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Styles Oct 2014
Imma killa artist
I’ll ****’em all wit witts
Mixed wit Lyrics
and twist
Taylored swift
for these nimb witz
I spit stupit dump quick slick ****
You say tan nick, I say tan nic
I sat on it, like Saint Tan Nick
I ain’t a saint, or a snake serpent
You look more like tan nick
Or a fat and ugly Saint Pat trick
you silly rabbit
dixx are for chic
So stop being a ****
My gang green; I'm that sick
You flow like an alien from a different planet
So I capted and planned it
Then left you a-band-did
Hanging all strained
With Caps-locked in
I couldn't have plan it
The way fate planned it
Headed for the top
Like an alien from another planet
You drinkin ale-he-on a comet
Cause you over commit like a hobbit
you haling ions from aliens
with Plannets and Planatons
moving million tons of megabombs
with captian planet and megatron...
you rap like an marvelComic from ComicCon
I can tell from your pic in your biopic
My genome, will change your top pick like Vietnam
I remember V at nam telling me to stay calm
While war waged on
Breakin you down at the crack of dawn
microscopic with Cycloptic biopic
optics with larger profits that pitch forks
At prophets
You still seeing what bra fits
Checking out Al's fits
Stop all that lying
Drop all your bad habytes
I play spades with mavericks
shaving points off the average
Anyone  reading this
Like ****
It's like I'm watching this
Other artist
Get his *** kicked
I stick and move like a hat trick
I’m a savage eatin my many enemies with cabbage.
You'r too weak its on the surface,
I picked you on purpose
Your last verse you forced it
It was the worse-it
Sounded rehearsed-it
Seemed so plastic
Killing you dead serpents
These short tails aint worth it
We charm pets and **** pests a side
And lets the vets decide
where the dead reside
all bets aside
You dark knights never bright
Your end in plain sight
Dead on arrival
Then streaming it on Spike
On late night, drinking sprite on Skype
This ain't even a fight
This aint right
Beating you over the head phones
Until I pick up a dead tone
All because you spit on my mic
You just a flinstone
Your chic an easy bone
Chewing through stone
Thirsty for the throne
you in the way
so you got over thrown
How's that for throne
I’m headstrong in a zone
my own-zone, changing the O-zone
Raising the bar until its all gone
my Pen dragging, the new rome
my golden showers leaving you two-toned
I got the mightiest touch
you too much injury prone
with ***** moans that should be home Moe
No **** but your *** moans
When my black snake moan
Her hormones make her moan
Some I'm home Moe
Dealing with her hormones.
Bi- the way she found photos
Passcode your mobile phone, you
In a Tie-bow, with a Bi-Guy, all tied
getting Dee-*****,
Waving hi, with a smile,
duck-tapped looking into the phone
A selfy, but you weren’t alone,
dude was hung Like a home depot, you hanging off his pole
You looked in love, text read, "waiting for the sequel"
you aren’t a rapper, you stay acting like you are evil,
Deep inside you hide your pride
Working discreet on the side,
wanting no trouble, cause we are all equal and you
stunt double for the village people.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
ha ha!
   a ha ha ha ha ha ha!
sorry... i sometimes
get the giggles...

you know that jeffrey dahmer
biopic?

   ha ha ha ha!

i'm laughing,
because i'm authentically just curios...

who was the inspiration
for the film,
   Napoleon Dynamite?
who?!

ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

are, you, sure,
that Jeffrey Dahmer wasn't the muse
are you, sure?!
ha ha ha ha!
   doubt it...

    seriously doubt it...

NA(H)PO(H)LEO(N)
   DYNAMITE...
what a "vague" similarity...
with a Jeffrey Dahmer...

**** it... let's go full **** -
DJ REBEL & MAHOMBI
ft. SHAGGY...
                
but... ha ha ha!
i love the fact that Napoleon
Dynamite was borrowed
from... ha ha!
ah ha ha ha!
   the Milwaukee cannibal!

please tell me
when Albert Fish pops up...
esp. with the scene of
injecting needles
into his groin
before sitting on the electric chair:
i'm guessing for the added
O in gasping for...
anything but air.

it's still sinking in...
it's nighttime and i'm...
seriously trying to avert laughing
out-loud...
how there's  connection...
reciprocal points
of
vested interest culminating in
pristine Abel...
and his shadow, Cain...

now...
if Jeffrey Dahmer wasn't the inspiration
for Napoleon Dynamite?
then Pinocchio elongating nose...
wasn't the basis for a *****?!

