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Nigel Beckett Jun 2014
For those who say life’s easy, they obviously haven’t tried,
For those who found it difficult, some of whom have died.

For those who are still struggling, don’t hold your head in shame,
No one said life was easy; you’re not the one to blame.

Those dark days may be difficult, but know that they will end,
Look for the brighter future around life’s winding bend
.
What troubles you today, will be a breeze tomorrow,
Don’t make the harsh decision and leaves other to face sorrow.

To know that you are loved and that they all do care,
Will lift weight from your shoulders, no more a load to bear.

Now talk about your troubles and share your problems open,
It’s not a sign of weakness; it simply shows your copin.

Sometimes life’s problems exceed us, they can be overcome.
You may have lost the battle, but the war will soon be won.

Now stand up proud while smiling and know that life is brighter.
They say god loves a trier, he also loves a fighter

So if you see a friend whose load they cannot bear,
just reach out your hand to them to show how much you care.

That one simple gesture can re inspire hope
and help someone who’s struggling to make them better cope
Inspired by Donal Walsh who while battling cancer was a promoter for suicide prevention. R.I.P Donal
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
. like some pop canadian psychiatrist might, lecturing males about *******, unlike some lars von trier... let's just say that i can understand of jerking off having been mutilated, oh, sorry, circumcised, having an improved impetus for the opposite partner... sure... love the lecture... a male's missing ******* is compensated by a couch with extra pillows of a woman's ******... i get it... one problem... one thing lecturing males on the dreaded degeneracy of *******... could this famous canadian psychiatrist, cool off, and lecture females about their exhibitionism? no? not real? ****... i took the alternative route jerking off... took to fine art nudes, and selfies women take of their cleavage... i might be a sore jerking off loser... but she's the ******* exhibitionist.

ever walked down a desolate road,
with only cars whizzing past.
and no pedestrians?

ever walk and stop,
under a street lamp,
exasperated by the stealth of rainfall,
slow...
   airy, almost floating,
like a myopic cloud covering
your eyes?

ever walk into an alley beside
a baptist church...
ease up, take a ****...
and then drench your hair in
rain (water)?

ever glide over the sheen of
concrete covered in
wetness that soil would
otherwise, hide, and ingest?

the temperature is still there,
can't get sparkles,
guess i have to settle
for squid liquid glee of
the cement...
give it three months...
the paparazzi will glitter
the mundane cement gore...

and then walking down
a road, downhill...

             /
            \
             /
            \
            /
           \

i might have been drunk...
but i was going / left to right,
nd \ right to left,
spectating the rainfall
under each street-lamp...

  **** me... what a beauty show...
like watching someone
spin candy floss!
  
i squinted my eye...
   un-squinted it...
    mezmo...

              better than an l.s.d. trip...
   auburn come autumn air...
a slight fragrance of decay...
        french puff pastry...

slow rain,
like a postcard enclosed in
an envelope...
    like carbonated water...
a gesticulation of imitating
fizzy, in terms of air...

     pure... magic...
so i did what no other drunk does,
walked down the street,
a ******* zig zag parade:
  
             /
            \
             /
            \
            /
           \

  or Z... x6...
            the linear aspect implying:
i paused, and admired...

              just a little rain,
and all the streets were empty...
what space...

by the way...
   is Budweiser truly the king of beers?
my local supermarket has started
selling
            asahi...
         well, technically liquid amber is
evening sun, not morning sun...
but seriously...
        Budweiser?
the, king, of beers?
   if they stopped milking the Chinese,
injecting rice fermentation...
then... maybe...
         Budweiser is the ******* beer...
yak ****...
         it's akin to the story of
of: pork because of bacon...
   bacon is crap...
       pig head and cranium terrine...
  or pork kabanossi...
         but i give the h'americans
bourbon...
god i can't resist...
   do all brothels "stink" of
Kentucky bourbon?

         every time i open a Kentucky bourbon
i am reminded of having visited
a brothel...
    and the kissing like
oral ***...
                      perfumes! perfumes!
perfumes!

   floral patterns on the lips
that pucker up to vines and needles
leaving them shut...

     **** me... even the *** beer has
a story, rather than a kingly stature
behind it...
   karakuchi...

or as one must summarize:
i got to the brothel for a hard-on,
i go to the cinema for the pseudo-acting...
your chiral female to example...
limp **** and i might as well
be eating ****...

          and then there's Californian Punk
of the 1990s...
           which?
does British politics even exist?
to make a punk mooo-v'eh-ment?
           i brought the cows,
but forgot the cow-bell
for Nazareth's hair of a dog...

     as we know it...
punk died in California in the 1990s...
punk ist tod...

come to think of it...
no one does blogging when testing
alcohol...
  ****... and it would be censored...
if someone should do a social media
type of critique,
getting off his *** when drinking
an asahi beer,
of a whyte & mackay whiskey...

      here's what it could look like...
in writing.
Ken Pepiton Jun 2019
If the writer is not the reader and the reader is not entered
(entertain-ed?) by the trial or trier
here in our phor of oroboronic

wheel spinning, our world of
entertaiment
contained,
be
coming to meet, um,
-phatics of sorts unheard,
ignored,
or unshown, un-

init-
iated unit-
ary, you,

become the
eleventh hour ***, none hired.
Apo

Unem, come work my field, *** my hard rows
no early helpers
weeded

Attention glitch... some signal intra fearal

No worry,
-- fear of god beginning wisdom boot code;

that connection
has been loose so long, missignaling
special and free,

a special sort of
crudescence has scabbed the short.
It's a brain fix.
You get a feel for it, the augments help,
Om as the
Axionic go, is tuned to absurdity. Listen.

Hear me, dragon-lizard-brain. We are a team. The team.
All the story stories tell of you and me. We unite.
We get our act together, and we
go mad, in the sight of all earthlings augmented to see
Youtube.

By my ab-surd-ifity, all our stories change. An unmatched wave.

-- forgive the footnote, but don't lie about what we both know is true:

absurd (adj.)"plainly illogical," 1550s,
from Middle French absurde (16c.),
from Latin absurdus "out of tune, discordant;"
figuratively "incongruous, foolish, silly, senseless,"
from ab- "off, away from,"
here perhaps an intensive prefix,
+ surdus "dull, deaf, mute," which is possibly
from an imitative PIE root meaning "to buzz, whisper"
(see susurration).
Thus the basic sense is perhaps "out of tune,"
but de Vaan writes,
"Since 'deaf' often has two semantic sides,
viz. 'who cannot hear' and 'who is not heard,' ab-surdus can be explained as 'which is unheard of' ..." The modern English
sense is the Latin figurative one,
perhaps "out of harmony with reason or propriety." Related: Absurdly; absurdness.
--
Screech, boomers know, finger nails on the chalkboard, the blackboard
jungle screech,
when teacher is takin' a smoke. Absurdity is entertainment.

It can make you think in whole new ways.
Or stop your believing of a lie

for long enough to see
a hope, no lie, a hope of something human
**** sapien sapiens augmental,
upright under Good and Evil,
sheltered from the storm.

A class, a level, a common value beyond Belief and Dignity and

dexterous sinister plots of points where clues were pinned,
yet you
overlooked the message, daze-led by the angels dancing.

Thales fell into this hole. He survived. It all ties in

The new -phatic word that started this stream ends it,
with our common
scream for meaning fullness apo-

apo-phatic mystery of sympathy,
bha, bha --

Paradox ortho
pedic augmentations, koan to mantra,
meditation on the word of words,
step to step to step logical
logos-centric reason, logo-istical rite to
evince a visible faith,
a virtue signal,
a mark, between the eyes,
an aim,
a point to spring a story from
upon an unsuspecting child averse to boos.

Trauma at a bubble pop. When all we know, dear
reader, is lost, and our bubble's edge sur
past our horizons,
we are mine-yoot, mispent attentions being

recycled, for goodness sake. Old lies twisting
into first fruits of the know
ing tree, ideas mani-fest
ing
ting, ding

Aha, my bubble of thought ala
funny papers in the old days where we met and laughed
together
in America, before we knew
earth from this distance
fifty years ago.

Wishbooks were real,
Whole Earth Catalog suppliers
sold me my nets, my hooks, and lines,

I learned the ways men have caught fish.
Wishing all the while for a way to live as earthlings live.
Guided by witty inventions, messengers
from the gods, eh.

Easter eggs, tucked away in retro games surfacing on Wall Street.

