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Daddy D  Jan 2014
Train
Daddy D Jan 2014
Riding on a train choo choo choo choo
Riding on a train choo choo choo choo
Picking up some negroes choo choo choo choo
******* ride the negroes choo choo choo choo
Daddy D  Jan 2014
Train
Daddy D Jan 2014
Riding on a train choo choo choo choo
Riding on a train choo choo choo choo
Picking up some negroes choo choo choo choo
******* ride the negroes choo choo choo choo
Isaace Feb 21
From the basement we can hear the eternal choo-choo.

These sounds:

Slippy-pippy, slip-slop,
Sniffle-schnort,
Flap-amusement, choo-choo.

The eternal choo-choo—
Haha! We keep chugging along:

Choo-choo! Slip-slapple!
Turtle! Turtle!
Slippy-sloppy-ploppy!
Flop-clumping!
Choo-choo.
. . . . .s s s s s s s s s s s s s s  . . . .
Choo . . . s s s s s s s s s s s s  . . . .
Choo  Choo  s s s s s s s s s s  . . . .
Choo s s s Choo s s s
Choo s s Choo s Choo Choo
Choo Choo Choo Choo
My tain is moving . . .
My freight train now of love
Chu , Chu , Chu , Chu , Chu
My momentum is gaining
Must make the grade above
Chou-a-Chou , a-Chu
Keep your eyes looking up ahead
On the rail and where's it lead
My train has many cars
Hauling loads so very far
Boxcar loads of lumber sure
For building house of love so pure
Tank cars full of liquid love
Higher and higher I do shove
Flatbeds strapped under cover too
Leaves you guessing what will I do
Load after load of dump cars full
All these I bring to you to tool
The way is curved and rail runs straight
As I pass through your open gate
The boiler is hot the fire is stoked
There's no way now this motion choke
There's miles and miles of shiny rail
Laid down by your smiles , can tell
Following up here comes the caboose
As my train is cut and loose
Pressing hard must be on time
To here you say it's so fine
So there goes my Loco train of love
Delivering loads of love I flood
Whoo - whoo
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
. wolfmother's
song love train?

oomph!

       proper 'ard on!

oomph!

   and a wet snare...

and your typical
army slick

waiting for
the girlie girlie
boys
at the Edinburgh's
Royal Mile zenith

worth of the tattoo!
**** me!

   walking down Cow Gate?
dreams are made of this,
**** it...
who needs dreaming?
i have 3 years worth
of Edinburgh
in pocket...

   and i'm not giving out
spare change.

of all the ethnic tribes
on these cursed isles?
the ones i became loved up
the most?
the Scots...

       shame about the English
swans up north...
not so shy with you know who,
right?
   shame, really...
all the love we could have made...

the Irish, bearable...
if the Welsh didn't speak Cymru,
i couldn't tell them apart from
the English...

       **** sake's a scene from
scent of a woman
beginning with Al...
and ending with Paccino -
yes, there's an extra C
in that name... otherwise?
it's Allie Pakino;

or the alternative to
a cappuccino -
or a kappa puck-in-oh;

right now english doesn't
belong the natives...
  it's not a language i'm to
subscribe to, as a tool for
integration...

   right now?
   it's a *******, toy!
(insert snigger and breaking
laughter):
choo! ha ha! choo choo!
ha ha ha ha!
choo! chow mein!
ha ha!
   choo choo, choo choo train!
******* the size
of bloated elephant
craniums!
Neville Johnson Apr 2021
I can be better
I know I can
Choo, choo, choo
So I am
Trying and trying
One day at a time
I’ve got to be good
If all will be fine
We fight ourselves
Every day
We struggle
We succeed
If we’re doing our best
Bad thoughts and deeds
Don’t get in the way
No, go away!
I am getting better
As I choo choo all day
David Ehrgott Dec 2015
The comm-u-ter
It go choo-choo
Down the track
  
The comm-u-ter
It go choo-choo
Down the track
  
And if you knew
That comm-u-too
Then you'd yoo-hoo
Yeah, you'd yoo-hoo
  
Left the station
For vacation
Five O' Eight
  
Left the station
For vacation
Five O' Eight
  
On a friday
With no rain date
Ain't that great
Now ain't that great
  
Got the voo-doo
In the boom room
Friday night
  
Got the voo-doo
In the boom room
Friday night
  
If you'd seen her
Then you'd greet her
"What a sight"
Now, ain't that nice?
  