i must always be wrong,
it would seem.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
symphony arrangement for poetry - personae distinctions of hidden violins and woodwinds, somewhere along the way brass - leaving Cabaret Voltaire (Zurich), moving to the Beat Hotel (9 Rue Gît-le-Cœur, Paris), ending up on the Cowgate (Edinburgh).

when you read newspapers you realise that dinosaurs roam
the land, the fortress of printing press, unlike the printing press
(which was taken seriously from the word go!)
the internet has been largely squandered; you read these
things in newspapers, the evolutionary reaction - ensuring that
among these dinosaurs are also opinion pieces, dinosaurs write accounts of what's happening, batrachotoxin amphibians write
opinions: i.e. what isn't happening: opinions go forward unchecked
and undisputed, added that there are many potions in the cauldron
it's hard to pick one out and dig deeper until both parties are in no position to hold such and such opinion, given the missing
muscle of implementing change or the skeleton to keep
the status quo - but this is a slight deviation from what i
was intending to convey - the old guard of printing is worried
sick that it might be usurped in the long run - it prints damaging
reports about the existence of the internet, looking at it as not
a niche environment, which it technically is - but cats, ****, cats,
****, apparently we all log on to meow and moan -
as a tool of entertainment it's the least thrilling source of
the desired "entertainment", the unscripted nature of this niche environment is what's actually good about it, in that a single
person can become both writer, editor and publisher -
but indeed, the internet has been squandered,
although it improved from what used to be a wholly anonymous
environment peppered with dangers of random encounters -
the infamous chat rooms changed even more to infamous
phone-books: you heard it, stories of cyber bullying - the internet
has been squandered, by all means, trying to save it is a bit like
trying to save the world, or as one Tao principle suggested to me
early on forged in me: the best way you can aid the world
is to forget the world, and let the world forget you.
a film director would say, well, i'm stuck in the house,
i'm thinking of shooting a biopic of Lawrence of Arabia...
i see a desert, a man riding a camel through it...
but you have to then start muling over the facts: you'll have to get funding, get the casting right,  but no one likes shooting in
the desert, you have to get  the catering sorted, you start shooting,
but the camera track ruins the desert, so you have to move
to another part of the desert that's pristine with wind parallel
ridges in the sand, then the studio calls you and says you're
spending too much money, then peter o'toole stumbles
out from the trailer hungover almost everyday; sure, you need inspiration and ideas, but that's only 1% or the whole,
99% is working with people - as a director you're not actually
playing god, you're helping other people, De Niro preferred
mumbling something prior to a scene, but Seymour Hoffman
went into a scene like a crocodile quickly snapping
to the shout of cut! and the clapperboard.
i suppose poetry could be like that too,
99% being the audience and the necessary oration,
that would work - unless of course you'd do the same with
painting - but whereas with painting you're invited to critical
thinking, see an artist next to his painting elaborating on
the themes and use of colours? i don't want to assert common sense
wisdom from one profession and apply the same wisdom
                                      to another with a trans-occupational
relativism: that red           is relative to               crimson -
              but we'll have to do away with lighting,
              darkening and what not, so yes,
red is relative to crimson insofar as we forget lighting
and Edward Hopper. anyone can appreciate the
lazy approach, but i took to some mammoths without the help
of audio books, a reasoning man, not a mob gob emotive conjurer worth a tonne of heckles and haggles - but i guess the dream
through this gamble would be the monetary reward...
you know... after so many years writing for peanuts i have lost
all appetite for spending money beyond what i consider
to be a workable cure for insomnia - i don't have to buy music
any more since i can stream it, i have more privacy without
a mobile phone, all i have is this little brick wall that's stationary
in this virtual jungle on which i scribble - with the radius from
this point being anything ranging from 1 to 6 sensible miles,
beyond 6 and we're talking blisters on feet; can you imagine what
our predecessors could endure in terms of walking? they had hoofs
instead of feet, while we have skin as smooth as a baby's buttock
cheeks on the soles of our feet. the strangeness of modernity:
1. a man drives a car with with a bicycle on the roof, just so he can    
    peddle down a scenic route...
2. the volume of skimmed milk bottle is the same as full fat milk,
    but if you bought full fat milk and added water to it the volume
    would triple (via semi, so yes, triple)...
3. healthy diets - 350% increase in vegan population
   in Britain over the past 10 years - the protein problem
   (once it was the fat problem, low fat yoghurt came about,
    turned everything into a sugar problem), i.e. women aged
    between 19 & 24 requiring to hit the 58 gram daily
    recommendation of protein would have to eat:

everyday foods
chicken breast (251g = 276Kcal)
eggs x4 (460g = 658Kcal)
salmon fillet (291g = 533Kcal)                                 v.

