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Song one
This is a song about tarzanic love
That subsisted some years ago,
As a love duel between an English girl and an African ogre,
There was an English girl hailing along the banks of river Thames
She had stubbornly refused all offers for marriage,
From all the local English boys, both rich and poor
tall and short, weak or strong, ugly and comely in the eye,
the girl had refused and sternly refused the treats for love,
She was disciplined to her callous pursuit of her dream
to marry a mysterious,fantastic,lively,original and extra-ordinary man,
That no other woman in history of human marriage ever married,
She came from London, near the banks of river Thames,
Her name was Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill, daughter of a peasant,
She came from a humble English family, which hustled often
For food, clothing, and other calls that make one an ordinary British,
She grew up without a local boy friend, anywhere in the English world,
She is the first English girl to knock the age of forty five while a ******,
She never got deflowered in her teens as other English girls usually do
She preserved her purse with maximal carefulness in her wait for a black man,
Her father, of course a peasant, his trade was human barber and horse shearer,
Often asked her what she wants in life before her marriage, which man she really wanted,
Her specification was an open eyesore to her father; no blinkers could stave the father’s pale
For she wanted a black tall man, strong and ruggedly dark in the skin, must own a kingdom,
Fables taken to her from Africa were that such an African man was only one but none else,
His glorious name was Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
When the English girl heard the chimerical name of her potential husband,
She felt a super bliss in her spine; she yearned for the day of her rendezvous,
She crashed into desperate burning for true English love
With a man with a wonderful name like Akhatembete kho bwibo khakhalikha no bwoya.


Song two

Rumours of this English despair and dilemma for love reached Africa, in the wrong ears,
Not the human ears, but unfortunately the ears of the ogres, seasoned in the evil art,
It was received and treated as classified information among the African ogress,
They prevented this news to leak to African humans at all at all
Lest humans enjoy their human status and enjoy most
The love in the offing from the English girl,
They thus swiftly plotted and ployed
To lure and win the ******
From royal land;
England.




Song three

Firstly, the African ogres recruited one of their own
The most handsome middle aged male ogre, more handsome than all in humanity,
And of course African ogres are beautiful and handsome than African humans, no match,
The ogres are more gifted in stature, physique, eugenics and general overtures
They always outplay African humans on matters of intelligence, they are shrewder,
Ogres are aggressive and swashbuckling in manners; fear is none of their domain
Craft and slyness is their breakfast, super is the result; success, whether pyrrhic or Byronic,
Is their sweetest dish, they then schemed to get the English girl at whatever cost,
They made a move to name one of their fellow ogres the name of dream man;
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha no bwoya,
Which an English girl wanted,
By viciously naming one of their handsome middle-aged man this name.

Song four

Then they set off 0n foot, from Congo moving to the north towards Europe abode England,
Where the beautiful girl of the times, Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill hail,
They were three of them, walking funnily in cyclopic steps of African ogres,
Keeping themselves humorously high by feigning how they will dupe the girl,
How they will slyly decoy the English village pumpkin of the girl in to their trap,
And effortlessly make her walk on foot from England to Africa, in pursuit of love
On this muse and sweet wistfulness they broke out into loud gewgaws of laughter,
In such emotional bliss they now jump up wildly forgetting about their tails
Which they initially stuffed inside white long trousers, tails now wag and flag crazily,
Feats of such wild emotions gave the ogres superhuman synergy to walk cyclopically,
A couple of their strides made them to cross Uganda, Kenya, Somali, Ethiopia and Egypt
Just but in few days, as sometimes they ran in violent stampedes
Singing in a cryptic language the funny ogres songs;

Dada wu ndolelee!
Dada wu ndolelee!
Kuyuni kwa mnja
Sa kwingile khundilila !

Ehe kuyuni Mulie!
Ehe kuyuni mulie!
Omukhana oyo
Kaloba khuja lilia !
They then laughed loudly, farted cacophonously and jumped wildly, as if possessed,
They used happiness and raucous joy as a strategy to walk miles and miles
Which you cover when moving on foot from Congo to England,
They finally crossed Morocco and walked into Europe,
They by-passed Italy and Spain walking piecemeal
into England, native land of the beautiful girl.

Song  five

When the three ogres reached England, they were all surprised
Every woman and man was white; people of England walked slowly and gently
They made minimum noise, no shouting publicly on the street,
a stark contrast to human behaviour and ogre culture in Africa, very rambunctious,
Before they acclimatized to disorderly life in England, an over-sighted upset befell them
Piling and piling menace of pressure to ****,
Gripped all the three ogre brothers the same time,
None of them had knowledge of municipal utilities,
They all wanted to micturated openly
Had it not been beautiful English girls
Ceaselessly thronging the streets.



Song six

They persevered and moved on in expectation of coming to the end,
Out-skirt of the strange English town so that they can get a woodlot,
From where they could hide behind to do open defecation
All was in vain; they never came to any end of the English town,
Neither did they come by a tumbled-down house
No cul de sac was in sight, only endless highway,
Sandwiched between tall skyscraping buildings,
One of the ogres came up with an idea, to drip the ****
Drop by drop in their *******, as they walk to their destiny,
They all laughed but not loudly, in controlled giggles
And executed the idea minus haste.

Song seven

They finally came down to the banks of river Thames,
Identified the home of Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill
The home had neither main gate nor metallic doors,
They entered the home walking in humble majesty,
Typical of racketeering ogre, in a swindling act,
The home was silent, no one in sight to talk to
The ogres nudged one another, repressing the mirth,
Hunchbacked English lass surfaced, suddenly materialized
Looking with a sparkle in the eye, talking pristine English,
Like that one written by Geoffrey Chaucer, her words were as piffling
As speech of a mad woman at the fish market, ogres looked at her in askance.

