Terminal Philosophy

I died listening to The Beatles and thinking of you.

-He died listening to The Beatles and thinking of me.

Love you,




Take a chance.  Be yourself.  Change.  Evolve, it might make a difference, and also listen to The Beatles.

He did and he died.

God of the left over food cuisine speaking all nice cause he’s at work.  Can’t lose this job so he lost his rude words in compliance.

Funny games.  Funny games played.

Played for a check, and he never felt that bad before in his life.

Thinking while he recalled.

Who ever said we would be living comfortably?

Its big drops until the storm stops, then we reap the benefits of our crop.

Brilliant efficiency.

Just don’t think of your dignity, its lying by the wayside.

Mon., Tues., Wed., Thurs., Fri., Sat., Sun.

Foot in the door and moving to the top…


The times when I think about it I miss it.  Can’t put it on a wish list.  There are none in existence.  Can’t put my finger on it.  Can I get the number of a misses?  I have some questions for the witness.  What I miss about her most are the kisses.


And this, the true facts come from a child’s mouth; ones that haven’t been cut out, or poorly pronounced.  Hardly anything vulgar, but they keep starving of hunger. They plunder.  Come talk to the great wonder on break, sitting on his bumper.

And to think people just sit.

And they still sleep…


Would you trust something without a brain?

She uses her fingers to wipe the soul into her jaws as she consumes her prey.

Hands greased and slathered with blood and black bile after.

She belches.

And moves on to the next.


The thought, it all was a lost cause.  Damp dull energy hangs above me.  It’s lovely.  My past is my life, as time slips by.  Thinking twice.  With me and above me, with me and just lost, with me and below me, who has enough to pay for what I want?

That’s not what they see, that’s what we see, we know.

Protein build-up.

Dirty lenses.

Ulcers on the eyes,

The optometrist is not optimistic.


Who knows? 

Who knows?

He lies.


 Click, and its gone.  Bye.  See ya.

3 months along the Mississippi.

3 months in the sun.

3 months from when it started and it was all done.

Between rope and water, weight and steel, steam and engine, pushed forward by a big red wheel.


From mundane and boring shoots thoughts of days gone by, of lust.  Remembering the temperature and the weather.  Working with others is hard when you’ve lost someone.  And lost as in left.  And it wasn’t your choice.

Well, lost as in new beginnings, the events-which set life in motion and liberate from a cage are the events within, coming of age.  Who is winning?

Kids want to be old, they want to be seen, and not as a children as important human beings.

This job I had came from education.  This was one the best jobs ever.  I made predictions of the future as I sat on Italian leather-in my mind.

I felt like a weatherman.

To get ahead, act smarter, better, and clever.

Knowing is treasure, knowing is treasure.

Astonishment brought pleasure.


I went so far from where I wanted to be I didn’t want to be there no more.

No more.

No more.

So then we left…


About Terry Scott Niebeling

Hello, My name is Terry Scott, a human being with flaws. twitter: @sirterryscott Buy my ebooks: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1/191-4788099-1818040?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=terry+scott+niebeling
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One Response to Terminal Philosophy

  1. C.T. Thieme says:

    Six years of three months, of steel, of steam, of blue, white and red paint as my hand turned the wheel from dull to shining churning foam. Six years when the “T” wasn’t just a silhouette but a strong presence to be reckoned with. Six years of waltzes in the moonlight to the rhythm of quivering decks where all the world was the small of her back and a River and “all else is sham.” Did you see him in your three months? Walking the decks in mechanics overhauls? I knew him then as flesh and blood and smile that put forth the mind. Did you sit in the dark behind the bar when the rest were gone to bed? Did you let your mind drift till you heard a plate rattle it back to wonder what it was that could account for both the real and the ideal for “there lies the shadow?” Was I there? Was I there? Do I walk the decks yet with my brothers and sisters and lovers of dust and rust in an Upper Mississippi backwater? Am I there? Am I there yet? Am I there? For I am not here.

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