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L B May 2018
Yellow is
a high-minded mood
the extravagance of sunlight
to be touched--
before long
by colors of play
___

It is of hair
tendering golden sun
brown pennies for lemonade
__

Yellow is
bumping into the screaming end
of a lit
cigarette
___

Yellow is
dripping from the eaves
onto an empty soup can
___

It is
spindling sparrow song
from highest perch on roof
his pitch can aspire
___

Yellow is
in rattled doorknob
an infant's sweet
voice wanting – in
Reciting menu
above mattress
edges into sleep
two dark eyes
plead
for yellow
waking
Mother into morning--
“juice.... eggs”

Yellow  _
__
is
opening a car door
at the shore's
unmistakable!
Smells of life  
warmth and breeze
touching strings
those kites  
of sense
harmonics
above the tone
octaves of excitement
to see to hear to touch to taste
to know
again –

the ocean of my mother
as she calms the waves,
ignores the pouts of us
with stuff to lug out to the beach
the towels, pails and shovels
Picnic basket, cooler
lotion, comic books, her magazines

Mom looks out
She is a good swimmer
Her glasses, dark
Preside  
reflecting beauty –

“Take your sister's hand.”

Yellow are the squeals
Feet thrashing sand
of cannot wait
For my daughter, Phoebe and my mother.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.perhaps in my company we wouldn't be... opening a bottle of red wine... to let it breathe... or pouring it into a bowl to give it more air to breathe with: otherwise on life-support machine through the bottle-neck... right here, right now, we have... a glass bottle of beer (13, guinness hop lager) and 4 cans of stella artois (the wife beater's lager, so they say)... yes... beer in cans... for all intesive purposes - a good way to transport beer... in aluminium cans... but we're not bums... we don't drink beer straight from cans... we pour our beer into a tall glass and wait... so the beer can exfoliate like aladdin's jinn in the glass... away from the confines of the can... we don't drink beer from a can... we can drink it straight from a bottle... but if it comes in a can... we pour it into a tall glass... just so... so there's some head on top... we're not english in that respect either... of cutting the head (of foam) off the beer... which is probably why i always order a stout in a pub... you can't pull one without the creme de la creme on top... a head on a beer is what makes it look less like carbonated **** or concentrated lemonade... we're not bums... we drink beer from glasses... never directly from cans - the metal gets in the way... a beer like a wine needs to breathe too.

i found that there are only two types of music styles
that are suitable for drinking -
that's... drinking and not going out -
playing a cat with an imaginary fireplace...
the less imaginary fireplace being:
a stare confined to... watching a pillow...
and the general schematic of a bed...
and sitting hunched in imitation: all crow because
no crow doesn't get you far
on golgotha of daydreams: if only i...
humble servant of dusty feet - the tourist,
the pilgrim - would set off...
         on an amphetamine riddled skew into
a messiah complex adventure...

                     but not me...
                once upon a time the only music
worth drinking to was the blues...
            a long, long time ago...
                hell: once upon a time any music
would do if we all decided to go dancing...
or at least waited for the dance to come of its own
volition and not mine: i.e. the me in i would
just be dragged under the teasing waves
and slurped out to sea...

                   a thousand waves are all but the single
tongue of some swindling kraken...
drinking and random shamanic interludes in
the youth of the night-club...
when there wasn't a tally for score or...
the ones shot down by manfred...
good thing he was called manfred...
   and not some swabian helmut! oi oi!
                                             von Richthofen!
and that was when...
           until came the five beers and on
the 4th it became apparent...
                                  the red garland quintet...
soul junction...

   and it's not... a gerry mulligan's night lights...
piano sentimentality and the ode
to all things urban, cosmopolitan...
                        yes... it's not grenadine in that
sulk of yours... it's cranberry juice...
the city and... the sewers and...
                                 jazz for the urban scenes
of: anywhere but the park...
the graveyard... a choo-choo slowing into
a station... and billy joel come:
mid-life crisis and a new york state of mind...
while over 'ere we have...
     teasing the woods: where concrete ends
and mud begins... thus we can have our Adam...
and...

only today i was walking past his bride...
doing my odd citizen duty of recycling glass...
and buying the amber sedatives (carbonated)
for an evening with some cannonball adderley
or some donnie byrd... or a horace silver...
that's the beauty of jazz...
the music is all there is... the names come and go...
sonny rollins and the story behind
the bridge... and how he would pretend to
but not pretend to... retire and go off and practice
on the bridge so as to not disturb his neighbours...
all the details are there: on the vinyl sleeve
from 1963...

now that's jazz... i don't even want to mind
how pretentious this might sound...
but... it doesn't in that: jazz is jazz in that there
might come some great improv. -
after all: it's all somewhat improv. -
   but you can't really make such basic
generalißations...
        speedy-shoom-of-a-choo-choo whizzing past...
schematic!
   classical music is all a priori...
                              jazz... it's all a posteriori...
how? when people phone in between
1pm and 5pm to classic.fm and they make requests...
they sometimes ask for something specific...
but usually... they vaguely allude to... a feeling...
something "uplifting" - play something "uplifting"...
ergo... there's this... a priori "item"(?)
in the music that's... an expectation...

          i do know what jazz sounds like
a quintent: drums, bass, piano, trumpet, sax...
yes... the guitar... asking the algorithm:
a quintet is five - what is six?
        sixtet - d'uh... sextet... well that's the basic
"i know what jazz sounds like"...
but with jazz there's always this lag...
it's this lagging behind:
    i don't exactly know what i'll feel until
only after i've heard it and in the meantime too...
jazz is all a posteriori -

while classical music for me is all a priori...
given that... it's not exactly improvised:
there's the orchestra, the movie, the script...
   and it's such a music that doesn't worship
itchy fingers of improv. - the stale or rather:
the head-about-to-explode of scoring the music like
a dissected **** of beef...
the cuts for the violins the cuts for the woodwinds...
more so: the almost shy drumming...
the wet-drumming... like rain playing
rattle fingers on tin (roofs)... or what rain would
sound like... if it was made from sand...
either way... jazz is a baggage...

hardly any sort of envisioning a journey from
(a) priori through to (b) posteriori -
and at least with jazz... you never have to really
cite who's playing... in a passing gesture
for all necessary bookmark purposes
of: where i am in the library of jazz...
unlike in classical music... where...
it's either Mozart, Beethoven or then again...
some obscure composer... perhaps ola glejlo...
but it's less about the music per se:
it's about the music of THE composer...
bonus marks for keeping to a rigid diet of one
and completing the herculean task of digesting
his entire oeuvre...

-       so i was walking past the most usual scene...
a car stopped... and she got out...
she must have been no more than 16 pushing 18...
the heavy make-up hid her otherwise boyish
contorts... a short black dress...
and as she got out of the cab...
she had her high-heel shoes in her hands...
   she was walking the cement barefoot...
i peered into her eyes... the lights were out...
perhaps her soul was screaming - perhaps this was
her first disappointment - and it was only... what...
not even 10pm on a saturday night...
my nights of youthful regret usually came after 3am
having to wrestle a berserker...
or how a dog looks like when it takes
to beer with a fond heart and only three legs...
god forbid but "they" would also cut my tail off
to further throw me off balance...
the walked passed and i looked into the cab...
a very, very nervous asian was looking at me
and then her... this didn't exactly look like...
she was ***** or was fighting to escape...
           aren't those scenarios usually stage in and around
woods - without any pedestrians walking past?
call it a trainwreck a carwreck...
                      or just running mascara...
that bad, eh?
at this point... society is a cruise ship...
and i'm stuck with ottis and none of that sentimentality
of the dock: running away with a bag of
chips wrapped in newspaper away from
seagulls... who... are apparently prone
to kleptoparasitism - a real thing... i swear to god...
the animals that want to eat in the realm
of trans-species... dogs have had their
kleptoparasistism repressed: crumbs from the table...
the chicken bones with hopes for
cartilege and someone who... is bad at
cleaning the flesh off the bone: pucker up...
move aside leech... watch this slurp...
ol' hank mobley and wayne shorter...
        one cascade after another...
5th beer in and...

yeah... so that's what a carwreck looks like...
for a girl in her late teens...
the cute black dress...
   getting out of the cab holding her high heels...
walking home barefoot...
she wasn't crying just yet...
but i could see puffy tender demon baron
of the soft cheeks readying to turn into
medussa's stare-grip... but not there yet...
this must have been her first time at "life"
and the night life and saturday...
         the cab driver looked scared shitless...
as if frozen in time... about to have his photograph
taken by a more sensible shadow of his...
i did think she just escaped a bad
session of prostitution...
but not even prostitutes look so ******* gloomy
as she did...

the ******* ***** it up -
the pundit ***** it up - the show goes on...
stage or no stage... an audience or no audience...
those eyes though... not yet crying...
but they felt... like wheeping oysters nonetheless...
you know when eyes are like that...
teasing bulging out... they appear dimmed
at first... but that's a dimming before
the sparkle of tears...
it's the 29th of febuary - yes...
mr. zodiac wasn't kind to those who still believe
in the horoscope but never tried
gambling on a winning team or horse...
it's still winter and those poor feet of hers...
she must have told the cab driver to stop...
hell... half a mile before she would get home...
a 6ft2 115kg sore thumb up with a beard
up ahead: stop! let me walk past him...
that's why i gave an inquisitive stare at the cab driver...
the cab driver was looking at me...
aren't the **** victims the ones jumping
out of the cab as it speeds off or whatnot?
so this was... staged?
              i read the "situation" wrong...
well no... i didn't find a lancelot in me...
there was no door to be held open...
           not tonight...
                                           i was in a mood for
beer and jazz... and luckily for me...
marvel of all marvels...
     haig club (1627) was sold at a bargain...
                        down from 25 quid to 16 quid...
goodbye excessive drinking the cheap *****...
hello: clubman haig... is it whiskey...
is it ms. amber... or is it chanel no. 5 -
                   is it whiskey or is it a perfume?
a snapper of a dinner standing-up...
   the scent of the last bite still on my moustache
even though i had washed my teeth...
the beer bottle opened - a drizzle on the hand
and then the hand smearing the liquid all over
the stinking hairs from an unwelcome scent...
i don't mind stinking like hops...
                  but hops is better than smelly food...

- regrets? ah yes... the "what if" universe at large...
that "whaf if" this and "what if" not...
"what if" yes and... when a man takes to walk
the street at night... he's only looking for empty
streets and... the hope of not seeing his reflection:
which is never about abruptly stopping
a cab and taking your shoes off
and walking in a tight-knit black dress
having met the world and...
                     was it heartbreak or just...
disappointment that... there are no unicorns
and she isn't daddy's precious?

any of the rudy van gelder editions...
                      "what if" i had more than just these
words... a barren wasteland of a flat
with no furnishings, not a book to call it a genesis
of a private library... not a single record
to play... no bed no curtains...
and she was the: honey-catch and snare and...
what if i were still in my late teens and
didn't have these invisible tattoos of historical
dates and the tattoos that riddle bones
that are... "habits of hygiene"...
      by hygiene i imply: ontological fixtures...
immoveable objects of accumulating my mortal
years for this formal circumstance of
the worst magic trick of all...
                   transient and... packaged elsewhere...
apparently going nowhere...

if this was a truly urban scenario...
but we're talking essex...
the outskirts of greater london...
if i bothered myself tonight i might go
to a place where i'd sit on a throne of a stump
of oak and listen to owls...
spot a rabbit, spot a badger... the foxes would
come of their own accord...
and perhaps even a deer or two... or three...
there's no glit of a picaddily circus romance:
when a girl decides to get out of a cab early
and put her porcelain toes on the wintry cement...
as if: supposing she be enticing me...
as i was thinking about the scared-shitless
cab driver...        

to have once upon a time believe in love:
the sort of love you'd see in movies...
but that's of course...
before you'd get a chance to see love...
in opera...
blue pill red pill... spiderweb of fiction...
blah blah...
watch the sort of love in movies...
then go and see an opera...
most notably verdi's la traviata...
  the movies fizzle out and you don't really
need to read this to begin with...
        i was in love once...
it was a love that was in love with itself...
          a mirage a carrot on a stick...
probably something akin to this sort of impromptu...
rescuing a girl walking barefoot home...
oh sure... happens almost every other saturday...

- the beer is for these musings, for the jazz
and for... cleaning the kidneys and a work-out
for the bladder... the shot-at-a-crescendo
will come with the haig club whiskey...
is 70cl really worth 25 quid?

- there's a difference between food with a USE BY date
and food with a BEST BEFORE date...
most notably goat's cheese...
once the best before date expires...
which is way way down the line from
the use by date... the cheese starts to taste
like... ash...

i should know since i know of the alternative
to doing shots of tequilla...
the salt is replaced with licking some cigarette
ash...
the tequilla is replaced with *****...
and the slice of lemon is replaced with
black peppercorns...

so i do know what ash tastes like...
piquant tastes: this omelette of an octopus and
of tongue...

- society is a cruise ship and i'm waving it goodbye...
welcoming a sunset of a sea as calm
as a mirror... telling my feet to take root
and stand... inaccessible...
otherwise... i am barren when it comes to having
some (h. p.) lovecraftian sensibilities from
maine... aloof and anemic... anemic with bloodshot
eyes...

- of course she isn't a mystery...
the narrative would run: the little match girl...
hans... hans! hans?! hans andersen is drilling
a hole into my head about... a woman walking
home barefoot...
yes... but she is walkig home...
unlike the little match girl...
and unlike the little match girl...
this girl was carrying a pair of shoes with her...
it's not my problem whether
i'm the sore thumb that "got in the way"...
a fork in the road: like any other fork...
like any other road...

do you have to reach being 34 to see these
teenage break-ups and regrets come and bump into
you after you've done...
that most spectacular feat of towing a backpack
full of glass for recycling?
where is one to recycle bones?!

- right not all the ***** in the world is...
something of an adhesive... a hitchhiker pollen...
a hard-on of: ****** yourself for a hard-on
just because even flapping a pancake will do right now...
to ease constipation whenever necessary...

- it's a torilla... but it's wrapped like a burrito...
well... it's a torilla... kultur shock -
sarajevo - the entry level shock-awe and
blitzkrieg of drinking from the fountain
of the Haig...

- second tier... to treat pornographic movies
like... early cinema... silent...
otherwise a return to the magazine form...
and the ripe imagination readied for:
improv... or... when was the last time
my left hand didn't feel like an oyster...
and an oyster didn't feel like a leash...
and a woman's ****** stopped being
an hour worth 120 quid? -

             - third tier... the haig club whiskey
is not worth 25 quid... it's over-rated...
you're basically paying for the bottle...
i'll stick to my guns...
only the irish know how to make whiskey
on these isles... bushmills: mellow, tame...
the picts have decided to lodge
a smoking salmon into their barrels to die...
i'm supposed to have an aftertaste of vanilla...
with all that smoke... i'd be happy to taste
hungary and smoked paprika! that would
be a bonus to boot! -

- i can appreciate the picts for trying...
but let's just leave brewing whiskey to the irish...
and let's keep the english away from hops...
they'll make an undrinkable ale from it...
never the lager...