Song eight

An ogre with name Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya opened to talk,
Asked the girl where could be the latrine pits, for micturation only,
The hunchbacked lass gave them a direction to the toilets inside the house,
She did it in a full dint of English elegance and gentility,
But all the ogres were discombobulated to their peak
about the English latrine pit inside the house,
they all went into the toilet at the same time,
to the chagrin of the hunchbacked lass
she had never seen such in England
she struggled a lot
to repress her mirth
as the English
never get amused
at folly.




Song nine

It is a tradition among the ogres to ****,
Whenever they are ******* in the African bush,
But now the ogres are in a fix, a beautiful fix of their life
If at all they ****, the flatulent cacophony will be heard outside
By the curious eavesdroppers under the eaves of the house,
They murmured among themselves to tighten their **** muscles
So that they can micturated without usual African accomplice; the tweeee!
All succeeded to manage , other than Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Who urinated but with a low tziiiiiiii sound from his ***, they didn’t laugh
Ogres walked out of privities relaxed like a catholic faithful swallowing a sacrament,
The hunchback girl ushered them to where they were to sit, in the common room
They all sat with air of calm on their face, Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
led the conversation, by announcing to the girl that he is Victoria’s visitor from Africa,
To which the girl responded with caution that Victoria is at the barbershop,
Giving hand to her father in shearing the horses, and thus she is busy,
No one is allowed to meet her, at that particular hour of the day
But he pleaded to the hunchback girl only to pass tidings to Victoria,
That Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya from Africa
Has arrived and he is yearning to meet her today and now,
The girl went bananas on hearing the name
The hunch on her back visibly shook,
Is like she had heard the name often,
She then became prudent in her senses,
And asked the visitor not to make anything—
Near a cat’s paw out of her person,
She implored the visitor to confirm
if at all he was what he was saying
to which he confirmed in affirmation,
then she went out swiftly
like a tail of the snake,
to pass tidings
to her sister
Victoria.


Song ten
She went out shouting her sister’s name,
A rare case to happen in England,
One to make noise in the broad day light,
With no permission from the local leadership,
She called and ululated Victoria’ name for Victoria to hear
From wherever she was, of which she heard and responded;
What is the matter my dear little sister? What ails you?
Akhatembete Khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya is around!
She responded back in voice disturbed by emotional uproar,
What! My sister why do you cheat me in such a day time?
Am not cheating you my sister, he is around sited in our father’s house,
Is he? Have you given him a drink, a sweet European brandy?
My sister I have not, I feared that I may mess up your visitors
With my hunched shoulders, I feared sister forbid,
Ok, I am coming, running there, tell him to be patient,
Let me tell him sister just right now,
And make sure you come before his patience is stretched.





Song eleven

Victoria Goodhamlet Lovehill almost went berserk
On getting this good tidings about the watershed presence,
Of the long awaited suitor, her face exploded into vivacity,
Her heart palpitating on imagination of finally getting the husband,
She went out of the barber shop running and ululating,
Leaving her father behind, confounded and agape,
She came running towards her father’s main house
Where the suitor is sited, with the chaperons,
She came kicking her father’s animals to death,
Harvesting each and every fruit, for the suitor,
She did marvel before she reached where the suitor was;
Harvested ten bananas, mangoes and avocadoes,
Plums, pepper, watermelons, lemons and oranges,
She kicked dead five chicken, five goats, rams,
Swine, rabbits, rats, pigeons and hornbills,
When she reached the house, she inquired to know,
Who among them could be the one; Akhatembete Khobwibo
Khakhalikha no bwoya, But her English vocals were not guttural enough,
She instead asked, who among you is a key tempter go weevil car no lawyer?
The decoy ogre promptly responded; here I am the queen of my heart. He stood up,
Victoria took the ogre into her arms, whining; babie! Babie, babie, come!
Victoria carried the ogre swiftly in her arms, to her tidy bed room,
She placed the ogre on her bed, kissed one another at a rate of hundred,
Or more kisses per a minute, the kissing sent both of them crazy, but spiritual craft,
That gave the ogre a boon to maintain some sobriety, but libido of virginity held Victoria
In boonless state of ****** feat, defenseless and impaired in judgment
It extremely beclouded her judgment; she removed and pulled of their clothes,
Libidinous feat blurring her sight from seeing the scarlet tail projecting
From between the buttocks of the ogre, vestige of *******,
She forcefully took the ogre into her arms, putting the ogre between her legs,
The ogre’s uncircumcised ***** effectively penetrated Victoria’s ****** purse,
The ogre broke virginity of Victoria, making her to feel maximum warmth of pleasure
As it released its germinal seed into her body, ecstasy gripped her until she fainted,
The ogre erected more on its first *******; its ***** became more stiff and sharp,
It never pulled out its ***** from the purse of Victoria, instead it introduced further
Deeper and deeper into Victoria’s ******, reaching the ****** depth inside her with gusto,
Victoria screamed, wailed, farted, scratched, threw her neck, kissed crazily and ******,
On the rhythms of the ogre’s waist gyrations, it was maximum pleasure to Victoria,
She reached her second ****** before the ogre; it took further one hour before releasing,
Victoria was beaten; she thought she was not in England in her father’s house
She thought she was in Timbuktu riding on a mosquito to Eldorado,
Where she could not be found by her father whatsoever,
The ogre pulled Victoria up, helped her to dress up,
She begged that they go back to the common room,
Lest her father finds them here, he would quarrel,
They went back to the common room,
Found her father talking to other two ogres,
She shouted to her father before anyone else,
That ‘father I have been showing him around our house,’
‘He has fallen in love with our house; he is passionate about it,’
Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya was shy,
He greeted the father and resumed his chair, with wryly dignity.