On the new train
The Northern Blue train
It's all right
  
On the new train
That Northern Blue train
It's all right
  
You can catch it
'cept on Sunday
You got that right?
Now, ain't that nice?
  
The comm-u-ter
It go choo-choo
Down the track
  
The comm-u-ter
It go choo-choo
Down the track
  
And if you knew
That comm-u-too
Then you'd yoo-hoo
Yeah, you'd yoo-hoo
ODAY ROD TAYLOR DIED, AND HE WAS IN A GREAT THEATRICAL EVENT IN SATURN

TO HELP BRING SATURN SOME FUN, THISC EVENT WAS ORGANISED BY DAD



YA SEE PARDON ME BOYS, IT’S A WELCOME UP HERE ON SATURN CHOO CHOO, OH YEAH CHOO CHOO

YA SEE PARDON ME BOYS, IT’S A CHATANOOGA CHOO CHOO OH YEAH,

WE WILL PARTY RIGHT ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

IN THE PLANET OF SATURN

AND THEN DAD AND ROBIN WILLIAMS CAME UP FROM THE SKY SAYING

PLEASE BUDDHA SAVE US, WE DON’T WANNA DIE

PARDON US BOYS, IT’S JUST A CHATANOOGA CHOO CHOO, OH YEAH DUDES PARTY NOW

AND THEN AS DAD AND ROBIN WILLIAMS SLIM DUSTY CAME UP AND SANG

IT’S LONESOME AWAY FROM MY CHILDREN AND ALL

FROM THE OLD DUSTY STAGE TO THE BIG TOWN HALL

THERE IS NOTHING AS HORRIBLE, AND MORBID OF DREAR

TO SIT IN A PLACE WHERE THE TAP HAS NO BEER

I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A BEER WITH BAZ BOY

I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A BEER WITH BAZ

WE DRINK IN MODERATION

AS BRIAN JOHN ALLAN TRIES TO GET RID OF HIS SPAZ

WE DRINK IN THE TOWN AND COUNTRY

WE’RE THE ATMOSPHERE IS GRAND

I WOULD LOVE TO HAVE A BEER WITH BAZ BOY

CAUSE HE IS OUR FRIEND

THEN ROD TAYLOR CAME UP AND SAID HEH HEH HEH I AM THE WICKED WIZARD

I AM COMING TO TRAP YA YEAH

I WILL GRAB YOU AND EAT YOU UP, YEAH I WILL MAKE YOU FEEL INSCURE

YEAH MR SLIM DUSTY, AND I WILL SAY NO MORE BEER, PLEASE

CAUSE IT’S FORCING ALL THIS FUCKEN EVIL, IN THIS GOD FORSAKEN WORLD

BRIAN ALLAN CAME UP AND SANG

I HEARD WE ARE GOING TO BE ALONE IN THIS WORLD

I’M SAD YOUR SAD, WE ALL ARE SAD, THAT

THERE ARE TOO MANY COOL PEOPLE AS MYSELF, WITH MENTAL ILLNESS

IT’S SAD, IT’S SAD UMMMMMMM SAVE THE MENTALLY ILL BUDDHA DUDE

AND THEN THE GREEN METHANE KEG OPENED ALL OVER BRIANY

BY ROD TAYLOR, WHO WANTS TO SAVE THE WORLD

BY BRINGING GOOD THEATRE TO OUTER SPACE

AND THEN GRAHAM KENNEDY, CAME UP AND SAID

TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR, HOW I WONDER WHAT YOU ARE