clean-eating foods
quinoa (1,318g = 1,582Kcal)
chia seeds (371g = 1,818Kcal)
                              goji berries (405g = 1,504Kcal)
                              kimchi (3,222g = 863Kcal)
                              tofu (707g = 70Kcal)
                              ******* (384g = 632Kcal)
                              coconut yoghurt (3,422g = 6,844Kcal)
almond milk (14,500ml = 3,625Kcal)
avocado (2,900g = 4,843Kcal)

  as healthy as stuffing turkeys for Thanksgiving, can you imagine
  drinking fourteen, fourteen litres of almond milk?! i don't even
  have to imagine drinking 700ml of whiskey to get the point
  and reach the threshold of the effectiveness of sleeping pills...
  no alcohol, no sleeping pills, better sit it out than take so near  
  ineffective buggers; although as a warning: you might end up
  sleeping for *12 hours
- variations on the BMI and previous habits
  of drinking - socially? not so much, medically? primarily -
  not in favour of the anti-alcohol lobby being part of the "safety"  
  guidelines given to the public...
4. charities' costs eat up 78% of donations,
    another 21st century anomaly, effectively dismissed
    by the church's alms giving history depicted in Sistine opulence,
    so no wonder whether in cardinal robes or suited and booted for
    the near-invisible secular religiosity, such poverty of symbolism
    compared with the predecessors, at least back then you'd
    know who to send to the guillotine - and this is how Louis XIV
    treated his courtesans, he made a certain type of clothing
    mandatory, a Versailles school uniform as it were,
    most the the courtesans went bankrupt having to buy the
    clothes, some pieces would be equivalent of a sports car,
    they went bankrupt to remain in the club,
    so they borrowed monkey from Louis, and so Louis kept
    them in his pocket: poor rich people, or necessary
    leeches (as once used in medicine, Louis' absolutism
    being the sole malady, abuse of power necessitates
    paranoia); or to quote Lisolette about the royal *******
    'mouse droppings in pepper.' Philippe (Duc d'Orléans)
    was the transvestite who charged into battle
    and conquered the Dutch, much to his brother's
    shame at having only made conquests in the bed - well
money here, money there, shoving a piano into a concert hall accompanied by an orchestra, something Chopin would never
do not wishing to leave the comforts of salons - although
Metallica dared to.
                                                             ­           welcome to
the age of silica and chameleons (cha cha cha champ a camcorder anyone? well, imagine what scrutiny Narcissus would pay a photograph, imagine giving a photograph to Narcissus and
wonder would he change his behaviour), get fooled by
the adverts once, second time you'll eventually see needing to feed
a charity's bureaucracy rather than an African, hence the migrant
                                                                                                    crisis...
sometimes there are no surprises as to where certain things
originate, Marxism and England, zenith of the empire,
or as historians claim, the decadence of the Romans was their fascination with food prior to the end: ready-meals and
microwaves among cooking shows, currently the daily program
of channels, esp. that of 4 is culinary and horse racing,
all the interesting programs are broadcast when everyone
is about to fall asleep... Saville bankrupted the B.B.C.
posthumously: a game show, "jackpot" of one grand.
- advertisement didn't expect live T.V., the mute button,
the pause button and the fast forward button...
but in a 100 years time if not more they'll look back at us as
having finally exhausted Groundhog Day (starring Bill Murray) -
sure, the technological breakthroughs were great, magical,
but the content? 20th century most probably,
the ideal time of fluid and at ease plagiarism - obviously
exceptions were made, but this walking nightmare
of the exhausted second half of the 20th century caught up
in the 21st century - dialogue replaced by visuals,
clash of the titans (1981) v. clash of the titans (2010) -
the only good bit of the latter is the inclusion of Hades -
it's beautiful, i'm nostalgic to a history i was born in and
belonged to, i'm not a nostalgic Nietzsche or Hölderlin
bumming about singing praises of the Ancient Greeks -
you see, it's close-at-heart nostalgia because i belonged to it,
the infant of it - a peculiar circumstance to be in; or coming
to terms with the first signs of decay: cartoon network's
cow & chicken with i r baboon - have you seen the horrors
of modern cartoons compared with computer graphics?
readies them to  pick up gaming soon after,
given gaming graphics. in summary - some say sitting behind
a computer screen is a sign of a lack of self-assurance,
or confidence, self- anything you want to suffix with, well,
that could be true, but you have a photograph included,
and the days of the typewriter are over - but i could also say
the same about certain brands or shops, are they too lacking
self-confidence to stop their existence on  the high street?
the royal mail delivers junk, you might get 100 junk envelopes
and a christmas  card... o.k. make that 1000 to 10,000 envelopes
of junk and one letter directly addressing you that hasn't been
written using an analogue like

dear mr. / mrs. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

we would like to inform you that your insurance
claim has expired.            etc.