Song twelve
An impromptu festival took place,
Fully funded by the father of Victoria,
There was meat of all type from pork to chicken,
Greens were also there in plenty, pepper and watermelons,
Victoria’s mother remembered to prepare tripe of a goat
For the key visitant who was the suitor; Akhatembete,
Food was laid before the ogres to enjoy themselves,
As all others went to the other house for a brainstorming session,
But the hunched backed girl hid herself behind the door,
To admire the food which visitors were devouring,
As she also spied on the table manners of the visitors, for stories to be shared,
Perhaps between herself and her mother, when visitors are gone,
Some sub-human manners unfolded to her as she spied,
One of the ogres swallowed a spoon and a table fork,
And Akhatembete khobwibo khakhalikha nobwoya,
Uncontrollably unstuffed his scarlet tail from the trouser,
The chill crawled up the spine of hunchbacked girl,
She almost shouted from her hideout, but she restrained herself,
She swore to herself to tell her father that the visitors are not humans
They are superhuman, Tarzans or mermaids or the werewolves,
The ogre who swallowed the spoon remorsefully tried to puke it back,
Lest the hosts discover the missing spoon and cause brouhaha,
It was difficult to puke out the spoon; it had already flowed into the stomach,
Victoria, her father, her mother and her friend Anastasia,
Anastasia; another English girl from the neighborhood,
Whom Victoria had fished, to work for her as a best maid, as a chaperon,
Went back to the house where the ogres had already finished eating,
They found ogres sitting idle squirming and flitting in their chairs
As if no food had ever been presented to them in a short while ago,
One ogre even shamelessly yawned, blinking his eyes like a snake,
They all forgot to say thanks for the food, no thanks for lunch,
But instead Akhatembete announced on behalf of other ogres,
That they should be allowed to go as they are late for something,
A behaviour so sub-human, given they were suitors to an English family,
Victoria’s father was uneasy, was irritated but he had no otherwise,
For he was desperate to have her daughter Victoria get married,
He had nothing to say but only to ask his daughter, Victoria,
If she was going right-away with her suitor or not,
To which she violently answered yes I am going with him,
Victoria’s mother kept mum, she only shot miserable glances
From one corner of the house to another, to the ogres also,
She totally said nothing, as Victoria was predictably violent
To any gainsayer in relation to her occasion of the moment,
Victoria’s father wished them all well in their life,
And permitted Victoria to go and have good life,
With Akhatembete, her suitor she had yearned for with equanimity,
Victoria was so confused with joy; her day of marriage is beholden,
She hurriedly packed up as if being chased by a monster,
Miko Mar 2012
"Whoever battles monsters should take care not to become a monster too; for if you stare long enough into the Abyss, the Abyss stares back into you."

     I've always wanted to look more in-depth on this quote because I always took a liking to how it was phrased. What I have always read of it's meaning is simply that those who take up a path of battling evil should be careful to not become consumed with evil themselves, however, lately I have wondered if there may be more to this statement than that to this statement
     Staring into the Abyss. I capitalize Abyss because I feel that it may represent more than just endlessness.
     The Abyss is referred to in this quote as though it talks about the monsters, evil, something terrible, though no specification is given to who or what these "monsters" are and what they do or say. Their true intentions are unclear, if they even process them.
     I've always been one who enjoys to look inside of themselves to see and understand more about myself, to analyze and to fix and to discover what there is inside of me. In doing so, I have found that there are emotions, desires and thoughts inside of me that I must recognize and fight and face. With talking to other people, heart to heart conversations, I have gathered that they think the same way, more or less. These emotions, desires, thought, they could all be as simple as laziness and procrastination or as complex and powerful as the desire for power or money or respect or to overcome. Sometimes these desires will drive us to insanity when we aren't even ourselves anymore. We lose ourselves to multiple needs, desires, corruption, emotions. It all overwhelms us and takes a hold of us, grasping our sanity as it slyly snakes its way into your more deepest and most vulnerable spaces, some of which may even be unoccupied or left forgotten.
     These are our monsters.
        We used to think they hid under our beds when actually they live inside us. And wait. And flourish.
     Our overwhelming desires that can bend and shape our will to any shape imaginable in order to achieve it. Why? Why do we allow ourselves to become like this? Allow ourselves to be controlled by desires that will leave us with nothing, not even ourselves?
     We do it to survive. We don't do it to survive in the modern era. The modern era of civilized society has no need for such desires. But we did need these desires before. We needed these desires to be able  to live in a world where stability was just as fathomable as being able to go around the world in hours and have food ready whenever you felt hungry.
     We are not bound by desires because we want to be. We are bound by desires because we were.

