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Mokomboso Aug 2014
Dear Emma and the rest of the Sumatran orangutans of Chester zoo

To you, today was just routine. To you, in your bubble of a world, just another friendly face came to talk to you again. To me, this visit was bittersweet, in fact I would say 80% bitter. In seeing you, in meeting your gaze the guilt and shame ripped through me like like a tiger's claws. Ah yes, the tiger, 7 years have past since they had disappeared. People have all but forgotten already, there were plenty of tigers safely locked away right?
You probably don't know this and I doubt that you can read this, but I write this letter to you anyway, do what you want with the letter. Look at the photograph I have included of your Asian relatives that I took during my travels nearly 20 years ago. Or you could discard it, tear it, eat it I don't care as long as you receive this. For nearly 2 centuries your people have been captured and killed and we destroy everything you know. Our growing population pressurised us, we strove for urbanisation, painting a thin venire of chrome. Our colour of comfort, but we made it worse for ourselves as our most important livelihoods were replaced by dust villages and starvation. You were not immune to our pillage I'm afraid, from that first time Charles Darwin met Jenny our blessing became your curse. 3 weeks ago the last of your Asian brethren died. We saw your demise coming, some of us tried our hardest to halt or postpone it, setting up rescue stations and reserves. But the mindless machine wirred on, it wasn't until the last 90 miles of forest remained that the Indonesian bigwigs realised what they had done. In a blind panic they planted new tree seedlings, maybe somehow in the hopes that more bears, frogs, birds and orangutans would materialise from the roots? It was already too late but perseverance drove them to try everything. Everything. Nyaru Menteng offloaded their remaining 8 charges to Western facilities where artificial habitats had been created. The rest of them watched over and monitored the remaining native population, sending out vets and human doctors to keep them alive at all costs. I watched every second of it, followed the blogs and the news. It hurt so much I didn't think I could follow anymore, grief stricken with each "progression" but I was compelled to carry on. And finally, there was one.
A male, Gregory. He never grew his cheek flanges because he had no competition. No drive to find a mate. He knew as much as we did that he was alone. No one knew why they kept him there, all knowledge of reproductive biology was forgotten and replaced with superstitious magic. We kept him there, stayed by his side, fed him and doctored him until finally at the age of 39 he died of a heart attack. The news was like a punch in the guts for all of us. It was announced as breaking news all over the world, pongo pygmeus and pongo abeli officially extinct in the wild. A minority mentioned that many captive orangs still remained in zoos and sanctuaries and that we should not be so sad. But they were quickly shushed like an outspoken attendee of a funeral. Those remaining would not last forever either once inbreeding became too rife, plus, their artificial living arrangements meant these fat, shut in orangutans would live a second rate life, plagued by the same mental ailments that the rest of us urbanites suffer. They would never know the joy, fulfilment, danger, even, of the wild. And these zoo populations were like ghosts or holograms of what used to remain. 
I was afraid for the last 3 months to visit you again, incase you knew and you would turn your head away from me in disapproval. Your disgusted expression would render me speechless. But logic told me this would not happen and I had finally plucked up the courage to see you again. As always you brachiated towards the window and pressed your face against it while I talked to you and pretended to stroke your hair. You were oblivious and ignorant, I envied you. I cried and you wondered why, other humans understood and some looked forlorn themselves. I could see you and your granddaughter looking in concern at our apparent sadness. I tried to look brave for you, I played with your granddaughter as normal. 
Though I had no direct influence over your demise I feel just as remorseful as the loggers did, I was careless in my choices. Living such a sheltered city life and not realising until my second decade the true dangers facing you. I chose too late to be mindful of my grocery shopping, avoided palm oil, never watched films with trained animals in. My few actions made no difference, until very recent years I was still the minority. Don't mistake me for someone self pitying, I don't want you to think I was thinking only of my own feelings and being a martyr. If anything self loathing, I've always been a misanthropist but as of late I've abandoned my species altogether. Apart from my immediate family of course. You were not the only ones that went, Asian elephants too disappeared around the same time. Mackaws of South America have almost completely been depleted. The once hopeful 200,000 chimpanzees whittled down to the last 5000. Bonobos gone already from the wild since the last 100 were taken to sanctuaries and zoos to "rebuild the population" but there were very little captive bonobos to begin in. Gorillas: 1000 (only mountain gorillas are left, ironic isn't it? We focused so much on that one race we neglected the rest). African elephants: 4. Giraffes: 100. The list goes on. And we too, **** sapiens, the most numerous of large mammals are feeling the pinch. It started with Japan over 20 years ago, people retreated more and more into the office, no longer caring to build families and the population declined. The rest followed suite, bursting at the seems we could no longer steal more land for ourselves, more destruction meant less air to breath, less food. People have started to fight their reproductive urges, like the Japanese, retreating into a single life in a cubicle. Sitting by the screen. We are committing a species wide, slow suicide. I consider this a blessing, the rest of nature can finally get even. Some are scared and upset, others relieved. The divide is equal.
I have come to visit you every 3 weeks since I was 21, I am 40 now and in that seemingly short space of time I have seen the world change dramatically while you sit and climb and think your own isolated thoughts in your little bubble. 
Please accept my sincerest apologies. No matter if you read this or not. I am so so so sorry. On behalf of myself, on behalf of my species. Please forgive us.
Yours Sincerely,
Sophie
You know how I said I wasn't doing any more primate ones? I lied.
Not a poem but... this a hypothetical future (19 years from now) and the orangutans have become extinct in the wild.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
i return to these words that are barely
an architectural promise of a house as a mere:
rummaging squatter,
that this will eventually become
scrutinised by eyes beside my own...
well it's not like i rhyme-on-the-cheap...
i've been trying to watch some penny
dreadful episodes:
what would woman do without
the devil; i suppose man tangled with
god is nothing but an obnoxious brat...
the devil of emotions
and their plethora; this belittling god
fiddling with stones and creases
in york oak stand-alones...
                          then it came like
an itch: poached-taming-(of a)-toe...
just a tatty... a humble:
i am pretty sure i saw the letters
prefix a toad somewhere: po-ta-to(e):
ah... there! poached tame toad...
a sputniks for a brainz...
in penny dreadful: john claire
the name of victor frankenstein's monster:
oh dear old god: this continued
exasperation with poetry:
one must live a most unsatisfying life
to cross the rubricon of
old testament anemia:
            i think i admired wordsworth too... -

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

playing house with robert duncan -
especially now:
when the house is in complete disarray
and what was once cluttered:
is more an upheaval...

- i used to write while listening
to music - no i write for the scraps
of this yawning silence
and all of its blisters of interludes -
yes:
i want a noun to turn
into a verb: not a mere:
metaphorical "transgression"
of how it's impossible
for the wine to be blood
for the bread to be flesh:
this poetry of: cannibalism?

i pry open the adventures with
cats:
i own two... my house doesn't
give off whiffs of ****:
god... i know the horrid stench
of either **** or ****
that isn't my own:
solipsistic in that...
       it's not a field of strawberries...

it's acidic to the nose:
it's beyond anything i'd ever
want to ingest: and i have once...
giggled... ******* into a glass
of wine to: punk up
the sacrament -
then again: i also ****** on my leg
when standing in a shower
cubicle and i attest to disagree:
there's something...

unconsciously prodding:
the advent prior to... learning to stress
that bladder into a muscle
and keeping it in...
that i can counter the will
of keeping it in...
that i can unwill the sensible
lesson and: it's like... anything
aqua focused -
a shower is a baptism
jumping into a pool is a rebirth:
or an invitation to
beside oneself with: start-agains...

it's very much unlike
drinking... whether it's a coffee
or a whiskey sour...
the ingestion of liquid is less
starry-eyed gluttonous freeze...
having ate nothing but hot air
or...
the whole body needs immersion
or... the ******* on a leg
prior to: then taking a shower...
hell... even mixing one's own
**** with a glass of the goat's blood
is also... "something" / something-...

to pray for sensible things is
to mumble or there's that devil's
dozen of oysters:
12 by feeding:
the 13th in the form of a ****
by nibble lick and spoon
of the tongue and lips' acrobatics...

i'm playing house with robert duncan...
i'm not a householder -
a term as ancient as: librarian
by my account -
              but the house is in disarray:
the kitchen is being subjected
to a 24 / 7  dehumidifier drone
army... i can hear the machines
working their insomnia down
below:
i have custard feet and i feel like
sinking: not falling...
when i stand to these machines:
hellish-jelly-feet...
   when i turn on the stove
and make an omelette -

     the living room (civil room,
a joke from my youth i conjured -
a room where we learn civility)...
is also a makeshift kitchen...
i'm currently playing chess from time
to time with: the memory of:
where did i put these spices...
this spoon this plate...
       it's not chess but the game is
irreversible -
it's also time consuming and it's
not that i don't keep attention to detail:
but i'm gladly not thinking forward...
i'm strategizing in reverse -

but such is the game...
robert duncan - poet and householder -
a chance reading of a moth:
but this is what makes all of this
so enjoyable: it's a niche a cul de sac
of decisions: an expansion
of time that doesn't make it to the annals
of: better to... burn... than to fade away...
either make it in your youth:
nice and proper...
or... what's the game then:
last man standing?
the list of contemporaries
drawing thin, short?

playing house... that i had a youth
i remembered when i'd too play with dolls with
my neighbour's daughter -
clearly ken and barbie had a problem
with their missing parts -
eunuchs of the sun's blind spots...
unlike when we were allowed
to take a bath together as:
not siblings but as strange dialectical opposites
to this duality: that wouldn't encompass
my somehow yet to be owned:
me good & evil...

    me tamer - me: 19th century's frankenstein:
dr. Jekyll etc.
     a rule for life: apparently...
is to pet a cat when you see one
in the street...
it's not exactly an easy task...
i guess first a show of mutual
assurance (and respect) -
this black tubby - with a bandana
for where a leash-leftover could
have been (collar) -
he starts walking anti-clockwise...
i turn aside and start walking
clockwise to pass him...
then we shuffle our approach...
like... i would always want
to pass a pigeon strutting
senseless on the pavement
with enough space so that it doesn't
have to find it necessary to fly off...

luckily for me i managed to "pet"
a stranger's cat...
my luck that it was black
but then again it was that sort
of hour
that's always a presumption
of a lazy gotten afternoon...
rule of life: pet a cat on a street...
it's not exactly a ******* given:
an "oops"... done that... tick...
self-help guru sold this trick...
                    