   - armed with balkan rock... standing before
the h'american monolith of tongue and culture...
or... just before what's filtered for the export...

- no... of course i don't think h'americans are dumb...
i just think there's only a naive majority...
i'm going to find the vermin and huddle among
them...

- sooner or later we'll be calling the germans
come spring... for winter provisions...
"keeshond" or: hund... i much prefer the latter...
from under the iron curtain forged from
a broken jaw when biting the curb of:
under the silicon veil... nowhere else to go...
beside Ishrael...
                        
          remains of the ottoman - which is hardly
me put into an iron maiden of akimbo...
where's the geisha and the samurai?!

- is your beard long enough?
      like mine... i tease it... catch it with braille
cardinals: the thumb the index and middle fingers...
twirl it... wait for some thread to tie it together
into a hanging ******* of a bundle...
while at the same time:
          before you... a throng of vermin...
this beard... a magic flute!
the zenith of my thinking...
and ultimately: the nadir of any narrative
that might be inclined to escape and
not become 3D...

- i listen to songs in german...
i put on airs of pride - my chin starts to contort into
the moon's scythe and sickle...
even if the night is overcast with beard,
or cloud...

- then i put on a record that's 20 years old...
deftones' white pony...
and i remember being a teen...
hungry for hormonal diet...
a diet to stop the bones from aching
as they grew extra sprouts:
adverse to the skin and photosynthesis...
bones that were expected to grow
entombed... not in flesh...

- sketches from the gasoline additive when
it comes to a beer, starter...
otherwise: elite... gonna breed on top
of the general... pucker up the tremor for a vibrato
kiss and leech her lips off...
to expose her most pristine:
todlächeln -
                           not a chelsea grin...
the joker lapse... i mean... extending the shaving
lines and just, completely, forgetting there's
any botox involved to grow a peach
from a duck of the reinvention of
the deflating balloon...

   leave no selfie without it...
                   herr grinsen: die / das / die / das...
i keep forgetting the definite plural and
the definite singular... feelz... feels...
maximum impromptu: das bösartigwimmern...
anything in german at this point...
sounds better than...
wenigbruder englisch...
                       dies, mein krawatte beste...
alle schwarz alle weiß:
      say to me... nein pinguine willkommen...

anything to keep these mosquitos these
zeppelins away... alt vater großartig Schwab
from this... herd of minor dicta
of the children of the house of ßaß...
translated nomad from the high pressure
***** basin of:
later, trajectory... later... the yawn and canyon...
and the sky above...

- beer first... whiskey after...
shrapnel... and gasoline... no car... no speeding...
fast but otherwise still walking...

            - a hurrah and the cohort of a hum...
to match the echo of the centipede...
         the silence and otherwise the simplified
complications of a conversation...
the bed torn between *** and sleep...
between saturday sunday and monday through
to friday...
   and the need to drink with someone else...
"the need"...
          
the skulls breaks at the sight of sea-riddled-and-*****
cliffs... daggers persuaded to be forever sharpened...
the fiddly parts of ***** as accountants when
it came to the pennies, copper, and granules
of sand... seized: the rivers of time...
constipated shock value elevated...
                            
                                am i to find a lover when
the orchestra tells me...
these words will never find a dear sir / madam
or circle round for a yours sincerely...
                godzilla... the theme i remember from
the days when the japanese still had control over the beast...
otherwise... an overweight t-rex with...
arm extensions... the lotus feet of the chinese...
which also includes...
the savory diet of... tendering dog meat...
i.e. beating the dog to a plum softening...
which is: then again... not curing the already dead
curated meat...
life aware needs to be involved...
brick by brick brick on brick...
the status quo: made in china...

         cheap whiskey... although in an expensive bottle...
that is the haig club whiskey...
        so much for ezra pound admiring
the ******* ideograms...
what's to admire... when...
it ends up being a crude...
current latin emoji-infiltrated grafitti
equivalent to: CUL8R...
               chow-chuckle-mein-hong-shui-chew?
all that intricacy into the ideogram...
and all that remains is...
bat soup... and an advantage at playing
poker... omnivores...
you'd think that Islam would be...
more geared to break ranks among the omnivores...
like all the fickle gods... a good joke...
they abhor / are told to herd sheep
because: what sort of pig would survive the desert
and not become crispy bacon...
camels are fine too... as are their testicles...
never mind the pork leather shoes and pork
leather belts...
but the chinese omnivores are fine by
Allah: Muhammad & Co....

                               khadijah **** khuwaylid..
wrote the first surahs of the quran...
she was the literate:
the stephen vizinczey epitome:
                          in praise of older women...
last time i heard... muhammad was illiterate...
pray! that i've exhausted sympathy on
him being an orphan...
but not a ******* oliver twist thrown into
an orphanage! b'ooh h'oo...

                     the end... the whiskey isn't going
to drink itself;
as i have exhausted the patience of my bladder...
while there's the remaining concern
for a bewildering and a simultaneously
bewildered peacock... on the hunt for coy;
which is not exactly the darwinian daydream
of the short-hand greek alphabet...
the α-β male thermodynamic...
          the Σ-Δ female harem...
salmon swimming up-stream to spawn...
                             and... Ω-man / unicorn...
                     sha! schtil!
Nandini Jul 2014
Your heart brought with Amnesia.
To study it ,
I slid into your heart ,
making way through your tears
it was dark.
Placing a candle at the grave of your sorrows,
I stitched up your battered ,bleeding heart.
Tendering to the grave turned gardens,
I smuggled sunlight to your dandelion soul.
Drugging you 3 times daily with comfort,
was what I prescribed.
Nothing stays forever , so didn't your illness
and you don't remember me any-longer.
Happy laughter of love echoed ,
in the skies of your fist sized heart.
Wished you a healthy heart ahead,
only with the desire to treat it again .
Ryan O'Leary Sep 2018
Willie sat by the side of
the river in a philosophical
mood under a weeping willow.

Midway, between the two
banks, was a small island
only paddling distance away.

Debris from a previous flood
had accumulated on the low
foliage of an uprooted tree.

A funnel of cold air from the
ten arch bridge made a wind
sock of a plastic net nitrate bag.

In all his time, Willie had never
ventured on to this little islet,
even wondered if he should flag it.

Off with the shoes, rolled up the
legs of his trousers and slowly he
negotiated his way over the stones.

On exploring the land mass, which
was an isthmus of a mere ten square
meters, he decided to return to land.

Just before his disembarkation, he
noticed a large denominational euro
note caught in the gills of a dead fish.

Eureka Eureka money and food all
in the one catch (was his thought as
he made his way back).

The sodden state of the 100 euro note
was what guided Willie’s wise decision
to take it, as was, to the local Credit Union.

In the queue whilst waiting for a vacant
teller, everyone was admiring Willie’s
dead fish.

Eventually, at the desk, and known to
those working therein, a 100 euro note
was not his norm and created suspicion.

After tendering the note attached to the
Trout, that had apparently been fowl
hooked up the river by Johnny Logan,

The lady behind the desk called for the
manager, who immediately held the note
up to the halogen fraud lamp.

Willie had never encountered anything like
this when he made a 5 euro deposit once a
month to his savings account.

He enquired of the manager as to why he
was holding his fish and 100 euro note up
against the bright light.

The manager responded,  “ It is the policy of
all banking systems to check high denominational
notes for visible water marks “ !!
This is a true story that happened in Mallow
County Cork Ireland in March of this year
2018. A local journalist Eugene Cosgrove
covered the story for " The Kerryman " news
paper.  A photo of the fish that caught the
100 euro note was controversial, and currently,
there is a legal challenge between Willie Eaton,
Johnny Logan and the Mallow Trout anglers
association, who stock the river. The 100 euro
note is being held at the local Garda Siochana
pending the outcome of the tribunal.
Johnny Logan makes his on Fly's and can prove
without doubt the Dry Fly that spiked the 100
euro note, is actually his and thus claims the money.
Johnny uses Chicken Wishbones and feathers for his hooks.
Meanwhile, The Anglers association also have a strong
case that is currently being discussed, because according to
the fishing charter, only fish that have been taken from the
river by Rod and Reel, are the property of the Angler.
The Fish has been placed in a deep freeze, with the Fly and
100 euro note intact and will be visible to the public at the next hearing.
Willie's solicitors also have a strong case insofar that the fish was on
the Island of The River Blackwater just by the Town Bridge and the Island
has never been charted, thus giving the dead fish a status of what would be akin to refugee. The European Union (EEC) are now involved, as this could
set a precedent for The Fisheries Act, currently topical between France and UK
over the Scollop War's. More on this case will follow, as soon as I have a report from Eugene Cosgrove.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2015
~~~

"and ev'ry stop is neatly planned
for a poet and a one-man band"

Simon & Garfunkel "Homeward Bound"

~~~

just one more,
for Sally B.,
who loves their music,
and all the poets here


~~~

when best messing with perfection,
hope for a close enough
second place finish,
at best

when tendering a gift,
gotta give only your
best,
for this is how,
you will be
best
remembered

yet all our stops here,
were and we're
never neatly planned,
indeed,
as you
sail on silver girl,
through to all
of our
unscheduled ports o' call,
and though our fingers may never intersect,
they have touched,
more than once,
on this poetry river
of electrons,
this bridge
over troubled waters

no need to make a plan,
to get yourself free,
even tho' I am no more
than a poor boy from New York City,
I make no jest,
always laying low,
but not here, not now

for this job I took upon mine own,
so after changes upon changes,
mount the stage, spotlighted,
one more song,
one more poem from a one man band,
this poet~fighter composes alone,
ill prepared,
carrying a reminder of every poem that laid him down,
but
tasked and
accepting nonetheless,
this challenge bout

old friends,
he sings,
i've come to talk to you again,
for this revelation still remains,
well planted in the brain

this song, this poem
will be shared,
let us all read it aloud
to break
the sounds of silence,
in a chorus of a cappella voices,
this simple verse upon which
I cannot improve

this poem, this stop,
this hello
to an endless poetry voyage
that transports human finery,
was indeed
never planned neatly,
but here was born
a sole sufficient refrain,
contenting the writer and the reader,
all of us poets,
all of us one man bands,
all of us in one voice singing

you are simply the
best here,
you are home,
and to you,
we are bound


~~~

August 9, 2015
Shelter Island
~~
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Paul+Simon
~~~
"Homeward Bound"

I'm sitting in the railway station.
Got a ticket to my destination.
On a tour of one-night stands my suitcase and guitar in hand.
And ev'ry stop is neatly planned for a poet and a one-man band.
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.

Ev'ry day's an endless stream
Of cigarettes and magazines.
And each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factories
And ev'ry stranger's face I see reminds me that I long to be,
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.

Tonight I'll sing my songs again,
I'll play the game and pretend.
But all my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity
Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me.
Homeward bound,
I wish I was,
Homeward bound,
Home where my thought's escaping,
Home where my music's playing,
Home where my love lies waiting
Silently for me.
Silently for me.
Bribing for Uthamaki survival,
Made Kenya a fortune’s fool,
Not only Kenya but those that gave
And received bribes of all sorts,
Job favour and money favour
To make Uthamaki an eternal kingdom,
They all chewed un-toothsome slices
Of the public fortune’s fools,

They were bribed by cars, money, jobs,
Lands, upmarket houses. And all the stuffs
Of bribery regalia, and then they went dumb,
On truth and facts of the day; them; Chiloba and
Chebukat, dumb they went holus-bolus in the manacle
Of the claws of Uthamaki and its jostle for eternity,
Like the victims of slaughter in Tolstoyan epics.
They hated the truth and fell in love with falsehood,
Feeding children of Kenya on the brutality of Gebelawi,
Faked elections and police brutality in the alley of Samantha,
She died seeing the club of a full geared anti-riot police, it was
All but power of the bribe in the vacuum of conscience,
The true desire of our ages, ages, ages, ages; desire for ages,
A bribe can ****, yes it killed Musando,
A bribe can ****, yes it killed Juma,
A bribe can ****, yes it killed Samantha Pendo,
A bribe can **** yes it killed Stephanie on the balcony,
The bribe kills brutally when taken in line of duty,
A job promotion to job security fight for Uthamaki,
It kills brutally when received in line of avarice;
More land, houses in Karen, swollen bank dove-cots,
Free lunch and air-ticket windows of the bribe,
That can ******* to death when siring Uthamaki,

A bribe kills reason, mires power of truth,
A bribe fetters love for truth but bigotry extolled,
It can sent you to Paris sprinting with the keys
To the server room stuffed in your pocket,
A bribe warps the mind of the giver and the taker,
It makes democracy look the platter on which
Was John’s head, I mean the Baptist,

Uthamaki nourishes itself on the power of crime,
Looting, corruption, ***** riches, prostitution, lawless
hawking, Cartels, land-stealing, insider contracting,
faked academic testimonies, employment by tribe,
gangstering like Mungikification of the youths, insider
tendering, and now computer-generated uthamaki
all but nothing less than power of the bribe,

legerity is full in the hands of Uthamaki,
to condemn the sit that loves the truth,
fairness and justice is the harmful light to the bat’s eye
of Uthamaki, Uthamaki and the truth are oil and water,
uthamaki and the truth are as a Muslim and pork
uthamaki and the truth are an Israeli and an Arab,
they are an anti-thesis, Kenya a battle-field. Uthamaki
the thesis of imperial selfishness, democratic truth
the poor child of Kenya on the guillotine made of bribe,

Uthamaki has the name an epiphany all over,
Hospitals, schools, roads, avenues, maternity homes
Colleges, toilets, airports, prisons, barracks beyond zero,
And so forth, they all bare the name Uthamaki,
Uthamaki where are your age-mates and prison mates
Imprisoned for parting in struggle for freedom, Uthamaki,
You have stolen Kenya’s history and slaughtered the owners
At the slaughter-stone of bribe, using the tribe as your Knife,
Factoring in and tendering out..
What the hell are those things about?
I'm afraid I am lost in the costing and routeing
and..what is the price from Balham to Tooting?

But when time's out of sync
As it usually is when I've had me a drink
Or I'm pie eyed on the dope.
What's left is no hope
There is no way I can work..I might as well sleep..
..and hope time will keep its hands to itself.

But all joking aside with this modernisation there is nowhere to hide
From the tide
Or from time.
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
Heaven, Where all Poets Go

dedicated soully to Kripi Mehra
who unknowingly commissioned this piece
with her love and feeling for those who
dare to fare on just words, only to
sally
forth unafraid and unashamed

~~~~~~~

to the conclusion cut,
not knowing how we know what we know,
       knowing that of this cut,
this one,
as real as anything worth writing about,
not knowing how but demonstrating a modicum of erudition

yet,  
clarity this time no stranger,
no remonstrating, endless debating, easy
come, and even easier go,
all poets (and lost-to-early children) go to heaven,
even the bad ones

stop with the teasing give us the reasoning

nah nah nah always in a hurry to get to the
bottom, move on, write yet another,
restless young'uns, girls and fellows,
even you old, small ones, who still can't spell
your own name
or rhyme, those slow mo yokels, national symbols,
the ones that seem never to ever catch their star,
the mothers across all oceans, who need childlike tendering,
Indian girl chiefs, boat captain historians, word magi-bus-riding hallway eavesdroppers, **** British girls, nurses, wonderers and after-life lusters,
burnt baby healers

learn that this self seal-selected profession
is an endless deal, profession rhymes with heaven,
you need to luxuriate in the long journey,
pink patience before you raise you glass

but OK, just this once,
the secret you have may have already read!
pass it along, as it was given to me
by one of us, poet laureate far better than I ever could be

Down in the sounding foam of primal things I
     reach my hands and play with pebbles of destiny.
I have been to hell and back many times.
I know all about heaven, for I have talked with God.
I dabble in the blood and guts of the terrible.
I know the passionate seizure of beauty
And the marvelous rebellion of man at all signs
     reading "Keep Off."
^

that is what poets do daily with each ecrive,
each line of metered musique mystique,
and with stanzas lighter than air,
a piece of you breaks off, floats upward,
and when the day is done,
the struggling striving breaking apart,
be now over,
all poets go to heaven to collect themselves,
their entire pieces of writings, called their collected works,
all the pieces reassembled,
you are at last, at last, at rest, whole, satisfied and undenied,
where poets, brave soldiers of all ages deserve to be,
heaven resting
Kripi Mehra: "A slogan- Always remain a fool
I wish I could write a poem on the title " Let's Convert Hello Poetry Into Heaven"..."
But you did, you did....

