Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Austyn Taylor  Oct 2014
The 21st
Austyn Taylor Oct 2014
The 21st. 2:16am. I told you you were going to hurt me. You were destined to hurt me with your too soft paws, accidentally pulling out your claws and ou didn't want to see the blood spatter.
The 21st. 2:17am. This is when I told you I loved you. Maybe, definitely, always. You never said it back.
The 21st. 2:18am. You told me my heart was too big, but still not big enough to hold everything. I sure as hell couldn't hold you.

It's been three weeks and I still see your blood on my bed sheets.

The 21st. 2:19am. I told you I would never be heartless like you. You told me if that's all I aspire to be, I'll be nothing more than another ******* cliche.
You were stupid and I was dumb and we were toxic waste.
The 21st. 2:22am. I said, "Honey, I'll never be like you." You didn't get it.
My mother's eyes are weary. Your mother's eyes never stopped creating seas. *
The 21st. 2:36am. I pushed you into a lamp. It shattered.
The rest of their eyes are filled with contempt and I don't know if it's for you or me, but my god, it feels like me.
The 21st. I lost track of time. You slapped me. You slapped me again. I am lying with the lamp.
I screamed and you shouted and we were alive.
The 21st. 2:53am. The cops stopped by for the fourth time this week. They called it a domestic dispute, but it just felt like breathing in water.
You were the false positive of a pregnancy test, nervous and scared and alone. I was the father too scared to stick around. You were the drug induced high that kept going.
The 21st. 3:26am. I told you, and I quote, "We live fast and die young and we are dying fast."
And then you stopped
I burned myself on the toaster twice just to feel you touch me.*
The 21st. 3:27am. You were lovesick and I was high as **** and we were too far gone.
Not sure I'm pleased with every part of this.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.guess i must have hit the vein, nay, a ******* artery, must have gobbled down an oyster, muscle and brains altogether, simultaneously!

i have one, only one pet peeve...
that casual mainstream media
expression...

    but it's the 21st century!

i get the bollocking frizzle of
***** hair, translated into Janissary ******
attire... excited...

what the **** are you talking
about?

   21st century, what?
we're in our infancy!
            and what came prior?
you seem to forget the first half
of the 20th century,
and bulk in cultural
              expropriation of other
nations...

   us Poles had 100 years if liberty,
thank you very much...
we're not about to do the German
hip Berliner St. Vitus dance
magic, just yet...

******* hippies...

       Solidarity movement
pamphleteers, migrants of Florida,
bias, you name them...
yeah... "heroes"...

                    ******* usurpers,
Judases...
             and from the city i was born into...
where's the ******* metallurgy?
export of cheap labor,
originating in Spain!
      how's the youth unemployment
working for the Spaniards?
good? good good...
goof ******* *****!
   no say cheese in Swiss German
and show us the 42 teeth of over-perfecting
that schmile!

        Swiss guard, up & ****!
*******...

       i hate the sophistry,
loath it, baron over it...
this but it's the 21st century...
what sort of excuse is it?!
   there's not excuse!

                 reverting back to covert
popularization of prostitution?
even the Bulgar prostitutes lie,
about being Romanian,
i never tell them,
even though the word, dobrze...
   o.k,
    хорошо...
   is not a romanian word...
    you lie, you fry...
         i'm actually fond of making
chicken hearts, and pork liver sauces...
i can work the stoves...
             **** it... give me any meat,
i'll fry it... make a garlic onion sauce
out of it...
    nee bother...
   strawberries?
perfect fruit for smoothies...
tried it, just today,
with nein (nine) passiot fruits,
and an arithmetic for the one hand
including strawberries...
         crème fraîche replacing
yoghurt...
                          milk,
milk milk milk milk...

but...

what's the ******* excuse,
for making excuses of the 21st century
as the ******* pinnacle?
will the 22nd century look
fondly on us?
  
i'm only looking fondly for the death
of Lizzy II with much
anticipation, because of,
what i assume will not be the case
of Chuckles III,
rather, Georgie VII...