a selfie contra the days...
when the camera was used and...
other people would take pictures
of you... or of you and:
when there was an "us" - together...
shorthand of the limbos of life -
magnum opus words
constipated into this: makeshift
of a hopeful paragraph...

no, this couldn't be a simple meditation:
confined to...
robert duncan's household -
and my predicament of... playing memory
chess: well it's not exactly clutter:
the kitchen cannot be used
so there's a makeshift refugee camp
version of it in the living room yadda yadda...

which is a commentary on...
my distrust for the h'american literary movement
of the 20th century teasing an abandonment
with the "old ways"...
buddhism, odd... mostly...
   fair enough:
              ezra pound abhorred the taoists...
my one lesson from tao...
the best way you can aid the world:
is for the world to forget you
and for you to forget the world...
which is probably a plagiarism
of epicurus or vice versa...

              i can't imagine the demands
of pop philosophy:
pop culture on the other hand is much
easier to stomach: it's even enjoyable -
but the pop philosophy of nihilism -
which is: a pop philosophy...
it's not even required reading -
unless: you're rereading your own?
thrown into the river -
i am becoming a being of more becoming...
change is the only perpetual: blah...
if it's not my own rummagings it's
probably someone else's:
which has probably become diluted /
filtered down and is a cubism's monstrosity...

books sell for two reasons:
(1) they are genuinely read by a zeitgeist youth...
which invokes social pressures of
the collected experience - in ref. to:
something that can be talked about...
(2) they are read by "propagandists" -
by a small majority who pressure others to...
but the pressure only lasts for
airs - for a mere ownership of a book
should one be met with a scrutiny of
not owning it - reading it is beside the point...

and here in the land of "leftovers":
the middle of the road the people:
who of their own volition write and read...
that i was never ****** into
a cult of stephen king...
i was born too late to be:
but i was: ****** into a postmortem
oeuvre deity picking almost
anything by william burroughs...
i: reader: dear reader: clicked...

- i can't objectify this house -
i am subject to it: coerced by it...
made by bias upon bias
whether there's clutter or there isn't...
whether the kitchen is functionable
or not: that some people have
a kitchen but prefer to eat out:
to be seen: eating...
             i check the gradations of
punctuations and i know: still...
i will not recite these words not
out of gestures for bombast -
or pride - but for some sinister
urge to not abuse this sacred silence:
******* taught man
to manouvre... manouvre...
manouvre... maneouvre...
        man-oeuvre...
                   drop the hyphen boyo:
manoeuvre... wow!
"too many" consonants
in ****** words... how about a
magic trick? how many *******
vowels are in: man-oovr'eh?
phonetics king of the anti-spelling:
but then...
the synonym sounds
with aliases...
towing two different meanings:
too hot to count two
          ooh ooze - zizzez...
              zyzzes...
                     i can bring this anglo-slack-son
to kneel but only for a while:
before the architectural scholarly-
  takes over and the phonetic becomes:
lost, crude... based feral...

- a robert duncan is not a...
it's not mediocre is not necessary to be:
gee-whizz of frank o'hara's
cosmopolitan...
it's flesh of the h'american tongue
it's: sensibly accurate to provide
the best outlet:
for those of us still born in that
century - of what remained of us:
or rather of what remained
of the innocence of the 1990s...

that i am not nostalgic is: no proof...
that i write hardly any word of fiction:
one spaniard, once... commented
on my shoes:
i think he played a miniature version
of a flute: it looked like a reed...
the "spanish" superstition
concerning: a comment on one's shoes...
he admired... my shoes...
what's that saying:
about shoes: to best walk in one's
own before wishing to fill the shoes
of others...
a verb as simple as: there's no
presence of "run": when coupled
to: i am running: i ran...
it's raining...
i run i ruin fun... concentrated
"rhyming": literally linear: no staccato...

******* me over "jenga"...
this microcosm of sounds -
yet to draw deep leverage from
a meaning: it comes back as a mere
sound: worse a... mimic -
an aeon of only hearing
the heaving of a crow's crackling
croak... like a breaking of a tongue:
or... the lost trill of the R in
either fwench or: english...

exemplified R: with a diacritical mark
to make emphasis of the trill...
i will not heed to market emphasis...
(Ꝛ if you might ask:
there's no leg to stand on...
the "R" falls into a turddle -
a tumble: a trill)...

ꝛ - a missing hammer: it would seem...
a sickle my dreading of apparents...

yes... this democratic oath of poets..
well: we're not going to tend to
the republic of the wizened goats
ex athens... are we?
the democratic oath of poets -
unlike the hippocratic loaf...
            which is a spectacular failure
since i have seen what
little ambitions can do:
when... the boat is not being
rocked: yet someone is still willing
to throw someone... overboard...
now that the boat is rocking:
i see nooses instead of paddles...
the seas are still rife with calm...

clamour for the subjective experince...
none of this: hammer to a nail
sort of "magic" that leaves
one... sensibly "ostententious":

a semi-decent poem contra:
a good night's sleep...
always the latter...
   but unlike today:
6am wake... giving blood for
scrutiny - subsequently...
a broad need for 4 hours in...
a makeshift wilderness...
from Hainault Forest
to Havering County Park...

                        i would clearly have
to start all over again...
should i mind reading back into Tironian
notes and what i had expected to find...
it will suffice to mind...
the characters of empress wu...

         國 (guo)

beginning: coming back to bite some back
from a beijing pork belly:
where you'd first have to make caramel
from the sugar dissolved in oil:
before all the wine would care to glisten...

             𤯔 (ren)...

                              in reverse:
ren-guo - people (of) nation...
                      walking past this field:
impromptu: please keep off of field...
that's what i read...
      this was exclusive -
there was not need to denote further...

and this funny oddity:
saying good-morning or a hello
in an environment that's beside...
walking down the street with a stable
hound of anonymity surrounding
crisp grey blockage of: the amass!
yet people are so expecting
a common courtesy to brief you
on a morning: good...
is it? incessantly so! apparently!
switch them to the torment of the cements
and the back-to-basics apathetic crew
is on the counter...
ghost faces...
  but push them far enough to be alone
and into nature:
they pass a stranger and apparently
demand a prompt: hello!

i go into a depth of nature like
i have *** with prostitutes in a brothel:
i want to have as little to do with talking
that i'd loan: smothering someone
to shut up...
i came for the crows the knee-high-hallubaloos
of nonsense that...
i will extract myself to break
fasting to give blood by foraging
some blackberries...

i still prefer the lesser democratic voices...
it's not that robert duncan was going
to be a stand-alone show akin
to gibsberg...
but... my house is currently in disarray...
i'm playing chess by having
a makeshift kitchen in my living room...
i don't even know where the spices
are! but i'll manage
to bake a **** fine moroccan kobhz!

- this little but current focus for a genetic
"protection": half of me,
then a quarter, an eight, a sixteenth,
a 32-and-a-third... jump toward
64... 128... and... from all these fractions:
half and half:
beauty is no longer viable:
i imagine love as being a prized
bull kept for nothing except
for ******* the gene pool silly...

that's "love" from a darwin from
a materialism: breeding racing horses
or... both the submissive
and the contentious workers -
pay up! but i am not looking
for the generic beauty of
the plateau of the women
employed as surrogates
in this darwinistic harem...
            
isn't it obvious? it would have been
better have be allowed ourselves
to be dead: aborted...
but then: critter load: make-up...
i actually offend my own existence
by affording these dorian gray
parades to take hope in puruing
norms...
i like the scaps i like the wounds
i even like nibbling on the shellfish!

****-****** literature is my achilles
heel...
better a heel than trodding along
with faking a ******* knee...
robert duncan... jack spicer...
i like reading eyes by (metaphorically)
licking up the ****...
and it's not like i might give good head...
i employ a growth of
***** hair to convert my chin
to a niqab like i might: perhaps blink...

then again: face-masks and fashion?
is... this... somehow...
a "thing"?
            well it must be new:
it's nothing from the sort
of the elders i might care to remember...
i walked the scenic route...
blackberries and horseshit...
everything is baking in a procrastination
of: tickle the rats' nibbling...
scrutiny of the lesser of the food
hierarchy: omnivore that i am...

yes... that i like petting criters
that find themselves adamant in their
superiority...
but who have yet to see me:
teasing myself with
a: what if...
                 hours match-up to
not keeping count: there's a fog of them
that goes way back to...
out of the womb... then abandoned
by the scholastic detail that
allows them to float: limbless...
and then return to earth: degenerate...
and less than amiable...

        douglas murray is probably
a hot topic... i too sometimes bewilder myself:
it would have been best to have
allowed the pendulum to swing both ways...
but he (ol' doug) speaks very well:
his writing is... beside the generic...
salt of grain: akin to my own...
for a cubic's worth of water...

    i don't want this tongue to be somewhow
exasperated with concerns for this / an "art"...
or that it can belittle a scientific bone...
thrown to the politics and red herring marches...
spins the doctor: no plates...
forever the new lies
kept in the same old... rhetorical: quirk-and-quickness
of the quilled-tongue...
a knock-knock stone cold: generic...
must: mediocre...
tired of living tongue of poetry
that has to become tired:
truth has to tire so easily...
so that politics: and the freshness
of lies and the no-niche-audience-allowance
can cast their:
"vote"... their... archaic... illiterate "X"..

i will not poetry for rhymes for
exasperations - fooled i: to you: to pursue
that paragraph of fiction - either...
but as freely as this will not:
become an exercise in myopic-claustrophobia...
so it will not rhyme:
perhaps: to advent a coming of my
prescribed punctuation:
but more: your own, your "post-nationalistic"
canadian:
something the people of India or
China will not share with you...
because:
they are still of the mindset: China...
India... hell! Russian is towing suitor!
individualism collapses nations...
whether with a homogeneity of ethnicity
or the heterogeneity of liberalism...

           a wonderful collage of stories...
from the 20th century:
agony aunt israel bewildering
to either confront or defend...
            2000 years have somehow passed
and: europe is no new: "anew"...
it's the same old bland palette
of readily ethno-primed availability
of spices...
hurrah for thyme! and rosemary! mint!