Who manages the messages released when the
first trump sounded?

That was me, as real, Asreal Kanbe, a walkon role.

I saw a third,
at least, of all the fish in the sea die,
in the duration of a single
short-span standard life. All seven trumps did sound, though,

they may be like lizards, we don't hear them well.

These seventy years of captivity
in the tales of my culture, my people and the ways they live in peace,

in the ways they resist war, sistere in peace with faith, the idea, the deed,

faith works in acting. True. Eh. Faith without action is dead.

Incandescentis onburnedupus, ****, dark. Switch on switch off
nada
dark dark faith sees nothing, ah so what, we muddle in puddles

and fail to portage for fear of surface I can't sticking to our
iron shod feet,
miry clay, heavy steps ******* the good news socks off
our beautiful feet,

see hear focus id - i dent ify the why, find the how-

thought change changes thinker, not thought.

Which of you can make one wire plus or minus by taking thought?
Taking anxious thought? Eh?
Fret not. Ohmmmmmmmm

my god, why the threats? Why must I fret for never making sense?

Dee ahna knowledge chan zen

consider the opposite, the shadow of turning, not doubt

preserve light and darkness little man
preserve sun and moon and stars

lose your wish to catch the Magic Fish.

But that is my wish, my wish for one more wish,
I wished to catch the fish

which taught the lessen to the fishher whose wife
could not be satisfied.

I wished for a source of all the answers ever found,

Ah. and I got this global brain that remembers ever,
though we know only now.
Never before,
has this been past that which men hoped for,
unseen.
Faith for the world to become as it now is,
is finished.
What a man sees, why does he hope for?

It worked. Self-evident, right. Same class as life and liberty.

Chickeneggical,
**** or ovoidal elliptical slices of life, those arrive for our

per-use-al, right or wrong. Like a Fabrege' egg:
You break it, you bought it. Life ain't fair. But it works.
Pick up the pieces.
They all still fit. None are missing. Some are broke,
but a soft touch can fix em.

You were always Humpty-Dumpty. This had to happen once.

Good side always shines, when
the rub has been dealt a shine-on signal for ever sake,
no reason,

just cause. A man can, even mad, be as happy
as he can imagine being,
at the time, all things considered, augmentasciously.

This was my oldest memory today, the future
shall come, and whatever
shall be, shall be, que sera sera.

How are you bored? This is earth. Even if you wish otherwise.

There are new things we may learn if we choose.

--apophatic (adj.)
"involving a mention of something one feigns to deny;
involving knowledge obtained by negation," 1850,
from Latinized form of Greek apophatikos,
from apophasis "denial, negation,"
from apophanai "to speak off,"
from apo "off, away from" (see apo-) + phanai "to speak,"
related to pheme "voice," from PIE root *bha- (2) "to speak, tell, say."

I would not call this meditation, sitting in the back garden.
Maybe I would call it eating light.
Mystical traditions recognize two kinds of practice:
apophatic mysticism, which is the dark surrender of Zen, the Via Negativa of John of the Cross, and
kataphatic mysticism, less well defined:
an openhearted surrender to the beauty of creation.

Maybe Francis of Assissi was, on the whole,
a kataphatic mystic,
as was Thérèse of Lisieux in her exuberant momemnts:
but the fact is, kataphatic mysticism has low status in religious circles.

Francis and Thérèse were made, really made,
any mother superior will let you know,
in the dark nights of their lives:
no more of this throwing off your clothes and singing songs and babbling about the shelter of God's arms

When I was twelve and had my first menstrual period,
my grandmother took me aside and said,
'Now your childhood is over.
You will never really be happy again.'
That is pretty much how some spiritual directors treat the transition from kataphatic to apophatic mysticism.

But, I'm sorry, I'm going to sit here every day the sun shines and eat this light. Hung in the bell of desire.” 
― Mary Rose O'Reilley, The Barn at the End of the World: The Apprenticeship of a Quaker, Buddhist Shepherd
Daring to let art be fun and philosophy be phuny, I laugh and romp in the remains of fallen walls between any curious mind and all the knowledge in the world, accessible as long as we both shall live.
Paul Butters Oct 2016
Let me introduce myself,
I’m Paul B.
P to the A to the U to the L to the B.
You say Paul,
I say B.
You say Paul,
I say…

I used to teach English, try to inspire.
Least you can say is, I was a trier.
Love this rapping: it gets my feet tapping,
Even though I ought to be napping.

I write poems like a word ejector,
Keep away you Grammar Inspector!
Jay-Z writes in iambic pentameters,
Making out he’s got no parameters.

Honey G just copies off him,
Oh my God she really is dim.
Does her rap like Barbara Windsor,
Do you remember Needles and Pins-ah?

Me I’m copying off them both,
Though it’s only for a laugh.
Whoops a daisy that don’t quite rhyme,
Another case of Butters Rhyme Crime.

Rap is ******* I often say,
Though it rhymes the poetic way.
That leaves me with one thing to say:
You say Paul,
I say…