^  see http://hellopoetry.com/poem/600071/the-sounding-foam-of-primal-things/ where Mr. Sandburg is credited in full

"So raise your glass if you are wrong
In all the right ways, all my underdogs
We will never be, never be anything but loud
And nitty, gritty, *****, little freaks
Won't you come on and come on and
Raise your glass!
Just come on and come on and
Raise your glass!"
Lyrics by Pink, "Raise Your Glass"
MS Lim Mar 2016
Those guys--the intellectuals-
are bashers----they are bashing
words, ideas and philosophy to death
with their endless quibbling and quarrelling

but for me an uneducated peasant
all that I know and need to know is farming--
planting,  sowing,  tendering, nurturing and harvesting
the sun rising and setting--for a good season is all I'm hoping.
.
Your face,
Louder than the moon,
Drowning me
Out into the long night,
Is so warm,
Like sun tendering heather.

Your voice,
Lifting me like a feather,
Into great sky
Weightless as I fall high,
Downy and rich,
As babe is swaddled nigh.

Your touch,
Sets my weary soul aflame
And I call out
Into the night carving names,
Writ in comets,
Yet to crash, that I am starlight.
mzwai Jan 2015
I sometimes wish that self-awareness came inside of a pill.
Because now,
My days have been principled into a misery
I feel when I pretend to be someone
Whose face I see more than my own.
The way an actor out of work,perhaps,
Would roam their lives indifferent to reality-
Wearing a mask of paint, cloaking their emotions in thick layers,
Holding in their words in case a crack destroys
their non-existent role.
Tendering within and playing a part in a society that cannot keep up
with the ever-changing personality of a character who has no storyline to follow.

The name-calls to all stage positions siren in my head every morning,
And I am left disappointed continually as I hear every name
Except my own.
Everybody needs no 'disguise' except me and i spare no energy thinking
Of ways to mask the energy I spare creating mine.
I would work too hard to be myself if I worked at all,
But,
The work is still spared when it's used in efforts to change who I am...
Though you may see the make-up on my eye-lids,
You will also see the eye-bags which surround them from nights
Spent lying awake wondering what color it should be.
Though you may see the likeness intentions in my counterfeit expression,
You will also see the subjective scar of all the times they were practiced in a mirror
Which showed their real reflection.
Though you may see the plastic in the way the necessary emotions are showed,
You will also see the stains from all the tears that were shed
When they were suffocatingly tightening the skin underneath it.
It is bland the way the preparation is more strenuous than the presentation,
Yet often it is overlapped behind it...
And nobody can tell the difference.

I am controlled by a director beyond me,
And he carries out my pain in the slick of the pen he writes the details of my stories with.
He holds it tightly,
As the ink lets out a permanence that suggests flawlessness
In the style
of continually writing tragedies upon tragedies with absolutely no mistake.
He let's no uplifting, no state of miracle show as he continues with his masterpiece.
Dwelling from sequence to sequence as I follow the dullness in his path. Almost
Hoping that he will eventually realize that sometimes the actor can turn into the character,
And when real pain becomes false pain then you should learn to know the difference.
Sometimes I scream to him when it has desolated to the point of an eternal fictional epilogue.
I tell him that I have learnt from the tragedies- that I now know every emotion this mind can feel,
And the plasticizing of emotion itself will become inevitable if it is forced to have to feel them again.
The apathy created by this
would be counter-productive to what he wants me to feel,
And more often than not he will become disappointed by having his efforts shattered
By the same unfeeling mind he was trying to destroy.
The name-calls are inevitable but what happens when the name you left out doesn't care
That it is left out.
You can re-write all of your tragedies but sometimes you'll feel more affected by them than the character who you wrote them for.
And,
perhaps you'll never know the difference between crying out loud when the stage curtains are open and
Crying out loud when the stage curtains are closed but,
Perhaps you will realize you are only as alone as you want to be...

...After all,
Mutual hypocrisy always sticks within the step of each character
In the loneliness of a life spent as a play
Where,
The writer is the only audience.
#facade #meaninglessness #pretending
Nat Lipstadt Feb 2014
just when the bitter
is not on the edges
of my spoiled food,

but my repast totaled and complete,

just when the heartache of living
infects the legs the head even
the fingertips I abuse leaking all I fear here

when composing,

just when I read another 1000 daily new tryings to say me bad sad utilizing
moon June eyes scarred scraps of love and pity-me broken rants,
cants of can't,
trending my deep desired purpose of delighting and inspiring
you into the thunderous waterfall of never ending poetic oblivion,

and I wonder what the hell am I doing here
(spending countless hours, draining personal  batteries)

then you tell me that some words,
words they say I wrote,
apple-core me
pushing momentarily out/aside the fear, the embattled hubris,
the anguish, the desperate wishes, you tell me just this:

"This filled a need I had no name for"

I am weeping only, ashamed and unashamed,
redeemed, you used my coupon, and spent it
on redeeming me
in a manner unknown and here I am composing once more having sworn I am done here,
only now to decompose myself in privy chambers for my dearest ones,
for too many words come to me, telling me of their hurting,
used up by overuse, crusted cliches,
drowning in images that no longer reflect in any mirror,

and you tell me that just what I felt,
wrote down precisely that,
one must  always
ask for more than you can give,
my communication into your sensations fulfilled a need,
some thing that

"filled a need I had no name for"

and it occurs me this is the precise atomic second
to put away my deckling paper, put the pencil down,
lock up that old sewing box, pink and white striped, where the pained and joyous monthly storage fee needs payment due,
where are kept yellowed poem-papers that they won't hesitate to throw out when cleaning out my last effects,
needs shutting down,
the last episode of this personal reality show,
"breaking __" (fill in the blanks with un blanched original sounds)

what more needs doing,
I inquire of my narcissism,
capstone, the keystone brick preserved,
what more could ever be achieved
having tendering myself raw and distinct, fine and finished,

there is no more I could ever write, or need to,
and I am contented in a way that my I ego
happily announces it's surrender and the end is not lacking in finality,
for this is the way to go out,

for you have given me something
weeping only, ashamed and unashamed, at last,
at the longingest at last,
filling a need I think knew existed and now no longer,
for who cannot say I am not whole,
holy satisfied after seeing this gift,
for you have all gifted me something I dare not,
even, did not know to how ask for,
nor know that I could ever give,
out loud and conscious,
and now need never ask for again,
but give    
again and again
and again
Thank you Emily Rose of Texas.
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/593181/ask-for-more-than-you-can-give/

Poetry by the numbers (in too many ways) diminishes me.
I cannot cease to write., but I paint by the letters, not by the numbers. These numbers corrupt, so now I must learn to be oblivious, and not obvious.
This poem is me exiting stage right-aligned, but not left.

"It is not how you start, but how you finish"
Not done, just private.
To a new standard am I held, everything new from now on must
fill a need we had no name for...
Mateuš Conrad May 2021
at what point wasn't it a way to bypass
the editorial scrutiny...
to directly engage with a reading
public...
why did i think this might be: any good?
i guess i only thought:
i need this out and i can't stash it
like a corpse...
into some damp cellar... like a morally
relativistic monstrosity of a sociopaths'
analogy of: "feels"...
   well, no **** Sherlock!
how i made the following reply...
is beyond me:

- believe me... i had more to write but i felt a sense of restraint... i'd like to see what a terse reply would make you focus on... so i'm scrapping the concept of handicap: heads up... now it all depends what you'll be choosey about... or not... because there's plenty in you reply i could quip about... well... then again: is being witty synonymous with being satirical? i'm not for intelligent / condescending humour on my part... personally i love the dryness of sarcasm... but then again: what's to like about the bluntness of nail-heads? just my take on... what exactly not to like about schadenfreude (what's not to like about schadenfreude)... i'd much prefer a humiliation of a leather gimp suit... so it seems: honesty is the best joke in play... there are too many stereotypes in England too... the best one i heard was by my Glaswegian english teacher in school... ahem... how was copper wire invented? two Scots arguing over a penny... like the stereotypical arsenal of deciphering the Jewry run wild in the realm of the gentiles... with the Scots... being our prized asset of: reverse stereotyping... i guess because knowledge of poor Hebrews is either a mystery or taboo... worse still... a mythology... and here i promised myself restraint... yet i'm experiencing something of a writing block and i... most probably found the most surprising alternative outlet... the eroteme lady - ms. query... so there must be nothing concrete about you... well... i too remember being a teenager prior to 2000 on those hotmail chatrooms where the acronym ASL could get you... all hot & bothered... don't take this the wrong way but i've heard that most writers, poet (i'm a chicken scratching doodler at best) reverted to the medium of correspodence... lucky you, "lucky" that i'm testing the waters on you... but don't worry... i've tested the medium with other people and wondered about their stamina... you are starting to gravitate toward psychiatrist status...  it's so strange though... not writing on abstract... blank... rather: inform sender... it's to them... all that *******, romantic or not... about writing for that one person... sure... **** it... write 'em a letter... don't mind about that trippy-*** poem of yours... you know? apologies if you come across as something of a punching bag for sounds... i hope no typos... well typos can be excused... ah these ****** articles about... wait wait... momentary lucidity... i was going to use some of this in my way of combating my writing block... the troubles in the english language... spelling... "approximation" drop the vowels realise: that's how the Hebrews wrote all along... treating their vowels like diacritical markers... the ****?! i feel like i'm being robbed in plain sight... because Copernicus didn't ******* realise jack-****... they pile it up with their Pope and the execution of ******* Galileo...  ugh... it takes some ******* nerve for these days to allow for this ****-centred kindergarten of events in man's... non-evolving history to continue like some: no ******* dodo exctinction ever took place... (agreed... the following are all faux pas... "invigorations") honey? babe? ms. anonymous gender fluid pronoun neutral... what's the informal, best? ms. avatar ms. harleyquinn the world's stupid? what are american stereotypes of europeans? come to think of it... that cookies is too big to take a bite from... you can't exactly base stereotypes having only seen tourists... since a tourist is a stereotype per se... i'd have to go to california... to get a californian stereotype... to georgia for the georgian stereotype...  wait a minute... Costa Rica... "hint hint"? Latino? that wasn't exactly... it was a fork in the road... the Sephardi... you're working from an avatar canvas... you're making allusions to... what i look like and it's like i'm a mesmerising doppelganger of al pacino... is there a chicago accent? i heard a lot of the ****** diaspora was lodged in that *******... i was terrible at accents... almost always a chamaleon... people still ask me where i'm from... so like this one-stand-up comedian in Edinburgh said... when he was quizzed about the geography of his accent... 'you might recognise my accent... it's... educated'... now that's that... isn't it? i could fake you an indian accent if i wanted to... perhaps a german accent too... but i could fake it... by the way... in these parts... biligualism can be treated as schizophrenia... just saying... somehow integration is not fully deserving the status that: not integrating decides... because... not integrating is... "safety first"... the dodo project alliance...  least of all... i've been dying to by a baseball cap with the Cleveland Indians old logo with chief wahoo... so stereotyping americans... it's beyond hard... it's like stereotyping Russian that are not in the vicinity of Moscow... some are probably Mongol remnants... their own idiosyncratic solipsists to their own... i'll take up my bicycle tomorrow and this drunken tirade will most probably fizzle out... i truly couldn't make up giving a toss about what's internalized americana stereotyping... not that i don't care... i just don't know... the currency of the nation sends me years and years of Ed Gein reinterpretations... what am i supposed to "say"? tomorrow i'll be up early and bothered about my bicycle as if it were a horse... but i'll still want to retain gravity with leaving you with this frankness of a reply... lobster-red probably implies if not simply implores: ginger and freckles... i like to think of suntans as serpents shedding skin... i suntan i'm a copperneck... i like the german sound on this... plus... it's readily available as compounded: kupfernacken... what's better? auburn-tease? kastanienbraunecken? i like the joy you feel with what you already prescribed me with.. that i know so little about you... that while i'm prodding you withhold giving me concreteness.... concreteness would allow me... disadvantage me to focus on "things" that are absolutely not necessary... so: i can focus on whether i'm not being pedantic enough and: misspelling...so... what's the stereotype surrounding Alaskan gurls?!

- thanks for being ascribed in getting my "mojo" back...for now...

- What do you mean? I'm surprised this is the shortest message you've sent. I was getting used to your drunk musings. [I say this with a smile but I know you don't like emojis or silly acronyms, and writing out "laugh out loud" sounds ridiculous... after all, you know how important sounds are to me].