from some mythical above
to this drudge of the pressurised castor -
there was something about robert duncan
that might always have:
made me... diverge from...
it could have been expected...
stash a tonne of bricks by day...
weave in an escapism posit of cinema
come sabbath...
now... escapism into... where?!
critical reignition of marxism:
that sort of marxism my parents escaped
from from under the old soviet
yolk of the satellite state
of poland: thank **** i too am an
immigrant:
but i see no repatriation politics
either...
               go back to a state of
the littlest of all bald envy necropolis
Impoleons?

            no among my native people:
among the natives of these isles...
a thespian: knee deep in ****...
           faking best predicts a survival
rate of this uncoiling...
it's a nation full of: self-
pre-determina...
                  automated prefixation that
can never allow itself to:
make sensible coagulations
of the odd sociable pint...

this atom world this atom's worth
of man...
best life lived as designated
to a harem...
  my and my leftover "blues"...
this world of god and the adventures
of...
no longer available...
thus this one "reality" presented:
playing by man's rules
for the purpose of man's eventual:
transcendence...
a dwarf riding a hunchback
        toward a goal that's a talking donkey!

what's otherwise best?
this has to be an: exercise in futility -
that it had to come from somewhere like:
borrowed prior -
that it could only be borrowed prior:
this tongue had to be inherited:
it could never be acquired -
that a native speaker is...
of a higher status to a bilingual -
because the earth breathes rights...

i forget: i am not equipped
with the desirable physiognomy -
problem being:
when i might find black males
attractive like i might lions: distinct...
i have this ****** on my brain
that says to me...
  well... well...
     i'm not gay.. but i'm certainly
not heterosexual:
even if Flaubert might ask the question:
blondes, brunetters - afro-beauties:
ivory envy?
  what can i do? fest on a hard-on
chemical "oops" / short-cut?
i can't possibly have... a beijing fetish?
a mongol fetish?
i can't? there's only one variation
of interracial mixing...
i guess... so...

     it would be so much easier
to just be gay and leave this world
with a ******* massive **** salvo
of: not coming back!
               to **** a black girl:
not enough...
to not **** a black girl: doubly knot...
******* a lemon while
staring at the sun:
the sado-masochism of
all the post-colonial empires...
and me: whittle ol' resurrected
******... or searching:
the elder prus - the new estonians...
some little european *******...
i imagine...
going to Kenya and running
for parliament:
to concern myself for the voices
of the: minority!

it's... fiddling with the already
prescribed narrative:
trying to make a lee evans jokes
out of it... but...
it's not ******* happening woe-o'-sunshine...
is it?!
it's not like i'm strapped
to a northern monkey
reservation... while still retaining
my: immigrant southern fairy:
commuter hell "debate":
this is not devonshire...
this is not bristol: i'd love to scoop
up a life of a decade's worth
up in Bangor... but it's not even that...
pay by way to:
a collective identity crisis of:
zee vest...
            
if it's anger: perhaps...
it's more a seance in glorifying confusion:
it was once perhaps a little
bit... naive...
but then... who's naive enough
to repeat two-folds of yesterday
within the confines of a day:
to- / to- are not future even
if subjected to incremental changes...
fx/dx changes that might
spawn alternate realities...

        the breaking of a donkey's dollars
worth: i do fishing in the indian sea...
with some... somali pirates...
it's not like i'll ever wake up from
this guilt... the guilt that might
riddle a people that inherited...
i inherited exile from my fathers...
i inherited: no...
the ****** aristocracy didn't tend
to their garden... there was no Eton...
no rugby no football...
there was only a partitioning...
to look toward the past is
an agony that i wish to only hide
in the english countryside...
after all, i thought: who would't want...
make a feast of conquest of this land...
but in a way that was norman:
that the anglo-saxon debauchery could
be... delianted
and brought to a celtic-esque heel...
with a dash of neo-paganism:
a york-up sort o' pie...

without disturbing this dilligent
people of: a most fervent... attention to detail...
it's an island... it's devoid
of any continental squabble...
no mongol ever... no ottoman ever...
it break my heart...
it reminds me: although it shouldn't
remind me...
the aristocratic class (they deem themselves
as much, so why deny them?)
of this country are like the ******
aristocracy
of the three partition "era"...
as napoleon was celebrated "elsewhere"...
with the resurrection
of the duchy of warsaw...
and... england made a beef from
a wellington...
and how the confederacy of germans
repaid the english during the first:
thirst for war...

                   a shogun's pride:
no one would invade japan:
given the persistence of pressure
from a civility of: glamour creases...
it's still the ******* canon rolling
the pawns and pins...

i have but this little interlude in time
to entertain: a history i have learned...
beside citing the obvious apple
hanging on a tree...
who? the burning vietnamese monk?
that's who i am going to... erase...
2000 (circa) years of history with?
this is how i play: conquistador-catch-up?!
this is my whittle muhammad
stage-fright?!

these new surgical masks are
not imitations of the niqab...
the arabs are not drying up their dinosaur
marrow reserves and are not
scouting for willing sodomite freshers
to their gargantuan wealth-soiling
of "morals"?
no? this is all... a pauper's conspiracy
theory... god!
i try to imagine the conspiracy
theory of kings!
it must invite a realisation of
a god or gods...
and at least a quarter of an abstaining
pademomium!

the poets and the sceptics
living under: the... gates are open...
a republic under "scrutiny"...
the philosophers and the
geocentrists - have allowed
for nothing more... than this...
thespian "bureucracy" of
shadow "fiddling"... tail with now:
tail best quite...

attention spanning the glorifications
of non-replica, generic
Solomon comes to the furore
front: then a mismatch
when the brain: swiss cheese project:
is treated at the Avignon
pontiff...
the harem and debauchery shifts
focus...
there's that "we're" and...
dumb-lasso-dumber than you'd
pay the libido of a camel with: for...

i have to always imagine myself
petting cats... or dogs...
to have to dissociate myself from having
perfect: the needs for either halal or
kosher demands of leather...
i best prefer the pipsqueak of
a meow to... an actual oink
in the litany of cogs and perhaps:
clogging up the machinery of
"jurisprudence"... as some Jain might...

borrow from... export very little to...
come the omnivorse of the east
and all succumb to:
boy-scout avenues of:
yes ss'ir...
most loathsome ss'ir...
                     i have to interrogate
the dead man as i am:
the best example of a cul de sac
of dreams: the...
pedestrian could mind not thinking:
imagine: imagine the corpus deity
of: unimaginable thought...
or one which has
an alias: unthinkable imagiation...

memory freelance architect prior
to noon...
is somewhat justified with...
a boredom of a cat come
5pm... but by then...
no cat is ever really bored...
and i have no need to concern
myself with dogs... or leashes...
or desires to: address a
workability of legs...
          to: give scrutiny when all
other examples are wheelchair bound...

he held a piece of paper:
between his hands... like my shadow might:
hold a butterfly...
exasperation:
that philosophers of ancient greece
said: poets begone!
no wonder this...
currency... of wanting to imitate
a petting of animals...
and... this thespian autocracy
that no elders could abide by...
it can still be excused:
the role of actors:
the role of shadow-thieves...

it can still be salvaged...
some of us are still the same rummaging:
in ruinous...
wordsmiths or... best...
plumbers... not some aspirtation
beckons for youth...
it must rhyme:
it must come down to: 2 + 2 = 4
sort of: flimsy poetics...

i'd must prefer to be a
homosexual plumber these days
that my very own mediocre leftover...
thank god i do not encompass
a courtship of a woman:
then imagine!
what did i do with my time:
that i do so much!
having made... so little money!
ghosts can't spend: ****!
i did with my time that
would not allow woman
to turn time into money!
thus i turned money into monkey's
play on elephant and
called tha pennies: p'p'eh-nuts!

  the old man dies:
the youth of man was never
supposed to be born;

god... this was supposed
to be profound?
with this idiosyncratic lost...
spontaneity of punctuation...
i take this reading as
a leverage for making
image: of an anchor dropped:
that would sink the ship.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
feminism is pretty much a failure like communism... the latter wanted the workers of the world to unite... but they didn't... each working man took too much pride in his earnings an expenses to the extent that he sought no idealistic solution... the self-preservation element... feminism is very much alike to communism... it comes from the same source, the bourgeoisie caste... which explains why prostitutes in France defended their pundits... they basically said: ******* little Freudian undecided *****, with us it's 100 ***** a week... with you it's only about 100,000 interpretations of a **** in clingfilm at a Hollywood premier: your choice, either 100 *****, or a ***** and the cinema of the would-be agonies or a man resembling Richard Burton, sober, and being a Swedish patent for a house-husband, and a closet poet, and a chef, and a, and a, and a... can i suggest a kaleidoscope as the safest investment?