UP IS THE COSMIC WORLD YA SEE

A STAR THAT SHINES FOR YOU AND ME

TWINKLE TWINKLE LITTLE STAR, PARTY ON AND NEVER STRAY

AND THEN, A METEORITE CAME DOWN, AND DAD PICKED IT UP

AND GAVE IT TO BRIAN, AND TOOK IT OFF BRIAN TO GIVE IT TO SLIM DUSTY

SAYING, YOUR TOO SHY TO BE LIKE US BRIAN

AND THEN SLIM DUSTY, HOPPED ON THE METHAN SLIDE

AND INTO HIS SPACE SHIP SINGING

WE’RE GOING BACK AGAIN TO JUPITER, TO JUPITER TO JUPITER

WE’RE GONNA BACK AGAIN TO JUPITER BUDDY

IN THE PLANET OF THE HURRICANES

AND THEN SLIM DUSTY TIPPED METHANE OVER DAD

AND SAID, IF YA CALL BRIAN BRIANY, I WILL DECK YA WITH THIS METHANE

SO YA CAN ENJOY THE NEXT LIFE, BRIAN SAID, HOW ABOUT I

PICK UP A KEG OF METHANE AND TIP IT ALL OVER DAD

AND THE METHANE CAUSES A GREAT EXPLOSION NEAR

THE LOVE PLANET, WHERE PLUTO USED TO BE

AUSTRALIA DIDN’T  SEE THIS, BUT THEY HEARD IT IN THUNDER

CHECK OUT YOUR SCIENCE WEBSITES OR YOUTUBE SITES

AND COLOURS OF RED AND YELLOW AND PINK AND GREEN

PURPLE AND ORANGE AND BLUE

IT WAS SEEN IN A RAINBOW, IT WAS SEEN IN A RAINBOW

IT WAS SEEN IN A RAINBOW TOO

AND ROD TAYLOR SAID BYE BYE EARTH

AND THEN DAD SAID, CATCH YA LATER AND SEE YA LATER

YOU GO DOWN AND DO YA TAPESTRY AND WHEN HE GET

THOUGHTS, YOU WRITE THEM DOWN YA SEE

YA DON’T HAVE TO ASK ANYONES PERMISSION, BOO

AND SAM KINISON AND PAUL BERENYI CLEANED UP

BUT THEY STILL ENJOYED THE PARTY THOUGH
Perig3e Mar 2012
Belching choo choo white,
Vapor clouds, shadow-skud
This Appalachian range.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
.perhaps in my company we wouldn't be... opening a bottle of red wine... to let it breathe... or pouring it into a bowl to give it more air to breathe with: otherwise on life-support machine through the bottle-neck... right here, right now, we have... a glass bottle of beer (13, guinness hop lager) and 4 cans of stella artois (the wife beater's lager, so they say)... yes... beer in cans... for all intesive purposes - a good way to transport beer... in aluminium cans... but we're not bums... we don't drink beer straight from cans... we pour our beer into a tall glass and wait... so the beer can exfoliate like aladdin's jinn in the glass... away from the confines of the can... we don't drink beer from a can... we can drink it straight from a bottle... but if it comes in a can... we pour it into a tall glass... just so... so there's some head on top... we're not english in that respect either... of cutting the head (of foam) off the beer... which is probably why i always order a stout in a pub... you can't pull one without the creme de la creme on top... a head on a beer is what makes it look less like carbonated **** or concentrated lemonade... we're not bums... we drink beer from glasses... never directly from cans - the metal gets in the way... a beer like a wine needs to breathe too.

i found that there are only two types of music styles
that are suitable for drinking -
that's... drinking and not going out -
playing a cat with an imaginary fireplace...
the less imaginary fireplace being:
a stare confined to... watching a pillow...
and the general schematic of a bed...
and sitting hunched in imitation: all crow because
no crow doesn't get you far
on golgotha of daydreams: if only i...
humble servant of dusty feet - the tourist,
the pilgrim - would set off...
         on an amphetamine riddled skew into
a messiah complex adventure...

                     but not me...
                once upon a time the only music
worth drinking to was the blues...
            a long, long time ago...
                hell: once upon a time any music
would do if we all decided to go dancing...
or at least waited for the dance to come of its own
volition and not mine: i.e. the me in i would
just be dragged under the teasing waves
and slurped out to sea...

                   a thousand waves are all but the single
tongue of some swindling kraken...
drinking and random shamanic interludes in
the youth of the night-club...
when there wasn't a tally for score or...
the ones shot down by manfred...
good thing he was called manfred...
   and not some swabian helmut! oi oi!
                                             von Richthofen!
and that was when...
           until came the five beers and on
the 4th it became apparent...
                                  the red garland quintet...
soul junction...

