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Bryan J Powers Nov 2010
Another day seems to pass by in the desert as it has for hundreds if not thousand of years,
Except the crunch of gravel and sand as a 2 ton frag 4 tuned up humvee races down another street in Iraq,
no surprise to see this in Iraq since the US led invasion in 2003,
same **** different day, otherwise known to soldiers as SSDD syndrome,
only this day would forever change lives,
the flash was white hot and the melting metal was proof enough of the sheer explosivness of the improvised explosive device,
the blast enough to let Iraqis living miles away look up to see the smoke,
they never heard the screaming though,
but the soldiers did as they raced to what was left of the humvee,
three dead upon impact,
a fourth lay screaming on the ground with what was left of the rest of his legs still in the passenger seat,
medics on  the ground did good and saved the poor soul,
his screams would fill the Iraqi night for for hours,
a short chopper ride to Baghdad Hospital,
they docs put his feet on ice, quite literally,
more than ten hours of surgery and the legs were sewn back on, but this soldiers fight was over,
a flight on the first plane to Ramstein Air Base Germany,
but the doctors cant do anything for this man,
he needs propers medical care,
send him home to Fort Bragg,
Womack Army Hospital,
doctors are optimistic as they tell this hero he will live but his days in the Army are over,
the tears are unexplainable as he pleads with the doctors to **** him
he doesnt want to live,
he may never walk again, he is a freak, his fiancee wants nothing to do with a *******,
over a week the soldier tries everything he can,
pulling out IVs,
injecting his blood stream with air filled needles,
his screams keep the other patients awake during the cold nights,
his crying during the day a constant reminder of the hell that only those who have lived it can ever know,
a week passes by, at least one suicide attempt a day,
then the soldiers fiancee arrives,
the crying becomes unstoppable as he pleads for her to leave him, not to look at his crippled body, that he wishes to die,'
why? she asks,
the question stops his tears,
why? she repeats,
because I am a ******* I may never walk again,
so? she asks, calling in the doctor,
the doctor arrives to find the soldier in tears and the meanest scowl ever seen on a woman,
doctor she asks, so he may never walk correct?
thats correct the doctor replies,
can he still have ***? she asks,
the doctor is stumped by the question and stumbles as he replies, well....yea its only his legs not his *****,
the fiancee looks at her soldier,
well then why the hell are you crying? as long as we can still have *** I am not leaving you!
the soldier sobs uncontrolably as his future wife holds him dearly,
the smiles on the other patients outwardly happy for the both of them,
then dinner arrives, the fiancee freaks out,
throwing the food across the room and storming from the hospital,
the soldier believing she had finally realized he was a *******, sobs once more,
the patients, doctors and nurses stumped,
another suicide attempt made,
thrity minutes pass,
the fiancee arrives, carrying a Dominos pizaa,
she holds him closely as she says he cant eat hospital food anymore,
he needs to eat right so that he can walk again,
and so comes a miracle through pain.

NO **** people this is a true story i witnessed myself in the Womack Army Hosptial roughly early 2006. It was a beautiful sight to see, and any man would consider himself blessed to be with what I can only describe as a miracle and the truest woman alive. That soldier deserved nothing less, oh, and he did walk again.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
there's that, or the nimble skeleton of a feline
bonsai... and what they do to
   add to the already apparent roughage
they intake by grooming themselves...
luckily... i could never claim to have had such
a nimble spine, or a tail...
   but then all of darwinism is a bit like:
news flash! it happened yesterday...
   and that's really a party pooper...
               i have to chase a universe like a crap
does perpendicular tango...
        it's correct, sure thing, but having this
"awe" response summoned for your to appreciate
either human history, or theories about
the universe...
                   it just gets annoying after a while:
all the terrorists do it... skip to god as a constant
and it all begins to feel realistic...

because what the vogue is in the west
    and it's "we're gods", but then run mile-marathons
for cancer charities, doesn't really work out
to keep up our iron armour...
   people really do shut up when they hit
the gag of weakness... it'stops being a case of
alice and fairies and some wonderland...
very quickly they turn their once idealistic blah
into mute buttons...
   there is an example coming: but like *michel de montaigne