imagine sitting in a brothel waiting room,
there's about 10 of them -
and they're looking at your like you're
their father and they're about to skin you alive
like piranhas with their eyes -
it can be quiet intimidating,
what for £10 entry fee and £110 and hour
baggage of silenced ******* -
you're basically ******* Ferraris and Lamborghinis -
but it's worth the while,
you genitalia turn into a pavlova before
it's baked mush - your testicles are soaring
angels with the ticklish bits added
to what feels like a shiver of goosebumps -
you sit there for a while, it's the hardest time
to be making choices, you ask for a cup of water
(i always did),
you get it, Keith Lemon is doing his talk show,
the older prostitutes are un-amused -
they're the ones who'd skin you alive,
pick one and she turns into a sadistic
vacuum cleaner in the realm of oration -
you think these terrorists and so-called
martyrs would have the ***** keep up with an ante-chamber
like that? these women can sniff out perversity
like they might sniff out a woodlice in damp wood...
or the spiders that complete their weaving
and never take the central role on the stage,
but ****** their spiderweb before scuttling
into the frenzy of making a body of other insects
into immobile dough to **** into on the sidelines,
they're the out-of-body experiencing their architecture,
there's no ego in them, not central nervous system...
i always thought that spiders compensated the
cartesian problem with their spiderwebs -
they extended their nerves through their *****
into an architectural project of nerve endings / extensions...
see, that's the thing about poetry: pure narration...
no technique, no nothing, no need to create a
third person or first person ******, no characters
to study and incubate into a thrill ending: poetry
is the purest form of narration, easily a ricochet
into digression that in fiction would only mean another
grey matter character to involve in the plot.
. and - (dot and hyphen, as suggested by Nietzsche,
is steaming along forgetting the semi-colon).
- i swear insects are the perfect telescopes into
alien life... on that micro level you get to
understand the many hazards of differentiated life
elsewhere... it's the microbes you need to
mind as the real hazards and blizzards -
but this one time i broke the brothel rule
denoted as choice: i didn't make one.
i asked for one to make a choice for me...
one talkative gall said i shouldn't be asking...
so i replied: well aren't you the talkative one...
you'll do. told you a butcher's supermarket -
i turned myself into a piece of meat -
the ***** butcher said: he'll have to do,
he prompted me to talk the heretical *credo
...
the outer-body experience, prostitutes are the experiment,
i asked of the 10 present and my penguin **** solo
shrivelled up newspaper of ******* to chose -
and she did... it's funny giving choice to someone
who you payed to choose from... these Muslim martyrs
will find it had to keep it level headed like Solomon -
these boys will really struggle to reap their rewards...
they just blow up ten people but never sat in
the company of ten prostitutes...
ten blown up, in the company of ten prostitutes...
you really don't know what it's like trying out
whether you could stomach a harem, let alone keep
one like a walrus...
ever stole a kiss from a ******* who's saintliness
involved never giving one but merely ******* more ****?
hmm? oh i can get pornographic after all...
it's a joyride troupe of force in thinking the joys i
nourished in such places... although i have to admit
Amsterdam would never feed such poems...
it's just common place everything's worth clapping
(or too much clapping by the serfs at a Bolshoi ballet),
you need the thrill of something being illegal...
in the case of itemising England it's the brothel owners
that are the culprits, not the prostitutes, nor the pundits,
which is why i asked to perform oral *** once in a while
for the extra undocumented 10 quid... that didn't fall
into the hands of the madame... so it ends...
feminism alright for you, in that ivory tower of yours,
unscathed, belligerent and with sulphuric toxic gas
to **** out from your mouth as the proper argument?
the heart not steady? i see... i guess you have a hard fight
ahead of you... young men go to prostitutes undiscriminating
their age and **** as **** would do too,
but young women don't go to prostitutes,
professional women do... and they'd always probably
**** some young dude... see the difference?
young men go to prostitutes... young women have all
the eye-to-**** candy they can have... older women order
**** and limousine, a night out, a date, a dinner...
young men are like: broken pipe, need a plumber,
stillson pipe wrench! and where's that ******* spanner?!
and contrary to popular beliefs, cats have
a second weak spot other than petting their heads
and playing with their whiskers... the point
between the evolve coccyx and the spine...
they really love a rub when the coccyx turns into
a tail... it's almost like a reverse test for prostate cancer...
every cat sitting down when rubbed in that area
will do a marching army band salute of raising its
hind in anticipation of a rainbow -
and yes, urinating with ******* is pretty much as
exciting as a woman massaging her ******* with
a shower head with pulverising pressurised water.
Connor Reid Mar 2014
False memories and track marks pave your arms
Sudden revolt of youth pressurised to fail
Painkillers doubled and stacked for a head to slumber
Soft heads and dead leg spasm attack pillow piddles in *****
Fictitious tesla coil blue breath mortifys mortality
And your goggles won't fog out the underwater current miscellaneous
Digital tectonic pushing ideas you brainstorm
Shadowed reluctance to consume the musk of infrared roses
This romance is one that was jealous of itself
Pre-divorced in its own certainty on incompatibility
Basin top full too top heavy to predict precarious
Living in a shaded sense of erased memory lapses continuing truth
Toward magnificent still life categorised by perdition
Forward thinking ruby gold phong shaded hatred quantum conversate Unthinkable
Nebula of gas
Face first head in hands
Euthanasia between my thighs crush my head
Choked neck
Throat
Strangle me and give me breath
I roll and the conductor pulls apart my mouth
Diseased by euphoria lips separate and teeth show
Pupils land home and iris jumps ship
Perfume gum dry bitter butterfly kiss
Head held back in place tongue falls back into the razor-front of the mouth
Caution held simultaneous irrelevant body load carries my smile
Jump knee deep into the silence of my own lungs
It's been a while
I breath vindictively in time with the respiration of the country
Somewhere out in the hexagon sun I burn candles and whisp
Hold in smoke
Die
Twitch forward in palliative peace motionless and still
Cuspids and lochs
Spread across the grass the harmony touches yours and mine
A hole and whole dream
Conscious and dead
Content
Voices rattle in unified mono-chromidity
Sadness
Carrion
2011
I don’t want a sunbeam
give that to Jesus.
Don’t bother me with purity,
don’t let me make shadows
out of you.

I don’t want a butterfly
batting along on the wind.
The wind of my word,
on the gale of my opinion.

I don’t want a pearl,
something that needs to be made.
Made from gritty sand, held close,
and pressurised round and edgeless.

I don’t want a rose
called what I want it to be,
cut where I want it to be,
on my lapel, for when it makes me look best.

I don’t want conversations like schizophrenia.
If you want me to be able to explain you in four lines,
I don’t want you.
Sometimes when dating, girls seem to be reluctant to have their own opinions, as if you may like them less if they are counter to yours.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
the man drops the package off at 6 a.m.,
he is a man, in that Harold Norse sense
of the word - he's a grafter -
he's been riding from Poland for god knows
how many hours, he was supposed to
be here for 3 a.m., but i'm not complaining,
i pay him £20 for delivering the package,
ask him whether he had a good journey,
then i wish him a good day, no reply -
i put the package in a room, unzip it and
take one of the copies out... strange...
just like Augustus commenting on the death
of Marcus Aurelius: the soup is hot, the soup
is cold... a piece of writing is printed, published,
a piece of writing isn't printed, nor published...
it's in my hand now, slim, literature's anorexia:
poetry... i can stash it in the library and
think about it for a while: no goosebumps,
no thrill... just this strange: apathy -
the sinking feeling of being at the bottom of a dung-heap
of civilisation - i'm sure it was different before
the internet: writers huddling in tiny rooms,
writing with a big dream to escape -
rejection after rejection, until the magpie was spotted
to actually be a peacock - the 21st century is
a lot different, it would appear,
after 9 years at it, there's no sense of relief -
it's all about the pixel glitz, the pixel paparazzi,
the pixel red carpet - the Beelzebub looking back
at you - an abhorring feeling in all honesty,
the quick-fix medical procedure - all done in an
instant: and the snobs out there who still
preserve the insistence: paper is authority -
paper is respect... on paper means authenticity -
paper solves everything... sure, most assuredly
a trip to the toilet.
i just don't recognise the person on these pages,
so many things have changed since then,
so much was given to the dwarfs to mine that
any man or elf in me, is... well... not even there
on the pages, or here, ploughing along.
back in the 20th century, someone must have thought:
books, a great commodity, keep them secret,
keep them safe... let's wait for the next buds of
capitalism's May - how the dynamic has changed,
and this is even with a critical introduction
by someone who obtained a PhD in literature -
a picture of me on the back cover:
yeah, because that will really sifter through the
demographic with more observable definitions
of who's to read what -
but it's just odd... i think of all that effort
put into printing a piece of work...
and i think of Salman Rushdie and the satanic
verses being burned...
                   i think of the wartburg säuberung:
and i find myself sitting alone like king
solomon - none the wiser,
                             all is vanity - and i know nothing -
because i was never taught to experience
something like this the second time:
                    the only thing to understand
   is the self that cannot comprehend experiences
given unto it... all that jack-in-the-noumenon stuff;
but i look at this little thing, these 115 pages
and wonder: so much? for so little?
   how fortunate, or unfortunate to be given this
spider-web... it always feels so glitzy,
   so: at the right place at the right time...
then the physical artefact appears...
                    and you go back to the syringe of
open access, and say: pressurised by the ever
changing circumstances...
                back in the 20th century a writer
was told to shut herself away in a tiny rented room
and become a clarice lispector: become
a hurricane simply by writing about good
first lines: the writer's aesthetic, typewriter or
ink blotches - or the blank page... and later
become sensational, hurricane-like -
i feel no nostalgia toward the 20th century in this
regard... i'm immersed in what has only
begun in 2006 - circa or no circa, whatever -
we can't rent rooms like that - or do things like
that, given the 24/7 society structure -
and i mean that in the least ****** sense
when i say, as Harold Norse did, without
a backdrop of homosexuality (even though
he was working out with arnold "the governor"
schwarzenegger at some point in his
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel) -
a cartoon fix: the book of life -
                        the man, and the man -
ah what fanciful trivialities that bind one man
to goofy ideals, and another to duties -
and only when an artist becomes successful does
he really become a *****... cocktail and *******
parties and Sid Vicious cameos -
all the Renaissance artists had it easy,
with the Pope their patron, they could be as
****** with their contempt for earthly privileges
and could get away with it -
              the days of a homosexual saying:
i am not a man...
                               the 20th century liberation
paved a way for the obsolete purpose of
the heterosexual man... apparently we have
grown a potential to grow ***** in
the laboratory - we are, quiet literally disposable
in that epitome of the Wrath of Eden:
just repeat after me: deluded by the mere
notion of reincarnation, deluded by the mere
notion of reincarnation - as constantly striving
to be the unique peacock among a *****-count
of peacocks without distinction on the
plateau of the living self-bound: you uniqueness
expired with the process of insemination:
you were once the one and only wriggly
                world record holder at the 100 metre sprint...
a natural dictator it would seem,
but apparently, the ones that didn't make it
now respond: me too! me too! me too!
or something like that.
                                           either through the eye
of the microscope or the telescope - cul de sacs either
end... because of the glue...
                       call it god, call it love, call it nothing...
it's still some sort of glue... sniff it, play with it,
             avoid it... it's still glue...
gravity is a glue, but it's not the glue that keeps
muscles bound to bone - yes, tendons are
the happy ******* children of that ******* union
of all things apparent...
   but in the sense that i keep repeating:
it's easily done - falling for the fake pixel glitz -
however official or unofficial it all is -
with or without advertisement on the pages -
it's the only junk that's out there these days...
if i were more of a man, i'd be chasing
the dream of a steady income, family and obligations...
can we call being a man a fool's errand?
i like to think of it as that... being man is synonymous
with a fool's errand -
                             no love transcend the grave,
no love can be engraved into epitaphs -
                  epitaphs and their respective soloists -
     it's not even out of bitterness -
not in this pixel desert where 10 years later
those of us who used this medium will become
exponentially out-dated: archaeological -
                              and it will be thus -
              Ouroboros Capitalism -
or back when communism and capitalism were
in competition, and somehow healed the 1st
half of the 20th century, and were indeed
the Caduceus - like the story of the cannibalistic
rats... what did the last rat eat in the pit-hole?
       back when capitalism had to compete,
and competed it did, and healed by competing,
after it supposedly overpowered its opponent...
it started to eat itself... as i see it:
   the transformation of the caduceus into
    ouroboros has taken shape... and we're still
only 16 years into the 21st: oh my god! it's the 21st
century! this is preposterous! not really... no...
                   the same was said in the 20th century...
and the 19th century...
                         the steady improvement in living standards
always fed these gimps to say the exact same words
while being gagged by being paid to say those words
    and doing the slosh-wash part of a *** ****:
Apache Vinnetou hail satan blah blah, V shaped ave,
   skull-and-bones secret handshake etc.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
by the time malachi wrote of elijah's half, god split too, and then the embodiment happened on two roundabouts worth of twirl: god was a third's worth of christ's trinity talked about, recognising india in a symmetrical summery of applause for anglia's capital norwich - exchanged in overcoming autumn into similar wobbly within grasp - stornoway - to pinpoint an x for some lapsed tongue twirling less hollywood and more of the towing dimensional twins: diaper dipped innocent and sunk into welly fudge wet sludge slurps of onomatopoeias, exchanged to boot pivots for the weatherman handling insignia of coordination with a queen's lazed approach to care for the public's handy utility: shaken the plumber shaken the electrician, but gloved the hand ordinating trickles of tubular artery and sparks of the veiny rarity skidding into pressurised suicides named.*