Paul Butters

© PB 17\10\2016.
What can I say??? LOL Better explain - this was "inpired" by the UK X Factor comedy singing act Honey G here in sunny England.
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
there was an audience... there is still an audience...
i wonder about it...
i'm such a conservative deacon in the comments
that... i leave very little traces of interaction...
i tried getting ****** into the whole affair
of leaving comments - like i might have left
grafitti tags on the pillars of bridges...
                   there was an audience... there's still an
audience... i imagine...
or i rather: translate with metaphor what i'm:
trying to imagine...
              three moths have attempted to fly into
my room to spend the night free from fear...
i caught two in my hand... put the clenched hand
to my ear... no... not the sea trapped in a seashell...
close... sound effect of... rain on a tin roof...
a moth trapped in a cage of a hand...
it hasn't rained for days... weeks even...
       the most... bountiful of springs in england...
and everyone is... supposed to handle the affair
like the 2nd coming of ribonson crusoe...
          i can: because i'm used to it...
                    peacefully anti-social...
                     it's hardly bragging but:
there's an audience... there's always an audience...
here's to me: getting regularly milked...
or... laying some eggs with the sunrise and the moon...
i am... at a stage of maturing from...
a phase where... i did... once upon a time...
care about what i wrote... for my own gratification:
but... not any more...
         i've reached a point where...
i can join the ranks of the 4 Dada Suicides...
     'the four' (who) 'took nihilism of the movement
to its ultimate conclusion, their works are
the remnants of lives lived to the limit and then cast
aside with nonchalance and disdain'...
Vaché (overdosed)... Rigaut (shot himself)...
Cravan and Torma (disappeared)...
        the latter two... probably lived a life in
approximation to what might have happened
to... Richey Edwards...
born on...                  disappeared aged 27...
death is the last clue...
    not that i'm going to imitate what's already
claimed...
but... a mile from my home...
i can... find... ample resources... hemlock...
the stems are poisonous...
      i've tried... lilac mushrooms... dog mushrooms
they call them...
i don't know whether i ate a poisonous
one or not... it wasn't...
    a muhomor... amanita fly agaric...
           but... when the circuses have died and
the bread is still there...
no new movies... no sports...
what can beat: the old tease of mortality...
the grain-of-sand per month's worth of movement
added... to the tally and
the curriculum vitae of vivo per se...
                   the theatre of death...
     if i don't think about death with a joke...
i stop being... ridiculous in life...
                   i like the thought of death when...
life doesn't preserve any... sense of...
any... alternative... "light" entertainment...
it's not like i'm planning an escape...
rich and about to clone myself...
   and teach the clone "me" to be: a "future" - and me...
i almost can see how someone must
have tried to cheat death with the available
avenue of cloning...
but... the subservience of the clone...
the clone being what?
       someone must have learned the hard way...
i just interjected the question as an: and...
which is a conjunction...
          but if you're gonna go...
hell... seal a room and yourself in it...
and buy a... metaphorical tonne of lily of the valley...
go to sleep... and never wake up...
death... even death has to become entertaining:
in thinking terms - at the very least...
the only real eventuality among...
half a dozen of impossible things to think about...
daily... and here's that apple...
   if nietzsche... sentenced the source
and future disease from the 19th century...
well... so much for overcoming nihilism...
         nihilism... after all... is not... apathy...
   and even with the death of nihilism...
                              at least nihilism still asked
for moloch-esque sacrifices of will...
     apathy? what does this slug ask for?
it asks of you to... well... wrestle with yourself...
hence that "overlooked" quote:
if a day has many pockets...
       yes... those pockets of self-realisations that
provide a glitch of proof...
a proof of... having to find dominion in
settled dust... oh to hell with grand metaphors
of staging revolutions brought down
from mountain-tops!
- and i'm literally drinking my way through...
what 19th century nihilism became:
a 21st century apathy hangover...
      i'll spare the 20th century the rites of...
a mythical new beginning... a year 0...
        100 years give or take... each side of the end
of the 20th century...
but... nihilism is no longer... the standard:
to overcome...
             as much meaning can be derived from
a peanut as from a falling star...
to be this: subjective sanitiße everything -
                       i hardly think... a dickens would
require an objective reader...
what is an objective reader?
someone who studies: rather than reads...
newspapers...
someone who probably proofs reading...
by also ensuring citations are... made abundantly
clear... archives... etc.
well... better contemplating the theatre of death
than... say...
"normies":
    ahem... the critique of china...
       point: can you imagine... if... communism...
was thought-up... when...
the french revolution began? the only revolution?
rather than the russian oopsie?
well... and communism began...
when... engels and marx... went to the north
of england... and... prior to the manifesto...
wrote of the details of child-labour...
this is not my thing but...
it gets to the point where:
you can criticize china all you want...
but there's no smart... or dumb way...
to go about... pretending to be at war...
with a population of a billion people...
that... if push comes to shove...
could be conscripted instantly...
              to point out... is to exhaust the argument:
to have an argument for:
"western" principles of democracy...
here... have some balloons... here's a keg
of helium... 'ave fun...
by now... saudi arabia is secretly planning
a jihad into the Xinjiang province...
saudi arabia: the vatican of the islamic world...
is secretly trying to... blah blah...
no... the saudi princes are strapped to their yachts...
the bangladeshi slave labour blah blah...
yeah: but whittle ol' england needs
the Neds of Lahore and their tier up from
the chimney top: crescent moon-lick... slick...
- but to be this... fired up...
                it's simply exhausting to have:
a freedom of speech for such high demands...
not need to hide behind the ideals of love...
or being misunderstood...
             in no defence... but... under the guise
of that grand word: capitalism...
the sub- thorough: made in china...
                and what now? the jaw dropping
counter to the very delicate status quo?
it's beyond nihilism... when such upheld
values allowed for artistic rebellion...
to the moon: been there, done that..
europe the old man... h'america the newly
acquired *******...
       you want politico jargon ******* squeezes...
sure thing...
     stoic india... always the stoic india...
to **** off the competition - cheap soviet steel...
the soviet union's nuna 2, on 13 september 1959 -
in between: frank sinatra's:
fly me to the moon - 1963...
and thus... r.e.m.'s yeah yeah: 20 July 1969...
it's hard to compensate / compete with
that sort of a trojan hard-on ***** of
the elgin marbles...
                              at least the germanic peoples
played and understood the ping-pong
with the slavic peoples -
the hungarians on the side...
but not this... african trash for beijing...
the mongol capital of crimea...
and golden hoarding project: typo...
   when they came riding in... smeared
in **** and week old **** and horse blood...
to make... the labyrinth of the baghdad library...
a pyramid of skulls...
squeeze me: to this tired state of lost
the head to a guillotine chatter-box...
even the events of napster unfolding...
and all that's being streamed and...
now's the time to kiss and cuddle prostitutes...
and wet mr. whittle dicky for second
chances of a lost digestive... in that pond
of brew...
                easy fools to fool: those camel back
rich in dino-blood: soul black...
like espressos of mecca... flowing rich
and dying with a soothing...
from amnesia and diabetes...
and amputated limps when... sugar ingestion
leaves them... dancing ballet on only one foot...
because: porky pie and ms. amber: ha!
all bad!
                so much for... what's waiting
the white girl pornstars...
the liberated afro-h'americans and the service...
of beijing shrimp ****...
double edged sword... the height and...
all those attaches... of a fine... fine...
procelain piece of ***...
no-man's-land... the middle ground:
of... mercedez-benson-and-hedges...
        on my way out... the apache / sioux /
dodo / aztec / mayan / dodo (again) projects...

semi-closure...
   gary glitter - rock & roll part II
     ian watkins (of lostprophets) -
                      shinobi vs dragon ninja...
sorry... that one was a paedo...
              toddle-****** for the latter...
and it's not like... i enjoyed the music
to begin with...
i can't see an ad hominem argument
for the former...
                 toddler-******: esp. if the output...
well... it's not trash...
   it's: dad mantra... it's dad claustrophobia...
my take on:
mahler contra pergolesi....
            counter: invest in 100 years to come...
of which... you will...
find a future reader: being alive...
not having re(a)d you...
1986... the reader is born...
1997... you die...
you are discovered... come...
2K and 7... 8...... perhaps 9...
  a time-reference of...
         13 years from the readers birth to your
death... it's Glasgow... a very rare...
sunny... afternoon...
psychosis of the reader...
         1997 through to... 2008...
              that's 11 years... so...
what matters most is... how well you walk
through the fire...
that one about the crow and the madmen...
and each: having his niche:
his "social distancing" clause...
writing was fun when one could
stomach the: in the background...
when people lived their: very troublesome:
important... surgical precision...
nobel prize winning type / typo lives...
writing via a sense of voyeurism was...
well... hardly the self-evident blatant it has
become...
escape into fiction (lies you tell others)...
escape into imagination (choking ties of
tier-a: as above... with tier-b: as below)...
or escape into memory (lies you tell
yourself)...
but i rather the memory...
the cinema of it...
i forget to blink when: blinking is akin
to... signatures... autographs of famous people...
bull... shyte: philately...
         lepidopterology... half closure of the semi-
closure... a brilliant metaphor...
      when the **** or the latex gimp suits
are not available...
there's always that 14 year old "idea"...
of... a tamed *******...
well... if you imagine it as... love at first sight...
you're 16 she's 14... and...
you're dating her older sister at the time...
and then... she disappears...
within the confines of her first and last
unflowering...
but the pristine first-impressions become
less metaphor and more: idealism...
it's fun... when there's a concensus of it being:
forbidden... it's what drives both the hunger...
and the feeding...
that it's never actually realised is beside
the point: made... in... lars von trier's
nymphomaniac...
          too catholic of me: born into it...
but... repressing the urges... is as much as...
delighting oneself in them...
ergo: the necessary *******...
so much for... *****-******* and oyster
slurping... when... you have been...
ahem... told to **** it up...
with the: "excess of skin"...
excess of skin / chemical imbalance
in the brain...
how about... i allow... a triatoma infestans...
to quicken my: dementia...
the myth goes... along the lines...
a horse with a grain of sand...
via its ear... will bash and ram and ram and bash
its head against a brick wall:
in an attempt to rid itself of the irritation...
conformity:
cul de sac queers and kwerks...
i lampoon on a sunday...
the rest of the days i'm free...
clued into: cwown...
which is... somehoo: velsh... in parts...

- by death i imply a riddle...
                 by death i imply:
          freed from the cinema of highly edited
pseudo-living...
not even among the stage of the theatre...
but at least...
cinema got one thing right...
   the suicide of christine chubbuck -
the urban myth goes along the lines of:
a cockroach was found... alive... 2 weeks...
after its head was guillotined...
       it's like that... bane quote:
and... the andrei chikatilo... reality...
non-verbatim:
                 'perhaps he's wondering... why
someone would shoot a man...
before throwing him out of a plane'...
rephrasing:
   'perhaps he's wondering...
why someone would shoot a man...
after throwing him into a prison cell'...
unless... he wasn't... expecting...
to wait for him... to die... of a urban myth...
2 weeks if not more...
brain-dead: heart still pumpking...
horrors from Kiev... Chernobyll the *******
icing cream topping the gwand:
godzilla: pie in the sky...