- you just asked one of those questions that... is aligned with asking... 'what are you thinking'? the moral 'ought compass waved me a goodbye and if i haven't broken any laws to pursue the sort of freedom of though i currently enjoy... bypassing the need so stress a "freedom" of speech... writing is an extension of thought: not a prompt / invitation to speak... i'm surprised that you scrutinise the length of my replies... and were we to begin with? in the "easily offended" pile-up? well i'm still getting drunk... you're still an avatar mystery... but at least i'm waging a war on prosaic sobriety to boot... i guess i had to come clean at some point... i never write sober... i don't see the point of being: disengaged from the genuine (a longer version of a one word would have sufficed... but i'm lazy about the spelling... while at the same time... there's this critical theory approach done in some of the newspapers about english spelling... let's see if i get it right... dis-in-genius... for starters... disengenous.. horrid... aaah so terrible... dis-less-advantageous... disadvantageous... oh **** me... i wriggled into that one: all sound and proper...why ask me: what do i "mean"? - it's not that i don't like emojis (well, i don't) but... what the hell... there are better hieroglyphs to focus on than chiseled into pyramid stone: own... happy face... the Chinese were doing ******* x-ray gizmo **** at almost the same time... it's a focus loss... don't even get me started that *** = a Parisian hello with tendering the cheeks with... a labyrinth of smooches... my lips are my pouches blah blah blah... you seem to be enjoying my rants... i gather? i don't even know why to bother with an ask (question doesn't even do justice to how i'm framing this)...  you want to write as little as possible to properly excavate me... well no surprise... if light can't bend around corners... i'll have a look: none-the-less... emphasis on the hyphens... this poor down-trodden word could be helped with some "breathing space"; no? i "mean": 霜... shoo-aang... frost... i have dancing skeletons throwing toothpicks at chopsticks pilled up in an area of pine wood... look at this sort of *******... and here we are... cradling one of the old languages with "holes in letters"... to peer through... O now i see... B: otherwise: ha, ha ha ha... what's **** in Chinese? the Greek prized π... but what P & I look like for a farting, mandarin? hey presto: "@"... not even a western concern for "patriarchy" could have complicated: what's already too complicated... a billion people... a wall... that didn't keep out the Mongols from invading... yet a phonetic encoding system that... would topple each and every pyramid... from Giza to the cleaving of South America from Africa that can be staged at some Aztec "miracle"... i am writing (to) you like a bewildered person... because: why wouldn't i otherwise not be? so what do i mean? hmm... what's that holy trinity of statistical terms... mean... meridian... mode? i think i remember correctly... thank god i'm not going to apologise for being drunk... i've heard the stereotypes of drunkards with no future for thirst... the other thirst... the thirst for something beside their own handicap... i'd also duly convert to Islam too... i was cycling past a mosque and heard the most impossible sound of praise that will never escape me... but by the bottle i did: closer to the Jewry i am... contradictory how that is... don't want to stop drinking... uncircumcised... it's a really magical juggling act that's littered with self-deprecating humour interludes... aligned with norse mythologies... grr... **** me... now i'm attempting to "sell" you a makeshift tinder profile sketch... don't know... never will... never used: don't ask...  but i forgive you... for asking me: what does "it" all mean? it means we're for the thrill of it... it makes sense if we're still gagging for it... and we're not exposed to old-age closure cinematic scripts of solo cinema of memory... i like typing because i have itchy fingers... you'd probably like to hear me speak... no? it's exactly 20 minutes past midnight and i have a date with a bagel at 9am tomorrow morning... i still want another injection of truth in me before i do the  lady nox some justice and sleeping with her fiendish daughters... i mean... who does that... wake you up with a hard-on? never mind... i don't even know how to end this "convo": it can't be with a farewell... or an adieu... or a サヨナラ... oh wait... that's "goodbye, forever"... how does one end a half-way between a musing and a real person on the replying end of "things"... i guess like this: NARA... ナラ... short for narazie...  translated from my mutterzunge as: perhaps loosely... for the time being... for now... how else... to end my tirade?!

- So let me get this a bit straight (as straight as a stray arrow, that is): you only write when you're drunk (I'm the luckiest one to be at the listener - or reader in this case - end of your tirades as you call them... I call them musings); you have a fixation with words, even the ones that you don't know how to spell correctly (except maybe in a language I don't know so I can't really tell), you didn't answer why I'm ascribed to getting your mojo back (where did it go?), and you wake up with a hard-on. Got it!

- i've been lodged into a backlog: ******-town sort of: stalling... give me a few hours... although: ever wonder what: giggles sounds like... in the deafness of the night? i do... i want to reply you like so... like now... like this... maybe i will... maybe i will not... i'm gaging to buy one of those cleveland chiefs baseball caps...the grinning siouxsie chieftan....perhaps i want to relearn "how to": take the GRIN... a little bit more... seriously... no? **** it... i'm drinking as it is... i want to reply you in full throttle... straight arrows... and the welsh V of the longbow-men too to boot... chopsticks straighter... "straighter"... i tend to only write when i'm drunk... i abhor sober prosaic intimidation and... all the lies, subsequently...sober people don't get "drunk" on moral relativism of white lies? and i'm born yesterday, no? you openly venture into... a quest of question within the regards... of being... this only.... i almost wanted you to feel this sort of... an alienating increment... of... how i might pile on more detail... they are musings... i don't take them seriously... about as much relax as is a required: necessary.... i have a fixation with words... jurisprudence to me is merely a game of thesaurus ploy-tow... i spell i don't spell... i'm overtly pedantic... i also felt queasy when testing my eyes at an authentic testimony of the "law"  being "exaggerated"... "tested"... "proved"..i must have: lying eyes... no other eyes do see... no? i have a fixation with "things" beside the usage of ***** and strobe lighting...

you have my attention... don't you? you know... the last time i attempted having a conversation... i was too naive...too young... everything "everything" applied itself to being too predictable... i want to love again: but being in love is almost a weakness... i don't feel like being weak... i guess this is where the rekindling of my "mojo" ends... hello cul de sac...

new paragraph... ever hear(d) of the alpha and the omega "man"? i'm pretty sure you heardf of mr. beta... for all the worth of a totality of... man... i'm last... i'd forever be... last... i don't want to be first... i also don't want to be 2bd sniffing **** and crab-meat-... either...

give me the totality... i'll be satisfied with a "question" of
last... hence the expression: omega man...
didn't hey-zeus say?
i'm the alpha and the omega?

i don't write sober, i'n afraid i might lie...
you're not lucky,..
but you're also not... godzilla....

i "somehow" haven't ascribed you with the sort of details of: explanation that would allow you... to satiate yourself with answers... as to how... why... yllu managed to "mojo" probe me back to life? you.. the Faroe Islands to begin with? you know... they have this gimmick... on the Faroe Isles... it's not a gimmick... it's called// i don't know what's it called... skúvoy? but i'm happy to tease when the whales are slaughtered... the the blood comes a running: the lions also... apparently tease with a yawn... look at this word, though: grindadráp....

ever catch the giggle im der nacht? nein? too italian... no? ******* borrowed pollack: the self-depreciating... loan... not load... of bollocking...

don't believe yourself as being the sole recepient of a reply...

you're not lucky... you're just... available...

terribly botherome... isn't, it?

- i thought i'd make this a two tier reply... it would be a shame to reread what i wrote on one of my "escapades"... perhaps this... hanging-over... ha'h... more like hung, drawn & quartered some time to time... but believably sane, pleasantly morose - at evens with masochism... so reclining into a moral trip-up... i probably mentioned grindadráp - since i still have the window open on the phrase i'm familiar with... Sámal Joensen-Mikines... i most probably ended up giggling in the night... god... i'm just skim reading what i wrote... well good to know that i can only the best thing and sober up: simultaneously returning to a more rigid, conventional... formal use of language: that i might suppose i'm in a confessional booth... a welcome mirage for the time being... while i decide to wither away watching the old firm (a derby soccer match between celtic & rangers)... of note... i had this argument with the natives so time ago... the... Celts... but it's the Boston / Glasgow Çeltics... no? you're a girl that likes sounds... i've been following this current discussion that has reached the heights of printed newspapers... citation, sian griffths (gwif-if-if-ififs) education editor: new spelling ROOLS to make english more predictable for pupils... "we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the feelds..." see... i really admired Charlie Bukowski for a while... until he came out as a lazy slob who would require an editor to correct his spelling... there's dyslexia and there's just plain: hash-browns... for all my worth of idiosyncrasy that i wriggle in as i go along, most of which will not find common ground and a cosmopolitan outlet of users... for me, as someone who acquired this tong'u: i've grown fond of how aesthetically messy this toong can become and how readily available this messiness is... even London can become a ****-joke: Loon'dune... in my mutterzunge sounds are more distinct... apart from the graphemes sz, ch, cz, rz (ż) - i'd have to borrow from a Czech a caron to hide a letter or two: š (sz / the equivalent SHarp in english) and č (cz / CHatter respectively)... all these unique sounds... ą, ę, ć, ń, ó, ś, ź - Wombat ł... anyway... i just thought, sobering up... that you'd like to have a certain bulging volume of fudge to return to... before i take another dive into ms. amber and pass another night as w. h. auden wrote: only the hitlers of this world write at night... sure... herr auden... because the day is for watching football and / or cycling.

- à propos: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-L5iefl2QtA

- If you share music can I? I'm sorry that I didn't reply sooner. It's been a **** last week and this week isn't any better yet. I like reading your messages, drunk and sober. When I write in my native language I use the accent over the vowels to emphasize the second-to-last vowel of a word. I love speaking, reading and writing in my native language, though I'm sure that I know much less than you would about languages. Shall we continue talking about sounds? How about sounds in my language? Of course, you have to guess if you haven't already.

- mind you: i had second thoughts about writing this reply... perhaps you can judge for yourself... i'm just not into having double-mystery encounters with an "avatar"... plus i made an emphasis on the point... what music were you not going to share?

sure... but first share your music... i have this thirst for Nick Hornby's high fidelity and being a teenager again... a teenager in love, again...i was probably the most happy-go-anywhere sort of person when i found a vinyl copy of Wardruna's kvitravn in my local HMV... which is: sunrise records and entertainment ltd trading as hmv & fopp.... given i already have the other chapters on cd - copied into mp3... (runaljod - yggdrasil & gap var ginnnunga)...  and given it's so rare to fnd a vinyl of this calibre... that some vinyls comes with an mp3 link... i thought: hell... i'll give this record the proper 3D aura treatment and not listen to it on headphones... or utilise it to "conquer" space... & just walking with it across a market sq. without a plastic bag to stash it in... i might as well have walked with a cat on my shoulder... because... who the hell still buys... well... invests in vinyl? now... coming to the language...second-to-last vowels of  word... you know... you can keep me interested without overplaying this "mystery" game... isn't the use of an avatar enough? i really can't comprehend a language that focuses on second to last vowels... without focusing on vowels: per se... just to reiterate... you didn't share a link to some music... you pitted yourself as American... i can continue being interest without having too many enigmas to sort... i have yet to find a language that only applies accents to, e.g. suppOsE... or maybe i'm just too ignorant to have come across a language that behaves in such a way: unless it's some idiosyncratic variation (of it)... you don't have to remain a complete mystery to me for me to keep engaging... there can be some sort of rooting in reality... otherwise i'll just return to my original purpose of writing: staging myself against a blank canvas and a barrage of sounds that i'll need to "un-spaghetti" into linear streaks.... i'm not going to guess: you'll either tell me or not... i'm currently listening to snake-pit poetry: einar selvik... any one can have a ****** week... for a while i was anticipating you testing whether or not i'd reply not getting a reply from you... and that, somehow, miraculously... i'd continue to creep-up to teasing you again... perhaps that's me dabbling in misnomers... no... you'll need to give me something concrete... i'm already starting to itch with a sensation that i better return to the canvas than keep this conversation... no offence... it's just draining me when something abstract could also be doing: likewise... but it wouldn't end up being a ****-tease... i could possibly create something out of it... not just so more: oh... oh? ** **: what's next?! i know when it becomes a brain-drain... a side project... it has to come with an excuse whereby you'll probably recoil with: but i had a ****** week... granted... but who hasn't...  you could have waited another week until participating in the timeframe of the passing of weeks started to feel good once more... if you only dropped a music suggestion... otherwise... thanks... but... no... this conversation is going nowhere... i think i'm just relocating my writing block elsewhere... all the best: in keeping an aura of mystery... within the realm of avatars and non-accountability... come to think of it... no... this is as fair as i could be.

this supposed "unique" specimen... not really...
i want to focus on what allows me to belong:
beside the unfathomable landmarks
of trees and mountains:
roaming stars that even my demented
grandfather corrected himself on...
satellites... no... roaming stars?!
well... i didn't conjure this **** out of my own
*** for pleasure, either...

back towards... falling asleep while listening
to the Hellraiser soundtrack:
hellbound...
because eerie is how:
i how how: "things"...
i'm so alone at times that it's beyond making
sense: it's about infringing on a god-stature...
status... this omniscient
contradiction that some Elijah bundled up
into... two crows croaked...
the tower of London can entertain 6:
so the king's ******* and the queen's
jewels are left intact...
for the successor to worry about...

we have these conversations but too bad
the girl is playing timid...
and i'm... gargantuan...
the length of a tongue that turns into an eel...
hands like octopus extension...
i could wrap her up in... bubblewrap
and start the puncture pinch-pinch ceremony
of not seeing the bubble float: up-up...

i have a sense of ego like...
a bad l.s.d. trip?!
****-guage-abuse? gauge? sort the ones
for the snoozing zero-toasts
and you have yourself
a new jersey smart: bite-off... not bit... though...

i could never have children:
not because i could never be a good father:
but i'd be a terrible husband...
how do i "know"?
i would never allow myself
to earn the amount:
she'd want to spend...
via solo: i'll spend on ms. cojack amber
and some ******* liquorice vinyl...
and a bicycle...
rubber-teasing: ****-teet-****....
when using the brakes...
when minding my ******* "luck"
on a roundabout with a massive twuck...

plus i'd love to **** more...
i'd love to **** as much more as
the thought-"taboos" discourage me
from doing... so it's a nice adventure: thinking
the next: moral antagonist, antithesis
of "could i"?
central theme? Lo-li-t'ah...
and i'm the second from third removed
uncle of the marquis de sade...
you want... you need... you have to orientate
yourself around the last taboo...
the one that's not associated with...
crispy clean antics of those *******
in their savvy leather gimp suits etc.