noted... was it him, was it someone else?
    call it the all-encompassing negativity
(alias list does include depression): well...
it has all the jokes... meaning there's
two type of humour...
   depression (a) lethargic depression...
            no energy... major trait includes sarcasm...
and that's mainly english...
   and depression (b) manic depression...
meaning you have all the energy,
and all the cheap chokes, akin to Wobin Williams...
  oh please, there's enough zoology within
psychiatry to last you for a year given
the array of nouns... i'm not a professional
so i tend to use psychiatric terms as
    a matryoshka doll... well: a metaphor-in-itself...
there's always something hiding in
psychiatric terms...
       very little in philosophical terms, most
add up, or claim to know the way to infinity,
or ad deus... or something like that...
why be positive? and what's merely vacant?
       negativity is the source of humour...
luckily it's a shop of curiosities that has only metal
and rope in it... no porcelain...
but it's only because i've been watching this
sweet shop analogy of my own construct...
    as you do, but can't really do with a television
watching several football matches at once...
    so what would make the perfect backdrop?
obviously tourniquet by m. m. (solve the acronym,
it's a bit obvious)...
  and that's in between watching
                         dottiejames videos
and hannah witton...
              as you do... well... first thing's first...
can anyone spot a doppelgänger in there somewhere?
     well, apart from the obvious:
    he said nice things, agitated the educated jewish
class of scribes... and the greek were bewildered
by a suspension of physical laws, and had to
paint a pretty picture, so that their philosophers could
investigate and explain the reason
    melchior, caspar and balthazar came too, curious...
how did the greek summon the need for a pretty picture?
well... that's one sure way to rob a people of a religion
and translate the old stuff as: NEW! NEW!
   but that isn't the doppelgänger i'm wondering
about... what the hell is keira knightley doing in Brighton?
  well, d'uh... if dottiejames ins't
   keira knightley then i don't know who keira is...
and such a quirk... it's great seeing
   long periods of acting, without a theatrical stage
or a Spilberg with a camera lens...
   no no, i like it, but let's go back to points d. (a) and d. (b) -
the ancients called it black bile...
     i get drunk and experience the goods in it -
lethargic type = sarcasm... let's say: blackadder goes forth...
i ain't the manic clown type having a host
of impressions bound up like a yarn ball played
with the cat-like-ego... teasing and at the same
time exhausting...
      hannah witton gets through to the point though...
it's about ******* ***...
   nothing new to me... happened back in 2007
in a St. Petersburg bathroom... a ***** Pollack
   had a russian girlfriend who was going through
a ******* cycle... and he was pleading her to
allow ***... and begging... this is way before the internet
took off... what with the hannah witton video...
now i feel like ****, because, apparently: everyone does it!
but they're just not talking about it.
     so forget being the Columbus these days...
   there's no first, unless you have a Nobel prize...
and there ain't no last, unless you are lying
beneath an epitaph...
       there's just a... plateau (that word should sound
hollow... and it really does...
             pla-toe)
                                      but it happened to me
back in 2007... three days and nights ***-starved
she finally gave... but only in the bathroom...
sure... and only with a ******... no problem...
no watch the science... apparently it eases the cramps...
   me get foolish about blood and corn-flakes?
well... i remember lying on a post-operating
table getting stitches done to my right shoulder-blade...
how old was i when i went under the scalpel
to get that Chernobyl tattoo removed?
    wait... let me count... 1997 or 1998?
    1986... either 11 or 12... a hosptial in Cieszyn am Olza...
2 weeks spent in that place... great fun
with some of the peeps (ha ha, peeps) my age...
the smell of hospitals is worse than the scent in
graveyards... even in autumn... it's green...
      it's so hostile to the nostrils....
hospitals just have that smell about them...
the sooner to go to one for surgery, say, like me,
aged 11 or 12... it's worse than frying a human leg
on the bbq... not that i have: but the hospital
imprint is just so...
        so i was lying on getting my stitches done,
and out pops a bit of flesh into the corner of my eye...
deep red or purple but certainly not anything
in the extreme of lilac... and while the stiches get done
it's just lying there: a menacing little ****...
     the body of christ... well: i wouldn't eat that:
i don't care what metaphor you could use to eat either
with delight other than the delight birds eat bread:
to stuff themselves for much longer than their
usual diet allows...
   so a phallus coming out of a less than appetising ****?
well: it isn't exactly oral ***...
   and she says: most men wouldn't do this...
well: it's not like i knew that was i did would actually
be helpfull... it's a bit like my "naiveness"
  given that i don't know how i could ever contract
h.i.v., no one told me... and thankfully: i don't need
to know that.
the fact is: upon hearing that: so many people do
it but don't talk about it: that's not exactly a solidarity
statement... i didn't need to hear that...
numbers and all quotes relating to the "objective"
reality **** me off... it's a bit like drinking diluted whiskey
after first drinking the real stuff...
   well that's great! but don't bring the whole opera
with you! or maybe that's because i'm writing about
these things and she's feeding an easy pick of the experience
that ****** me off?
           i gave you enough details...
these videos aren't that hard to find... given it's you-tube...
  so that me... with no access to the deep / dark web
******* around with the canvas... trying to
salvage something that might have once looked like Soho...
   well... for a "Soho" experience... god bless
the Dutch... you can walk into a history of
something resembling 18th and 19th century...
   just for a while... a Puerto Rican *****
  and a black kid that does errands for her, brining
her customers beer...
     what's that vogue phrase: hello?! hello! red pill! red pill!
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
...well, technically... i did bypass the catholic bureaucracy of confirmation... aged 14... i started reading gnostic texts... but there's an apparent G in the word diagnosis... isn't there? so... the kilt-donning gnome joke, yes? ***** mcsilly, yes? i found it stupendous when asked on scandinavian television: were you confirmed? the interviewer asked richard dawkins. yes. - and here's me... i wasn't... so aged 13 in Judaism would make a man, but i have to wait to 14 to be a mere choir boy in Christianity? it's no stale agitation to: discover a mirror in a worded text worth a book's page... a shuddering explosion of: available circumstances of the averse form... hardly knowledge though: a patience for death, in that the patience is of the immediacy & certainty of the only, just, will... death is not a material extension... death is the only: just will.