     i cared... once... once... that was:
upon a time...
these times don't really require much focus...
the space itself poses enough
liberty... no need to look as far back
as there's to look forward...
     the 20th century killer: zenith...
****** and ferriswheel of events...
                waking up to the new mandarin
plateau... it's like...
waking up from... the refreshing cain
mythos relatability...
always from h'america...
otherwise... bullet to the head...
king soldier: human rights...
   yeah... nice... the shame of homeless people:
there's an alexander the great...
a a diogenes of synope: with a hippocratic
oath... loitering around the corner?
hell! go wit' the flou...
                 jump-start a prison adventure...
less... high morality ****-pants
asking questions on the way...
people of high morality
and high: low social status importance...
**** someone...
better than becoming philosophically
homeless... blah blah...
                         i'm so little i actually
define myself as:
at liberty to preserve the lives of moths...
yes... well that's nice...
for anyone asking to: ride the easy... roulette.
Marla May 2019
Former trier turned friar
Storming rage behind fryers
World of potential in the inner mental
Work ethic impeccable
Work conditions unethical
Nine hours no lunch or break
Better pump the brakes and pull stake
Time to get a slice of thine own pie
Reach nirvana prime and let the soul fly
Soar above money traps and get the bag
Lest your future gets clicky clacked
And your happiness capped
Spinning poverty’s vicious cycle
Grinning sharks made me their disciple
Life is trifling when your blood leaves
Heat stifling as the done deed
Has you on your knees begging
Lord have mercy please
Escape away from hate
And let love into your heart
Then and only then will you start
To understand the holy ghost
That is you
And the apostles that are your friends
Ride or die to the end
This ain’t no game of let’s pretend
It’s real life
Your one shot to drip and ball
So don’t let it slip by
Or you’ll fall before you walk, y'all.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.ah ****... i almost forgot... abdullah (the name of muhammad's father) - song: lucifer in starlight... another name you should know... in case some Islamic terrorists attack and ask you for the names of muhammad's wives... just mention... well... think of Stephen Vizinczey's novel - in praise of older women... then say the magic word: Khadija... who... being an older woman, kept the reins on the Batman (orphan)... she really did keep him in check, did all the accountancy... and was probably the person who wrote the first Surahs... given that... muhammad couldn't read jack-****! i, acknowledge the writing of the Quran to Khadija... for me... she's what overwhelms me to not succumb to the "******" Mary.

i found the cause of my "erectile dysfunction"
when i first visited a *******...
would you believe it?
        i was there for what i was paying for...
i can vaguely remember on instance
where my little Richard had more brains
than i had...
               ****** just would stand on point...
hindsight... actually, some jokes are
only funny with hindsight,
esp. the Donald Trump jokes back in...
whenever it was...
           but lil' richard was whispering:
don't **** this girl, she's trouble,
she's a nymphomaniac...
          which boils down to:
there's no delusion (i hope) with men
watching *******...
  yes, most of these men will not ****
the women, because the women are:
nymphomaniacs (just watch
the lars von trier movie)...
                    although no problem with
my first love...
the problem boils down to the Freudian
concept of: the madonna-***** complex...
it's not my "erectile dysfunction"...
why would i have no problem
with a *******, but when it comes
to the free woman of the west
i'm all: american woman by the guess who?
ah... now i remember...
talking...
   i remember the first time my first
love performed *******...
   just before engaging in the act...
she said the words:
     imagine what my daddy would think...
what?!
   i'm surprised i didn't get a limp ****...
honest to god...
    i remember how with a *******
you didn't need to talk,
there was not need to have little
bad boy, daddy's naughty girl insinuations...
just basic *******, like any animal might...
obviously culminating
in an onomatopoeia of what could
be words, in syllables of ******...
i've learned that:
                    the more talk there is during
***... it's like:
   the hugest turn-off...
  why bring God (in the beginning
there was the word, and the word was god)
into the church of Satan
      (i.e. ****** *******)?!
works just fine with prostitutes,
but when it comes to the free women
of the western world...
   problems arise...
                might as well turn around
and **** a goat or something...
  sorry... i don't need god to be present
when i ****...
                      he's far better off
in the synagogue of my thought,
away from my tongue that might will
to usher in a prayer,
just after performing floral exfoliation
or slurping down an oyster,
on a ****.

p.s. die sonne satan: dismal chant...
for the love of god,
i do not know where or how
i'll ever buy the copy of this album.
C J Baxter Nov 2014
I have a gun,
I keep it under my bed
and just for fun
I decided not to tell anyone

But it weighs heavy

Now when people
get under my skin I don’t begin
to unwind and
let my patience wear thin

I just think of my gun under my bed.
I think of a hole going straight through my head.

My Heads just a borrowed mess,
I’m just a high liar, dire trier
trying too much again.  
You see friends
in strangers but behaviours
vary, yes its very scary times indeed.

I took my gun
out for a walk or maybe he
took me for one
when the sky showed sun.

And it weighs heavy
Je vous envoye un bouquet que ma main
Vient de trier de ces fleurs épanies,
Qui ne les eust à ce vespre cuillies,
Cheutes à terre elles fussent demain.


Cela vous soit un exemple certain
Que vos beautés, bien qu'elles soient fleuries,
En peu de tems cherront toutes flétries,
Et comme fleurs, periront tout soudain.


Le tems s'en va, le tems s'en va, ma Dame,
Las ! le tems non, mais nous nous en allons,
Et tost serons estendus sous la lame :


Et des amours desquelles nous parlons,
Quand serons morts, n'en sera plus nouvelle :
Pour-ce aimés moy, ce-pendant qu'estes belle.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
only last night, having reach my fill of ms. amber bathing in a ginger ale jacuzzi - chasing a choir boy castrato cat waking me four times i had to utter in frustration (which i later noted): mortality is such an insufficient measure of things... i would be ****** if i didn't make a quick ode to Ovid's ****** poems... to truly appreciate performing oral *** on a woman? i suggest you first appreciate eating oysters... not oysters: no, having performed oral ***, looking at the moon in the quicksilver sheen to see your face all slobbered... an appreciation of eating oysters, is most certainly, a precursor to performing oral *** on a woman... beside:

wenn alles weisheit wurden zu kommen auf Indien -
if all wisdom were to come from India,

needless to say - these ancients still treat
greece as some sort of ongoing "experiment" -
that nothing, absolutely nothing:
is viable -
they might as well call it the still to progess
into a foundation state of affairs -
the west is seen as fickle -
a thought it not so much entrenched
and passed on, as it is made vogue one
generation - disappearing for some time:
before reappearing...

no proverbs ever came from the west:
nothing akin to:
besser ein spatz im ihr hand -
als ein taube auf ihr dach -
i just like how it sounds in german...
the original reads:
lepiej wróbel w ręce - niż gołąb na dachu
(better a sparrow in your hand,
than a dove upon your roof)...

legit. proverb: hold the simpler joys
in your hand, closest to you,
that look up and think that a dove
upon your roof will bring peace to
your household...

as long as everyone under the roof
has simple and "immediate" joys in hand
close to the heart...
peace is not tempted by spotting
a dove on your roof...

here's another one... and i was looking and
i was looking and i was looking
and i thought i couldn't find some,
some sort of alternative...
if only Ted Bundy went down this route...
then again... if he did...
he would have started jerking off
to fine art... the detail of the tongues,
the ***** and the ability to filter
out what is happening outside the erotica...
what?
i will drill this example in...
every, single, time:
Bronzino's venus, cupid, folly and time...

perhaps i am that old,
before free internet *******...
some of us had the ***** and the rose cheeks
to walk into a newsagent and pick
up a pornomag...

well... "*****" - more like...
sculptor's digest... or...
**** subject pages for that lesson
you'd love to take at school
where you could paint a ****...
oh hell: paint all the flowers in the world...
flower: covert: female genitals...
all the flowers in the world...
but not the torso and the mystery
of the bellybutton
nor the cow-sacks of Surabhi...
after all... they started multiplying in number
and you couldn't, after a while,
tell apart what it was about them...
peach on the front,
peach on the back...
and what would a hindu know of
the tetragrammaton?
when H... is a surd in their language?

i tried almost everything...
but upon my final discovery...
hell... it just started making sense...
glory-hole... the dreaded lesbian genre...
once in a brothel i was asked if
i wanted 2 hours with her,
or an hour with her and her friend,
i replied: i still don't know what i'm
going to do with you...
i don't live by the motto:
the world is divided into men
who have slept with two women
and a the men who haven't...

give me two legs of chicken...
i'll know what to do...
a woman can multitask...
after all... if a muslim gets 72 virgins...
a woman is guaranteed her
3 greyhounds... one for each 'ole!
'ere comes the charging bull...

der wesheit auf Indien:
nothing reflexive about it -
just enough to ease you into a mirror
of non-reflection:
i.e. something to destroy the self
with and incorporate -
a billionth part of yourself...
wisdom worthy of meditation -
but not exactly stretching
into a labyrinth of thought -
call it all you like:
clumsy thinking,
spaghetti alleys and cul de sacs,
the labyrinth -
why complicate life, which is already
complicated, by complicating thought?
after all: what is thought?
the first question of the θ-moral?
the th'ought i?