   and it's not... a gerry mulligan's night lights...
piano sentimentality and the ode
to all things urban, cosmopolitan...
                        yes... it's not grenadine in that
sulk of yours... it's cranberry juice...
the city and... the sewers and...
                                 jazz for the urban scenes
of: anywhere but the park...
the graveyard... a choo-choo slowing into
a station... and billy joel come:
mid-life crisis and a new york state of mind...
while over 'ere we have...
     teasing the woods: where concrete ends
and mud begins... thus we can have our Adam...
and...

only today i was walking past his bride...
doing my odd citizen duty of recycling glass...
and buying the amber sedatives (carbonated)
for an evening with some cannonball adderley
or some donnie byrd... or a horace silver...
that's the beauty of jazz...
the music is all there is... the names come and go...
sonny rollins and the story behind
the bridge... and how he would pretend to
but not pretend to... retire and go off and practice
on the bridge so as to not disturb his neighbours...
all the details are there: on the vinyl sleeve
from 1963...

now that's jazz... i don't even want to mind
how pretentious this might sound...
but... it doesn't in that: jazz is jazz in that there
might come some great improv. -
after all: it's all somewhat improv. -
   but you can't really make such basic
generalißations...
        speedy-shoom-of-a-choo-choo whizzing past...
schematic!
   classical music is all a priori...
                              jazz... it's all a posteriori...
how? when people phone in between
1pm and 5pm to classic.fm and they make requests...
they sometimes ask for something specific...
but usually... they vaguely allude to... a feeling...
something "uplifting" - play something "uplifting"...
ergo... there's this... a priori "item"(?)
in the music that's... an expectation...

          i do know what jazz sounds like
a quintent: drums, bass, piano, trumpet, sax...
yes... the guitar... asking the algorithm:
a quintet is five - what is six?
        sixtet - d'uh... sextet... well that's the basic
"i know what jazz sounds like"...
but with jazz there's always this lag...
it's this lagging behind:
    i don't exactly know what i'll feel until
only after i've heard it and in the meantime too...
jazz is all a posteriori -

while classical music for me is all a priori...
given that... it's not exactly improvised:
there's the orchestra, the movie, the script...
   and it's such a music that doesn't worship
itchy fingers of improv. - the stale or rather:
the head-about-to-explode of scoring the music like
a dissected **** of beef...
the cuts for the violins the cuts for the woodwinds...
more so: the almost shy drumming...
the wet-drumming... like rain playing
rattle fingers on tin (roofs)... or what rain would
sound like... if it was made from sand...
either way... jazz is a baggage...

hardly any sort of envisioning a journey from
(a) priori through to (b) posteriori -
and at least with jazz... you never have to really
cite who's playing... in a passing gesture
for all necessary bookmark purposes
of: where i am in the library of jazz...
unlike in classical music... where...
it's either Mozart, Beethoven or then again...
some obscure composer... perhaps ola glejlo...
but it's less about the music per se:
it's about the music of THE composer...
bonus marks for keeping to a rigid diet of one
and completing the herculean task of digesting
his entire oeuvre...

-       so i was walking past the most usual scene...
a car stopped... and she got out...
she must have been no more than 16 pushing 18...
the heavy make-up hid her otherwise boyish
contorts... a short black dress...
and as she got out of the cab...
she had her high-heel shoes in her hands...
   she was walking the cement barefoot...
i peered into her eyes... the lights were out...
perhaps her soul was screaming - perhaps this was
her first disappointment - and it was only... what...
not even 10pm on a saturday night...
my nights of youthful regret usually came after 3am
having to wrestle a berserker...
or how a dog looks like when it takes
to beer with a fond heart and only three legs...
god forbid but "they" would also cut my tail off
to further throw me off balance...
the walked passed and i looked into the cab...
a very, very nervous asian was looking at me
and then her... this didn't exactly look like...
she was ***** or was fighting to escape...
           aren't those scenarios usually stage in and around
woods - without any pedestrians walking past?
call it a trainwreck a carwreck...
                      or just running mascara...
that bad, eh?
at this point... society is a cruise ship...
and i'm stuck with ottis and none of that sentimentality
of the dock: running away with a bag of
chips wrapped in newspaper away from
seagulls... who... are apparently prone
to kleptoparasitism - a real thing... i swear to god...
the animals that want to eat in the realm
of trans-species... dogs have had their
kleptoparasistism repressed: crumbs from the table...
the chicken bones with hopes for
cartilege and someone who... is bad at
cleaning the flesh off the bone: pucker up...
move aside leech... watch this slurp...
ol' hank mobley and wayne shorter...
        one cascade after another...
5th beer in and...