"power to the people": *******...
power to who owns what...
i'm starting to conjure up
profanities akin to:
but at least when they owned slaves...
they took care of their slaves...
they wouldn't want a slave to be rotten...
to be despondent...
trouble with freedom is...
my own, self-made... man...
if i were a slave...
i'd learn to bend the rules...
i'd entertain the fantasy of freedom...
while being constrained with...
all the benefactor securities...
i'd be owned but i'd also be:
obligated to a social contract of some sort...

so freely as to nothing be:
so averaging assumptions...
presumptions... so by nothing i unfree myself:
to... sort of quest to: "be"...
while the priestly class held back literacy...
within the timeframe of when
a new literacy emerged... of coding...
so double-up-on-surds... no?

herr gizmo l:)(}{
the realm of the three brackets... )}]...
one literacy replaced the old literacy
but in terms of retaining the old type...
the new type is... not exactly allowing
for movement of... hearts? is, it?
i still have to retain punctuation...
i still need need to perfect it...

but this is not conversational linguinie,
is it?
i stand firm in, stressing:
writing is an extension of thought...
writing is an extension of thought:
it's hardly an invitation to speak...
the past centuries haven't taught us
that literacy is a constraining beast of priests'
fancy?
let me... detail my limbs for you
in stressing this point further:
what good came from the project
of literacy en masse?
graffiti scribbling on brick walls?
out of what beside desperation?

such constraints were employed as
to: the person exercised in completely body:
usage... wouldn't feel like
a ******* hamster of a ******* ferris wheel
when push came to shove...
somehow everything physical became
lesser class: demeaning...
somehow we all turned into *******
fluorescent
      telepathic / telekinetic Chernobyll
monkey sorts...
and the fat "stigmata" is a what?
                  
  this world is gagging for something tragic...
this world is gagging for a world war III...
but... it probably will not...
"advise" itself to experience such a disatrous take
on prospect...
nuance in language can go **** itself...
application of misnomers for added fluidity can:
go **** itself...
you ever come across a choir...
and a great wind...
see a ******* shrink...

don't look at me for inspiration:
perhaps some jokes...
i've been more honest these past two minutes than
i ever was in the passing of a decade...

death the limbo of "sanity"...
esp. when someone memorable has taken off...
who am i left with? "perspectivelly accountable"?
grey-matter fiddle-through middle-man
*******... no?
i'm not sifting through that, murk?
perhaps i'm sieving... sifting... sieving...
sifting... sieving... get a dog! she says, mother, dear...
i tell her: it's legal in Belgium...
her father already cited his complaints...
i'm tired of the ******* optimism...
i'm tired of this "adventure" some cling to when
deciphering "life"...
an overrated statement of too many facts:
that's life...
it's not a ******* frank sinatra:
come as we are... would be: mea culpa...

troublesome sufferings of a tired brain...
too many pop ref. points worth of closure...
i bought a vinyl today...
i walked it down a market place
like it was a puppy...
in a rucksack...

that there's a hope... my mother is crying
this silent agony of truth...
i tell her: it's sensibly legal in the Benelux...
England is ****** by all accounts...
a dog will save me?
i'm becoming rigid... brick-esque...
tide-prone...
moon is the mother of my skies...
i might might what?
fall in love: to fall in love is to allow
oneself to be weak; to be... dependent on
someone: the concept of "other"... no?
recurrrency is pricing on how many times
that's... sensible to try out?
before it fails?

i fall asleep listening to horror movie music...
i'm best coupled to a ******* hyena than
i am to a woman...
to live under a false sense of hope
is a: welcome bypass to otherwisse living
under a truancy of truth...
as the life around me shrinks...
the abounding shadow of me grows...
and not as a patriarch...

oh ****... "i simply, somehow...
just so it happens... fowgot to... encapsulate this
offload whiff a wyme".
theinvincible Jun 2014
I am hereby officially tendering my resignation as an adult, in order to accept the responsibilities of a 6-year-old.

The tax base is lower.

I want to be six again.

I want to go to McDonald's and think it's
the best place in the world to eat.

I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle
and make waves with rocks.

I want to think M&Ms; are better than money,
because you can eat them.

I want to play kickball during recess and stay up on Christmas Eve waiting to hear Santa and Rudolph on the roof.

I long for the days when life was simple.

When all you knew were your colors, the addition tables and simple nursery rhymes, but it didn't bother you, because you didn't know what you didn't know, and you didn't care.

I want to go to school and have snack time, recess, gym and field trips.

I want to be happy, because I don't know what should make me upset.

I want to think the world is fair and everyone in it is honest and good.

I want to believe that anything is possible.

Sometime, while I was maturing, I learned too much.

I learned of nuclear weapons, prejudice, starving and
abused kids, lies, unhappy marriages, illness, pain and mortality.

I want to be six again.

I want to think that everyone, including myself,
will live forever, because I don't know the concept of death.

I want to be oblivious to the complexity of life and
be overly excited by the little things again.

I want television to be something I watch for fun,
not something used for escape from the things I should be doing.

I want to live knowing the little things that I find exciting
will always make me as happy as when I first learned them.

I want to be six again.

I remember not seeing the world as a whole, but rather
being aware of only the things that directly concerned me.

I want to be naive enough to think that if I'm happy, so is everyone else.

I want to walk down the beach and think only of the sand beneath my feet
and the possibility of finding that blue piece of sea glass I'm looking for.

I want to spend my afternoons climbing trees and riding my bike, letting
the grownups worry about time, the dentist and how to find the money to fix the car.

I want to wonder what I'll do when I grow up and what I'll be,
who I'll be and not worry about what I'll do if this doesn't work out.

I want that time back.

I want to use it now as an escape, so that when my computer crashes,
or I have a mountain of paperwork, or two depressed friends, or a fight
with my spouse, or bittersweet memories of times gone by, or second thoughts about so many things, I can travel back and build a snowman, without thinking about anything except whether the snow sticks together
and what I can possibly use for the snowman's mouth.

I want to be six again.
Read this somewhere, might as well share it to everyone who feels exactly the way I feel today: too tired of so many grownup dramas ;)
lilpoiein Sep 2013
we are all roadside flowers
blooming and changing in seasons

we are all together
all in these together

all growing together
all nurturing together

We are all soft touchy flowers
feeling for one another
loving and tendering

with the same thoughts
and common soil
we came from the same ground

let's be together
in the light of our sunshine
Lisa Benson Jun 2015
babe. you're a ******* animal.
a warm and laughing mammal when you watch me breathe.
when we're playing out on a field of sheets,
and the window lighting hugs the edges of your face
you look like the leader of your pack.
and when you pin me down,
like a lion to it's prey,
i feel myself begin to pray.
for you to ruin me,
for me to claw and roar,
for us to become animals.
every time your lips drag across my skin
i feel i've entered the animal kingdom
and you've sat me on a throne
and you whisper sweet nothings,
tendering my assignment to position: queen.
when i feel the stars build up in my brain
and my breathing devoid of proper pace
i remember how much of an animal you are
and how badly i need you to take me down.
Tushar Mahajan Jul 2012
Birds fly to the neck chilly heights,
see upon with a tendering sigh

Afraid to land upon a lousy soil;
glooming in disguise

Morally corrupt are the horrifying souls,
and captivated to the sweetest rose

Rose looses its shine;
appeasing hunger which knows no bound

I know no sweetness,just a fact-
I'm a girl need life; just in case I strive..
Tumelo Mogotsi Sep 2012
A perfection of state
A diagram of fate
All claiming she’s addicted to her own virtues
And craving her own foolishness

She’s dwelling on the past
Clinging to stuff she knows will never be
Moving in a circular motion, a clear cut she created
Where she has been deceived by her own emotions

Only circumstances have bewitched her
Tendering to her the hopeless
But her innocence
Consoled her purity
We are the pit men,the pony men,the downtrodden,unshod men,and it's us against them,
and them men are the fat men,the fast gabbers,the land grabbers,the takers,the fakers, the usurers and money lenders,
**** them men,
I'm tendering my resignation and going off to look for something more,
a new celebration of a life within this whirlwind of a railway station.
Platform four,
train leaves at five
if I'm still alive
I'll be on it.
This doodling Yankee (boot noah dandy)
doth newt lack chutzpah,
tries to finagle Fitbit fitting figurative footwear,
that ideally Fitzhugh
like custom made glove snugly,
terrifically, unequivocally matching,
thence handily solving Finger hut issue,
when or if arctic blasts cold
doggedly enveloped Gaea,
whence  humans analogously held hostage
linkedin among fellow Earthlings freezing,
frost bitten, gangrenous hominids
scurrying haphazardly searching vainly
from shelter ring sky (with mother's little helper)
each primate scrambling

(as unrepentant, recalcitrant outlier)
once (what seems millenniums ago) livingsocial
jackknifed habitat fractured,
essentially damning Crispr bungled ambition
grist for raconteur spewing sought aide
telling tales amidst the mill by  Ponderosa Pine
drawing a crowd of curious onlookers,
who forewent idling away time structured existence,
thus, nary a clock watcher weathering whims
as mother nature doth channel
capriciously, felicitously,

and indubitably stripped away
bow ring pastime asper watching paint dry
now tis each man, woman and child to
(seeketh dale and hill) to duff fend themselves
whereat mortality will steal immoral majority linkedin
encapsulated, housed, kindled
within luxurious faux existence
capitalistic dreams engendered existence fleeced
devoid of featherbed,

indeed mollycoddled memories
yanked wherein current rank and file
endowing superlative creature comforts
reduce wretched survivors
scant band of bare naked ladies
beastie boys, foo fighters espying counting crows
ready to buzzfeed toe kin **** sapiens

bereft, expunged, faux invincibility kickstarting
learning basic survival skills
forced to rescind twenty first century trappings
shifting paradigm sans primacy
pitting dishabille helpless imps against pearl jam killers
who do not shrink from ethically principled,

but give full reign to selfish callous deleterious foibles,
gruesome harmful indiscretions
sprouting with mushroom rhizome rapidity
ousting the  omnipresently
(well nigh since time immemorial
virtues cultivated, futilely integrated, lending oomph
residentially, scientifically tendering ubiquitous DNA
foisting gabled, heralded, instilled,

justified kneaded love thy neighbor motto
lyft ting in one fell swoop delicately
embroidered, finely graven, heavenly ideals
no more patent leather shoes reflecting up
nor doodling Yankee staking claim to fame
via feathered cap made of macaroni
thus such jingoistic, holistic,
fabric ripped retroactively
ramping atavistic simian base,
thus leveling the playing field.
mzwai Aug 2014
Your arms are follicles of disinterest.

Though I am unsure of what their intention is,
They move around my waist in time
With a lack of clarity of what it all means
to be in love.
Affection and lust is all I feel
And when you say you love me their appendature continues
to grow whilst my waist does.
A surging increasing of whenever you touch me.
The voices that pardon me are larger
Than my conscience, and sometimes the thought of you surges
Beneath me,
like a virus or an earthquake in a shattered continent or both.
My heart becomes a state of liquid, the temperature of the air
Transforms to a prominence of length. I grasp everything you touch
I grasp you, I grasp the air. I look around and I cannot seem to
Find land where your eyes do not roam. The centimeters of everything
You've ever held combined with the emptiness of my palms.
The hollows of my retinas seeing pain when I see right through you, my crave
For becoming sub-ordinate to everything I've never known in life, a deriving
Of isolation for the way your fingers crawl so weakly against the meso-folds
Of my tense shoulders. The way they press, clutch, grab me and force them
Towards you.
Upon the shaking ground, where you lean in against my neck and
Pretend to know the secrets which have all the weight on my collar bones. Quakes,
Within you as well emerging from layers of participate, holding ashes and loving ashes,
Burning them again and convincing them that it is intimacy. Tendering flames
That induce smoke silhouettes on dancers that do not dance. Clutching their framework
As if you can make structure out of burning buildings,
'hold me' the flames whisper. From parted lips that are sighing against yours.
Burning buildings do not touch the lips of angels, but you force yourself near me.
I am nothing but a shattered window within a distraught avenue,
The fire grows and you are simultaneously caressing me and crying for help.
Upon the glass shards of my ragged edges, the tension increases with each
Sunken word you forget to say out loud.
There is mesmerization between clutching and grabbing and pulling and releasing. The sensation of us impending upon each other like runaway trains,
the way we shall crash with what we
Know in terms of devastating realization.
Sitting on the same bench as our life forces collide like they were miles apart.
At the breech of creating a history that only I will remember.
You burn everything down,
And once I am ashes you will claim to increase the passion of everything you feel towards me.
I am a burning building, a shattered window, a flame that whispers 'hold me'
And you are nearing my lips. The earth conclaves in centimeters and whenever
You breathe, I measure it.
Exhalations are beautiful but so are the seconds between us. You hold me like a chamber.
The world only rotates on the bench we are sitting on, the wood has caught fire and
So have the trees around of us. I am impending you to burn with me and every
Component of our surroundings is not pardoned by your refusal.
You love me, you say,
And just at the moment of our lips meeting,
You realize that everything impresses you in the completely wrong way.
.
The flames will not cease.
but when you stand up and leave me you do not feel them.
Your arms were once a catalyst to the expenditure of heat energy
But now, I burn ceaselessly.
You walk away as my flames spread.
They spread to the ground, set fire to the soil, and follow your footsteps in hope
That they will incinerate you.
But as the memory of love disappears,
so do you.
And the fire that follows you incinerates everything but your skin.
When you then hold your next burning building,
My flame will be there, watching you, everything you do
It will combust upon itself.
And cause catastrophe through the means of a lack of what you claimed was passion.
Your love will incinerate things that cannot be burned,
And my flames will watch, hoping that you will expenditure what you thought of them too.
Ceaselessly, they will fade away,
And you will only burn everything...
'I love you' you will say,
And then,
you will only burn everything.
...
Still Crazy Jan 2015
sons,
you don't particularly like me
no, don't run, it's ok,
no blame tendering,
my weaknesses well exposed,
can visible well
historical multi-reasons why

I don't lament,
don't let it better dismember me,
for always I love you,
a platform beneath,
unasked, sacrifice, so much messed up,
being a parent don't come with
training wheels

so blame the old guy
understandable,
grade him D ad

forget eyes whys
don't lament,
being a parent,
sworn to be
a platform underneath
in perpetuity
and so be it,
be it,
I will
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/742745/grade-my-writings-and-my-term-papers-in-magenta/


grade my writings in magenta,
no red arrogance for me teach,
blue note jazz margin comments,
unacceptable marginalizing pithy succinct notes,
always cute, hard hitting,
even in day to day black or Bic blue,
refused!

give me ochre, amethyst,
give me the colors of a new born morn,
give me words of encouragement
next to that nicely writ,
without a self-serving
high faluting exclamation point,
astride my D, my F,
a polite professorial funk you

in azure gold
leave me,
write me in colors of hope,
even claptrap deserves
a nice funeral

because gentle teach,
this thought I preach,
what color would you like me
to grade your students in,
your writs,
when next I look
**twenty years from now?**

will you not leave
me,
be,
in
the color of better days
enthused?
Peter Cullen Sep 2014
The melting *** and rolled up snot,
gathered,
underneath the tables.

That old high stool,
that graced this fool,
was winning,
willing,
always able!

A tender ear,
tendering!
with his shillings for a smile.
That tenderness, he always sought,
but was never! gonna find.

The dreams that seemed so reachable,
always after one more glass.
The moments that he longed for,
moments that had long since passed.