     Now that this has taken care of where the monsters we fight have come from, we must understand why it is that fighting them can cause us to become them.
     We try to fight our desires and battle the emotions, and we always think we can prevail these in one on one, hand to hand combat. Perhaps it is not wanting to look old. Perhaps trying to get someone to notice you. Perhaps trying to avoid the temptation of dessert or a guilty pleasure. If we do not at times kick back and reflect on what we have accomplished and what we have learned, we can end up creating a new desire. A desire to fight these desires, to not let them overcome us. This desire then consumes us just like the others would have. We become those monsters that were hidden in us all along.
     Yet we are too busy to notice, or too oblivious. Some of us refuse to see it even when given the chance to be presented with it. Not just by fighting these monsters, but with our lives that are going on around us. There is not enough time in the day or enough says in the week to allow us to relax and think about who we are, to understand and recognize what it is and what is going on. We can change and think nothing of it because we didn't know what we were in the first place. We were immune to the beginning process of human to human with monster characteristics. Or, in some cases, just a monster.
     "...for if you stare to ling into the Abyss, the Abyss stares back into you."
     The Abyss. It's name is mostly associated with nothingness and emptiness. It's desolate and cavernous. It will swallow you whole and make sure you are not discovered again, digested and sunk into a desolate refuge. With the end of what we don't even want to imagine, let alone even comprehend.
     When stated this way, it almost makes me think we are talking about ourselves. We condemn our desires and try to relinquish ourselves from them. But they are what make us us. If we do not want, if we do not care to have something different, we are no longer human.
     Perhaps this is why we are consumed by the Abyss. We try to clean it out of our systmes and remove all of our humanity, and we get consumed because we unconsciously want to remain human, the greatest desire of all.
     The Abyss cannot be considered nothingness, because it holds everything. It is who we are, and when we try to fight it, try to change what makes us human, we are consumed by our humanity. We cannot escape that fact.

"When we fight within ourselves, we must take care not to lose our humanity; because if we do, we will become more human than we may have ever wanted to be in the first place."
A rough draft
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. i'm not an alcoholic, i'm an intermediating construct of blues... i think more about blank canvas i am to fill, than the next drink 'm about to have....

why give a dog's *******'s care
concerning yourself with
whst other other,
proper, "sober", sensible people
make of your?

  i guess an inhibition of
a lost verse...

       in poetry we call that a quais
take on a paragraph...

   something akin to:
the same worth of the worth of
something worth losing...
get the drift?!

  Clive Owen...
Denzel Washington,
Brian Molko...

now?
breed me, a ******* hybrid Q
your nag hammadi perfectionism!
you trans-gender
eucharist!

   breed me an example
to my specification!
breed it!
show me the Frankenstein!
breed it!

       i want wolf ***** "ingested"
in women subjects!
i, WANT, THEM!
               you want the Frankenstein
monster?
first you need the mad doctor...
you have me...
cuffed and teasing!

     i am,. dying to waake from
what is death, and what is death assured,
in the fork form of, shadow...

   you, want, the monster...
i am giving your the antithesis
of the nameless
caricature of
what man's capability!

            i need it, whatever "it", is...
       i will not sleep till this "thing"
is awake in the womb
of my cognition...
and i know of its wake!

                 it's funeral a birth,
it's birth,
banshee screech!
                 the failed Polish
winged hussar charge against
the Ukranian Cossack upriing,
thick, in, mud...

                        i have the desires
to damage marking
banknotes...
      Shelley will always outlast
the credibility of Austen...

    Mary contra Jane...

       horror...
Frankenstein monsters...
vampires...
     werewolves...
she's the third of the canon!

  you don't do that!
you can't do that!
                but you did, do that!

there is a shadow of man,
he dares to call history
to contra the visage for the excuses
of journalism...

     not here... not now...

  as a young boy,
i dreamed of mingling the ***** of
wolves, being impregnated
in human females...
        i guess, as a treat...
to alleviate
the existing product
                 of down syndrome'

what?
what is science?
if not the reinvigorated
perpetuation of
trans-categorical inquiry?

p.s. when i drink?
the last "thing" on my mind
is the activity of drinking,
notably, for socially unhinged
barriers to be broken...
i'm an anti-social drinker...
i hate conversation,
esp. when drinking...
a ******* desert,
when it comes to
             the calorie intake!
Heather Methot Apr 2014
the humiliation
attempting multiplication
is a discrimination
filling all emotions with frustration
trying to send help of communication
to a genius
showing no blood relation
in a habitation where Ax and Bx showing a result of Cx
introducing a collaboration
with letters sends a illustration
to the mind causing hallucination
just a pigment of imagination
slight vibration
desperately needing a detoxification
of education
to wrap your thoughts around this generation
seeking the need for popularization
but the mind is in a mental restriction
start a petition
to conquer the satan of calculation
but so far no documentation
of the closed corporation
of the mad minded mathematician
so you're living in devastation
suffering while you work at a gas station
from no graduation
or thoughtful congratulations
all because you forgot the capitalization
for a math symbol
on a test
because of the lack of specification

Make a reservation
for the realization
that math
does not
always make
sense.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
you really need spectacles to read this, zone-in like a humming bird, given all the see-through gaps on the page - reading the Latin alphabet is like looking at x-rays - it's what happens when phonetic encoding borders on geometry that you get problems, or a joke of the gods (erase gods from poetry and you can erase Chernobyl from the history of Ukraine or chlorophyll from the study of biology.*

mother with a                         u...
like the tips of a parabola enjoining to make a double-o?
i.e. moother / μωθηρ? no wonder
the umlaut given specification against the omicron....
this is why greek shouldn't attract diacritical usage,
necessarily borrowed via the Ω-square:

u                            oo



ω                  ­           ü                                       ¨

              (term it as a parabolic union of two dots
          and the twin omega kissing the sky, a limit of
                linear rubric, sentencing
a...............................................................­.......
b........................................................­.............
c..................................................­....................
                                            ­                           and 6ft1 tall)...