yeah... so that's what a carwreck looks like...
for a girl in her late teens...
the cute black dress...
   getting out of the cab holding her high heels...
walking home barefoot...
she wasn't crying just yet...
but i could see puffy tender demon baron
of the soft cheeks readying to turn into
medussa's stare-grip... but not there yet...
this must have been her first time at "life"
and the night life and saturday...
         the cab driver looked scared shitless...
as if frozen in time... about to have his photograph
taken by a more sensible shadow of his...
i did think she just escaped a bad
session of prostitution...
but not even prostitutes look so ******* gloomy
as she did...

the ******* ***** it up -
the pundit ***** it up - the show goes on...
stage or no stage... an audience or no audience...
those eyes though... not yet crying...
but they felt... like wheeping oysters nonetheless...
you know when eyes are like that...
teasing bulging out... they appear dimmed
at first... but that's a dimming before
the sparkle of tears...
it's the 29th of febuary - yes...
mr. zodiac wasn't kind to those who still believe
in the horoscope but never tried
gambling on a winning team or horse...
it's still winter and those poor feet of hers...
she must have told the cab driver to stop...
hell... half a mile before she would get home...
a 6ft2 115kg sore thumb up with a beard
up ahead: stop! let me walk past him...
that's why i gave an inquisitive stare at the cab driver...
the cab driver was looking at me...
aren't the **** victims the ones jumping
out of the cab as it speeds off or whatnot?
so this was... staged?
              i read the "situation" wrong...
well no... i didn't find a lancelot in me...
there was no door to be held open...
           not tonight...
                                           i was in a mood for
beer and jazz... and luckily for me...
marvel of all marvels...
     haig club (1627) was sold at a bargain...
                        down from 25 quid to 16 quid...
goodbye excessive drinking the cheap *****...
hello: clubman haig... is it whiskey...
is it ms. amber... or is it chanel no. 5 -
                   is it whiskey or is it a perfume?
a snapper of a dinner standing-up...
   the scent of the last bite still on my moustache
even though i had washed my teeth...
the beer bottle opened - a drizzle on the hand
and then the hand smearing the liquid all over
the stinking hairs from an unwelcome scent...
i don't mind stinking like hops...
                  but hops is better than smelly food...

- regrets? ah yes... the "what if" universe at large...
that "whaf if" this and "what if" not...
"what if" yes and... when a man takes to walk
the street at night... he's only looking for empty
streets and... the hope of not seeing his reflection:
which is never about abruptly stopping
a cab and taking your shoes off
and walking in a tight-knit black dress
having met the world and...
                     was it heartbreak or just...
disappointment that... there are no unicorns
and she isn't daddy's precious?

any of the rudy van gelder editions...
                      "what if" i had more than just these
words... a barren wasteland of a flat
with no furnishings, not a book to call it a genesis
of a private library... not a single record
to play... no bed no curtains...
and she was the: honey-catch and snare and...
what if i were still in my late teens and
didn't have these invisible tattoos of historical
dates and the tattoos that riddle bones
that are... "habits of hygiene"...
      by hygiene i imply: ontological fixtures...
immoveable objects of accumulating my mortal
years for this formal circumstance of
the worst magic trick of all...
                   transient and... packaged elsewhere...
apparently going nowhere...

if this was a truly urban scenario...
but we're talking essex...
the outskirts of greater london...
if i bothered myself tonight i might go
to a place where i'd sit on a throne of a stump
of oak and listen to owls...
spot a rabbit, spot a badger... the foxes would
come of their own accord...
and perhaps even a deer or two... or three...
there's no glit of a picaddily circus romance:
when a girl decides to get out of a cab early
and put her porcelain toes on the wintry cement...
as if: supposing she be enticing me...
as i was thinking about the scared-shitless
cab driver...        

to have once upon a time believe in love:
the sort of love you'd see in movies...
but that's of course...
before you'd get a chance to see love...
in opera...
blue pill red pill... spiderweb of fiction...
blah blah...
watch the sort of love in movies...
then go and see an opera...
most notably verdi's la traviata...
  the movies fizzle out and you don't really
need to read this to begin with...
        i was in love once...
it was a love that was in love with itself...
          a mirage a carrot on a stick...
probably something akin to this sort of impromptu...
rescuing a girl walking barefoot home...
oh sure... happens almost every other saturday...