i moved to england when
i was 8...

  my knowledge of the english
language?

nil...

and?

   do i ******* look
like a rupi kaur?

                  no...
thank you...
             do i remember learning
the english language
before i learned to swim
or ride a bicycle?

i learned english before
i learned to swim
before i learned to ride
a ******* bicycle...

get me?!

   but i am a man:
not a pampering mum...
ergo?
who the **** cares?

can you imagine
engaging in the artery
of traffic in
the old Gants Hill
roundabout,
on a bike,
with not safety nets?

that was fun,
i was expecting nothing
associated with
a bravo! or climbing
the ******* matterhorn:

oh but i did learn
english before
i learned to ride a bicycle
and before i learned
to swim...

how did i learn to swim?
on my own...
shallow pool...
my father tried teaching
in in the sea...
failed like a miserable
****: alias catty mum...
in a chlorine pool?

treaded water,
on the deep end,
in pajamas...

so the sofa speakers,
the, natives
of the thus spoken in
tongue:
       might i clarify
what my position is
on the topic of
the under-belly / religion?

i am still bound to this
religion by
only liking
monkish choirs...
akin to to the chant of
the templars
:
da pacem domine...

and the salve regina...

i've learned to speak
this tongue akin
to the other children
who first learn to swim,
or ride a bicycle...

any kudos in it for me,
some brownie points?
nope...
  a hard shoulder...
i was scolded and given
a moral lesson,
when i distributed
pictures of pamela anderson
in the playground,
having picked them up,
freely, from a newsagent...

herr fitzgerald...
i remember that headmaster
from st. augustine's
primary school (barkingside)
telling me:
'imagine if that was
your mother'...

thank you:
thank **** i will not have
a daughter!

this tongue, this... "riddle"...
this parasite of which
i am the host...

lessons in what could
traumatize a child
pre-puberty...
           while so much
of my memory is
tinged with the ontological
bogus nature of:
erasure...

natural selection is...
a stale topic for what
is... selective memorization...

monks... singing...
that's the last bastion
for the worth of Christianity...
everything else?
pigeons attempting tango...

oh i remember the boy
who ratted me out...
john...
  i even remember
his haircut...
fringe,
cut as if he had a hosptial
portable toilet
glued to his head...
father? ****... that was luke...
lived in a council house,
hainault:
father was a cab driver...

sad, almost...
who taught me this tongue?
me!
who taught me to swim?
me!
who taught me to ride
a bicycle...
o.k.: that one i'll never be
clear about...

upon introduction,
i almost forgot the interests
of this 14 year old's
reading tribunal...
this memory of the 14 year old,
enthralled
   by the gnostic heretics,
and key concepts,
attending a catholic
school...
not accepting confirmation...
aged 14?
probably
a memory
of finding ***** magazines
in the newly built
catacombs
of the church,
having played
         hide & seek in the tunnels...
aged: circa 10...

****** economics:
and what became least
effective,
as that compensation
for a perpetuated
hard-on...
                      insomniac
ergonomics...
        
     i die,
and what remains intact?
the nouns:
chair, table,
   obłok (cloud),
stone & mountain...
    whatever the self is...
the nouns are left
intact...
  whatever the vanity
project regarding
the pronoun attack is about...
they are a priori
and a posteriori
         intact,
with only a "me"
    as leftovers...

came to use the hammer
on a century's worth
of nails, savvy?
i came to use the words:
a red pepper...
and i left using
the words: a red pepper,

all of this was
"borrowed" / inherited,
and none of it
was my own & or
a worth of my own
sacrifice to settle
origin...

    while the man who
discovered the process
of fermentation,
the beer,
the *****...
will forever remain
anonymous...
yet his fame,
for every Friday...
for every other day,
for every break from
will and balancing on
whims...
      the currently famous
are not famous...
why? the man who
discovered alcohol
        isn't famous!

— The End —