the 20th century passed...
what sort of excuse, in liberal terms...
is there to posit,
for keeping the Greenwich Mean Time?
frankly?
  the ******* excuse i've ever, ever,
heard!
         it's the 21st century...
whoop-tee-doo-daa
                        (H)    (H) -
told you... without the (YW) -
a god that's a vowel catcher...
or pivot for laughter...
can't get more hebrew-philic than i.

i ******* loath the: but it's the 21st century
argument...
    lost the italic lettering and the colon
from the use of bold -
monarchy?
  well, suit up & boot up
for the transgressive pomp & circumstance,
that alternative
to pride & prejudice...

  ha ha!
            god... laughing at oneself
is probably the only cure there ever will be...

but come on!
the: but it's the 21st century!
  
what sort of, argument, is that?
  it's not like ontology begot
an x-men algebraic variation,
an exponential derivative,
    a Holmes' hound of a bag of
necessary excuses!
      some ******-evolutionary leap
of benevolence
to excuse a connection of peer-to-peer
connectivity,
somehow erasing the 20th
century, and ennobling a... "fresh start"
with 21 as the fore!

i might be a peasant,
and i might drink to excesses some
people would wish they could
muster a stamina for...

  but please, leave the fairy tales to
the Danes,
  hans christian andersen and their
Grimm bro. counterparts...

but it's the 21st century...
**** me...
    you mean the ****-up century?!
SassyJ Aug 2016
The 21st century love,
equates a list of lust,
a games of hearts,
the legends of *****.

The 21st century love,
is a poisoned arrow,
It sets cupids on fire,
the heat of unrequited love.

The 21st century love,
puts the women in a sack,
It ***** and pounds to dust,
the lost remnants of trust.

The 21st century love,
puts the men on a pedestal,
A rotations of repentant cycles,
the ride to the very end of the pit.

The 21st century love,
is not a salvation that hits the crowds,
It has slowed and slugged us down,
to see the sand blown ****** haze.

The 21st century love,
has an impersonal high of lies,
a hay of burnt passion that fades,
an illusionary bewitched dedication.

The 21st century love,
a reaction to survive in a new world,
give the body and preserve the heart,
Keep your mind and enclose the soul.

The 21st century love,
it's a jungle of reservations,
an ace of diversity and availability,
guard your all littles ones.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
to write against using paragraphs you prevent eye-strain, you increase speed of composition, paragraphs are what you might call the leisurely pace of writing, a promenade with a sun-umbrella, poems can never be written in paragraphs, they need the snap snap snap momentum, obviously unfavourable in times of printing on paper, not economic enough... well, digitalise my *** if you may, we're going to save the amazon rainforest this way!