- the beer is for these musings, for the jazz
and for... cleaning the kidneys and a work-out
for the bladder... the shot-at-a-crescendo
will come with the haig club whiskey...
is 70cl really worth 25 quid?

- there's a difference between food with a USE BY date
and food with a BEST BEFORE date...
most notably goat's cheese...
once the best before date expires...
which is way way down the line from
the use by date... the cheese starts to taste
like... ash...

i should know since i know of the alternative
to doing shots of tequilla...
the salt is replaced with licking some cigarette
ash...
the tequilla is replaced with *****...
and the slice of lemon is replaced with
black peppercorns...

so i do know what ash tastes like...
piquant tastes: this omelette of an octopus and
of tongue...

- society is a cruise ship and i'm waving it goodbye...
welcoming a sunset of a sea as calm
as a mirror... telling my feet to take root
and stand... inaccessible...
otherwise... i am barren when it comes to having
some (h. p.) lovecraftian sensibilities from
maine... aloof and anemic... anemic with bloodshot
eyes...

- of course she isn't a mystery...
the narrative would run: the little match girl...
hans... hans! hans?! hans andersen is drilling
a hole into my head about... a woman walking
home barefoot...
yes... but she is walkig home...
unlike the little match girl...
and unlike the little match girl...
this girl was carrying a pair of shoes with her...
it's not my problem whether
i'm the sore thumb that "got in the way"...
a fork in the road: like any other fork...
like any other road...

do you have to reach being 34 to see these
teenage break-ups and regrets come and bump into
you after you've done...
that most spectacular feat of towing a backpack
full of glass for recycling?
where is one to recycle bones?!

- right not all the ***** in the world is...
something of an adhesive... a hitchhiker pollen...
a hard-on of: ****** yourself for a hard-on
just because even flapping a pancake will do right now...
to ease constipation whenever necessary...

- it's a torilla... but it's wrapped like a burrito...
well... it's a torilla... kultur shock -
sarajevo - the entry level shock-awe and
blitzkrieg of drinking from the fountain
of the Haig...

- second tier... to treat pornographic movies
like... early cinema... silent...
otherwise a return to the magazine form...
and the ripe imagination readied for:
improv... or... when was the last time
my left hand didn't feel like an oyster...
and an oyster didn't feel like a leash...
and a woman's ****** stopped being
an hour worth 120 quid? -

             - third tier... the haig club whiskey
is not worth 25 quid... it's over-rated...
you're basically paying for the bottle...
i'll stick to my guns...
only the irish know how to make whiskey
on these isles... bushmills: mellow, tame...
the picts have decided to lodge
a smoking salmon into their barrels to die...
i'm supposed to have an aftertaste of vanilla...
with all that smoke... i'd be happy to taste
hungary and smoked paprika! that would
be a bonus to boot! -

- i can appreciate the picts for trying...
but let's just leave brewing whiskey to the irish...
and let's keep the english away from hops...
they'll make an undrinkable ale from it...
never the lager...

   - armed with balkan rock... standing before
the h'american monolith of tongue and culture...
or... just before what's filtered for the export...

- no... of course i don't think h'americans are dumb...
i just think there's only a naive majority...
i'm going to find the vermin and huddle among
them...

- sooner or later we'll be calling the germans
come spring... for winter provisions...
"keeshond" or: hund... i much prefer the latter...
from under the iron curtain forged from
a broken jaw when biting the curb of:
under the silicon veil... nowhere else to go...
beside Ishrael...
                        
          remains of the ottoman - which is hardly
me put into an iron maiden of akimbo...
where's the geisha and the samurai?!