as i said it once: by the time of malachi elijah was half of what jesus became,
a trinity of thirds; but by a polytheistic nitro of interests reincarnation
was not much for the oneness: with malachi in oath
to claim elijah in half, while jesus stole a prophet's book,
which endowed a testimony, such that much of the greek "god said"
was roman "let me ease into it and regurgitate."
so while malachi wrote of elijah's re-incarnation and spoke heresy on
the pulpit of polytheism for a crowd of monotheists
not allowing a seventh of the same pool draw
of sunken chlorine breathed as a matchstick sparked,
it was malachi so many years prior
anticipating the many gods ridiculed by a singled out earth,
while jesus stole isaiah's book and hiding it near the dead sea,
and having his own testimony
of being integrated into egyptian alimony
sold and paired revealing the sorrowful desert winds that the desert
in toadish engulfed the nearby architecture. so i tell you: jesus stole isaiah's testimony,
was crucified for it, because within the penta- framework moses wrote
like a true outsider - and we prefer narcissists holding a mirror rather
than gripping a nail to a placard of steadied wood of ennobling statues
of geometrics. why then the many narcissist messiahs empowered by posing
into a polaroid fake and the lost oedipus plural theorised?
once malachi came with the heresy elijah was halved with god,
and once jesus came and the people began deciphering babylonian madness
so that the hanging gardens were architecturally sound
and the pyramids were proven higher than the eiffel:
without a sweaty wrinkles' river taken aqua vivo, we thus conversed.
elijah was a third in the form of jesus who begat one as a trinity
to further the heresy of malachi.
Stiff-spined pigs clawing at shins,
thighs, torso; arms and head.
Effervescent atoms spit
from pressurised cans
to clouded, burning eyes.
Batons drop, judging
my ever rolling sins;
breaking bland sheet
of skin into blue, black,
red, swelling  purple canvas:
mounds of flesh,
batted time and time again.
Arm twisted, mud faced being, sinking.
Face first dirt. Cuffed, bony wrists
annoy broken-back shoulders:
unforeseen angles.
Frustrated muscles stretch
bemused tendons.
Freedom demolished,
kicking screams provoke
further chest knocks,
ambushed four to one
your body flops;
sagging over tight-gripped,
blue and black jackets,
helmets, batons, badges.
Tossed to the backseat;
prisoner of the siren.
Rory Herd Jul 2013
Passion,

Woe that you should be my muse,
To have me painted and scarred so many hues

And oh to carry this poets heart,
Flooded by tides of feeling, floating world apart

In a flowing void of deepness,
The Self cast inward far,

Awesome gravity from all directions,

A black hole, holding ones brittle moon star.

With strained might it's forces burn the sea of mind,
Crashing thought-waves intoxicated on the outer worlds shore,

Breaking onto rough and rational sands,
Oft shadows of their true selves tender moon-star flaming,
Vagrants misunderstood and poor

And so ever the artist quests to rightly express,
pressurised creations they may yet release

Making room for the abstract storms atoms to saturate the waking,

Liberating its blooming centre of still, silent peace.
aurora kastanias Jun 2017
Neutrons, protons and electrons compose
The entirety of atoms pervading The All,
Forming bewildering matter, objects and substances,
Ranging from dust to stars, planets, galaxies,
Superclusters, organisms, oxygen and water,
Living creatures.

Neutrons and protons in turn made of quarks,
Elementary particles, indivisible, positively charged.
Deprived of a structure of their own they strongly interact,
To create one and many zillion more.

Never alone always bound
In twos and threes, sparkling composites,
Hadrons at the heart of atomic nuclei.
Quarks making us.

While electrons, together with muons and taus
Only heavier but identical, are leptons,
The most common elementary particles in our world
Offer atoms their chemical properties.

Negatively charged, indivisible, smaller there are none.
Deprived of a structure of their own they weakly interact,
Frantically moving subject to electromagnetic fields.
Leptons making us.

Quarks and Leptons in conclusion
Minuscule nature of our essence shared
With that of all that exists. No wonder,
Everything in dualism persists.

Seeking harmonic balance and elegance,
A cosmos of particles interacting in countless manners
To materialise the entirety of energy in the Universe,
Shaping it with imagination and creativity.

As stars make gold, pressurised carbon diamonds,
Thirty trillion cells a human being, a human being a thought.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
yet again a niche topic.

well, it was either the study of the Noumenon (thing-in-itself)
of Kant, or his 20th century successor,
and i too will consider his variant spelling
of being, i.e. beyng - logically? being at bay:
but mine isn't a consolidation akin to
Ezra Pound's with W. Whitman -
          whether an apologist or not:
the newspaper today speaks of the Royal
family of Windsor: and it's associations with
**** Germany, even a picture of H.M.Q.
(her majesty the queen) and her mother making
the salute reserved for Caesars, Tsars, Führers
and Frankfurters;
                     not to mention all other patriarchal
denominations -
    but i'll play on a different word, and chance no
obscurity. the word in question? *ecstasy
.
       my play on it? well, there was a time when i
had a very rigid vocabulary, a very in vitro
  sort of vocabulary: experimentally rigid -
i focused on prefixes greatly, and the reflective (mirror)
versus the reflexive (reflex) expressions of
distinct potential - but that was long ago, still...
the language was curbed in a sense of being
restrictive - again this prefix waterfall fascination,
in this case re- (again and again) - a mimic
experiment to paint the res (thing) that the moon
is, in all its phantomic pandemonium eeriness.
this time? from ecstasis: ex-stasis
ex- (out of) -stasis (στάσις), i.e. standing still.
perhaps this is what one interpretation of the concept
of dasein involves: ecstasy of movement -
or as the other interpretation suggests: lack of -
a variant of permanence: or idolatry at variation -
rather than the fleeting moment, insect like
impermanence: or the insistence of the hives -
frivolity and pressurised activity / bußiness (being
busy in a counterproductive way to avoid hoarding).
ralφ myerz & the jack herren band
in the background; now the nomad and the album
concentrated.
              now a return to the narrative, p.13 of
Heidegger's ponderings ii - vi...
           footnote number 6. {unfamiliar symbol.}
the symbol? a crossed-out И (cyrillic / neo-Greek
    / Greek eta H, η, e.g. the /i/ skewed i
                    in machine).
that's the content, but in context?
            'whither with the asking of this question?
  into the (crossed-out) И.
    first suggestion?                 not-i.
          working backwards:
'but how to bring about this pledging?
depth and breadth of the engagement of da-sein
in the question of being!'
     then furthered into a second use of the "unfamiliar
symbol":
          'but the (crossed-out) И must be borne in silence
through the questioning and in the attuned silence
must be gained by struggling toward grace.'
   cf. (conferre / compare) p.8
  the auftrag (mission) of humanity, in the above
cited. indeed the expression: ex-stasis
toward a happening - or as many already suggested:
to fill the plughole that's Buddha meditating.
the man with the crown of myrrh: clearly too painful
to spare a thought toward: what began in Greece
   became entombed in Germany.
me on Nietzsche on Kant: idiot or no idiot:
                                   a hellish read in his later years;
and i could have been more influenced
by Gil Scott Heron, but Malcolm X wrote a decent
autobiography - plus my temperament lies with
sniffing out burning wood in winter:
that husky, smoky perfume only accessible in winter:
where winter is.
                           as a final reminder:
it didn't simply take the aesthetic twins η & ε
(you'd think with a name like eta, you'd use the
scalpel and cut it open into e-     &     -ta
  and write e in words rather than a skewed iota
/ι/, right? well, apparently not)
              or φ & θ                  or           o & ω:
you can to ascend toward the heights like some
Prometheus and bring down the fire of diacritical
distinction too; a bewildering task, in all honesty.
  or man akin to the rebellious gods v. the titans
when used / inserted to bewilder rather than be
kept coherently used: yet again the bureaucracy
of intellectual power.
or so i thought, with this and that above in
a certain hallowed form of despair starting the
chain of cigarettes and tea - or as already apparent:
perpetual night (variant to come) with only one
hour of daylight: fleeting moonshine of
                                                       the spotted mind;
as such, the already stated illumination.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
poets were forever deemed the Peter Pans
of the adult world -
where once the sonnet reigned,
was sooner replaced succumbing to
gangrene by a Ferrari, or another polished diamond
of more diadem count in Pythagorean -
they really looked at poets like they murdered
the profession of accounting or plumbing...
god bless the poets, god bless the poet who
made it to a brothel... the only poets that escaped with Cain
and the murderers and the thieves, and the ******..
i forgave my enemy to escape... let him earn
fireplace respect and custody of children should things
take a sour turn... only poets are welcome...
Jackie Chan, Billy the Kid and Dante...
******* worship bound knights of auto-suggested
failures selling turnips and charcoal
writing poems like writing a signature in digital
imprint; they called us the children of
fervent art expressed -
a matchbox filled with huff-heaving-******* that was snarled-at
scratching the effortless geography of hind and
itch of the tabernacle to gallop toward a bloodless
Crusade - as Papa Urban promised unreal -
welcome the cocktail shakers of the crushed craniums
of Jerusalem's innocents - we come in
peace, come in the name of the un-spiced potato
gulags of the supposed stews of the many promises
the Pope twerked for granted in the raised *****
of the Ancient Mosque - **** praise be to Allah -
god / dog - but faithfully, anally yours...
**** a **** - nine dead, it's day-to-day Germany:
i like to dream... yes yes right between the sound machine...
you don't know what we can find...
why don't you tell your dreams to me...
close your eyes girl...           papa fried Freud squirrel...
tripped on a white horse galloping standstill
in a 1sqm balcony - everyone swore it was Zorro....
but i corrected them, it was: Zoroaster (colon,
former fame for listings, otherwise the italics,
colon the synonymous variation of italics, pressurised
theatre pause - no listing).
Mikaila Oct 2015
Have you ever heard a song
So sweet that lyrics would corrupt it?
So pure that you hold your breath
Afraid you'll shatter it just by sighing?
It's a torn feeling, an unnameable feeling, the description of which can only lead you in circles
Hopelessly tangled in the desire to express it.
It is something so excruciatingly, frustratingly ineffable that you can't even move, frozen in awe, locked in a complex, pressurised longing.
Something
So achingly lovely that just the thought of it 
Pulls tears from you in diamond threads
And makes you, briefly, a shimmering echo of it,
Lit
From inside.