or sigma, or castrato sigma M wonky...
who the **** is reading this compass, drunk?
it's all over the place! west... matter... σouth
Σorph...                 ρita pread... the ****?!
this is turning out to be a right Bermuda Δ:
cockney humour, please, we have children present!
i'm teaching them to count matchsticks in a pine forest!
skeleton (a) says to skeleton (b): give me a jaw,
i can't laugh without it.
skeleton (b) says to skeleton (a): conjure up
a diaθragm for me.
skeleton (a) says to skeleton (b): you mean a diaφragm?
skeleton (b) to skeleton (a): any squiggly line will do right now.
compass!
                                             d


b                                                            ­                            q

                                  ­      
                                              p...

and you thought you needed an acid trip.
the above is a hall of mirrors, it's not a compass or
a Kabbalistic magic square... it's a hall of mirrors.
please excuse the Greek gentlemen for applying
diacritical marks to their beautiful alphabet -
that left Brits still standing stark naked in Eden...
                                                                ­ we're waiting;
tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. hello?!
you'd sooner shove an armadillo into an aardvark's ***
than expect the "masters of the universe"
to put on some lipstick to their gobs:
it's not even about being pretentious as it's about being
donkey stubborn; budge *******! budge up!
i need a can of sardines from you, it won't work unless
you turn into custard or fudge!
you have to forgive my friend, he still thinks he's
part of an empire - which he squandered for politically
correct speech like those Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth
noblemen who squandered in three partitions
while ******* on their ancestral grave... the last remnant
of the empire, nortern ireland saved by black market cigarettes
than the good friday agreement; hong kong ping pong
is still going on between Mr. Chi and Forest Gump,
sit down street protests, hippy protests in asia not fuelled
by marijuana... he is a bit deaf: SHOW'S OVER!
PACK UP YOUR PRIDE AND SHOVE IT INTO THE HAUL
OF H.M.S. BELFAST... ****** doesn't hear me... ******...
well, keeping an empire is like keeping an *******,
doesn't last forever, better chisel out a ******* emblem
and pray to it while knee bending at Stonehenge come
the summer solstice. Mr. Bellybutton pimps it gluttonous
in pomp at the Greenwich meridian: clocking up an ancient
0, although not slicing apart A.D. from B.C., just the time
difference: London 9p.m. is Moscow's 12a.m,
hence the 24h news reels.
George Anthony Mar 2016
yet another night where i'm crying tears that keep bleeding dry, feeling like i can't breathe properly
and all the worse because of it.
my chest tightens beyond measure to the point where i'm questioning how i even have a ribcage
shouldn't it be destroyed by now just like everything else about me?
i'm surprised my lungs can fit inside this constant vice
but then again i guess i've always been able to fit myself inside impossible spaces
i mean, after all, i did grow up in a dark and lonely closet chain-locked by cisnormativity,
my own feelings and expression restricted by society
"no, little girl, you're not a boy, it's just a phase, you sit down to use the toilet just like any other lady"

they never taught me about gender in school, nor mental illness, nor self-love
of all the lessons they taught me, the most important things i've learned have come from outside sources
see in a world that priorities numbers there's never been much room for individuality
even though, last time i checked, 'one' was the starting point for all positive values
but i guess i should thank them anyway, see at least now i'm smart enough to understand maths
and i always hated the subject in school but now it seems that all i do these days is think in percentages and measurements, constantly using addition
yet somehow never adding any confidence and always subtracting from my own self esteem

i got a B in my final exam and vowed never to look at another equation again but see
i may have passed my paper without revising but i've never been as good at using a calculator as i've come to be in the past year, and i excel in working out percentages
my eating disorder has been a better teacher than the adults with their university degrees
and the empty spaces left by a society that doesn't include self-respect in its specification got filled with insecurity
and self-loathing and depression and anxiety ...

(just reading this poem,
i can feel it
building up inside of me)

don't get me wrong, it's not like i let the views of close-minded people define me
but negativity sets an obnoxious example and the disease is buried into me
and i don't have much hope for finding a cure in a world that's been breeding my illnesses since i was born
my therapist is trying to help me but i'm just another lost boy
she's no miracle worker and the damage has already been done

if there's anything the government has taught me,
it's that there is no way to overpower corruption, you see
corruption
is more powerful than anything in this world and if you don't believe me, you just need to take a look at your surroundings
and you will see that you've been brainwashed just like the rest of society
i'm sorry to say that now you've woken up you'll only ever long to fall asleep again
but insomnia grows like a tumour in your brain and you will never have a peaceful night's sleep again
not until you learn to love yourself
and darling, i'm sorry, but that's the hardest skill to ever grasp

i'd know
i've been losing sleep for years and years
possible triggering content
Kittridge James Oct 2012
I'd never seen her so beautiful,
the color of life now covering her once ivory complexion.
The heart that once beat is now stagnant and black.
This thing in my hand, locked and loaded;
the shiniest gunmetal I've seen in a while.
Her only solitary life now gushing from her head.

Why did I take her life you ask?
It was those eyes...those godforsaken white, sightless eyes!
They never saw anything I am or ever will be.
All I ever wanted was for her to see!!
I've wanted to gouge them out since the day our two
lives became a single, cohesive one.

But it was those eyes that drove me to this.
Never had she seen my face.
Why is this just now occuring to me?
Yes, of course I loved her.
Mad? Why would you say that?

What is a madman? Me? A madman?
Preposterous!! What is a madman?
Certainly not in comparison to me.
I am the spitting image of true sanity...
Or am I?

I see no wrong doing in my actions.
I was simply doing her a favor...
Though, I probably should've been more humane
with the child she was carrying...