oh don't get me wrong...
that an elephant shouldn't exactly pair
up to a rabbit in the kama sutra:
spot on...

even i became tired of the meat-market...
after a while i just felt like a butcher
looking at cuts of meat...
cam-girls: i don't remember paying...
the genres... god... i probably looked
at 5 in total...
hello exotica... ebony...
glory-hole... ****...
the horrid affair of the extremes -
lars von trier nymphomaniac
confessions type of genres...
hell... i even tried ******...
but still: the meat-market...

well no point looking for alternatives
in the islamic world...
unless you are really ***** for
eyes in the kneeling position
while looking to and from the heavens
of a catholic confessional booth...

some variant of softcore ****:
latex whole body suits...
girls in gimp suits with a zipper
for a genital opening...

but still the meat market...
****? only to laugh at the farts...
but still... the meat-market...
and still the all pervading sense of voyeurism!
that's not enough, it wasn't enough to begin with,
then i'd come across articles
in legit. newspapers (the times)
about how women tend to watch
more violent *******...

for a while i entertained the no-man's land
affair with girls ******* videos...
**** became a little bit weird
when i turned that upside down
and focused on: pregnant women
*******...
and... i just borrowed something from
a 1976 novel by Michael Crichton:
eaters of the dead -
better known as the Wendol in the film
the 13th warrior -
where the diety was a pregnant woman...
i played into that fantasy...
which coincided with the time
i ****** off ******* for 2 hours
and imagined:
well... i guess... ******* are off limits
to men when a woman has a baby...
and she's actually breastfeeding...
i couldn't imagine this fantasy to live
beyond that date of conception
through to having finished breastfeeding
a child... but... for a while...
i gave careful attention...
to what it would be like...
with a lactating woman...

that was the zenith of my exploration...
eh... *** parties? filmed in those shabby
intz intz horrid dance music scenes?
n'ah... i wanted something more...
more... archetypical...
something teasing the forbidden...
but not forbidden as such...
something akin to:
having to convince her to **** while
on her period, in a bath,
wearing a ******: to ease, the, cramps!

ugh... czech house party *** scenes...
or those scenes from prague,
the inverted glory-holes...
what you see are cubicles
of women's legs sticking out...
again:
too much imagination already given...
none of this was akin to
Bronzino's venus, cupid, folly and time...
everything was moving,
i was nothing more than a ******,
always the 5th wheel of the wagon...
somehow, yeah, "somehow" necessary...
even if a woman was ******* 3 at the same time,
there was the fourth... watching...
via the 5th one: filming...

hyper-geometry of a triangle...

what was essentially missing?
accents of eroticism - subtlety -
to have an image in your mind - quiet static -
and to allow your imagination to seep in...
all the other western alternatives
were nothing but meat-markets / slaughterhouses...
none of your imagination could seep in...
not even with the first pornomags
of my teen years...
protruding ******* like the eyes
of judge doom from: who framed roget rabbit...
which always begged the question...
very much akin to the question
posed by Milan Kundera in:
the unbearable lightness of being...
**** with your eyes closed...
or your eyes open?

the sensuality of worms and all those
murky beings: primordial *** -
eyes closed -

      eyes open? the seemingly anti-sensual
inconvenience of mammalian
reproduction - with no pain upon giving
birth: what pleasure upon reaching an ******?
asked the wind of a savannah to its inhabitants.

Islam still wasn't helping -
i could never understand how a woman's eyes
were the most ****** aspect of a woman's body...
perhaps her hands...
well if you have hands like i have...
what you have in your pants isn't exactly
an ego-trip... you're holding a sparrow...
she's holding a bulging ribcage of an albatros!
you can hold a basketball with one hand...
and she is... a knuckle short of your four...
why wouldn't a woman's hands be the most
****** aspect of her body...
after all... a non-discriminatory plateau:
all are the hands of a a geisha...

geisha... islamic eroticism still isn't working...
hair... hair...
a lot of people complain if they have
a fly / a hair in their soup when served
in a restaurant... jokes on me...
i have a beard and the hairs of the beard
are the same consistency of ***** hair...
so i basically have ***** on my face...
ha ha...
why hair? what's so ****** about hair?
what if i tell you that as women age...
almost all of them decide for the pixie girl look -
and what if i told you that...
ifindwomenwithshorthairintheiryouththezenithoferotica?
ag­ain... islam isn't helping...


.a thing of genuine beauty, is always predicated upon transcendent value of inquiry... to transcend the common, daily, human squabbles... it becomes areligous... while daily human squabbles continue, what has been lost, is an item of transcendence, it was never to be a focus of some "parasitical" sycophancy of tourism... there's nothing to be celebrated, and... nothing much to be awed by either.

well, what did the ottoman turks
do to the hagia sophia?
they converted it,
but they weren't philistines
to the point,
   or say, a bunch rabid mongols
from the 13th century
in Bagdad...
                      like:
                     and why didn't
the nazis not destroy certain valuable
cultural cruxes?
   that picture of st. paul's cathedral
during the blitz...
  yes, the english might think
it was a symbol of defiance...
but i'm pretty ******* sure
that if one luftwaffe bomber dropped
something on st. paul's,
they'd return home and be
shot by a firing squad...
            they might have been
nazis... but they weren't philistines...
even the ottomans...
süleymaniye was so jealous
of the byzantine building
that he had to commission the construction
of a building to match-up
to the hagia sophia in some
way...
           again:
                  prank call buddha...
tell him they're also
tearing down idols in northern europe
with their phallus cult
           of the large wooden
***** carved from a tree.
what's that?        you yell'ah?
i mean: in the heyday
   of scandinavian black metal...
varg vikernes... 'nuf' said.

_________
a
OnwardFlame Dec 2014
My neck feels different
And I guess I have to admit,
Sometimes I ******* write for the internet.
I can’t find that big white skirt, but my mother takes
Photographs of me in a bikini
Get me off the payroll, I say.

When your phone goes straight to voicemail
I worry every time—what if thats it?
What if he just disappears?
What if I find myself running into him someday, too
At a bar
Avoiding eye contact, side by side
I pour numerous shots down my throat
Can’t deal with it
Finally the childhood lovers see one another
You walked up to me, your southern dialect so thick
Hug, wrap yourself on me
“What happened? What happened?”
Please don’t make me ever ask that, not again.

Threats of my future being stolen away
But I try to cover ground
So tired of staring at my computer screen
And I guilt trip myself for things I did or didn’t do
No $50 for you, papa doesn’t want it
And I write and speak about the most personal things
Why ***** everywhere?

And I can feel myself getting to that point
Where the South starts to grow stale
But I know I have so much more to do
To see, be,
Before I leave
But God, I just long to be with you
We could forget ourselves, in each other
You and I.
But you have to leave
Me.

And I will leave, everything.
Because right now, I always leave
Long Eyelashes: I ponder you sometimes,
See images of the sweet messages you sent here and there
But its not enough, no
Its not enough.
You will never be enough.
And I know it.

But why stab my long fingers into what is right now
Why kick in every fleeting moment
Might as well hover here in the air, Doc
Even if I put on my best smile—as your girlfriend turns her back,
You look at me like you could just eat me up.

These men that come in and out
My mother’s best friend told me wisely tonight
That we as women, we just
We just
In one way or another, we let it happen
We don’t know why its that way
You don’t know
I don’t know.
But I know now that if anyone really tried to knock me around
Or regularly talked to me like I was some object
I would leave them
With a ****** mouth.

Kisses in the grass, my granny said the other day
A solider was so happy to be back from Afghanistan
He “could kiss the grass”
There is just something about the South
And something about the North
Lars Von Trier makes controversial films
But thank God for the art and something to discuss.

Cover me in your intelligent thoughts
Lets decipher what it is I am contemplating or feeling
I wish you didn’t have to go.
Betrayer, I see you no where in sight
The truth is that I have never been so full of shine and armor.

Close the eyes
Close the eyes for now
For tomorrow will be lighter, perhaps.
Aa Harvey Jul 2019
Bee-ing rejected


The path to love is a long and winding road
And the road is in 3D when you fly through the air.
You can bee left behind so many times,
That you think that it will never go right,
Until you make it there.
There are so many ups with love,
But without love you are only ever let down.