the 21st doesn't really allow the perks that a 20th century
poet might have, first of all the typewriter has changed,
but so has the page you write on,
back in the 20th century you
lived and wrote,
in the 21st century you write and live,
back then you'd go to a cafe for
about ten days, or to a pub for seven
and talk talk talk, drink, talk talk talk,
play intellectual ping pong,
you lived and wrote,
you didn't write and live -
it's changed, everything has changed,
the pages are like brick walls
everywhere you and can see,
so you apply the rule: well, someone
might see it immediately, so it
must be graffiti rather than poetry,
because a. it's not really written in
public, and b. anyone can take it
immediately, on a random scroll through
this jungle maze of information,
yet poetry written in 20th century took from
the 19th etc. written with that glorious word
ah* or O, that wind of inspiraton, so light,
so breezy entering the heart... the 21st modus operandi?
the word **** **** ****, i.e. it's the ******
hoover dam cracking;
but the other thing is, you also have
the perks of a 19th or an 18th century writer,
a writer like Alexander Dumas or Balzac,
you have time, and you know you have
time to write prodigiously, you know
the audience is a niche of salon corset adorning
perfumed and pampered ladies,
with the gents reading the books to rid
yourself from the existential angst of having
someone bring you peppermint tea in the
afternoon while you lounged and tilled
the field of yawns and un-amusing gatherings
of, well, hardly ecstasy fuelled chorea minor
(st. vitus' dance) dancing raves...
but that's the thing, these days a constant
profile / presence is also a shady presence,
the background noise, ambient refrigerator noise
type observations of your own voice...
it's the 21st century after all,
we have a global world of mass tourism
and easy access to Turkey, Singapore or
Indonesia... but find our neighbour's house
to be Mt. Everest in terms of access...
impassable, well at least it's like that in England,
England and that damnable passive
voyeurism of neighbourly ordeals of staccato -
so you become a mole, you dig into
hades that your self becomes, and you expand
the horizons a little...
but still the perks of writing in the 21st century
is that you can speed up the publishing process
not really minding any material gain,
because, remember: in the 21st century
you write and live, it's not the 20th
century where you can live and write,
that's gone, it's like the idea of what Europe
used to be with free-movement of people
across the union, all the publishing wire fencing
are gone, you have to use this opportunity
to move quickly, use this opportunity,
otherwise it will suddenly disappear in the murk
of what writing used to be: the
ghoul of the infamous Vatican Index -
i mean it's still the early 21st century,
what of the end of it? history can be easily
condensed into an evolutionary theory,
pin-pointing dinosaur fossils and all that,
but i'm working in the framework of a range
of about 100 years, and the dynamics of a century,
nothing more, i'm being realistic like that:
as a poets' poet said: 'you know,
i want to become a philosophers' poet,
i want the shawl of even greater obscurity,
a mythology as it were, this paparazzi
***** and glitter of insect procreation speed
frightens me, i'm not the one for being
encapsulated in some sort of amnesia -
amnesia of the people, people's amnesia,
come one minute, gone the next,
i need to set a coordinate for people who
like to think.' and he was on the money, truthfully said.
people are always talking about all the futilities
of justice: but it's the 21st century!
makes no difference if you can't compare two
centuries and what we do that does not involve serving
our justice... the count of monte cristo always
said what was needed, start embarking on revenge
and your sought out justice will never end, for it
will never really exist, and you will not find
satisfaction in revenge, emotionally you won't,
but obviously cognitively you will, but certainly
not emotionally - since feelings have no aim,
whether in seeking revenge or in pardoning someone
for their idiocy or gluttony or whatever,
emotions are chaos, thoughts can become methodological
to the extent where you will gain revenge,
but up to a certain point, the point of exhaustion,
and then what? give your ear to zatara a while,
your emotions might surprise you, esp. if you're not
thinking out something, make your thought
a coordinate, and send out 360 vectors of the heart
where they please.
Shayn Powell Apr 2018
21st century slavery: Shayn Powell

Take a look around,
It’s 2018.
What do you see?
Everything looks fine,
People striding in glee?

Look hard for it may
Be a mystery,
That we’re living through
21st century slavery.

We claim these are
The lands of the free.
It’s a fib, that’s not at
All what it seems.

Because if it were
the land of the free
than Martin Luther King may
never have had his dream.

There wouldn’t have
Been a march for
Freedom in 1963.
And Mr King wouldn’t
Have lost his life
For standing up in
What everyone
Should've believed.

Take a look around,
It’s 2018.
What do you see?
Everything looks fine,
People striding in glee?

Look hard for it may
Be a mystery,
That were living through
21st century slavery.

America, “land of the free”
Were fine we claim,
living in prosperity.
“Everyone’s equal”,
You’ve heard it too, How silly
Don’t you agree?

My best friend
Rolled his window up
when he saw a policeman.
It’s sad, But this is the
reality we live in.

“We’re equal” but we
Strip kids from their dreams
Because they were brought here
Against their will illegally.

Have some leniency,
Then again you’re
changing their scenery.  
How can you do that
So easily?

And what’s this ****
we learned in history?
Jim Crow laws?
Thank god those are gone.
Or so we thought

You’re not sneaky America,
Mass incarceration is
Nothing but a plot
For a group of minorities
To be 2nd class citizens
To us all.