I say this
Even though I know that trying to describe that feeling
Is like trying to grasp at mist
I say this
I say it because
I felt like that in your arms.

I looked at you
In the half-light
And just for a second I saw you fully, in a new way.
The light loved you.
It slid along your skin like it came from the stars
And not from a bedside lamp propped against the wall.
You were so smooth, so soft, tendrils of hair escaping their pinnings and following the long lines of your neck.
Your eyes gleamed through your smile,
And all the sweetness and wit and beauty behind them,
All of that that I could touch, all that art looking at me in that moment, like having a symphony play for just you,
That soul under that skin, a whole galaxy of loves and hates and dreams and insecurities coursing through you...
And me
An inch away
Less
Pressed up against you like a parallel universe, so near and so sacred and so shockingly tangible-
The heat of you, so solid but so pliable next to me, so much a part of me that nothing about me could feel empty.

I couldn't breathe for joy, suddenly.

You could have been the moon, just then,
Or a goddess, like one of those smooth, white, subtly glowing statues in the museum halls,
Women I always imagined came alive at night and basked in the starlight,
Absorbing it to throw it back upon the world when day broke.
Your fingertips on me traced patterns
And I wanted them to touch me deeper
Wished my body was more my soul than flesh can be
So that I could feel yours in your hands.
It was too much!
It was
Not enough.
And I laughed, hid my face in your neck, felt your pulse there and how fragile your collarbones were.
I wanted to seep into your skin like rain.
I tried to shrug past it
But the feeling grabbed me by the shoulders and shook the words out of me,
And suddenly I was cheek to cheek with you,
Confessing...

After that the way I touched you changed.
I don't know if you felt it,
But I did.
It had been coming, sneaking up on me, all that day.
In my arms, beneath my palms, I held something so unutterably precious
Whenever I held you
And I knew it fully then, unable to unfeel it.
It made me tender in a way that pierced my heart
In a way that scared me
Because it felt like why I'm here.

If someday I get to tell you I love you
I will tell you that it was that moment when I knew for sure I would.
That moment when it all became so crushingly, beautifully real to me-
When gravity shifted, and you began to pull me instead.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
shake a can of beer... sprouts a fizz
and foam...
shake a glass bottle of beer...
nothing...
i know aluminium cans are thin
and that glass bottles are thicker...
but glass acts like an insulator
of carbon dioxide pressurised in water
while metal of any kind seems
to conduct it; or something like that,
i'm not going to stress any orthodoxy
that will have to be stressed by
future generations in all its changeless
accuracy.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
there's this guy who thinks he knows more than me about the far-left than i do, even though i'm the one with a communist grandfather; which means he's gone as far as mao to replicate an answer that i might agree with alongside adolf. ah no worry... the queen's corgi(s) are here. they always do that, the left, as long as they can provide you with a house and pension, they have the upper hand in argument meaning you have to agree with them... what about colour says the right? ah don't worry... we'll just all wear gray and become radically different from the canvas.*

i love how the left asks to be agreed with
in terms of politics,
given no far-right politics was expressed...
death of communism taught them
they had to express far-left politics in such a way
as might be a form of deviation and counter-intuitive expression
of the middle ground... poor stalin...
god please let me enter the mozart club of death at 35...
i missed the modern club of 27... drinks on me... amy;
i just hate the way the left opresses us now...
it’s that thumb missing in terms of english law...
you know that thumb... ex hominem ad exemplum non hominem...
a lightbulb moment... because man never gave a nullifying
example with each example of his existence given as non;
man is curiously aware of his mortality, therefore he engages
with dating things in order to orientate...
of course... coins... deus ex ****... although no solis ex ****...
that would never work... would it now?
why would man need a sun if all man desires from
the sigma expression of will is to not exist?
can i enter the reference of will with a craft that deciphers water
as two hydrogens and one oxygen?
oh wait... i already have... three years of chemistry
in edinburgh taught me pressurised concentration
of carbon dioxide was termed fizzy.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
is russell brand the presenter on the pointless blog?
  i swear it's russel brand! no wait, it's someone
  called alfred dyson... ***** the fun out of it
  it's still russell brand to me, eating pickles for
  he he giggles.

you know, the only reason i cried when i first
watched the cinematic passion of the christ,
it wasn't the plot and the outline,
i cried when i heard the resurrection of ancient
Aramaic... that got me... it pierced my soul...
so you're living with your parents
because the nigerians and saudi arabs bought
you out of right for home ownership,
and in the background you just hear an i.v.f.
baby argument, a test-tube baby argument damning
you for not enough capitalistic incentive...
herr doctor freud comes in too into the plotline...
and then you turn back and watch russell brand
on the pointless blog discovering sardines in
digestive juices of preservation of sour marbles
in the museum alongside mummies.

brian molko already did the trans-gender **** me
mascara look without, as the homosexuals already said:
well i did confuse the **** with the ****,
but by god i didn't confuse the ******* emblem with
architecture and warring attempts...
brian molko made the girls jealous with his
androgynous appeal... girls got jealous,
pressurised the trans-gender movement to a tic tac toe.
The actor was so thrilled to be offered a part
uneasy that two suited men
told  him he had to sign a binding contract
no disclosure or go to prison
realised there was no choice had to agree
but offered him a huge fee!

Pressurised signed was told to wait for a call
they would not disclose details
life put on hold regretting that offer of work
could not contact agency
what had he committed to it blew his mind
wishing time he could rewind!

Several days later his house phone rang
a voice gave a short message
outside ten minutes apprehension grew
picked up his bag and waited
at precisely the time stated a van arrived
from then on freedom was deprived!

A side door shot open abruptly told to enter
once inside the vehicle sped away
within not alone three other men squatted
nobody spoke on that journey
what seemed like hours being thrown about
he was filled with fear and doubt!

At last it stopped they were greeted by a man
smartly dressed and well spoken
apologised  for covert action and no information
found themselves in a large hangar
on one side changing rooms and catering truck
it dawned on him here they were stuck!

It was cold as they were shown to a huge room
chairs were placed facing a screen
sitting the smart man went to the front lingered
until they were all quietly seated
explained he was the director of this project
with those present was about to connect!

From behind them armed guards now entered
please do not be alarmed he said
they are here for our protection and security
you have been chosen to participate
in a conspiracy that must never be exposed
the screen lit up the secret disclosed!

Images of a barren landscape was dispalyed
this is the set built-in this hangar
here the moon surface has been recreated
because we are going to hoax
for the want of a better word the moon landing
with astronauts on surface standing!

This is the first meeting of our brave flight crew!

Just another conspiracy theory?

#TheFoureyedPoet.
What is the truth so many unanswered question! Could the moon landings have been a hoax?#TheFoureyedPoet.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i've noticed, how in movies,
when someone is dead and no one
knows for sure, they check
the pulse by forcing down
the index and *******
somewhere on the neck -
to find the artery - since blood
pumped through arteries is
pressurised...
but in all honestly this is a farce...
the best place to find the pulse
is in the armpit...
after all, when they *******
that kit where the machine checks
your blood pressure, they put it
on your upper-arm above the elbow...
but to find a more natural way of
feeling your pulse, the arm must be
extended so it's almost like you're
hanging off it... and the applied
index and ******* pressure
should be orientated in the region
closer to the left side of the armpit
of the right hand... i can't really be more
specific, it's a case of fiddling with
the spot where you can feel a bulging
artery that almost feels like you're
holding the actual heart -
with the scapula as the background.
Donall Dempsey Aug 2017
SHAKESPEARE – SAVIOUR OF THE WORLD

Nothing but
a bauble

in the firmament
a nebula

far beyond Orion

light years
from here

from this
blob of blue.

The alien's elation
at our perfect planet

perfect for
plucking

like a blueberry
picked from the stem

held
in the palm

savoured.

The rest
gone to making

Auntie's jam.

Auntie Blob
as we called her

( never to her
face of course )

nibbling at her Bible
searching for the perfect quote

clipping her toenails
on yesterday's front page

kicking Shakespeare
"Outta de way!"

That hound
nothing but bones

reminds her of her
second husband

that's why she's so
mean to him.

Shakespeare decides to
"Beat it!"

knows her quickness
to anger

hunts along the lake
shore shingle

whereupon he's beamed up
for alien analysis.

"Strange being!"
they intone

mystified
at his four legs

they only
having one.

Alien language
unknown to us

nothing but
tones and bleeps and high pitched notes

piped
with great elan

but Shakespeare gets the jist
of everything they're saying.
Shakes ***** a leg
****** on

their controls

the master board
nothing but smoke...flames!

Old Shakes
decides to hunt out that flea

in his left
rear.