Every man must faulter.
Live in the shadows,
shadows cast.
Those moments that he longed for,
hidden,
  lost upon his path.
never could this baby boomer papa –
   lviii orbitz round mister sun as I write while wife
at present (takes her siesta) imagine
   dragons, killer Queen Latifah countless ways,

   thee first of deux daughters
   would in vite learning how to comprehend
   unfamiliar infant siren ear splitting strife
and mandatory pronto reception,
   unwittingly ineluctably altering my life

prior to parturition of our eldest heiress,
   ah wanna let
chew in on a bit about mess elf
   before becoming a papa
   no emotional, financial,
   nor physical obligation dim manned did

   obliged, nor required this bard **** to in debt
any of his waking and sleeping second,
   minute, quotidian hour,
   et cetera on behalf of another person Yukon bet

char sweet bippy, that despite initial onset
   of anticipatory anxiety (no pet
tee personal issue; burping baby,
   diapering, swaddling, et cetera fermi person

   easily got shucked off), hitherto
   didst any phenomena until then
   force displacement of personal habits
   to become secondary, and obviously,

   seriously visibly up set
status quo, where embedded fixations
   housed within this scribe
   required reassignment of tasks
   until salient event forced him to vet
any less important issues

   to an unspecified future
   date and/or time, which role  
   i.e. forsook luxury sans,
   affordable focus on me,
   and immediately didst force crash course
   to keep figurative whet
   stone sharp every waking
   and sleeping moment of me life, yet....

though a crash course imposed  role
   viz immediate adjustment of mister mom
(which obviously necessitated significant sacrifice
   upon the head of this major Tom)

never before until that juncture
   such selfless experience ever met,
but in retrospect salutary outcome
   found thoughts linkedin whereby
   time never divided, partitioned,
   or sectored off to another livingsocial being

I never took care of an infant,
   when her crying heard
   yet, the birth of Eden Liat Harris incurred
   (born at Bryn Mawr Hospital),

an irrevocable positive transformation occurred
within and without
   the world according to Matthew Scott Harris
   got mussed and stirred.

No longer central focus of mein kempf,
   NON GMO, and glue tin free
continual attention to offspring
took precedence not always glee
full, and how receptive lee

toward voluntary selflessness:
   case in point regarding the selfish me
bumped off the long entrenched priority
toward my needs and wants prithee.

A recombinant adjustment incumbent
outlook arose upon freshly minted papa,
   where stork sent
Weltanschauung demanded gent
to reef focus his shift, which meant
twenty four hours, seven days a week

   plus work in order to pay rent
away from him, and directed a tent
shun toward welfare, welcome, and well being
   for totally tubularly dependent new outlook on life,
   especially when spouse went
out for a breathing spell
became priority number
   one thru...infinity, no hard sell

though lacking with any knowhow aye tell
asper tendering attention upon survival
   of (what essentially
   constituted a foreigner), like George Szell
thy senses required rejiggering, which this fell
low highly struggled with cuz,

no handbook (as promised by manufacturer to boot
ever preceded via Sir-vex), nor followed suit
leaving nervous dada in the dark spooked by a hoot
at onset, when our bundle of joy
   more valuable than any amount of loot

could buy, and when back to apartment we did rent
(at that time) Pennfield Manor not heaven sent
situated within breathing distance
   of slaughter house five scent.
SassyJ Feb 2018
Savasana is a calm state
in the midst of quietness
all passes away always
like a forever in reverse
Its a state of a corpse
where body meets earth
shoulder kiss the ground
and breath rises above all
Its a reward to the motor
tendering and weeding
giving growth an embrace
It's a handshake I long for
after the crafting and trying
the twisted boats, aeroplanes
lizards, cobras and sphinx
a remedy from warrior stances
and the table tops and doggies
to the wonderful cats and cows
It's a gateway to Pratyahara
the very bridge that connects
the fibres of inside and outside
20 days in the 30 days yoga challenge. Mostly in love with Bikram hot yoga.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2020
to write: in order to be unable to recognise
oneself in the writing -
        impossible to stress a variation of amnesia:
it's a... it's a...

             the current philanthrope: archaic for:
philanthropist -
                   because no there's no new-outfit
for a misanthrope...
                             vaccinations blue-checkers...
a game of chess:
   with narratives...
               alliance of white: as doubt...
                     and alliance of black: as denial...
but this is not a game...
  no one plays a game to feed such
a gluttonous slouch of staging:
                       demoralization projects...

brain-sponges and some variation
of music as a wheezing...
                    or a helium gargantua:
laughter in a vacuum...

it's sometimes to think about the eyes:
unless there's a concern
for either mountain of a canyon -
it's impossible to think without the sea...
i somehow wish that i could
fathom the eyes as a simple
prelude to having two stones
in a trouser pocket...
and fiddling with them...

i want to make my tongue enshrined
in the confines of an oyster:
some forgotten gem...
   i dream about homelessness
and all of life's tragedy
                of: beside a prison...
the freedom to roam...
        but i somehow stumble...
if only the determination
              of a classical lore akin to
Sisyphus...
              
                    it's always impossible
to borrow something from
the Greeks...
           then again:
who were the Greeks at the fall
of Contantinople...
             breaking bones to fiddle
with the buckle of Islam...
            it's almost tickling the suspense
lying in wait...

a marlboro cigarette is unlike
a camel cigarette...
              i say they add something
to the puff...
        happy to have been freed from
the nicotine hangover...
but it somehow aids these scribbles...
it's not much...
    it's not madame bovary or
anna karenina...

                                time is playing catch-up
and i... hope for a seclusion
of assets...
     i mostly lie before
a sleep pattern completely petrified...
not that i rarely conjure
ushers of dream...
                   but that...
            it's always the same impossibity
of being a son of a father...
or some other monstrosity
of time: noted... when abiding
with a grandfather...

if i could question the ownership
of my ears...
if i could replace my eyes
with either two stones in my pocket
fiddled with like a pair of dice...
or shelter in the "myopia"
of: one eye for the canyon...
the other for the mountain...

  how is it that i am so at loss...
where is a pick-me-up of ambition...
i am without ambition...
in that: should i enjoy ambition
and make myself a prospect
of a career in politics...
in that old sequence of...
people coming together!

      i as a we! are not! corrupt!
it's so impossible to attempt to live
a life of an honest man...
then again... before such a question
is posed: one must...
turn the fudge... bother the barley...
grind the bits to a flour...
if i were given a compass
and asked to be placed
on the spectrum of:
counter the philosopher's stone:
money... what would i do...
if a servitude of implosive meaning
were ascribed to a sudden
revision... if name and title should
be engraved on... peanuts...
and we were all... "suddenly" elephants
behind the "riddle"...

   it's not merely impossible:
it's just plain stupid...
  if i had one ear as a cave...
and the other as a savannah...
for sure: one to feed the concern for echo...
otherwise the derelict disguise
of a splendour of lingo...

        this... is an abadoned house...
feel free to roam in it beside...
i will have left it once i have complete
the doodle...
    it's not much because:
it's not rhyme-friendly...
                 but thanks to the h'american
school... it's doesn't matter
whether poetry is an art of
the scalpel or demands for pedagogy's
regurgitation...
whether h'america is sleeping
or whether russia is reading...

           there's that currency of the narrative:
an expediEncy...
     i'd write an A into that "affair" if i was
to be all too honest...
              it's not like english
allocates orthographic pressures
of shame... should a transgression
be posed...
                   the old mechanical baron arm
of carrot forward! stick! is precise in...
what's to be allocated!

it's impossible to drink these days:
since the moral hangover...
it's impossible to smoke a cigarette...
since the same impossible hangover...
it's not even a question
of who's contesting a replica of 100 years
sober samuel...
     it's impossible to make eternal
demands of life with a posthumous p.s.:

for lack of a better word...
of the concern for what's to be ate...
the eyes pleasure...
the ears are... ears...
cartilege: an impromptu revision...
but the tongue oh so ******* critical...
it's almost necessary to learn
a second language in order to justify
being a foor critic...

food critic? this is what happens when...
the *** drive of humans is over-stated...
bogus work... and the unemployed masturbators...
the same spectrum...
a bogus job title at one end...
an unemployed masturbator at the other...

        the grass grows plenty for the rabbits...
if the desire for banana dries up...
for the baboons...
  and there's no will to straighten those
parades... then there's... "platanitos"... etc.
                   but there's a need for a plethora:
counter the forests with paper...
        should i desire more priests?!
       it's a fear... that i will absolve myself
from retaining the last remains
of authenticity -
        for the filled goblet made by
a spew of lies...
        it's such an impossible...
  "nuance"...      "bereaving"...
                 ­                      hyphen antics...
          a *******!           compromise!
   like Noah... building his project was...
all about... the made collective individuals...
i attempt working for a lie...
i die at the attempt of working...
unless of course...
             the mind of man is so...
intricate and spectacular to be without
fault...
as to the genuine promise from afar in time...

it's a terrible affair to have
homelessness as a fear... first, highest...
to then watch videos of people
going through the tides
and somehow stomaching the lacklustre
adventure...

- so to write something that
can't be paraded - that it has to gravitate
towarding a biding personal -
to heave the half-breath
of tendering sycophancy & scrutiny...
for there to be a...
whisper of rome...
come the advent of the caesars...

what an old ******* of hope...
             it's not near impossible...
when confined to...
   the cul de sac of gauging out of eyes
and rat inclined impromptus...

the current philan-thropist
         is so bothersome like a c.c.t.v.
installation that the misanthrope is a complete
bonkers jazz *** las vegas inversion
perfect!
         via / in between the solipsist:
self-conscious autist
    and the whoever takes your fancy...
   i'm making myself suspect
of what's being readied as: "digestable"...
it's not impossible...
it's just... cow-towing i.e. depressing...
     who would have thought
that a simple trick could...
fool... magnus primo maribus -
         the first great adventurer...
the shackled chimpanzee to a 'shroom...
or the 'shroom: a fungus riddle
of the primate seeing UV and ultra-red...
the first prized cinema of purple
with fluorescence: liquid light...
                                         lux liquidum...
the demands for phosphrescnce revisionism?

thus to be schooled: "schooled" without
a slightnest idea of how to deal with
a psychopasth - that one ordeal of being robbed
with the intention of the purely materialised
mechanisation of life:
the depth of the slit into soulness...

a hybrid of nothing and ego...
to borrow a figment of the imagination:
the gravity toward an engineeer
of a longboat that's
about as useful as a piece of paper...
perhaps the assurance of a kite...
which implies the wind...
"sloth" beside an attempt at water...
if the sea were a river...
and the tide were the narrative...
but the lacklustre of heaving "nuance"...

  we weren't schooled to be carpenters...
as we weren't...
to enjoy the ******* and a narrative
of "leisure"...
       before the gnat crescendo...
like some altar for the breaking of the bones
of a horse heaving
a sought at sigh...

                 could i ask the priest crow
for more? when addressing him to quest a q.
of a magpie or a birch tree?
could i heave a stomach so riddled
woth indigestion...
                to forever quest for
a mountain's zenith...
having to begin with a pyramid's nadir...
this sand... this time...
this impossible demand for...

a lasting: a debilitating concept of hope...
that's beyond crying...
a concept: but at best...
a concern for a dog...
then again... a dog: a leash, a muzzle...
the perfect cat the "homeowner"...
the gap-year striptease crescendo!

i want to fear this avenue of
life's worded tolls...
because...
there's a respect for them...
unlike... like there's a celebration
of Diogenes... if all the homeless
were to serve a fate
of this sour-**** of a gritting over...
               what am i: as question:
possibly having to write?
if all the homeless people
were a Diogenes of Sinope...
                
  i was in Athens once...
armed with a glass of absyinthe...
some yogoslav toll-busters...
a freak-magnet of a striptease bar
with myself ******* my trousers...
finding to a bind
of a way-back...
              hey presto!
            it's not a fear...
it's an anticipation...
               a manhunter prodigy affair...
to have to have done
so little of the world attested
concept of bad: an east germany concensus...
to be in a prison
of homelessness: nuance...
the dream of the broke...
the baron of the breaking...

best equipped: with a car and a gun...
but "somehow"...
no new old: or old new h'america...
i still somehow want
to yoddle my load of unbelievable
switzerland that has to
grieve my load worth
of iowa!
         my burried the unforgotten
list of "good luck" few...

the vanity project: prior to not...
anticipating the homelessness...
it's such a judas low duo due...
                   i want as hope: and a death..
it's not but there's the braving
the tide of vanity:
the better-sit-my-*****-sit-lem'oh-bedding...
it's a continent's worth
of a lingo... it's not like...
england cruise... croatia riddle...
******* dim-wits!
           new b'est h'america!
toll the brittle old jonah cull hard-on-an-adams...

my heiving little...
               my loitering "lost" of
                     the last impossible....
that impossible looting custard
pie of heart...
                   the happiness
  of the neared impossible heart...
this bypassing this cat fickle...
my best kept nuanced smile &
faking it...

  the shoe the fiddle... the mozart
the beard the hybrid
bypass the last
vanity of a fed...
             it's my best breast
fretted the knuckle,
and a bone...
          and a lost carpenter's
*****...
        witch and no nordic
leisure of an itching...
                   because!
the ******* guise of basic!
the broken tree
with a basic of breaking of bones...
gravity of the "loitering"...
there's always the
loitering play of rambo...
     johnny-yo-yo..
            iowa: new croatia!

  lost towing the burning tire!
because! i own's us a bus!
grieving the legitimate
    and what's otherwise...
the crease...
and death is a sudden..
               my scuttle bumble:
breaking the bee.
Derekis Feb 2019
shades beautifully linger at the end of the line

a grey strand of fate twirls in the vast blue sky sea, bereft of clouds plainly for all to see

an earthly flower comes forth from humble roots, blooming in late winter against common sense

slowly welcoming the thread, entwined by both gloom and faith, incredible feelings bursting forth

a silent dream wakes, unable to communicate the magic experienced by a heart's crumbling side

snowy figures gather to witness, trembling in both cold and fear.

the portal is about to open wide, as wide as the possibility every one of us has to bare

and in time, life slows down, minute by minute, second by second until the moment is frozen.

all to gaze into the cataract of precious images seen by he who dreams, the lord of the one word, the stigma of existence.