That’s evil that should leave
everyone appalled.

It’s time for a call
For action.
All this arrogance
Has left us distracted
From what our nation
claims to practice.
Because

Take a look around,
It’s 2018.
What do you see?
Everything’s NOT fine,
People AREN'T striding in glee.

Really look for it’s
Not hard to see
That were living through
21st century slavery.

Yours truly,

That worried white kid
Who lives in a society
That’s unruly.
Witnessed a buddy of mine roll his window up at a stoplight when he saw a police officer at the same stoplight and I wrote this up shortly after.
Shit Asstrology Jul 2015
No, you're **** does not not stink. It's ****. Your **** smells like ****. You are no exception to this truth. If you're a Taurus you probably wipe your *** with toilet paper made of satin. You indulge in fatty and sugary foods quite often, so your ******* satin toilet paper never lasts long. Your ruling planet in Venus, so you see ******* as an art form. You may even decorate your house with your own **** statues. When you're not admiring your own ****, you're constipated because you're too ******* stubborn to take a break from stuffing your face with ****** food.

Advice: Put down the cannolis and take a walk in a rose garden so you'll know what actual roses smell like.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
what's the biggest difference
between 20th century's
french and german
existentialism,
    and the 21st century's
primarily, anglo-sphere,
realisation of an existential
   "crisis"...
           anti-jew meme...
         the globalist octopus...
imagine...
     some people have
recovered from an existential
crisis, having established
vast constructs of thought
way back in the 20th century,
namely
the french, and the germans..
but...
my oh my oh my my...
the anglo-sphere of linguistics
has only, "just now"
awoken to this...
   quiet a predicament,
wouldn't you say?
                         fertile ground...
oh sure, there was existential
angst in the anglo-
sphere among irish
pillars...
                beckett, joyce...
but concrete architectures
of thought, regarding existentialism,
seem to be absent...
  so... counter-argument:
so how come i can
freely buy a copy of some
german philosopher,
a french novelist turned
philosopher...
           but...
  i'm skint... when it comes
to english thinkers more
or less associated with
my status, rather than stance,
on contemporary "translation"?
   elitism...
no... it's not that...
      i could have just well
have procured
a life helping out my father
in industrial roofing...
             i didn't mind roofing...
it's not an exactly pristine
labour of love sort
of environment...
the scottish widows' h.q.
roof near st. paul's?
        me.
   i was part of that
monstrosity...
       but... come again?
but there are some many attachment
cursors when it comes
to an anglican take
on "revising" continental
existentialism...
        whatever crisis
the continental people
felt, and consolidated
the 20th century people...
is only just starting to bud
in the anglo-phonic world...
start-up, island,
end result,
    h'america and australia...
there was never a question
as to why, or if,
the english-speaking
people would ever entertain
existentialism,
but, suddenly they are,
at least starting to look
into the pit,
from their ivory towers...
immediate escape
impetus?
      reach for the fictive
narrative,
                disavow journalism...
make journalism bedfellows
with political rhetoric...
there's no debate...
circus, however you look
at it...
             you can't fathom
an abstract variant
of the german or the french
mind, gripped by
an existential critique,
a piquancy,
    a pedantry...
in the english speaking world...
there are,
just simply...
   too many attachments
to deal with...
       - growing a beard:
meant exactly that -
eat ****.    
         i don't see where
there a "me" to be found
in a (0, 0) starting space,
of net-worth-"work"...
     coumpters-freeze
network...
for a language...
that ridiculed,
or became succinct
in succumbing
to its anglo-preferences
of objectifying counter-standards
for its own...
shortcomings...

  what has 20th century
existential philosophy have
to do with "anything",
esp. if arrived from
the either french
of german, cultures?

we have Joe Slave over 'ere...
oh right... sorry...
paweł nowak....
just took joe stephen slave's
role was
the person, the hands,
in a recycling factory...
do you mind?
  rather:
do you mind...
teaching your natives...
   to...
   and you know how that
cindarella story ends...