Aliens don't take so well
to fleas

tear themselves
apart

flee to the far side
lock themselves into pressurised suits.

Shakes howls
homesick

even for Auntie Blob's
bad hearted kicks.

Alien ears explode.

Survivors beam down
Shakes as fast as they can.

"Earth creatures
can not be overcome!"

runs the report
in capital bleeps and tones.

"Shakespeare...Shakespeare
you come here!"

"Now!"

"Bad dog...bad dog!"

He crawls on his belly
dodges an ill-timed blow.

"Where in the world
you been?"

A kick gets him
in the privates.

He cowers
underneath his chair.

"Lord...Lord
what a night!"

"That blue!
it's outta this world!"

She catches a falling star
out of the corner of her eye.

She isn't superstitious.
She makes no wishes.

"Lord God...where's that
**** dog!"

Shakespeare whines
softly to him self

the Dog star
reflected in his right eye.

Shakespeare the saviour
of the world.

obnubilate
''PRONUNCIATION:(ob-NOO-buh-layt, -NYOO-)
MEANING:verb tr.: To cloud over, obscure, or darken.
ETYMOLOGY:
From Latin obnubilare (to darken or obscure), from ob- (in the way) + nubilare (to be cloudy), from nubes (cloud). The word nuance is also a derivative of nubes.
Big Virge Mar 2020
So Fellas What's The Price You're Prepared To Pay …
To Spread Her Thighs And Get That … LAY … !!?!!

Cos' I've Heard About Chicks Who … For A HAMBURGER …
Will Give You A Kiss And Let You Go … FURTHER ................ !!!!!

And Ladies ... Let Me Ask You THIS … ?

What Price Do You Pay … ?
When You LICK Dogs' ***** To Have Their Kids … ???

THAT PRICE Seems … HIGH … !!!!!
If They Leave You With NO CHANCE of A Life … !!!
That Then Consists of … " Husband and Wife " …

Why Should The Children Pay The PRICE ...
For Your Lack of Thinking … Isn't THAT A Crime … ?!?

ENTRAPMENT DEFINED …. !!!
I Think You'll Find … Is What You Tried … !?!

But Girls Who FAIL ….
Know That The PRICE They Pay Entails …

A Life … " PRESSURISED " … !!!!!
Because of The LIES They TRIED To Live By … !!!

But Prices RISE ... !!!
When It Comes To CRIMES ...
of The … ****** Type … !!!!!

Being ***** By Guys Can Become REAL LIFE … !!!
If You Get TIME ... Institutionalised Next To Criminal Minds … !!!

HUNGRY For What … They're Now DENIED … !!!!!
A Wife Or ***** With A Hole To BORE … !!!!!

So What's The Price For Being ... Lyrically RAW … !?!
Well Being IGNORED By The PURE Fa' Sure … !!!

Did I Say … PURE …  ?!?

Well They Think They Are … !?!
The Religious Hoards Who Act Like …. " LORDS " … !!!

When Behind … "CLOSED DOORS" …
There Seems To Be A Price That's NOT SO NICE … !!!!!

When Priests … ENSURE … !!!
That Little Boys ABSORB A WHOLE LOT MORE … !!!!!
Than ... Spiritual Help From Men Who SELL …
Their Souls To The DEVIL To See Boys DISHEVELLED … !!?!!

Because of ABUSE ...
These DEVIANTS Use Which Is NOT COOL … !!!

So ...
Is There A Price To Be A … " Cool Dude " … ?

Well To Have Nice Suits And ... Hand Made Shoes … !!!
You're Gonna NEED CASH To Be THAT MAN ... !!!

But Does Coolness NEED … ?
To Indulge VANITY For Others To SEE ... ?!?

People Seem To BELIEVE ...
That The Wealthy Breed Is Where Coolness FEEDS …
Well It Seems To Me That These FIENDS Live For GREED … !!!!!

FIENDS ... INDEED …. !!!!!!

Whose Cool Concedes To INSANITY ... !!!
When It Comes To Being SEEN ...
As A … Humble Human Being … !!!!!

To Be HUMBLE In This Life …
Seems To Have A Price That Guides ...
To An ... ELEVATED Mind …

A Mind NO ONE Can Buy To Simply Fall In Line …
With Those Who'd SELL ... Their MOTHER ...
To Have THAT WEALTH And … "Smother" … !!!

LOVE For Each Other …
With A PRICE That COVERS ...
Seeing Loved Ones SUFFER … !!!!!
  
Some Things You CAN'T BUY … !!!!!

Or … Put A Price On Like Good Advice ...
That STANDS BY RIGHT … !!!!!  
And Makes WRONG …….. ABSCOND ........................…… !!!!!!!

Such Things Invite A Price WITHOUT HIKES …  
A Price Without Nikes of The Jordan Type … !!!!!

A Price That Takes FLIGHT …
WITHOUT ... Commercial Hype ….

So To Reach Sporting HEIGHTS … !!!!!
What Is The Price You Have To Pay …
To RAISE Your Game And Become A Name …
In The HALL of FAME For The Game You Play … ???

Some Would Say ... " HOURS of PRACTICE " … !!!!!
Others Get Managed And Have To ... PAY …
BIG AGENT Rates To See Their Face ALL OVER The Place … !!!

These Days It Seems … ?
One Performance Gains ... RIDICULOUS PRAISE ... !!!!!!

And Being Deemed ...
To Be The Next BIG THING WITHOUT Winning Anything … ?!?

Prices RISE But Words I Write Don't Have A Price … !!!
So DON'T Compromise For Them To Be … LIKED … !!!

They're From My Heart And YES My Mind …
No Contracts Signed … At Least NOT YET … ?!?

To Get Publicised By … " Corporate Heads " …

Who Are QUICK To Advise As To What Will SELL … !!!
So Their Cash Funds SWELL As Book Sales RISE … !!!

Meantime What You Write Is ... RARELY The Same …
Because EDITS Are Arranged To ... FIT The Profile …
of Someone NICE ... Whose Words Bring SMILES … !!!

Well THANKFULLY ... I've UPSET These Fiends …
And … SNEAK FILLED Cliques Who Just Can't Believe …
I Won't Join Their Team of ... DEVIOUS Beings ... !!!!!!!

Who Seem To Be The Type …
Who'd Rather FALL IN LINE …
Than Write What THEY LIKE … !!?!!

Because They'll LIE …
And Of Course … COMPROMISE …

Like So MANY In This Life … !!!
For What They Believe …

To Be Their ……………………

..………… " Price " ………….
So many prices to pay for so much that we now claim to be, being humane !
Big Virge Sep 2021
What A Crazy Time...
To Now Be... Alive... !!!

As Corona Vibes...
And POVERTY’S RISE...
Are Now Causing Lives...
To Quickly Downsize...
In Ways NOT So Nice...
As People... DIE... !!!

It’s A Time Where Minds...
Are Being PRESSURISED... !!!

By New Guidelines...
From Political Tribes...
Who Are Known To LIE...
Pretty Much ALL The Time... !!!

But The LOSS of LIFE...
Suffering And Strife's...
Creating Blind Eyes...
To What Could Be Contrived... ?!?

In Times Like These...
Arguments Are Seen...
Because Some BELIEVE...
That This Disease...

Is A Very Real Threat...
To.... HUMANITY.... !!!!!

And Has CREDIBILITY...
Because of News Feeds...
And Death Tolls Reached...
That Have NEVER Been Seen...

In The World Before... !!!

Well I’m NOT So Sure... !?!
As This Subject's Forced...
A Lot of DEEP Thought...
And... Verbal Wars... !!!

For Those Who REFUSE...
To Believe That It’s True... !!!

And Those Who Wear Masks...
As If They Will Be...
What Will Save Peoples Hearts...
From Dealing With Grief... !?!

These Days Are CRAZY... !!!
And Have Left Some Deceased...
And UNABLE To Breathe...
Through Their Masks Easily... !!!

Because of... Policies...
That Are Those That Are Driven...
By Political Breeds...
And Medics Submitting...

All Kinds of THEORIES...
So Now It's... VACCINES...
That They’re Saying We Need...
To SAVE... HUMANITY...

Well The Timing of These...
Seems A Little Off Key...
To A Guy Like ME... !!!

No UTOPIAN Dreams... !!!

Because What They're Saying...
Is That Corona’s MUTATING... !?!
While People Are Taking...

The Very FIRST Doses...
of Injections Quoted...
As Being... READY...
To Make This Thing CEASE.

From Being A Problem...
Past... TWENTY TWENTY... !!!

But How Can This Be...
If This Thing Is Changing...
So... REGULARLY... ?!?

So Now Folks Are Zooming...
To Keep Money Moving...
Through Technology...
4G... Or... 5G...

These Times Are Indeed...
INCREASING Issues...
For... Mentalities...
In Those Individuals...
Where Depression Creeps...
And Constantly Feeds...
Like Vampiric Breeds... !!!

... ******* The LIFE...
Out of Minds LOSING Sight...
of A Future That’s Bright... !!!

So The Future Looks BLEAK...
For People Like Me...
Who Are Artistically Driven...
To Now Use Things Written...
To... Maintain A Living...

UNLESS Your Positioned...
BEYOND Social Distance... !!!

And Levels of Thinking...
That Are Now RESTRICTED... !!!

Because They’re Conditioned...
To Use Lyricism That Deals In REALISM... !!!

And Rhymes Just Like These...
That Use... Poetry...
For FREEDOM of SPEECH...

And FREEDOM To Be...
FREE of... THIS DISEASE...
That’s Now Become Part...
of... TWENTY TWENTY... !?!

That Has BROKEN Hearts...
And Changed Life’s Design...
For Bodies And Minds...

In Ways That DEFINE...
That We Are Now Living...

In....

..... “ CRAZY Times “..... !!!
Each day nowadays, seems to be becoming, more and more crazy
Ziya mansoor Jul 2019
In life
at times
we all are
either
pressurised
or
by choice
we wear a mask

This mask may not be colourful
or plain
it is not made of a paper
or any material
  
IT is made of emotions
at times we have to act as happy
even if we are broken
or we have to act as sad
at the happiest moments

I guarantee we all have once worn this mask
  At least once ....
anu Feb 2017
I think I am most hated person
By the Lord

I am depressed
I never come out from out this pressurised

I am every
Version of ******
And don't have ego

To go to dear ones
But even my Lord throwed this waste one
Hate myself completely
i love you
could words
prove anything



my nose
in
the
corner

through the open window
the mean boys throw snowballs
hitting me in the head
the teachers
was
laughing
everyone
was
laughing

this dunce hat tilted
the rubberband holding it on
has pressurised my vessel

turning 180 degrees
my thumbs straight out
all fingers crooked
but
the
middle ones

flames start
from my fingertips
teachers mouth open wide
everybody's mouths
wide
open

is this what you wanted
well is it
is this
what
you
wanted

when we burn
your breath
tell
me
could words prove
?