from the bloom, a distorted angel is born, a fueled descending, a fall never ending, a being made of prayers never answered

in closer ending, a breaking tendering, a death drum ends a static dream as sorrowful nails are driven into all men's hearts.
This doodling Yankee
(boot noah dandy)
doth newt lack chutzpah,
tries to finagle Fitbit
fitting figurative footwear,

that ideally Fitzhugh
like custom made glove snugly,
terrifically, unequivocally matching,
thence handily solving
Finger hut issue,

when or if arctic blasts cold
doggedly enveloped Gaea,
whence humans analogously
held as tumblr hostage

linkedin among
fellow Earthlings freezing,
frost bitten, gangrenous hominids
scurrying haphazardly
searching vainly

from shelter ring sky
(with mother's little helper)
each primate scrambling

(as unrepentant, recalcitrant outlier)
once (what seems millenniums ago)
livingsocial jackknifed habitat fractured,
essentially damning Crispr

bungled ambition
grist for raconteur spewing sought aide
telling tales amidst the mill
by Ponderosa Pine

drawing a crowd of curious onlookers,
who forewent idling
away time structured existence,
thus, nary a clock watcher

weathering whims
as mother nature doth channel
capriciously, felicitously,

and indubitably stripped away
bow ring pastime
asper watching paint dry
now tis each man, woman and child to
(seeketh dale and hill)

to duff fend themselves
whereat mortality will steal
immoral majority linkedin
encapsulated, housed, kindled

within luxurious faux existence
capitalistic dreams engendered
existence fleeced
devoid of featherbed,

indeed mollycoddled memories
yanked wherein current rank and file
endowing superlative creature comforts
reduce wretched survivors

scant band of bare naked ladies
beastie boys, foo fighters
espying counting crows
ready to buzzfeed toe kin
**** sapiens

bereft, expunged, faux
invincibility kickstarting
learning basic survival skills
forced to rescind

twenty first century trappings
shifting paradigm sans primacy
pitting dishabille helpless imps
against perverted pearl jam killers
who do not shrink
from ethically principled,

but give full reign to selfish
callous deleterious foibles,
gruesome harmful indiscretions
sprouting with mushroom
rhizome rapidity

ousting the omnipresently
(well nigh since time immemorial
virtues cultivated,
futilely integrated, lending oomph

residentially, scientifically
tendering ubiquitous DNA
foisting gabled, heralded, instilled,

justified kneaded love
thy neighbor motto
lyft ting in one fell
swoop delicately
embroidered, finely graven,

heavenly ideals
no more patent leather shoes
reflecting up
nor doodling Yankee
staking claim to fame,

via feathered cap made of macaroni
thus such jingoistic, holistic,
fabric ripped retroactively
ramping atavistic simian base,
thus leveling playing field.
Twenty two years ago
     December twenty second,
two thousand eighteen
"star student" born
this papa (and most
     likely thee birth mother)
     initially felt ecstatic,
dramatic (yes frenetic),

and careworn
as freshly minted parents,
     but gifted with a daughter,
     whose existence far
more precious
than any Earthborn
rare widgets, gewgaws,
gems, et cetera, despite

     evoking unsolicited,
unpleasant, and
unmanageable forlorn
communication "dirt poor"
     living (at least ten years
    of wretchedness at 1148
Greentree Lane) unable
to toot our horn,

cuz unbearable, undesirable,
     unforgettable, et cetera,
     and manifold challenged,
when beloved Shana
Punim evinced inborn
developmental delay,
     (which severe electric
     cool aid acid test

     patience of this father),
     much more difficult
than playing krummhorn,
now after tendering the trials

     and tribulations, an
     amalgamation of
     poignant affects,
     whereat your
     permanent presence...
(must never NOT precede mine),
cuz..., I would definitely mourn,
your absence, thus felt the timely

     opportunity to dash off
     a birthday poem to you
     in tandem with sharing,
     (while comfortably numb
and figuratively licking war
torn psychological wombs) - torn
and ripped, queued,
peppered natty psyche

pockmarked with scorn
from self, (and those lives,
this dada immediately
impacted) particularly
your person roar'n
with cumulative anger toward
     this insightful fellow,
(who claims to know

what thee feel toward me),
especially when ****
hours of valuable
     time, now caught
(say, eh...approximately, fraught
upon the half life of rare Earth
element Eden), not
just strictly naught

heard thru the grapevine,
     but forcing Math (hew)
     analysis, via meditation, poetry
     writing therapy, et cetera.
-     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -    
Hence...I apologize,
asper unasked for pain wrought
thee, sans being unemployed,
demeaning "mother Abby,"
bumbling, horrid house

keeper (Hagrid himself,
would turn down invitation),
plus Facebook fiasco,
imbroglio, and loco
motive - complicit in behavior
-     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -
comparable to *******,
yet please let me conclude
by admitting total lack
of wherewithal.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR DAUGHTER!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2020
i was aiming to sort out some computer
details outside the realm
of the corporate world of hierarchy...
something like that...
talking to a 56 year old kazakh in
romford: about the turks and the mongols...
about giving up smoking (not really):
and how i am addicted to carbon
monoxide while he is bagging big chews
from the nicotine gum: fiddly fingers
and something akin to peeling carrots
and power-tame-toes!
fiddles for foreskins...
in this one instance i am... beside buying
into... "the narrative"...
a crown descends...
   a crow is the equivalent of crown:
phonetically: in greek... amore...
                  the rest of the day completed
itself... with me walking from
Chadwell Heath to Romford...
marking my feet on a shortcut through
the green belt...
the traffic noises died...
i just stood in a middle of a field
the vikings might have envied...
no no no...
   the blistering azure piercing breath
and making me embody a loitering of a soul...
three birds of prey...
how is it... that birds of prey rarely
flap their wings... they... just... hover...
impossibly perfect...
they hone in on something...
circle around and around
like a vultures' manifesto...
     i was waiting to see the dive
but i didn't see it: not out of impatience...
i was in a secluded partition of england
yet i was still attempting to buy a bicycle
in Chadwell Heath -
i looked at myself not looking at
anything prior...
this solitary whitey:
i don't mind the remark...
thank god the slaves of colour want
to either see no colour or... too...
the hues of copper, cinnamon...
      teases of cacao...
                           a cuban ****...
                so much was poured into
a runic revision -
    best: an invigoration...
                    toothpicks for words:
an arithmetic of my teeth...
        i am beside myself welcoming
the intrusion of "minority":
perhaps in little ol' removed Swansea -
i am the lord mayor the city might
need me...
   in somewhere like Chadwell Heath...
buying a lion white chocolate bar
is perhaps sub-cultural -
the same old pauper of what-a-load of
violins bundled up on a bench
by the church... a last imploring gesture...
drinking that gorgon's blood
of a dutch equivalent of carlsberg's
spezial broo (or -ew)...
          on these isles: these bright and beautiful
isles:
you can't "sell me": the irish are still
speaking... english?!
the irish are not speaking gaelic -
my god... this terrible hammer from
Lincolnshire -
     when and as to how...
the Welsh took it upon themselves
to become this sacred heaven of bilingualism -
so much for learning Dutch -
or... Bel-ge-an -
  Flemz? Flimsy Choc-a-Block...
       choke on a tired rubber of a tire...
stage a newbie ***** flick from
the dungeons of **** Bruges...
or some ***** / wide my pony: rha rha rho...
that the Welsh still cling to a tongue:
spirit pairing:
of the Polacks under the geography
of the third partition...
of the czechs under the habsburgs -
          history as a fetish...
no... more... "natural selection" beside
the already prescribed antics of ape ****
and meteor... and time impossible...
to have... selective historicism...
naturally?
             that "we" are at a stage where
something is deemed necessary - otherwise not...
but then again it's not...
since: who the hell will remember "us"?
i drink... but i also write...
i guess the writing is more of an exercise
in amnesia than the drinking -
the drinking helps: in that i am more blunt,
boringly honesty:
un-spec-tac-ular for the best...
  i just can't imagine myself writting anything
worse than a journalistic tabloid
palette will allow...
    sure: no rhyme no river for a narrtive:
concretely focused on an (a) through to a (z)...
pay... i guess the concept of
pay is showing through...
          well then... my whittle hobby:
my whittle: it can become impossible -
that the secular niqab
   will not protect you from the stench
of old goats' **** in a public toilet -
the solipsism of farting in a cogested
public "picturesque"...
to have to believe in both narratives:
the mainstream of lies and these -
offshoots of the best / better informed...
my little paranoid agenda is no
agenda... but enough of my beard
shackles a: thorough "through"...
red is longer a bull pointer antagonist...
up could be a down...
but it's not that: well... it is...
that people made a constituted forward:
towing - best kept replicas...
how could it be possible to procrastinate
a diminishing of transcendence:
that freedom is already a pork-pie glutton
and constipation...
"think-tanks"...
      tanks... ego rifles?
      shoot the dummy... play the cerebral
palsy mannequin tossing...
the utopia of hyperhondriacs...
a diaspora of polacks and the greeks...
that the machinery has been
well established... that the machine has
been well oiled...
and is "econimally" sound...
     gentle rub rub gentlest rubbing rub-up...
and down...
and my flesh this least copernican
crux... which has not orientated
itself around either sun, star...
earth or moon...
          
            expanding cycle lanes will
not bring about a new dutch republic...
nor will i sell a pancake for
the purpose of levelling the himalayas...
this brittle conundrum of bogus...
two narratives:
alter-alter -
what-if and... what-if...
                but red's not red:
there's no shawl for a hemmingway
for sooner last:
for a Catalonia...
to romance the world afresh...
but now there's a McDonalds in
Stockholm: future knowledge...
a globalist ghetto -

how the joke that  was once
Sweden is no longer...
this same... cyclops of culture mantra...
of lore: Sveeden: "so tolerant"...
and now the world and no...
this is not a world...
based on the focus of scrutiny
of a world: no... there's
no heidegger's dasein:
there's...

the magic trick for the masses...
which is much more spectacular...
and how willing there's a dulling of perception..
i am of the custard pie...
i am the custard pie...
            
              hiersein: "there" or "here" of...
ahem...                wohin?
that word comes with a question puncture...
you don't actually use the word:
where... without a question mark... no?
you can compound a complexity
akin to heidegger's with: here-being
alias "concern"...
well then... the solipsism of: "over-there"...
a pointer... it's a lack of reconciling the masses
with any ontological... "scrutiny"...

plus up: ++++ pardons for:
blistering of and this leftover scab of narrative...
before the double knee of
b.l.m. and beijing -
now... best left with fighting the nazis...
i'll say it outright...
best left with fighting the nazis...
best fighting a well attired SS-man
in some hugo boss suit...
of pristine khaki... grey or black...
but no... not now...
dulling of suits...
              
   now i'm on par with the argument:
i want nazis! i want to fight nazis!
oh... wait... they're not blonde...
or german or... believe me:
they could have hidden in the Crimean
peninsula...
             but no... but not now...
i want to fight: the *******: good-luck
joke of history...
but this evil is so bland...
it's so terrestrial...
   the same mundane evil coupled
with my own terrestrial existence probing
of conversation / no argument...

the Welsh still speak: "Welden"...
   Velsh... in a climate where... the union
jack is looking up the h'american *******...
but the scots but the irish don't retain
their ******* gaelic...
good for you:
like a nuanced slang of the english cricketer...
tourist... hello... world...
tourist... hello world...
               my now new reality:
legal immigration this little ******...
this no burden of a Ruś -
a warraring burden from a scent in the air...
that there's no concrete:
sulphur stinking zeppelin ruining the skies
at: come night... come lazily this lost day...
this lost day...

once more: when st. patrick met up
with a mule that became
a farce and a ghost-face
of sitting loiter:
anti-saint: humpty-coŁal-sky-
             dumps a truce...
valiant against the propaganda cogs
and blockages...
the retorts of the salvaged plumber...
my new authority: my lost authority...
F'f'f'f'fever pitch for a hannibal...

Carthage must counter: euthanasia...
me best sold "neuter"...
that there is an unconvincing this:
bias this base...
******* on a whiskey soaked
cigarette...
that a guinness can only be drank
from a glass of a measure of a pint...
don't blister me with
this and these details of a gargantuan
t'is... i want a poetry on the basis
of future: dead...

            ****-soaked revelation
of a brick willing: to sell a "hybrid"
sorta-glue: a congestion...
           this my sacred ****...
my tongue this lesser oyster -
      a skull that cannot fathom
   the jaw line...
      witness my own very little...
my leisured attention span...
no new no wriggling of index
as the best pickled earth-worn...

              habitually: a shirt worn
to expand upon an objectivity for
the tow of a shirt with...
creases...
this lesser ambiguity of
a prompt that preserves itself
with a: lost project of ambiguity -

that we somehow accepted
a new, a nuance... a blister and a heaving...
catterpillar dues...
count! count the arithmetic per-take!
back in the ***** of mother russia...
little people do little things...
big people do: crab load of ****:
this sort of philanthrophy...
because: aghast...
the mistantrophe is the next
best fang...
like chewing gum and mawler
of a fake tooth:
my best kept bones...

              heritage of radio and a ******...
but, once upon a time...
my little overt detailing...
romance mr. marshall this little
casablanca and my own tunis -
chasing shadows with
a little insy-winsy spiders to tow...
my own cob...
my own prague pangs of summer
that they are still:
the cobblestones to resound
with horse hoofs...

the last... lost... project...
to have to rejuvinate the revision
of the roman empire...
that there was no james joyce's ullyses
from 200 AD...
there was an old greek in
the new greek in the byzantine choral
chant...
     goody-goody-fwyfays
2020 my lost year...
the year when i begged for a slack:
a diminished point of a pair of *******...
how sober somehow worked...
that drunk was no new sensible...
doubt and its plethora of all the least
possible jargon of emotions:
a McDowell a McCurieal...
   a Dot MacKenzzies...
a lord assumption of surnames that:
there was no ever...
Hogwarts of the choicest of godfather
names... when this blessed babe
of the agony srap..
this tendering of bones...
          my little mongolia...
a variation of Kiev that could expand
into Ukraine...
                       but: ah... now...
a little chisel of england or...
aa bandage off...
this whittle hinter of big bypass flyover
most pristine:
utopia h'americana...
                          Boston bleeds:
Chigaco sort of... fakes...
on the cackle of a letter...
gate? i say... Gate?
      shique: cack: ago: co: go...
no "lord assumption"...
my lord this same ***** diary
this rusty panser..
                                 and i have
to somehow embarass myself
with a "belief" in a... god?!

                  of the non-exisstence of
a god among "sensible" people...
this little deity of transcending...
my quest for a satanic project
gorgon...
         stashed up conjure:
of.. the death-litany...
my own explanation...
            my own little wording that
has to arrive at a...
******* and a variation of hues
that borrows from green...
blue... and the mediating...
              hard-world-of-grey...
this my loosening of tendons...
the easing of muscle to tow
some fat...
my new: hammering...
chicken shackles...
rummanating the lost
ordeal of the perpliexing *** ordeal
of catholicism -
time to *******! time to!

my best pointers:
corpus christi:
we did start off with cannibalism...
we did start off with cannibalism...
metaphorical?
was it ever really a posit of
images that were only read by braille
sooths?
christianity is a cannibalism...
it's so hertbreaking that:
there's no god or an infinite man
of the little things to make
a composition of polyphony...

i can't read into a jesus when there's
the cannibalism:
a "metaphor" for a metaphysics...
a death of poetry: hell...
**** me for the necessary death
of rhyme...
            now "jew" like any basic
posit of a yew...
    prior to the real established
scrutiny of a nation-state...
which has to be fathomed
with Israel...
the hebrews have finally found
their: woke and roll...

           the jews were excused from
towing along to the crucifix...
and when all was done...
and this new camel jockey prize...
king crimson...
isn't cited: unless in the spanish circles
along with portishead...

i have desired this blatant death
that it might contend with Barcelona...
or a sequence if a brothel
from Bulgaria imitating throttle Thailand...
my little ex-girlfriend...
come 5am... and it is still
oxford st. and a flagship wake-me-up...
this old leveraging London matters...
i am but the sharpnel of words
that cannot possible reproduce:
brick-top sensibilities...