introducing existentialism
to the brits and,
generally,
  the anglican variety of
the tongue, being
used...
   will end up as, failure...
the 20th century
taught me this,
the irish failed,
the french
and the germans...
basically a "foreign" idea
is more than just...
******..
the people are ******,
with paradoxes
of their women...

                sure... a bit like
Iceland...
oh, ****, a bit too close
to the continent...
like madagascar
  is to africa...
and sri lanka is to india?
i'm not 'ere to care to
the idiosyncratic
concerns of island people...
contra the, "collective"...

island people will forever
remain island people,
"solipsistic", idiosyncratic,
idioms...
            i can't change that...
always prone to export...
but never to import...
    island people,
       the **** is there to say?
ever bewilder yourself
over chanel 4 news...
and how...
  john snow is slipping
into dementia?
      you listen to the cue?
no?
                  sorry... john...
dementia on the horizon...

attempting to adapt
existentialism into england
will fail,
given their moral high-ground
of the "migrant crisis"...
it's an island...
  the borders are clarifying,
distinct,
        sure, the people can be *****
when their language
is bored in being
a "lingua franca"...
         but other people have
other, in-debt defences...

western slavs?
ever hear a spaniard speak
pollack, just because
he hiked with a polish girl?
yeah... mahler...
                       violins and ****...
you only listen:
                  for an idea...
it comes, it comes,
it doesn't come...
well... you move onto
some khachaturian...
        so,                 no biggie...

you can't import continetal
thinking to an island people,
they have no concept
of borders...
their naive presupposing
barrier, centered-ground is
unshakeable...

   existential philosophy
"meme" rate of survival is... ?
0.1,
binary, negation, an affirmative
statement,
and then the fiasco...

       it doesn't help
that there's an alternative
outlet via h'america or australia...
i'm not looking
at the "bigger picture",
when there isn't one...

     20th century existentialism
will not work in 21st century england,
or any english-speaking world
to begin with...
there are just, too many,
attachment points,
         as many nurtured
nostalgia avenues
as there are amnesia riddled
currencies of attention
exhaustion...
        it's just a pristine model
to revive the serf...

there's no point reading existentialism
to a people,
so far lodged in their
isolationism that they
can claim, both an island-stature...
and two continents,
by extension
       of stating: "being aware"...      

i guess you have to be born
on the continent
to read anything by 20th century
writers,
but... trying to implement
the word...
into the idiosyncrasy
of island-dwelling people,
akin to the English?

                    i'm not even going
to bother trying...
they're island-folk...
   they "think" of borders akin
to coastlines...
and not migration
fake bordering of a contradiction
of peoples occupying
a quicksand pit
of looking at a geography map...
island-folk...
  they know border...
because they know... island...

you can't translate
something that's already
paradoxical to them
  (hypocritical, is not a milder
term of usage for the desired
execution)...
     no...
                not going to happen...
two islands,
some set of continental enclaves...
culture...
whatever you want...

             i've lived with them,
even though i've lived pretty much
among either the irish migrants,
or the scots...
    you're not going to translate
an island, into a continent's
auxiliary...
  right now...
you'd think that
   Estonia would become
characteristic of an island-people
auxiliary mentality...

       i can't blame these people
though...
   an island environment
provides an island people
mentality...
    if you have never been
part of a congregation,
geographically...
   yes...
      but they're borrowing
continental idiosyncracy...
****** *****...

   Iceland?
            yeah... oh yeah...
they're hot on the topic of what
island life is like...
being so...
   conservative that they even
have developed apps
for people to check their
genetic proximity
and any immediacy to live,
+ baggage...

      the Brits were always 'ere...
the Icelandisch?
were always there...
          and...
  sorry... for the already given
postcard: wish you were
here analogy of...
            curiosity killed
the cat...

           but island dwelling people
will always be,
an island dwelling people...
right now,
you do what i do...
you play chamaleon...
  "sociopath"...
                you...
begin with: a-pathy...
          without pathology
looking for... what requires
you to mingle with the most
pathological examples of
a hushed sanity of society...

          and...
          your luck, as well as mine...
nothing really happens...
like butter smeared
over a gently toasted
piece of toast.

hello tomorrow.
Ugo Apr 2012
Dedicated to stillborn fetuses, 99 cent Malt Liquor and Existentialism
1.
Nymphomaniac tree huggers
And overweight bisexual vegetarians
Swallowing phentermine poison to stay fit.