My child! My own flesh and blood!! Gone forever!
But it was for the good of both of them I presume...
There was a good chance my son would've been blind.

...My son!! My baby boy!!! How tragic a day this is!
Well, there wasn't any stipulation to 'Till death do us part'.
There wasn't any specification on how it was to happen.

I look to the gunmetal again.
It is to blame for this tragedy...
I hold the faithful steel grey to the side of my head
and look to my deceased spouse and unborn child.

Finally, I give the gun one final squeeze goodbye...
JR Falk Jun 2016
For the fourth time this week,
I drove down J imagining you were in the seat next to me,
Telling me how much of a nerd I was for mouthing the words to the song playing.
Bayside had always been our favorite band,
This ride did not change that.
I mouthed that you were my rock so long as I was yours and you just smiled.
I awake from my reverie.
Fourteen hours later and you’ve hardly spoken to me today.
It’s normal, though, as you’re a busy guy.
This is what I’ve been telling myself for three years.
I apologize to the voices in my head for your behaviour.
“We’ve talked about this,”
I say,
“We’re not going to try anything because of the distance.”
I sigh to myself and erase the message I’ve typed out for you.
It’s the fifth time I’ve done it this hour,
Seeing as you never responded to the last.
Last time you said you loved me was three days ago.
I told you I love you two hours ago and you called me a nerd.
“Nerd.”
I take a deep breath at the thought of the word.
I try to replace it with something different.
“Love.”
“Beautiful.”

Beautiful.
You’ve called me beautiful, right?
I scroll through our messages, looking for a time where you might have.
I only find you telling me my smile “kills” you.
Those words still make me melt, and I hate it.
I hate myself for loving you like this.
I hate myself for hating myself for loving you,
As I convince myself again,
For the hundredth time,
That you do.
I’ve been begging for a sign that you do.
One aside from your words.
“Actions speak louder than words,”
I remind myself,
And think back to an action.
What have you done?
I can’t help but wonder if the songs you wrote about me,
Loving me,
And us,
Were sent to another.
The lack of specification in said songs makes me swallow hard.
I think back to the night you told me you broke down with your friend.
You told him everything,
How you’ve loved me for years,
How you’ve never been able to do something about it.
How you tell me you date so many girls but always think of me.
How I believe you.
I’m scared, now.
Every day that we’re apart,
I can’t help but worry and doubt.
Am I just some... toy?
I can’t help wonder to myself if I am,
And I scroll through our messages.
I’m torturing myself, really.
As I scroll I reflect on the amount;
Thousands of messages collected over the past three years.
Three years--
Why would you spend that much time ‘toying’ with someone?
My heart swells,
As do tears.
I erase the message I’ve typed out to you.
That's the sixth time this hour.
The cycle will repeat until I fall asleep,
One last unsent message sitting in my palm.
I stare at the screen, waiting for my eyes to close.
They don't.
"active now"
it reads under your name.
I stare at your display picture.
For the fourth time this week, I pretend you’re staring back.
And for the... what was it?
I’ve lost count.
I pretend you’re listening and I turn off the screen.*
“Goodnight, I love you. Sweet dreams.”
1:46am
6/8/2016

sigh.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
the English are a very special breed of bigots, they don't engage in hypocrisy to suggest they feel superior with a decent moral compass, or to provide gentelmanly airs: pick out the pointless sorry when bumping into someone on the street - their inherent stage-fright at vulgarity hides something... the biggest asset of this constipated hypocrisy? what happens next... satire... so in being hypocrites they are awash in satirical humour... they laugh it off the minute they make some sort of allusion to a moral concern for something... given the current situation with the migrant crisis: where the majority are single men rather than Jewish families, you get the picture... it's amazing how they can change their hypocrisy into satire, and do so blatantly without a care in a world... i do wonder how the Icelanders would compare, both being island societies and all.