my litter interludes basket of futurist "what if"
existences in the Bedlam of epitaphs...
i might have been crowned the prince
of Anjou...
   i might have cradled the thirds
of the third crusade...
i might just as well be the beggar from
the annals of history making journalistic
progressions... to sow: death... to tow...
belittling creases of lost
adventures... creasing the skin prone:
proof... a detail of a scalp that's not...
  em... retail... wigs...
                          you wanna make me a glutton:
fist based... there was no turmeric involved...
the "convenience"...
yes... a bone-ah-tomahawk...
  my best attired cannibal...
it's such a taming project...
i want to be chemically sedated by disproofs...
but then... i am...
squandering what little i have
of romancing russia...
or thereby greece...

  this is the part where i try to borrow from
a differentiation of...
second from last:
stream of borrowed cocktails...
or...
my best screaming streamer -
i nice unto you...
you...
no... i very much like this cul de sac
of: i nice unto you...
why? the work invites no
technicality that can be
detailed into a trans-generational...
my last Epicurus joke...

crease a child an ultimatum of
competition...
conjunctions of grief...
not biggest thank you...
i thank you as to why
i... not because i wanted
to drink...
sober people are splits and
just plain boring...
towing toes to tango:
no game of twos...
sober people have no...

   my best tomato ketchup fake
blood load of argumentation...
bias / basis...
generic *******...
cause no happy bride:
was ever to be prized...
or prided..
my little gimmick wonderland
of a shtick...
no thank god i never married...
thank god i toiled around
with...
bread-knit...
and... cuneiform woke...
best kept islam: a foretold
variation of agriculture...
the plantation ridicule plumber of
eastern european choice:
****-dumbdumb...
dies with... incorporated
neu-Birmingham...
******* polacks...
too proud to think they could replace
us *****: first prized Pakis...

ahem... yes... what?!
this be Westminster...
tax haven collector's bias?
do i have a face that might coincide with:
i had...
but right now?
no... i couldn't give a tonne's load
of ******* to mind
it being a copernican: first invoked
sort of... affair...
savvy?!
Pursuit for elusive prey
teases yours truly
into treacherous catacombs
dangerous mentally
challenging pitfalls,

sets small hairs of back
on camp creeks edge
of night, where dark shadows
evoke outer limits
of twilight zone

prompting me constantly questioning
purposefulness, qua hair raising pursuit
embarking these modern roman times
all for naught,
nonetheless I chide self

failing to heed
emotional, mental, psychological...fallout
in sum re: springing Jack in the box reflex
to sally forth and earn kudos,
asper potential Prince Valiant.

Thus situated with blank computer screen
capacious external Lenovo for myopia
(and incessant squiggly floaters to boat),
this literary glutton for punishment
feverishly fixates to plumb depths

(measuring mor'n 10,000
leagues under the see
ming lee impossible mission
to ensnare nearly extinct
fluttering, lyfting, shutterflying...

smarts to outwit unsuspecting
beak henning quest
tendering, tasting uber victory
quivering crossbow
targeting yawping

zoological discovery - channeling
primed with taut fletched arrow
on high alert for stool pigeon
cautiously optimistic kickstarting
another futile attempt dagnabbit
experiencing prestige,

oh...and by the way...,
no animal harmed
regarding made for video poem
gamely capturing quarry scotched,
nor gruesome scene

synonymous quasi abattoir
representative bird den sum
bloodless coup deeming
endeavor par excellence.

Fingers madly scramble
to poach skittering idea
fry day most ideal
omelette ya know,
aye feel yolked to defeatism,

one after another faux
promising brainstorm egging
quickly flitting inaccessible
potential flash in frying pan
just as fast dashing

into bajillion pieces
shell shocked scrivener
scribbling lame as duck
goose laying golden egg...
dropping immediately out of sight,

maybe best resigning forlorn
inchoate never albumen,
albeit quite linguistic stretch for
(all be human success story)
prospects beyond reach

ova this wretch
New York Times
bestseller author jinxed
forever dooming yours truly
grinding poverty my ill fate.
really trolley train hard to keep track of patients

Eye tell ya we (spuds)
pulled up stakes after four yar
and zero scores ago living in Bryn Mawr
salutary heart and lungs figurative
storied Main Line Health medical network
latter part of June tooth thousand seventeen

approximately July first
same year bidding au revoir
bid good riddance account
to slumlord - hood did spat and spar
moved to Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
unsafe to ride bicycle without handlebar

economical, geographical, practical...
subjected by Grosse and Quade tyrannical czar
dom low income facilities housing
nattering nabobs of nihilism whose intellect subpar
candidates vetted by Jaclyn Geiger registrar
courtesy nepotism unexceptional manager

thanks be to her papa, she drives fancy car
unlike this pauper and the missus
limited to schlep near and not far
afforded by rattletrap motorcar,
no driving prohibitive number of miles,
crossing sketchy territory warning signs

picturing dangerous avatar,
(especially during inclement whee thar)
determining risk to forego
top manic kin Michelin
money grubbing cannibalistic
surgeon's earning equivalent silver star,

or comparable civilian rating touting specialists
while bonafide topnotch indivisible tailors swifty
stitch ink, viz tattoo back parlor shop whar
exemplary Patients Matter Always
buzzfeeding, inoculating, kickstarting...
healthy medical network,

hobnob, kibitz, schmooze...
drown lackluster lovelife at the bar
parting paramour with such sweet sorrows par
for the course during pouring rain how bizarre
necessitated our lucky find locating physicians
supreme nsync with Google high reviews

receiving, scoring, nabbing,
incorporating... truevalue re: vector and scalar,
we veteran trooper seasoned renters
luckily blessed chance
cost us pennies on the dinar
general bang for buck amazingly
found yours truly strumming his air guitar

pleasantly situated among picturesque poplar
resort within Skippack Village, a tourist
mecca for devout or
secular gourmandizing, earning
catering and acquiescing savoir
ole mighty faire Benjamin
legally tendering expensive bazaar.
By gravity said law
linkedin with physics
stating that a body at rest
will remain thus unless otherwise
acted upon by an external force,

hence I cannot wrest motion
from inert human matter
regarding nearly lifeless entity
concerning how aye barely breathe
heavily weighed down

with lugubriousness easily crushing
this seventy two inch
rusty, cowardly, creaky...
complex corporeal edifice,
thus resigning myself

watching flight of bumblebee
hopscotching from one
clover plant to another
wondrous winged warrior
unphased by human "rat race"

higglety pigglety,
pell mell, helter skelter,
how grand living off the grid
venerating native flora and fauna
simply engrossed with daily tasks

solely attending
basic inalienable rights
life, liberty, pursuit of happiness
keeping stereotypical roles intact
males species pact schedule

hunting in tandem
with brotherly comrades
females tending hearth and home
tendering, safeguarding, nesting...
homeschooling offspring

supervising fledgling,
the latter gingerly venturing
tentatively into parts unknown
unfamiliar territory brimming
trained instincts detect danger,
nonetheless plod along

blueprinted genetically
inherent migratory paths
guides where uncertainty looms
within wide whirring web
invoking, feigning camouflage,
or mimicking ("FAKE")
simulating another organism.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
let me put it bluntly... i was recently on the throne
of thrones: doing the no. 1 & the no. 2
"thinking": well... if i ease into a no. 3
it might just ease the leftovers of  no. 2 out:
jerking off when the **** is stretched on
the throne of thrones sometimes does the trick...
and...
by no surprise...
i practiced ancient roman "bulimia" once upon
a time... bulimia: call it purging...
when i was very aware of my weight-loss:
but... oddly enough... never saw the results...
perhaps not even i am vampire-esque
in this iron maiden: i can't see my own body...
lately... after a decent amount of exercise
and a loss of circa 20kg...
i get the looks... mostly women in their 30s
pushing baby buggies...
some younglings...
but i can't see what i am "supposed" to see...
anyway... i was through with no. 1...
almost done with the no. 2 expecting some more
from no. 2 starting to gear up for a no. 3:
my own... genocide ***** splash...
obviously all prior to taking a shower...
and... what's on offer?
no much... i actually refrained from doing
the no. 3 because...
now i saw myself clearly:
whenever half a decade passes...
and i get up to speed with body on body
contact... magnets...
this isn't how i ****...
i'm... wait... it requires three to tango?
what a greedy bunch...
not like this... thank god i'm no Jack the Ripper
when it comes to interacting with prostitutes...
i use my tender hands on a tender body...
i don't like or want to ****...
how... these modern pornographic flicks
are depicting...
******* the ****?! what the ****?!
if cinema was great even in the 1990s...
******* was great... with the Italian 1970s
classics... not that i'm a purveyor of:
better tastes... but... jeez...
it's like still being a fan-boy of Bukowski's doodles...
but... when it comes to... celebrating:
the already celebrated: niche... classical music
on the radio...
for all that Handel... for all that Prokofiev...
what if i'm into something
akin to... Frank Zappa... Bulgarian folk music...
i'm more into... chants of the Templars...
salve regina... da pacem domine...
it's not classical music...
but the **** these days is... my scrutiny:
thank "god" i still have a ******* therefore
a free-reign's worth of an outlet...
i can't imagine where i'd be without it...
oh... i can imagine: either with a kippah...
and all the orthodox restrictions on women
by the standards of the Hebrews or...
if i were a Muzzling-Muzzie-Muzzie...
she might just don a white niqab...
but i wouldn't have my *******...
eh... modern ******* is terrible...
if i really have to... i'll focus on some detail...
the collar-bone... mostly hands... since they
are the hardest to draw...
legs... anything codified in wax or
fish stockings... snippets of flesh bounced around
the argument: not all nativity play of
the naked brunch...
i don't like where ******* is heading...
if i really had to...
it truly takes a sitting on the throne of thrones
to escape the trauma of a half finished no. 2
with a no. 3...
no scented candles... no... web-cam...
no *****...
if only i were a woman: what a ***** i would
have made...

the girl with red hair in - walk the moon's
video: shut up & dance...
or some mythological blonde slightly overweight
or just primed:
like Malwina Kopron... the bronze medal
in the hammer-throw...
looks like: she can be... sized up when she
at least performs at something...

but how does it look "otherwise"?
like the story from that horror-western
starring that actor from THE THING
or ESCAPE FROM L.A. Kurt Russell...
right... that guy...
the horror-western? bone tomahawk...
a tribe of the pseudo-Mohawks who
were treated with a
frederick ii hohenstaufen experiment:
that specific case of raising several
ethnicities in complete silence in
a nunnery... not speaking to them:
waiting for: what language came first...

the fist came first: nei zunge von die stille...
good on me!
i'll just applaud myself:
i don't: i haven't... i will not **** like
the current ******* displays the act...
how many times did i kiss a *******:
the cheek... the lips... the chin...
the forehead...
there: i'm Moses: here the parting of
the Red Sea...
(all metaphor, of course)...

- but none of this...
perhaps she felt like a pile of liver & kidneys
in my arms... and as i pressed her closer
with my arms she merged into my body
like some akin to having a tattoo getting inked...
or like smearing myself with... some...
fine... Brussels' pâté...

i'm still amazed that the Muslims give me
no concern for wisdom...
at least the Hebrews state: for the proselytes...
fear the deity...
the Muslims are too eager...
too assured... they never once mind
a shadow sideshow of: all?!    ah...
if only their deity could fulfill my anchoring:
of purpose...
i can't just scream: allah'u: akhbar with...
conviction: i don't have convincing women
in my vicinity... they're off on
their anti-racist escapade:
licking out **** holes of black dough-ds...

i don't want to **** like current
******* stages it...
perhaps like those exclusive parties
from 1970s Italy or the past year spent
in Amsterdam...
peluche moi... coussin toi...
why does it require others to have
to have to summon: **** *******?!

i squirm: i cringe... not these excesses...
fair enough playing up latex-theatre...
not this ugly... if i were Jack the Ripper
i wouldn't touch what starts to feel like:
the ugly wriggly: or...
sluggish slob of snails'-pacing...
i too want to be kissed... beside where
**** comes fathomed to the trickle of the "river"
of the aqueduct...

but i don't want to **** what necessarily needs to
live: to repeat itself...
i couldn't convert to Islam:
sooner Judaism...
since there's a phonetic junction from
the array of letters that's: gleaming:
it's most assuredly smiling back at me!

Islam gives me no comfort...
all?!           if only that final sigh... ah!
gave me some relief...
last time i heard... god: is alias of Allah
in the Maltese tongue...
plus the added complication...
if it were a true religion... why did a schism take
root s early... i'd be on the side
of the ****'ites...
fool to think the Persians would ever bow
before the deity of some camel jockeys
some Arabs...
the Persians wouldn't consecrate their future
on the affair of: simply sitting on some
dinosaur-sauce investment...
lucky you... some of us were simply sitting
on salt-mines...

then again... what's worth being eaten:
what's worth being cooked...
when there's not salt involved?!

- i don't want to **** like current
******* depicts "it": the act...
i rather look at some...
*** narrated by a David Attenborough...
which might include...
****... one... and about 7 *******...
cow on cow... Turkish alias of bull
to charge...

by the standards of what's availably: ***...
i don't want to engage with it...
why are sunny-runny-mommies
pushing their baby-pushchairs eyeing me
up?
i know when i see a freezing mirror
of... potency left with not alternatives:
see you later: granny...

only now... when my 20s seem
to be a... fog...
i only acknowledge three gender neutral
pronouns:
the two of the royal: one, we...
and the inanimate thing: tease: it...

oh i love this game... it plays better with
a quadratic: bilingual shizphrenic:
it truly does...
the politics on the side:
matches up to the high st. scenes
from Wanstead!
of all places!

it does... what one asks of it...
and it: also does what we summon of(f) it...
n'est ce pas?

i hardly **** like the current
dynamic of *** might want you to "allow"...
i'm tired: this tirade...
it also bothers me that it somehow
"rhymes"....
i **** like the antithesis of
modern *******...
who asked you to extend that tiresome
old trick of Lemmings...

die prior to anything prior...
by the sentence of tomorrow:
by then: i am: mine..
keep me towing the shadows
the wise, "wise" forgetting some primed:
prime... keep me towing shadows...
keep me to be but the fragrance
of.... best kept secret of: loiter...

if  only Nirvana aged like Pearl Jam aged...
what's was my "point": in Paris...
the zephyr.... of a ****** overdose...
slab by slab:

i don't want to **** like the current theatre
of ******* suggests.
burn their antics
under the slabs...
i want... a little bit of tenderness...
i want teddy: cushion tendering...
i want to be alive:
with the fatalism of facing up to death!
Antony Glaser Oct 2021
From the windowsill lets feast on pea shoots
and chives
marvel at the paperwhites,
tall and slender with a magnificent perfume
and grow nepeta for our cat?

Why don't we call our flat Jardin?
so we may be associated with nature?

Let our first holiday be to Giverney?
the ardor will unfold your artistic eyes!
I could talk of hollyhocks for ages
They are like relationships the firmament
lasts forever of tendering

— The End —