2.
Funky fresh *******  
throwing pigs at St. Augustine’s pear tree
and frolicking abortions over Moloch’s philoprogenitiveness,

3.
While sipping barbecue sauce dipped in Lipton tea,
dancing around adhesive bonfires
reciting memories of holocaust, the Kristallnacht nights
and beautiful words suffered by ancestors lost.

4.
Inhale chicken noodle soup, with a side of Lithium,
And prance to Literacy class to combat envisionment
With free association conceptual constructions,

5.
Computerized like Prometheus’ fire burning through SmartBoards
In classrooms where the poison of heterosexual history
Is fed to boys in skirts cursed by Adam’s apple,

6.
Baptized by social norms and locked away in hopeless closets
According to the Tautology of Leviticus…
until they cut their breath by the vein of soteriology;

7.
Misunderstanding of God’s words
Covets the innocent to early graves
In biblical paratactic irony…like God betting Satan for a Job.

8.
Rub fried chicken oil on Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ skin
and soil his white pride with ***** flavor,
for revenge  On the Properties of Things

9.
and howl out in glory of victory
over totes of  lickerish piper methysticum blunts
that beg the conundrum,
'What is the origin of this world?'
'Ether,' he replied.
But it is not ether!
Nor Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
It is Dada. Dada. Dada!
  10.
For this is a record of the life stories of the greatest minds and geniuses of your generation,
written in boys and girls
who mimicked Basquiat’s genius and tagged bathroom walls with abstract philosophies like “Love is a prime number” and “ the weight of Duncan McDougall’s soul can only be found on the 15th of October”
who drank vampirish gulps of Vicodin while consoling themselves with aphorisms such as: “don’t rue the misses, you don’t need a Mrs. when you’re elevated by chemical kisses”
11.
Who stood naked in mirrors, weeping, for they were a mystery to themselves, but a great talent and soon to be legend to some.
Who lit cannabis in loneliness and waltzed naked with their ghosts, fantasizing about ****** tomatoes and Corpus Christi Mexican Jazz.
Who composed psychedelic anthems from dreams that were lost in ghettoes where virginities were lost for loaves of bread, for the hunger of bread.
12.
Who wrote suicide notes on a toilet seat, contemplating the texture of Marshall Mathers’ favorite underwear and whether the color green was an invention of **** Germany.
Who used to love their lovers in darkness and colored the streets of Manhattan with rainbows on June 24, 2011 to mark the date lady liberty finally bought a new pair of glasses.
13.
Who lost musical talents to a Wine-house and ended up in a whine-house where lobotomy was subsequently prescribed by the milligram.
Who indulged in pharmaceutical vices and when asked why replied simply, every recursively enumerable set is Diophantine.
Who diagnosed themselves with “start ****-itis” and self medicated by eating Fifinellas at the stroke of each midnight.
Who rubbed paraprosdokians on their skin and occupied Wall Street in search of a new euphemism for being American.
Who poured Alkalizer on a dead moose and kicked it while feasting on the divine question, “why does Rice play Texas?”
14.
who got bored with conventional relationships and bought the Origin of the World on street corners from vixens nicknamed “Jezebel” and climaxed atop of them screaming  “I’m in Babylon, the great Mother of ******!”
Who attempted suicides upon suicides upon suicides, in Oakland, until they were shipped away to private catholic universities in Rhode Island, where the history of Colossus was being taught.
15.
who serenaded love interests with four letter curse words at open bars where Kubla Khan was read and Tartars kings were licked all over like holy communion *****.
Who drove home with the spirits of wine and crashed on telephone poles where their obituaries were written in their prime, leaving their mothers weeping and calling congress to reconsider Prohibition.
16.
Who mixed Redbull with Propofol and drank the juxtaposition galore only to be woken up the next morning dead in their sleep.
Who tattooed rat poison packages with goodwill messages such as “****** divided by Water =6th day of creation” or “Seroquel + Brett Favre = St. Patrick”,
who went speedballing with Basquiat during autoscopy and woke up wondering the cost of Nautilus in Albuquerque.
17.
who took 33 hallelujah 1800 tequila jello shots and daydreamed about laying on Mithras’ grave, yelling, beetlejuice, beetlejuice…beetlejuice.
who found the truths of the Bible invalid by the miscalculation of Pi in 1 Kings 7, verse 3, and mailed death on anthrax letters to Reagan in protest.
18.
who sat empty bellied at breakfast tables wondering the temperature of satellites at Lagrangian points,  only to soon catch fire in their tongues and speak Labyrinth soliloquies that ended in
19.
Zion,
Where Google knows every answer.
In Zion
Where the youth, tomorrow’s future, quote a ***** named Hova better than they can quote Jehovah.
In Zion
Where *******’s art was used as weapon during the Cold war.
20.
In Zion
Where sartorial geniuses where no pants,
In Zion
Where David Kato Kisule is the secret hero of these words, for he was taken at a time
In Zion
Where we were supposed to be our ancestor’s sci-fi.