Humble was no different, he wanted to bee loved like everybody else,
But sometimes it doesn’t matter how many times you try,
You always end up at the end of the night going home by yourself.
Humble was a trier, he would ask out every bee that he liked,
But try as he might and as much as he would have liked,
It seemed nobody would ever love him
And he was alone most of the time.
He had been rejected so many times that he decided to make a list.
The first one said this; the second one that
And this is the story of Humble B. Bumble and his love-life…
Ain’t it sad?


You’re always crying, boohoo.
You’re too happy; I am nothing like you.
You are just like me, because I like nothing about me.
We don’t think the same; you’re not fun, you’re a pain.
You are annoying me, buzz away little bee;
You have my sympathy, but you will never bee with me.
You’re too quiet, you talk too much.
You’re too weak, you’re not tough.
You’re too slow to make a move;
You’re too fast with your response to bee telling the truth.
Your clothes are bad; your hair is bad.
You’re far too sad to bee a bad boy.
You’re just having a laugh, you’re never serious;
You must bee delirious.
You’ve not cool, don’t bee a fool.
You’re too nice; you’re not nice enough.
You’re too far below me, you are not heading up.
You’re not ambitious, nor smart,
You’re never victorious and you are no work of art.
You can’t sing or dance; you wear the wrong kind of pants, no bling.
You live with your ‘rents, but you don’t pay rent.
You have no honey, I like honeys.
You ain’t funny; you are far beneath me.
You’re not pretty, you’re too silly.
You have no style, you are not unique
And you don’t have a perfect smile, ugly bee.
You think you are great, you’re always late,
I don’t like your face; we’re just mates.
I like him, you will never win.
You are such a loser; who is gonna choose ya?


So many times Humble searched for love
And when it was good it was really good!
But when it was sad, it was real love, I guess;
We will never know…
Do you think Humble will ever bee truly loved?...


(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Born May 5, 1818, in Trier Germany
     to Heinrich and Henrietta Marx,
sans the third of nine children
     (and second oldest heir)

     Karl Marx thinking begot incendiary sparks,
asper his two most controversial publications
     titled The Communist Manifesto,
     and Das Kapital

which political philosophy
     incubating seeds of self destruction didst birth
doctrines of class struggle,
     historical materialism, dearth

of equitable wealth, and inherent
     contradictions of industrial capital
     distributed unevenly
     across avast swath of Earth

thus inviting his perspective
     (conveniently exploited,
     mined, and usurped) advocating
     the working class (proletariat)

     to expedite organized revolutionary action
to topple capitalism and bring about
     socio-economic emancipation,
where wages of sin exchanged for labor bled

fingers to the bone life source, viz proletariat
     till slaving laborer nearly became gratefully dead  
despite being cased in 12 point
     Times New Roman garb, who incessantly fed

insatiably maws of production,
     (no way to get a supportive talking head)
particularly highlighted
     within schema of Capitalism),

     a predominant paradigm
     stratifying society led
to internal tensions engendered
     between bourgeoisie red

dilly controlling means
     of production codified as said
as die a critical approach Marx coined
     as historical materialism,

    where figurative landmines forced one to tread
gingerly, thus above stated philosophy
     would supposedly lead down the road
     where self destruction wrought marriage
     birthing Socialism offspring from shot gun wed

     ding, thus coaxing eventual establishment
of classless communist society meant
to establish free association of producers who spent
exchanging merchandise amidst classless
     campy population hood pitched a tent.
C J Baxter Dec 2014
Heller told me I could live forever
                                 or die trying.  
Despot told me I could be rich
or try dying.  

Life’s a lie but it’s when you try
and pursue truth that you fly the coop.  

But what do I know eh?

My head is just a borrowed mess
And I’m just a high liar, dire trier
                tried too much again.

All my friends are strangers
who’s behaviours vary,
scary times indeed, indeed.  

I’ll pick apart their heads and feed,
and I’ll  be there for them when they need.  
I’ll quench my thirst upon their tears
although its bitter in its taste.
I’ll force them to face their filth and fears,
and alongside them I will waste.

This world is lonely if it’s only you.

For we’re all just spinning madly off
and I’d gladly stop if someone else would.
Our problems are reversed- no **** for a ***.
Our tongues and wit are dim lit and crude.

Stop stopping me from stopping things from starting!
Thomas clark Mar 2016
I joined hello poetry
About a month or two ago
I thought I might be good
But I really did,nt know

But I read poems by some members
And I had to think again
Some of them were brilliant
And used a golden pen

It,s filled with bards
With Shakespearean skill
I,d love to write like them
Maybe one day I will

Some already published
And a lot of them should be
And amongst the literary geniuses
Sits little old me

Writing my own poetry
That simply don,t compare
But they say god loves a trier
So I put my work out there

Maybe if I,m lucky
One or two might take a look
But I know in self confession
It will never make a book

So to everybody out there
Who does amuse and entertain
And gives me inspiration and the courage
To try and try again

I humbly kneel before you all
With my plastic ball point pen
A mere literary beginner
A fool amongst learned men
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
.in the back of my mind...
           gyöngyhajú lány -
                  the huns have finally
succumbed to the "pastor's"
                   castrato harem of the choir?!
wow!
                but i will still have
to "steal" from shakespeare's take
on macbeth, in pig latin...
    by... someone known as apemantus...
what other worth is there beside
citing macbeth?
  thus and the prayer:

              hell... let's give it a spin,
english, latin, scottish gaelic...

  immortal gods, i crave no self;
i pray for no man, but myself.
grant i may never prove so fond,
   to trust man on his oath or bond;
or a harlot for her weeping;
or a dog that seems a-sleeping;
or a keeper with my freedom;
or my friends, if i should need'em.
amen. so fall to 't:
rich men sin, and i eat root.

     immortalem superi, ego rogo nullus sese;
ego tandem enim nullus ****,
sed memet.
     tribuo ego licet numquam
demonstro sic amans,
     ut confido **** super
          suus sacramentum vel vinculum;
   uel scortum quia sua ploratus;
ut canis quod videor soporatus;
ut custor *** mea libertas;
ut mea amici, si ego postulo illis.
amen. ita cado to id:
    **** dives peccare,
                ut ego pappo radix.

again, this is pig latin...
the gaelic version will not be much
better...
                       who the hell can even envision
speaking ancient latin,
without succumbing to modern
english grammar? so much for the
current gaelic...

neo-bhàsmhor diathan, mi miann chan eil fèin;
mi ùrnaigh airson chan eil duine,
                       ach mi fhìn.
tabhartas mi a'chèit(ean) a-chaoidh
                          tha measail,
    gu earbsa duine air an bòid no bann;
no ah clàrsach airson í    a ’caoineadh;
no ah cù sin a ’chadal;
    no ah neach-glèidhidh còmhla ris
                                  mo saorsa;
no mo caraidean, ma tha mi bu chòir
                                            feum air iad.
amen. tha tuiteam gu e:
    beairt fir (sin), agus mi ith freumh.


i really don't see the "problem",
with, the, "problem"
containing itself...
          there's a *******
concern...
  but the paedophiles are
self-reforming?
  so... there's a problem?
               oh sure sure....
there's a problem...
gay pride parades...
      to "me": that's a real *******
problem...
          gas the jews...
casanova just ate a rat...
what's your problem,
*****?!
         the eternal law of man...
ever see a former
convicted paedophiles
get kicked in the face,
and take it,
                like a hulk brute?
**** happens:
at least the heritage
of the slave trade /
the holocaust survivors
also learned...
god will take it,
he made gravity
a jurisprudence stasis...
because he knew...
man, for all the jurisprudnce
worth? not worth that
much...
                "sorry"...
i'm not defending,
but i get them...
when grown women become
so nauseating,
limitating, so... "off-limits"...
you know what
a male mating pig's name
is in a porky harem
in poland?
        knur / knout...
that word alone lets me
to remember ******...
          gg... ******: swim...
down the deep-end...
             you were gagging for
this to become apparent,
this enforced egg-shell
walk *******...
      and i was called vermin...
and there came the mongol,
the **** and the communist...
now i'm watching
these bulging african hulks
and i'm looking at my body...
and... there really isn't
much to think of!
             pressing the right buttons...
i like that, now i get to press
the "wrong" buttons
on behalf of me...
      come on...
kinh john of england
wed a bride aged...
   isabella of angoulême
                 (lem) no "extra" e...
there's the ian watkins
example...
         of the lostprophets...
no baby-****** is
given you the jitters
when it comes to teenage girls...
i'm sorry...
     i remember being a teenager...
what's wrong with
teenager sexuality?
there's something wrong with
it?
    oh... there was always
something wrong with it...
sexuality matures,
legally...
when a woman reaches
her prime age
of 40, and she's crazy not having
frozen her ovaries...
wow!
             no, really, wow!
she's not a baby,
she's in her teens...
talk about an elevated
stance on m.g.m.
(male genital mutilation)...
it's like:
harem, ******, strap-ons
are not enough!
the mere thought is evil!
some more pharmacological
revisionists actions, yes?
so the simple process
of castration won't help?
we'll need the pharmacological
amnesia procedure?
cool cool!
         sign me up...
i already have a hard-on
for the experiment...
  if these people want to see
a baboon in a cage
riddled by haemorrhoids...
sign me up
for this "judo chop" sat on.