the infancy of this century is what's deceptive, the greatest
deception i can think of - the great health scares and subsequent
over-usage of antibiotics breeding super-bugs in hospitals
anything and everything under the sun - including
that damnable idea that the planet Mars employs people whom
it's attracting into its orbit - earthly geologists must be bewildered
that the only subject of learning from all of man's
capacity to send into space is geology: and on the return flight
home we realised that we'd only be bringing back some arenite
(sandstone); that quote about about painting being 50 years
ahead of writing, the same is true with science fiction and
actual science.
Martin Narrod May 2017
Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weigh the bricks of suicides, concrete block tourniquets from the migraines of English turnabouts. So there's some surplus of surprise in them, in an integers shock-appraisal face-lift on Catholicism's lobotomy to cuckhold housewives seeking collagen, or the thick dark-skinned forearm-******* insider's swinging in the houses of the denizens, or repurposing their malign from their unused vaginas, to **** the dust off such scab-covered stitches, which is like vacuuming between the loose inner-leg space of a succubus.

Bring out the gimp! Any fetishized leather-wearing hungry miner for the oral tongue-slapping mouth-dance might do, as long as the dom can subdue that sub tied to the stocks voted on for the public to use, there might be screaming, squirming, and scoffs, but there's nothing left for him that Marina Abramowicz hasn't already proven she's willing to lose. Plus, in this small town not far enough from Laramie, there's still too much fat to chew through, too much flab to tuck the **** into, where even the F.U.P.A. so deep that a *******-day or deity might need the leverage of a boot to get even Ron Jeremy's **** unglued.

Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.
Jason Argonaut Oct 2011
You were the world, you were the sun.
You stood out in a green t-shirt.
Your guitar solo sounded like a possessed cat.
I was amazed, I was in awe.
How many girls are there in the world like this?
A rarity in this deadbeat town.
A warm feeling in the corner of my stomach.
A spine jolt at any word said to me, any smile given to me.

Euphoria and pleasure, molecules touching.
Twisted sheets and callused hands.
Young skin, the softest I had ever known.
Where am I, and how did I get here?
A biopic and a box-office failure comedy.
In each other’s pocket.

The moons passed, the candle flickered.
The 12-bar blues was wrong, but you could not accept.
Your pitch was all over the shop.
Tone-deaf, some would call it.
But I did not want to harm your feelings.
You’re perfect, and there’s nothing else to it.

The rains came and went, and there we were.
Perched atop a hill in a new city.
I forced good feelings into my stomach.
I wrote and wrote songs, I poured them out.
You didn’t care. You never cared about my music.
All right for you, taking on the world.
Shaking percussion across hand-railings.
That’s pretentious. It all sounds the same.
This strange behaviour automatically makes you better than me.

A night comes where I wish to stay in.
Perhaps watch a Jim Jarmush film.
No, let’s drink plenty of cider and head out.
Visit the valley. Go to stupid clubs where everyone is cooler than me.
My father’s suit, I brandish it.
I am verbally knocked down by the filth of the valley.
I should have stayed home.
You and your stupid friends are drunk,
And I join you on a 2am bus home.

We lie in the shadows of the nest.
I talk of the cigarettes.
I do not wish to walk through this smoke with you.
Stop it now, do it for me.
You didn’t give a ****. You would continue.

You never cared about my music.
Whenever I picked up a guitar, I got bad vibrations.
Any of your perfect hipster friends pick up my guitar, instant praise.
Play that again, Oscar.
That’s not a person’s name, that name belongs to a Muppet.

I should have done what I wanted.
I should have bought my groceries separate.
My money flew away in the breeze. My job wasn’t enough.
You didn’t care.
It was all about you. You couldn’t get money from the government.
It was all about the scene.
Putting on your most op-shoppy clothes, heading out to roll cigarettes and drink with other pretentious lower-class folk.
******* cardigans. Get the **** out.

