciled.
Desperate for a cohesive circle of friends, Natalie attempted to conciliate Twilight-loving Jane and Dracula fan Sarah at the local coffeehouse.
i don't have the mettle
to meddle in your affairs,
much as i wish they were mine.
when i open my eyes
i know meddling is the wrong strategy,
given how little substance
or ever was.
heat only warms when i can see my breath
and now it's summer in february
and i have no need for your heat.
i still cling to your memory
when i remember how cold i am inside.
mettle \MET-l\ noun 1. Courage and fortitude. 2. Disposition or temperament.
Ruth examined her hair in her rearview mirror, fully expecting to find sprigs of grey hair sprinkled in her tresses. Tonight's three hours of babysitting had proven to her without a shadow of a doubt that she lacked the mettle to continue her employment.
how much of this bleb
and how much
and thrown over me like a net,
built around me like a wall
as i shrivel and die inside?
does the melodramatic swirl about me
or do i brew it inside myself
and refuse to admit the role i've played?
life is good
but i fear that sometimes i pretend otherwise
to make it more interesting.
who wants to live in a rut
with tires squealing to escape
when the wheel aches to turn about?
surely the duck's wildly paddling feet
serve a larger purpose.
functionally, yes, the webs serve to keep him afloat
but does not the mallard seek solace in chaos?
or are just the hens drawn to insanity?
your eyes delve into me
like a shovel breaking ground.
will the gardener educe
fragrant flowers and juicy fruit?
will you nibble my flesh as my scent washes over you?
...or will you leave me bruised and downtrodden?
will thorny weeds penetrate the cloth of the planter's gloves?
there's a fine line between hard-to-get and a pipe dream.
which am i?
...which are you?
will you reap my fertile fields
...or rape them?
will my fields lie fallow and unused,
as you refuse to cultivate my bounty.
will you ignore my potential for growth
and neglect me altogether?
will you shower me with water
or drown me in it?
(sustenance quickly grows to substance abuse.)
or will you salt the earth
and leave me empty and worthless?
(is my sex or self to blame
for my thoughts on slimsy folk?)
i scoff at our obsession (with perfection),
fully cognizant of its yoke (around my neck).
i criticize bodies evidencing vertebrae
and will girls to discover self-worth.
even so, standing before a mirror
i engage in mental nips and tucks.
and my fingers grasp paper
as i stand in the magazine aisle.
(is it nature or nurture
that makes muscles appealing
and fat reviled?)
i look at pictures from my youth
and envy my slimmer self.
at the same time i note
of womanly curves.
it seems bodies garner attention --
bony and buxom alike.
(all of us can judge the physical world
but do any of us truly have the right?)
i am my biggest remora,
blocking the pathway before me
and complicating my days.
the idealist inside tells me
resistance builds character.
still, i find it easy to empathize
with the wire, whose copious energy
is for naught but a little heat.
of course energy must be converted
to be more than potential
and i should learn from the physical world
to better impact the mental one inside.
but it's still frustrating
when the path i see
is not the one i walk.
it's out of my hands
and i will always be a little awkward,
and unavoidable --
like my husband playing "window"
as he stands between me and the television screen.
...of course, what can one expect
when the idealist inside is mental?
remora \ REM-er-uh \ noun 1. An obstacle, hindrance, or obstruction. 2. Any of several fishes of the family Echeneididae, having on the top of the head a sucking disk by which they can attach themselves to sharks, turtles, ships, and other moving objects.
The anthill proved too much a remora to Mark and he tumbled head over heels in front of his ranch-style home.
sometimes sin comes wrapped in plastic --
devil's food cake?
under other circumstances,
alluding to satan would provoke controversy
but we just open our mouths and consume happily.
though dieters might find the treat more a trick,
providing a persistent flow of calories
ticking up with the speed of a timebomb
until -- strange reversal -- the number displayed
exceeds a preset number that ms. craig established.
what fun is watching weight
when you can just watch and wait
and smile as you dig your own grave?
one bite equates to one small trowel of dirt on your coffin
but we're all headed that way anyway
so why not just enjoy the ride, however truncated.
obesity turns life's roller coaster into the vortex
or another ride at six flags that closes whenever it rains
or whenever the wind breathes in a westerly direction
or whenever i have been standing in line long enough
that i start to plan my next destination
which is probably the funnel cake stand
because while sins are often clothed in plastic,
some of them are too important to wait for a wrapper
and are just eaten from a plate
sometimes sin comes wrapped in plastic,
screaming to be released
and impossible to tear free when the mood hits
and his dick's hard.
and when the door is finally opened
and the sin aches to be enveloped
in a warmer, wetter package
the sin is that the latex ruined everything.
Sarah ogled her new neighbor's deucedly tempting butt as he bent over to tend his vegetable garden. Her eyes slid to the circumscribed left ring finger grasping his trowel and she lamented her name's absence from his marriage license.
i've buried you deep inside,
a shiv sheathed in my heart.
i slid into cardiac tissue
sensing the danger of the blade
but never the impossibility
of pulling you loose.
i thought i'd cauterized the wound
with our heat.
and its abrupt end.
but the absence mislead me.
it made my heart grow fonder of the blade
threatening to separate atrium from ventricle.
why do i cling to dreams
that cannot be fulfilled?
why can't i drop what cannot be
and let self-destructive aspirations dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
i doom myself to live
between contentment and sabotage,
a silly game of subterfuge
spent hiding behind blades of air,
hills of wind
on a plateau
where all my acts are all too clear
if i draw anyone's eye.
i need to grab the hilt
and pull you out.
but i fear i'd just push you back in.
everytime i try to return after a hiatus
i am too hard,
i need to draw out the hermit
who sees beauty in ugliness,
poetry in an unpoetic populace.
politically incorrect, but valid:
i need to follow the strategy of the pervert
and lure her out with sugar this time.
who's to say i'm not a pervert anyway?
maybe not like those predators
whose crimes earn them a dot on a map
that worried parents study to soothe their fears
(though i hear each glance waxes what it's supposed to wane).
everyone has his own perversions, sins, flaws.
i have too many, myself.
but that should provide plenty of food for the hermit,
once she's exhausted the supply of saccharine positivity.
persnickety \per-SNIK-i-tee\ adjective 1. Overparticular; fussy. 2. Snobbish or having the aloof attitude of a snob. 3. Requiring painstaking care.
Gen. Sanders did not dare forsake the persnickety lifestyle he'd enlisted in. Yet deep within, underneath his shiny buttons and belt buckle, a part of him wondered how it would feel to sow chaos in a pauper's rags. So he became an orc.