see... i see a big difference
when it comes to honesty
and outright shaming...
   when someone says they have
these kind of urges,
but is nontheless able
to suppress them?
       that's a ******* diamond...
that's worth keeping...
  i like this sort of honesty...
what i don't like is scheming
and shaming these unique
examples...

             between male to male...
it's the one resort's worth of
a cognitive ****** that serves
its purpose...
again... how old was
isabella of angoulême
when she was wedded to
king john of england?

          plus... all the teens look alike...
maybe that's the problems
facing these *******
reasoning type inhibitors of
the urge...

     mind you...
   lars von trier's take on
paedophilia in nymphomaniac...
at least some had
the ***** to commit
             to the deviant taboo...
but all the children look alike...
    what is it?
the fetish for "everything"
looking alike?
     generic fetish?

to reiterate:            

in the end...
     like all babies...
they just have the faces
of clones...
           non-distinguishable...

the difference between me
and your common folk...
well...
   kicking someone in the head...
on parole...
for distributing leaflets
in a new employment...
    whatever they did...
i suppose
the guillotine would be
a more humane eventuality
to provide justice on the part
of the victim...

       sexuality is odd...
to make homosexuality norm...
but paedophilia a taboo...
  feels like "someone" is being
excluded...
can't exactly make one
the norm and leave the other
one in the tribunal
of the nomads;
                          how is it fair?

in no desence,
   but i gather: what i have written,
will never reach the pop
majority that is usually associated
with a pop backlash,
just like: psychology made philosophy
popular in the 19th century,
by shortening it,
by sticking to schematic explanations...
like this,
   this will not reach the regurgitators
of pop culture, those twitter
sycophancy *****...
        unless, i'm, dead!
            i'll be left with drying
my jeans on the bed, with a cat sleeping
on the same bed i've decided to treat
as a rack...
      even now...
              try reading a Marcel Proust
2 vol. edition...
                    go to the gym, bro.,
       believe me: go to the gym, bro.
              
me? i love it...
it's like i can put on a godhead of either
rat or a fox, and manoeuvre my way
past all these jimmy... ****...
all these jeremy clarksons...
    and jeremy kyles...
                         another whiskey bottle
for me, another obscure prog rock album...
another night...
         and the world can just pass
me by, while i return to enjoying
skipping onto a double-decker from romford
to stratford, through to oxford st.,

some bad latin, even worse scottish gaelic...
these days you're not even famous
for 15 minutes, as, according to the andy warhol
prediction...
no one is famous these days,
not even for 15 minutes...
             the 15 minute window is over...
now? if you want to be "famous"...
sorry...
             infamy doesn't work
in 15 minute slots...
      when you're "famous" these days?
you're infamous forever...
         these days any publicity:
is bad publicity...
           i'll curse the day when i become
relevant to a large enough
number of people...
      that's the day i will learn
that i have lost the respect of the few
i managed to enthral.
Aa Harvey Dec 2018
Shopping bags


In a concrete building, there lives a man.
He has not moved in many days.
There comes a knocking upon his door,
And he returns to his reality once again.
He has been floating in a land of clouds,
Speaking with his creator,
But now a knock, knock, knocking upon his door,
Has brought him back to being, a doorman with an answer.


Through the door there stands a woman,
She has appeared from the floor below.
She is standing upright, still hopeful lips pursed together,
It is time for him to let her know.


At the main entrance there is a knock, knocking upon the door.
The guard gets to his aching feet, his walking stick no aid at all.
This is no age for him to be working,
But he has to pay for his dangerous drinking.
He hides a bottle of whiskey behind the counter,
As the bells inside his heart and mind are still ringing.
He opens the door, as the winter blows in,
Sending shivers down his spine;
This bouncer has long ago stopped all his fighting.
He looks at an angry man in his twenties;
This is no time to be staring at your prime.
He offers the man no help at all,
And sends him away with a sorrowful reply.


The children run throughout the hallways,
To the discontent of Mavis Davis.
She has not been able to sleep this week,
Due to the couple next door and their new born baby.
The sound is soon gone, the children rush by,
The baby is fast asleep, and now unfortunately so is Mavis Davis.


Her friend will find her when she remembers to visit,
But her friend has not visited this place in so long, the liar.
The last time she saw Mavis, was when they sang together in the choir.
Nobody has the heart to tell her the truth,
That behind her back they call her ‘The Trier’.
One day I read their story in the local news.
Upon her door there still hangs a flier.


I live in a home without a number.
The floor I use is not relevant.
This cul de sac which has drained all its wonder,
Has never been Heaven sent;
But there are artists and poets in residence,
They all speak of changing their lives.
They paint their pictures of a better time,
They write stories of better lives.
Only their diaries tell the truth,
And they are all kept hidden from view.
After each full stop they seek a review,
But I cannot always glue them to an answer of truth,
Because I would always disappoint their fragile ego’s;
They need to be needed, whilst I need them to go.


I turn the key and hide away my manuscripts;
The books I no longer show.
Once upon a stormy night, I allowed the world to see my soul,
And all the pens became broken, paint brushes were all snapped in two.
Now I exist in a higher rise building and I always feel too low.


The lifts are never working here, up or down is unpredictable.
Nobody can plan a future here,
Sometimes when Alice returns home from school,
There is no food waiting for her on the kitchen table.
Her Grandmother recently passed, so Alice has no more fables.
Her Mother arrives home late too exhausted to even speak.
Alice rifles through the shopping bags, so desperate to eat.
Her Father arrives home later with a rumble in his tummy,
And as he walks in and smells the hot cooking food,
He says “That smells yummy honey.”


The caretaker lives in the basement.
His wife passed on, so many years.
The engineers are called to look at the lifts again,
Without the oil to turn the gears.
They say they will return tomorrow,
But tomorrow becomes Wednesday.
As the ambulance arrives half an hour too late,
Mavis’ friend kneels down in sorrow,
Her life so left in a sorry state.


A heart attack on the Fifteenth floor;
A friend in need, a Good Samaritan called.
The desperation of the voice,
Could be heard loud and clear through paper thin walls.


Knock, knock, knocking on the door.
There comes a knock, knock, knocking upon the door.


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Who was it said?
"who was it said"
and when was it said
do you know?

Questions have been raised
since the days when days
were counted in Moons,
monsoons ago.

You might know who I am,
a trier?
take a rain check
I'm a train wreck

I know who I am.

But who was L.B.J ?
and where was he when
the flags burned that day ?

Turning away because we
subconsciously do it
don't want to see it
or
hear it,
we fear it

a natural response
a human resource.