I hate the way you didn’t give a **** about the songs I wrote.
I hate the way we’d always have to buy dark chocolate because the normal kind hurt your teeth.
I hate the way we’d never hire out a zombie film because you thought they were real.
I hate the way you cut your hair to look like Agynes Deyn. You didn’t look like her.
I hate the way you’d bag out our old town and think you were so much better because you lived north now.
I hate the way you told me about the clone of me you were seeing. He even played a Jazzmaster and had the same haircut as me.
I hate seeing new photos of you looking so sick. Every photo you’re holding a cigarette.
I hate thinking about what you’re up to right now.
I hate how you always come into my mind when I’m trying to get on with life.

But what I hate the most is the fact that I know you never think about me, ever.

And I think about you almost every day.

6/10/11 12AM
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
Matthew K. Elert was born in Ostrowiec Świetokrzyski in May 1986; he moved to England aged 8. He studied and graduated from Edinburgh University with a degree in Chemistry; he abandoned studying Eastern European History at the University College London's department of School of Slavonic and Eastern European Studies (S.S.E.E.S.) to gamble on a pursuit of a career as a poet. He currently lives in Romford, Essex.
Martin Narrod May 2017
Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weight some surprise them, in an integers shock-appraisal. Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.
neth jones  Mar 2020
biopic-ed
neth jones Mar 2020
time drops me
thief by thief
i am subliminally indicted upon
and catalogued
cell by cell
tatted into data
i spool..
                            ..unfooled
but unable
flicka-flicka-flicka
biopic-ed
used all up
in some Great Spell-hounding
tired and aging
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
it's true, what the current psychologists
say about watching current
*******,
i'll never get a chance
to "****" the current pornographic stars..
but i feel less disinhibited
about thinking of
some kim novak...
   i'm just stick to
pretending foster the people
and how, all of the 1980s was "bad"...
or the part where i confess to
the whole, ******* "debacle"...
you know why i won't be able
ton **** all these actresses?
most of them starred in 1970s
italian ***** cinema,
with french dubbing...
           i'm still fond
of a fictional biopic
of liberace...
                         modern psychologists
are right...
  the reason why i wouldn't be able,
is... 1970s ******* seems
so orthodox, organic, real,
you can almost understand why
it would take an italian production,
and french dubbing,
and why ******* would be
considered the ideal "****":
who would ask for a hole,
+ a tongue in it?
    mind you:
walk with a cat on your shoulder,
into a trukish off-lice,
pass a teenage ******* your way
in, expect nervous giggling...
what the **** am i,
a teacher?
     no, the modern day psychologists
are right, although they're not
psychiatirsts,
they do not have
big pharma support...
   1970s *******,
italian, with dubbing...
      monica roccaforte...
      dated a girl who's mouth
resembled her's,
  now, i'm happy to say,
she's married,
with 4 bambinos,
          all of them girls...
travis: walking down the hill,
12 memories,
that part of me that thinks:
thank god it's not anything by
mogwai...
too bad i still own a part
of me that is *******...
    well yeah...
i wouldn't want to **** the current
pornographers..
i'd prefer to sit out a silent
gesture of an hour's worth
with a cat...
      all the pornographers i'd like
to ****, are grannies at this point,
organic ***,
from the 1970s...
what is left, these sloppy-leftovers?
avenue of the three party tier
ambitions... + some rare sort
of revising golf...

            so much for visiting the ******
of amsterdam,
legally...
like: who the hell visits amsterdam
to smoke ****,
these days, of all the days
made available?

last time i heard:
psychologists are not psychiatrists
in that,
they can't prescribe you
******-active medication...
but it's true...
i ******* to unattainable examples
of ***...
all my ambitions are relegated
toward ambitions
surrounding 1970s italian
*******,
and subsequent french dubbing...

modern **** is crass...
some men would even allow themselves
the statement:
as long as there's a story,
behind the self-evident
nurturing of the inevitable act...

    modern pork / ****
is all that it will ever be:
namely...
     a lost libido for a lack
              of existing taboos.

nothing is going to replace
sensual *******
of 1970s italian *******...
**** this modern
gagging,
this... attempt at snorkeling
without any experience of water.
Michael Humbert  May 2015
Forever
Michael Humbert May 2015
Could you graph the path of my wrathful masochism?
Where would you end?
See I tend to forget the beginnings of it all,
Just this gruesome conclusion
This heinous collusion of chance and demons
An occlusion of vision
This endless derision of what I continue to hold so dear

And what if they made a movie of my narrowminded delusion?
A myopic biopic starring yours truly,
And duly shown for all to see real lunacy

"Love's forever," I says to me and
Forever can be as long as you want it to be

— The End —