...
..
.
Sheila Haskins Apr 2021
You are a whisper, a shudder of delight
You are a hint of better times
Sweet as the grape fresh off the vine
Always in the shadows, a sunlight ray
If only you were with me every day
Then I could breathe again, you are my essence
All I was meant to be
If only I was free, but I’m lonely, need your presence
Shine on me in everything I say and do
I know you can’t be pressurised
Though I try to disguise the sadness in my eyes
My tears reveal the truth, compound the lies
I’m trying not to worry, not to hurry, to get it right
Happiness please be with me, stay with me tonight
nivek Oct 2019
pressurised opinions (to chain and bind)
unasked for(ultimately sterile)
follow freedoms child
Big Virge Sep 2020
These Days It’s TRUE...
And CLEARLY In View...

That A Whole Lot of People...
Have... Changing Moods...
That AREN’T ALL GOOD... !!!
  
Because of PRESSURES...
That Are Now Due To...

This... " Corona Flu "...
That’s Creating News...
And A Lot of Moves...
That Really AREN’T Cool... !!!

But What’s Really CHANGED...
To Make People Now...
Start Acting STRANGE... ?!?

Well For One NO WORK...
Or Place To... SHIRK...
Or... Place To Go...
To Wear FANCY Shirts...

Or Drive NICE Cars...
Underneath The Stars...
Because of LOCKDOWNS...
And Political Mouths...

Expressing That...

“ This Thing’s SO BAD...
That EVEN Cash Is Getting Mad... !!! “

Because Now It CAN’T Be Passed...
From Hand To Hand...
Like It Was In The Past... !!!

Because EVEN The Banks...
Have Switched Up Plans...
So Now Queues Outside...
Seem To Go On For MILES... !!!

And Now It Seems...
That GREEDY FIENDS...
Are Making PRICE HIKES...
That Are Clearly NOT RIGHT... !!!

For Things That Claim To...
...... SANITISE......

And What About...
Those Toilet Rolls... ?!?
That Have RUN OUT...
And Caused A Rout...
In... Certain Towns... !!!

There Is NO DOUBT...
That It’s A CRAZY Time... !!!

But PRESSURISED Minds...
AREN’T Being... WISE... !!!

And Checking Themselves...
For Those FOUL SMELLS...
Where IGNORANCE Dwells... !!!!!

Now For Many It Seems...
That... LOSING MONEY...
And What They Believed...
To Be Living FREELY...
  
Has Affected Their Thinking...
........ VERY DEEPLY....... !!!

To The Point Where Some...
Are Acting... CRAZILY... !!!

In... FAMILIES... !!!
And Over Business Deals...
And Forms of Speech...
That Make Arguments Reach...

A Place Where UNITY...
Is... BREACHED... !!!!!!!!!

Like... Protest Scenes...
Now INCREASED On Streets...
Across The World GLOBALLY... !!!

Because of MUCH MORE...
Than Police And Slavery... !!!

So Now Street Parties...
Are Being Held ILLEGALLY...
And Creating Scenes...
Where Police Now RETREAT... !!!
Because of Crowds Who Now Clearly Feel...

That... Right About Now...
They Wanna Be... OUT...
And Enjoying Company...
INSIDE of Six Feet...... !!!!!!

So Are Wiling To ATTACK...
Until Police FALL BACK... !!!

So Now Infection Rate SPIKES...
Are Of Course On The RISE...
Pretty Much... WORLDWIDE... !!!

Well... So We’re ADVISED...
By Government Guys...
Who Are Known To Tell LIES... !!!

So Now The...
Winds of Change...
Are Blowing AGAIN... !!!

And Affecting Brains...
ALL OVER The Place... !!!
In Ways NOT SO GREAT... !!!

NO MATTER What...
Certain Heads Will Say... !!!

From Heads of State...
To Those Making CLAIMS...

That They’re Fine And Okay !...
When How They Now Behave...
Displays Frustration And RAGE... !!!

And That Is The TRUTH...
NOT News That’s FAKE... !!!!!

About Things Now In View...
That Give MORE Than Proof... !!!
of How People Today...
Are Now LOSING Their Cool... !!!

And SHOWING...

..... “ Changing Moods “.....
There seem to be a lot people now, who are really acting up, because of all this Corona Stuff !

So, be careful how you engage with people, and who it is these days, who you choose to trust....
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2021
such are the nights of utmost tedium... no editorial scrutiny leaves me naked before the audience... willing or not... if you're reading this... you're probably not reading some tabloid journalism or, for that matter... i'm stuck on Kierkegaard's vol. 4... while i'm simultaneously reading C. Dickens' Pickwick Papers... one review reads as: one of my life's great tragedies is having already read the Pickwick Papers for the first time...  i protest... another one is having listened to Silverchair's song Shade from the album frogstomp and not having to play it own guitar... along with Black Sabbath's song solitude... i'm stuck... i find leaving replies more satisfying than anything: to begin with... akin to:

- Ja, ein klein dinge. They are important

- let me stretch... yes... a child-thing? two nouns far apart... what if we sharpened one of the nouns with an adjective? kindisch-ding... but you'll still find me wholly in agreement.

i rather leave this much as much as is already very little... than... bother myself with editorially-pressurised... it's a bit hit & miss with an audience... sometimes you come up with the mark... most of the times you don't... i fold: trouble with gambling is that... it's no summary: no proper summary of fate... little gambling measures: why have they always left me most suspicious... ol' Mammon... if i were to tell you that you were to be paid in peanuts... rather than in ascribing worth to precious metals... esp. with an effigy of royalty... how or why we made this contract between each other in order to summarise having "ghost" hands... take care of the garbage...  me writing this terribly: agonising verses... prosaic... because to rhyme would be implying: readily caged...


to these isles... i brought with my a suitcase of
old german ghosts...
i drink... i tend to forget some of the Ing-leash...
i forage... explore...
i bypass: in a language where several words
can share the same phonetic "suit"... well:
what's not to like...
i like living among these people:
for all their faults: their faults of capitulation
to... well... i don't see the Luftwaffe among
the crows... a peaceful "conquest": project
out-breeding... but hell... getting used to the weather
will take some stamina: some: hertz...
immediately: i have to write something
in alt-deutsche...
i don't care much for any French influence
on the tongue...
Welsh doesn't bring much influence to the shared
tongue of these isles...
Welsh is still so intact...
           while the Scots might have forgotten
their Gaelic...
settled for the accented identity...
sing-along Scots: i love how they retained
trilling of their R...
that's how i bemoan the Ing-Leash zunge...
the lost trill of the R...
tongue-numbing... a tarantula must have bit my
tongue or something:
i'm prone to: SEPLENIĆ...
talk without a trill of the R...
wait... i'll look into it... i'm sure there's
might be a fix... an orthographic fix...
to add a diacritical marker on the R: to dress it up
in a tux of: a trill would be welcome...
ꝛobot...
     the calligraphic r rotunda looks oh
so pretty...
but there's also: Ṝ... too much work...
               ɍobot... a strike through...
- i came to these isles with a suitcase of old
german ghosts...
thank god the natives: after the ancient Romans
left were... a breed of Saxons...
i can't imagine how the world would
have become what it is...
if... the Schvabs (Swabians) inclined themselves
to be... more adventurous...
Anglo-Swabian doesn't have the same ring
to it...
us Wends know a little about zee: Gir: gi-gi
(jittery: dzittery: dzida: ah... spear)
mein herz ist blutend blau...
i drink: i turn to alt deutsche...
- i come with a suitcase of old german ghosts
picked up from the mass-graves from world war I...
but at least the enemy buried...
oddly enough... you'll find a sparrow...
or a robin... sing at such sights...
the winning side with all their individually:
named... consecrated to the earth...
will not welcome a bird song...
too many tourists?
too much pseudo-marble?
      a robin a sparrow will venture to the
graveyards of those germans fallen
in world war I...
nothing but pomp & circumstance concerning
the graveyard of the winning side...
how our tastes changes...
the pagans wed the dead body
to fire...
the monotheistic: drowning met clinging to
the razor's edge...
materialistic children:
wed their body to the earth...
with death: there's a need of proof
of bones... i like how the pagans preferred
wedding the dead body to fire...
rather than wedding it to... earth...
two options left... wedding the dead body to water
or to air...
no fun in that... no need, either...
no... writing and freely pushing my worst
is probably the one time i tease
at burning-out...
i'd much appreciate an editorial scrutiny sometimes...
but given that an editorial scrutiny would
leave me with a congested
"masterpiece"...
the ******-ones make it through
the sieve... like this one...
while the gems lie hidden...

          i need to find the abyss of sleep where
i'm not imagining ****** scenes that
will obstruct my cycling tomorrow...
if it's a dream and i'm not ******* in it...
what's the point of dreaming...
perhaps i switched on an automated button:
for freeze... to obstruct complex dreaming
scenarios...
i fall asleep... i wake up...
a doubling-up of night is all that happens
in between...
well there are options...
you can read some tabloid newspapers...
you can watch t.v.
you can be on a quest for fire...
or teenage girl libido...

              the terrible has already happened:
the worst can still be unsaid...
i'll say my plough...

- mein gott...
   i look the most menacing creature...
looking into a mirror while
*******
in the dark into the sink...
ugh... what's with the English & German...
article stressors...
definitely a chair... alternatively:
the chair...
or the pronoun construct...
in Wend: ******... the pronoun I
is so rarely used that... when it's used...
shrapnel muzik: elevator *******...
going: oink!              up?

too much of language scrutiny...
i'm breeding: brain-freeze...
some definite articles indefinite... pronouns...
elsewhere...
while otherwise
nouns incorporate *** preferences...
while it's all asexual in Ing-Leash...
Elvis has just entered the building...
so did Johnny Cash...
thank you... goodnight.

— The End —