Another walkabout around the roundabout
to end up in the place I began

you might know who I am,

I am a universe in the mind of
each man
a star cluster
a storm chaser that races through
rain clouds

a train wreck of a man on a stretcher
stretching his neck to see
beyond the beyond.
Farook Suyarov Jun 2017
Don’t blame me for i have no command of words.
They fell upon my head on a thoughtfall
and i caught what i could.
and i ducked a lot,
otherwise they could have crushed me.
i am not a good poet
and no good a writer,
but a hell of a shambolic trier.
sorry for the wind in my head,
i am just a residue of what the storm has left.
John Bartholomew Jul 2018
I started out with nothing,
just a million bucks and flying **** attitude,
a family business already in the run, rents in Manhattan to the man on the street, dude

A degree in economics to taking over Ms World,
every real man’s fascination,
hey, let’s give it a name, something catchy, yeah,
The Trump Organization

For Trump is a name, a brand,
such fame and is never to be forgotten,
he’ll have it sewn into golfers clothes, courses around the world, even up in wee bonnie Scotland

Women from around the globe,
Ivana to Marla now married to the stunning Melania Knauss,
sure she knows his real views buts prefers the money when being this intransigent fools spouse

The telly roles came flooding in,
from Zoolander down to his own The Apprentice,
America’s branded self-made billionaire,
oh what a little lie that really is

Time to move on with a business
that was now becoming a bit of a bore,
only one step left to take,
US President now mostly hated to the core

His views on foreign aid and the Mexicans infuriating all
keep them out, they’re stealing our Yankee jobs,
so let’s build a big ******* wall

Who else is going to sweep the floors,
wash the cars and keep the lousy jobs afloat,
the American economy is built on these,
can’t see Chad or Hank jumping into this boat

He continues to rock the boat everywhere he goes,
wiping dandruff from Emmanuel Macron shoulder to upsetting those he doesn’t even know

Kim Jon-un and the whole of North Korea,
he took on the Rocket Man,
now they’re are best mates, he stopped World War 3,
hell they even shared a beer can!

So how long can this last before the mask slowly drops and his plans are scuppered by all,
the pensioners and the hillbilly’s all took they’re vote,
a Republican who wants a world wide brawl

For this is the land of the brave and the free,
a vision well received way back in the fifties,
but times they have changed and the world's a bigger place,
still in by 2020?

But the world loves a trier,
God knows this is true but one with a better plan,
for some of his policies have hit the spot but dare we leave this world in his hands

Yes he is funny, almost comedic in parts,
but trust him to pull this thing through?
his policies are stubborn, childish in truth, for he sees it as this,

I can so I do

JJB
‘I have tremendous respect for women’ - Donald Trump

“An ‘extremely credible source’ has called my office and told me that Barack Obama’s birth certificate is a fraud” - Donald Trump

“Ariana Huffington is unattractive, both inside and out. I fully understand why her former husband left her for a man – he made a good decision.” – Donald Trump

“I will build a great wall – and nobody builds walls better than me, believe me – and I’ll build them very inexpensively. I will build a great, great wall on our southern border, and I will make Mexico pay for that wall. Mark my words.”  - Donald Trump

This man effectively runs our world - John Bartholomew
Laura P Apr 2020
Normal is just a setting on the dryer.

There’s only so close to the edge you can stand until you fall off.
There’s only so much you can conceal with a smoke, a shrug, and a cough.

But if there's a god, he sure loves a trier.
Evidence O N Jun 2019
I sat in the bowls of sadness
Racking the days back
Which appeared bitterly delicious
All was the melodious track

Of tragedies playing diminuendo
This has been a trier of cricket
That left its crevice
For a flagrant journey

In a beautiful thorn roads
In a laughing still ocean
A journey that brakes
The darkest still night

In between the land and sea
Seas with fanning gills of catfish
And roads crowded by ugly crocodiles
Betwixt light and covetous darkness
Sonnet.


Nous avons oublié combien la terre est dure :
Au pas lent de nos bœufs le fer tranchant du soc
L'entame en retournant le chaume et la verdure,
La divise, et soulève un gros et large bloc.

Ce labeur dont les mains saignaient, le fer l'endure.
Plus souple que l'ormeau, plus ferme que le roc,
Il tient sans trahison tant que sa tâche dure.
Patient sous l'effort, inaltérable au choc.

Ô vous tous, bienfaiteurs par amour ou génie,
De tous les temps, de race ou maudite ou bénie,
Sans choix je vous salue, et, si j'osais trier,

J'admirerais surtout les nouveaux qu'on renomme,
Mais je proclamerais premier sauveur de l'homme
Tubalcaïn, l'enfant du premier meurtrier !
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
/                                  only america is
                    proud of its problems...
                     but also not really
                       apologetic about them...

staggering,
that nietzsche discounted
even the most remote
chance of its (i.e. american's)
existence in his writing,

falling back on stendhal

it's not even that it's "wrong"
(beyond good and evil) -
it's just....
              a ****** ingenius
curiosity -

   like that HBO american history
series (sorry, youtube clippings)
starring paul giamatti as
                          john adams...

immaculate acting - throughout -
most notably -
   ahem, a question
to the roman catholic schooling
of children in essex:

   why is it always about henry - the
fuckig could have had a harem,
but couldn't bother employing
castrato of permitting ******
while i was spent from ******* one,
but unable to **** the other - the VIII,

and not george III?!
   a far more interesting character...
from that HBO series,
in that one scene alone,
   when john adams walks into
the king's room...
     the king's not sitting on the throne,
he's standing beside it...

              the level of mad genius
on behalf of george III is like:
   one chimp allowed another chimp
take a **** into its gob
and the third's mouth gob dropped
in awe...

    why was it always about henry VIII?
fair enough, edward the confessor...
but why not george III?
                      i guess i have to hone
in on him, while i binge on
  american political commentary:
since the british political "thing" -
           it's not exactly working -

politics is taboo in taverns across
this, ahem, glorious land of: foo! elgar?!
           no political talk:
taboo...
      but ***** ***, **** and
guillotines *****? fine fine...
                if homosexuality is a-o.k.
here, then it's the norm...
     so why is paedophilia suddenly
the next threshold?

   it's like watching the logic of
lars von trier eating his own tongue
while watching nymphomaniac
in reverse...

and, having personally seen
  a "reformed" ******* walk down
the street, pushing leaflets
for some obscure entity of
employment -
      while seeing him getting
kicked in the face by one
"bad ***" vigilante with internet
access...

                by then:
death seems like a relief -
              a one time "veto" -
                      where - nothing could
possibly go wrong.
regarding birthday anniversary
wicked candle box event burns bright
for Karl Marx,
who amazingly graced,
and kindled pinterest
jumpstarting money fest destiny.

Born May 5, 1818, in Trier Germany
to Heinrich and Henrietta Marx,
sans the third of nine children
(and second oldest heir)
Karl Marx thinking begot incendiary sparks,
asper his two most controversial publications
titled The Communist Manifesto,
and Das Kapital,

which political philosophy
incubating seeds of life
of self destruction didst birth
doctrines of class struggle,
historical materialism, dearth
of equitable wealth, and inherent
contradictions of industrial capital
distributed unevenly
across avast swath of Earth
thus inviting his perspective
(conveniently exploited,

mined, and usurped) advocating
the working class (proletariat)
to expedite organized revolutionary action
to topple capitalism and bring about
socio-economic emancipation,
where wages of sin
exchanged for labor bled
fingers to the bone life source, viz proletariat
till slaving laborer nearly
became gratefully dead

despite being encased in 12 point
Times New Roman garb,
who incessantly fed
insatiably maws of production,
(no way to get a supportive talking head)
particularly highlighted
within schema of Capitalism),
a predominant paradigm
stratifying society led
to internal tensions engendered
between bourgeoisie red

dilly controlling means
of production codified as said
as die a critical approach Marx coined
as historical materialism,
where figurative landmines
forced one to tread
gingerly, thus above stated philosophy
would supposedly lead down the road
where self destruction wrought marriage
birthing Socialism offspring
from shotgun wedding,

thus coaxing eventual establishment
to house scholar and gent
of classless communist society meant
to establish free association
of Indie producers who spent
exchanging merchandise amidst classless
campy population hood pitched a tent.
Qualyxian Quest Nov 2019
Emily:  in the light of her own fire
Gilbert:  weary, weary is the world
               but here the world's desire
Me: a counterpuncher, a letter sender,
        a middle school teacher, a friend,
                    above all: a trier
Ryan O'Leary Dec 2018
Will 2019 be just as
grievous, or can a wish,
really change the previous?

What's written above was
always predicted, I am a
toper and cross addicted.

I live a life, of repetition,
yes, positive thinking,
but, with a premonition.

The dateline passes,
again despair, alone,
no hope, encore solitaire.

Imagine will you, another
year, in a cell, alone, yet
" justice is fair " ?

My new years wish won't
work for me, this one is for
Steven Avery.

Then, while you are counting,
to New Years Eve, three cheers
for Kathleen, and a reprieve!

                 <>

For Kathleen Trier Zellner.

Thank you.

Ryan O'Leary
Ireland.
I request all my poetry followers
to check out the Netflix story about
making a murderer. Kathleen T.
Zellner is defending Steven Avery.
Go to the site and make a donation,
this story could hardly be conceived
by the greatest fiction writers.

— The End —