21.
In Zion,
Where the youth bear the scarlet letter X for they are a problem to tradition and hold no definition for the future, for they have discovered
In Zion
That the origin of this world is in their living eyes, and not in the dictionary of their ancestors who lived
In Zion
when the epitome of the literature of life ended in Revelation of Amen and Shantih shantih shantih;
this is a record of the greatest minds and geniuses there ever was, written
in Zion
where the meaninglessness and nothingness of Dada reigns, and the trinity of life now lives in the Subject, subjective and subjectivity.
http://www.amazon.com/OLAF-Nothing-Above-Fiction-ebook/dp/B009XZ9OVY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid;=1353822133&sr;=8-1&keywords;=olaf+last+king+of+nothing
Shit Asstrology Jul 2015
Who are we dealing with today, the psychopath on the left or right? All hail to mouth from the North, East, West, and South; how else will you convince your audience with all that inner charm you truly don't possess. Your heart is never in the right place but your full lips seem to flap about like a flatulent **** hole. All things considered, you try to come off as, "I can do it all", but we all know deep inside you're one of the laziest of zodiacal signs. Who else is going to catch up on Hollywood gossip and the latest in tacky fashions, most you Geminians seem to don and adore. It's not all bad, I mean, about the only thing you might be good at is reading this critical review and dismissing it because, like all true psychopaths you still refuse to take a look at all 36 personalities.

Advice: Don't breathe...just leave this Universe, you *******.
Love Jan 2014
I am not black,
white,
hispanic,
or asian,
or anything else.
I am human.
My hair is not blonde,
or red,
or brown,
or white,
or gray.
It is just hair.
I am not male,
nor am I female,
gender has no meaning.
The cause of this thinking,
is simple and harsh.
You are a product of the 21st century,
who must label,
and name things.
Judge them,
then put them neatly away,
or dispose of them.
Am I wrong?
Dont be a product of the 21st century.
Be the factory that changes what it means,
to be  a product,
of the 21st century.
Marlo Aug 2014
I know it, I’m a new kind of evil.
21st century devil.
Manipulative and romantic.
Fall in love with me, I’m irresistible.
You can’t help it, darling, trust me.
Try to hurt me, I’ll come back harder.
Baby, I’m invincible.
I’m every fear in your imagination,
Coming out to play.
I’m not scared of anything,
I’ll win the game…
You’ll find yourself glued to me,
Despite the rage-filled horror I lay upon your
Fragile little life.
I know it, I’m THE 21st century devil.
You’re aware I’m evil,
But you can’t stay away.
. *** .

— The End —