5 sq miles is all i need, to breath new air
and look at the same garbage of what life has to offer,
obviously the chanced and randomised
encounter with some *** on a bench
laughing our socks off, or a retired grandpa
getting away from the wife -
just like today - a fresh autumnal breeze:
i the cooling process to the heating up process,
don't know why, but there's as much
beauty in slow decay as in slow sprouting -
decay and its many colours never feels as ever
being monochromatic winter or summer -
it's the persistence of change - two transition
seasons, two plateau seasons: what a strange balance.
anyway, my usual (see how i invoked:
my life's so ******* boring, i decided to write
about it - like hell would i document it using
photographs: that's for the rich flashy people -
i'm more into the archaic mode - bought what i need,
and now i'm really using it) route was disrupted,
that's all it takes, walk a different English suburban
labyrinth and the world kaleidoscopes beyond
comparison; drank the strong beer (although,
ice cubes do make a difference when poured from
a can into a glass, Oranjeboom used to stand at
8.5%, just half a % shy from the *******
Special Brew - now it's at 7.5%, and, well, it taste
just about like candy-barley) - but that's what changing
habits does to you, my usual stroll became,
for some reason, electrifying - i censored my audience
on that ghoulish website i was introduced to at
university to 23 people, and i'm chirpier than
a sparrow - the newspapers were telling the truth:
for once - it just seemed that i was seeing less
network opportunities, and more ghost,
pointless memories of school, that everyone seems
to exploit in art (notably the smiths' soloist doing
the part of: oh how horrid those days of yore) -
dunno, liked the uniform, liked the topics,
never bothered having a social life in there,
everyone had extra four hours spare, i was doing
4 A-levels rather than 3, and every Wednesday i
would finish at 2:30 p.m. and head straight home
to beat the traffic - i picked up a girlfriend at the end
of my education, passed the exams and ****** off
to Edinburgh - most congregated with their social
networks from school in Canterbury -
the city was all i cared for, nowhere like it -
and perhaps the twinning of what i used to call
kiszka* (sh, or sz) that became haggis - whichever,
the fact that my father was taught the trade of roofing
by Scots, and that my favourite teacher was a Scot
too must have played on my romance at needing
to leave England - shame it wasn't for good, but never mind.
as for the fact the school was Catholic, i didn't leave
it having been confirmed, everyone else got to choose
a confirmation name, i was asking: why would anyone
even make the choice of being baptised in the first place?
too much sniffing in the library, reading about
the Gnostic heretics, who, as i suggested it to the r.e.
teacher (religious education) shared a similar doctrine
with what later became Islam: the phantom being
crucified and what not - now i do wish i could
have had a liberal education without religion playing
a pivotal role in my development, but then i'd
have missed out on the uniform, and the army-style
regime: i swear, no uniform and your whole life
ends up a nightmare from high school - because
we didn't develop an image issue, we didn't really
care to exploit our youth to side with a rebellious
stampede of making a mark - it would look ridiculous,
what with g.c.s.e. mathematics and talk of
photosynthesis in biology - ah, the disfranchised
youth of America, with their high school debacles
echoing a mortal's sense of eternity -
yes, my father was conscripted into the army,
he served the tenure of three years in Warsaw,
because he was tall and handsome we has put into
the household division, schooling in Poland
doesn't exactly use uniforms, well, i was enlisted
into the next best thing (apart from a grammar school),
yep, a faith school - he learnt a softer variation
of arbeit macht frei i.e. arbeit veredeln (work
ennobles) - or some variation of arbeit adeln - referring
to knights - the same rigour in his physical
activities are equated to the same standard in my
choice of utilising the necessary faculty: bullshitting -
not necessarily lying: unnecessarily telling the truth -
                          ^
                  telling the                 funny how you don't
                                           need the words there -
the verb structure already within lies -
                  but with truth, ****, you have express it
further, by some set standard;
but that's all it takes, a different route from the routine
zigzag, and i become more Columbus and less Kant.
a few things popped up -
a. i could blatantly write you a psychological profile
of homegrown terrorists - the filtering process?
grammar - you can decipher everything with grammar.
they're usually immigrants like me,
but they were probably born here,
having spent 8 years of my life in Poland as a child
already undermined any hope of the nicely ethnic cleansing
phrased: "assimilation" / "integration" process -
i couldn't **** the child and his knowledge of a language,
although the ones condemning being bilingual
would hardly bother learning another language,
which is exactly what English people on holiday are:
rude... when i went alone to Paris and slept in a hostel
i had to befriend someone who knew the language,
and managed to, on two occasions, because, otherwise,
i'd look like a complete idiot; great city, circa 2005 / 6.
they homegrown because they haven't realised that
they've been ethnically cleansed, so they take up talking
slang, and monosyllable Arabic to express their anger,
they've got the olive skin, but not the tongue of the desert,
me? i find it easier to write in English than in Polish,
but i could talk to you in the tongue, as i can read it:
i already said - philosophy in English, even with Locke?
nope... no can do... not while you heard such
things as: thinking, a dangerous endeavour...
the English can't write philosophy to save their life,
i can't read Sartre in English... it's just gibberish to me,
you need to know a continental tongue to read philosophy,
where else, other than in England will you find people
associating thinking as a tedium, rather than a medium?
nowhere! and these kids are disgruntled because they
have lost the capacity to identify with their parents,
they only see the insulating anger done unto their parents
by the society they live in and can only communicate
with what would provide an equilibrium to their situation:
their nativity of the mother tongue -
but since they haven't done that, then they act with
monstrosity - slang being their reality, slang as a way
to "modernise" their host language -
or at least change it, meaning that middle class folk
are like: huh?! a big ingredient in urban areas, obviously.
then they feel marginalised in blocks of flats...
a communist reality in eastern europe, and no one
complained... and the new way of housing people?
a bit plushier versions of their concrete counter-parts:
glass people (the social media advent) in glass houses.
b. *******, i wasn't going to expand a minor point
in my cognitive narrative from my walk that much...
this is the epitome of writing and the English suburban
labyrinth - everything looks the same, then take a step
elsewhere and boom... fresh air.
ah yes... what's with this deepest desire to cut off
subjectivity? it's happening all the time,
esp. noticeable in newspapers - the English abhor
the mere idea of subjectivity - everyone's supposed
to be a scientists... ask any chemist though:
the holy grail is subjectivity - i studied chemistry
but i read Milan Kundera - my director of studies
owned an Edward Hopper postcard in his office...
does a scientist really have to tell people who find
science hard and rather read a toothpaste's list of ingredients
(yes, chemistry is the only study area that
shows off English having being rooted in Saxony,
chemists compound nouns like everyday Germans
say: i ate a peppermint after dinner:
               pfefferminzeessennachdemwurst) -
all this desire to look "cool" and atheistic never translates
into collective atheism: of imitating an ant colony
and banishing god forever - all this
angst against subjectivity - the blind pursuit of
objectivity does only one thing: it guises subjectivity
in the dire need for psychology - logic of the soul,
or logic of breathing: a strange possibility,
i could have asked an asthmatic -
                                         and this constant, constant
nagging against poetry, from journalists and
psychiatrists alike, oh wait, you didn't write a 500 page
book which i wouldn't have read anyway:
you must be mad! sure thing doctor, mad as Duracell
bunny - gotta live the life, gotta live the life,
gotta run a marathon, got to travel to India for
a spiritual breakthrough, gotta this, gotta do that...
sit on your *** and enjoy the pleasure of thought
that never materialises into owning toilet blockage...
well, something like that.
pointing that out i don't understand why
the abhorrence of god is later translated into David Attenborough,
          or why there's no O in Edinburgh -
berg... burg... berg.. burg... and they never teach
you plain and simple: we have so many leopard spot
variations in our language, we're betting that it will
have a universal appeal to all of humanity, a true global
glutton tongue, encompassing an empire on which
the sun never sets... and some disgruntled white youths
fist fighting a question: but what's the real deal with
the basics?! too many particulars -
                   and that's what's bothering me,
i don't know whether to feel shame or sorrow,
definitely not happiness - i speak the blimmin' tongue better
than the natives! this is the funny part, i can speak of
English people like they're red indians - the natives -
ha ha hmm... it's probably devastating in terms of
the educational system, but i do, maybe that's why i
mentioned a patriotism to the language, but not the culture
that provided it... a patriotism toward the language,
so, in reality: rewriting being English - so very much
like 1066 at Hastings - Norman steps onto the shore...
right! Domesday Book... dome and doom... never figured
that one out either... oh sure, a few of them got
smart and kept a secular monopoly on language like
the priests used to... but it's subtle these days,
it's not a blatant **** in your face where you can't read...
i'm betting that English has the highest rate of
dyslexia among all the languages of the world...
perhaps the French? n'ah, they love their public intellectuals...
here's it's all: sing sing sing... sing along and Tokyo
at the pub on Fridays;
and they know i speak better native than the natives,
because the conversation usually goes into
not language per se, but the organic side of language,
organic meaning idiosyncratic, a posh way of saying: accent...
and that horrid: where you from?
i usually just say something along the lines
of a Greek: citizen of the world... or was that commerce
deal with China a fake?
that's what it means when acquiring the English language,
the diversity of accents, primarily because
other languages have already implied a standard encoding
of accents, those diacritical marks are there for a reason:
a heightened involvement in specification of the desired sounds,
whenever someone learns English... it's not there!
it's simply missing, given the monopoly, for one,
which means that the language does attach itself to
the host living in a host society - funny dynamic away from
the dust covered master and slave - in a very
specific way, namely whatever diacritical assimilation
the host had with his mother tongue becomes atypically
exemplified in English - since English has hidden
diacritical dynamics - which obviously ****** the natives
off who didn't get a decent education - as in:
someone spotting this out for them - namely
someone who acquired the language like a native,
unconsciously - first come first served dynamic,
and not someone who had to consciously learn it,
i.e. not from mama and papa... from primary school
playgrounds, from teachers... through strife...
and this is my antidote of the central Nietzschean doctrine:
the will to strife...                not necessarily strive,
but a will to strife...                   well, if they're going to
keep shunning subjectivity, leaving it far too late
and in the hands of psychologists, faking it intellectually
but otherwise being fundamental in expressing it
only musically in pop culture... we will never reach
the objectivity of the Chinese and the Indians, forget it!
but that's what we're being prescribed -
and culminating in paradoxically abhorring the idea
of god - but admiring nature in all its glory -
                        i'm not even going to argue a god
of disabled people... they're having a laugh with the idea
of god at the Para-Olympics - i'm not getting into a debate
concerning that idea - just a congested version of
the universal why - but in the variation of constant
bewilderment in a particular *huh?!
The cargo  of my rib cage is my inner sanctum
My hips are my homeland
I refuse to conform to conventional specification
My body is a garment that fits me perfectly
My throat is a canal, navigating, and nourishing
Bridges that nest across my thighs,  A channel of imperfections that I clutch and attain
The fabric of my ******* is frayed
Although I have nourished and  maneuvered sheepish mouths harboring at bay
Abounding the lifeblood of creation, embarking on this journey  of womanhood
Kevin May 2017
i'm a 30 year old male
that can't watch Forest Gump
without crying at least a dozen times.

i'm a sibling of 5
that only sees or speaks to
my siblings on holidays or family events.

i have no formal secondary degree
with stamp of approval
or specification in a field of study.

i know that cigarettes will **** me
the sun will do the same
but i enjoy those things.

i'm a 30 year old male
with no prospects of a life
or any idea of how to create one.

i only know, i am alive.

i can't stand the behavior of most people
but i love everyone, and try to forgive
because i know not their demons

i hate that i hate.
i hate that i am not as forgiving
with myself with the life that i've lived.

i think of what my life could be
outside of my life that is
and i lift away in dreams

i think of killing myself while addressing
daily responsibilities.  
moving one load of laundry to the dryer
becomes "this belt feels stressful and the buckle is harsh
upon my adams apple"

but cold nickel and leather remind me of such contrast
so cold. so warm.

i'm a 30 year old man, and i realize that age is only
significant to those that have not done so.
but i still cry at odd moments.

i'm a sibling of 5 that feels no love.
at christmas, buys the best most poignant gifts
but still forgets birthdays

i'm educated in what matters
which means it doesn't pay
and i love how poor i am.

i'm a 30 year old man.
broke. single. nearly homeless.
and i have nothing but love.

i only know, that i'm alive.
Samara  Dec 2023
i cling to
Samara Dec 2023
the closest exit door
my grip fixed on the handle
reading every specification
and every user's manual
to give me the answers
so i can learn how to know
when to open
the closest exit door

— The End —