- is your beard long enough?
      like mine... i tease it... catch it with braille
cardinals: the thumb the index and middle fingers...
twirl it... wait for some thread to tie it together
into a hanging ******* of a bundle...
while at the same time:
          before you... a throng of vermin...
this beard... a magic flute!
the zenith of my thinking...
and ultimately: the nadir of any narrative
that might be inclined to escape and
not become 3D...

- i listen to songs in german...
i put on airs of pride - my chin starts to contort into
the moon's scythe and sickle...
even if the night is overcast with beard,
or cloud...

- then i put on a record that's 20 years old...
deftones' white pony...
and i remember being a teen...
hungry for hormonal diet...
a diet to stop the bones from aching
as they grew extra sprouts:
adverse to the skin and photosynthesis...
bones that were expected to grow
entombed... not in flesh...

- sketches from the gasoline additive when
it comes to a beer, starter...
otherwise: elite... gonna breed on top
of the general... pucker up the tremor for a vibrato
kiss and leech her lips off...
to expose her most pristine:
todlächeln -
                           not a chelsea grin...
the joker lapse... i mean... extending the shaving
lines and just, completely, forgetting there's
any botox involved to grow a peach
from a duck of the reinvention of
the deflating balloon...

   leave no selfie without it...
                   herr grinsen: die / das / die / das...
i keep forgetting the definite plural and
the definite singular... feelz... feels...
maximum impromptu: das bösartigwimmern...
anything in german at this point...
sounds better than...
wenigbruder englisch...
                       dies, mein krawatte beste...
alle schwarz alle weiß:
      say to me... nein pinguine willkommen...

anything to keep these mosquitos these
zeppelins away... alt vater großartig Schwab
from this... herd of minor dicta
of the children of the house of ßaß...
translated nomad from the high pressure
***** basin of:
later, trajectory... later... the yawn and canyon...
and the sky above...

- beer first... whiskey after...
shrapnel... and gasoline... no car... no speeding...
fast but otherwise still walking...

            - a hurrah and the cohort of a hum...
to match the echo of the centipede...
         the silence and otherwise the simplified
complications of a conversation...
the bed torn between *** and sleep...
between saturday sunday and monday through
to friday...
   and the need to drink with someone else...
"the need"...
          
the skulls breaks at the sight of sea-riddled-and-*****
cliffs... daggers persuaded to be forever sharpened...
the fiddly parts of ***** as accountants when
it came to the pennies, copper, and granules
of sand... seized: the rivers of time...
constipated shock value elevated...
                            
                                am i to find a lover when
the orchestra tells me...
these words will never find a dear sir / madam
or circle round for a yours sincerely...
                godzilla... the theme i remember from
the days when the japanese still had control over the beast...
otherwise... an overweight t-rex with...
arm extensions... the lotus feet of the chinese...
which also includes...
the savory diet of... tendering dog meat...
i.e. beating the dog to a plum softening...
which is: then again... not curing the already dead
curated meat...
life aware needs to be involved...
brick by brick brick on brick...
the status quo: made in china...

         cheap whiskey... although in an expensive bottle...
that is the haig club whiskey...
        so much for ezra pound admiring
the ******* ideograms...
what's to admire... when...
it ends up being a crude...
current latin emoji-infiltrated grafitti
equivalent to: CUL8R...
               chow-chuckle-mein-hong-shui-chew?
all that intricacy into the ideogram...
and all that remains is...
bat soup... and an advantage at playing
poker... omnivores...
you'd think that Islam would be...
more geared to break ranks among the omnivores...
like all the fickle gods... a good joke...
they abhor / are told to herd sheep
because: what sort of pig would survive the desert
and not become crispy bacon...
camels are fine too... as are their testicles...
never mind the pork leather shoes and pork
leather belts...
but the chinese omnivores are fine by
Allah: Muhammad & Co....

                               khadijah **** khuwaylid..
wrote the first surahs of the quran...
she was the literate:
the stephen vizinczey epitome:
                          in praise of older women...
last time i heard... muhammad was illiterate...
pray! that i've exhausted sympathy on
him being an orphan...
but not a ******* oliver twist thrown into
an orphanage! b'ooh h'oo...

                     the end... the whiskey isn't going
to drink itself;
as i have exhausted the patience of my bladder...
while there's the remaining concern
for a bewildering and a simultaneously
bewildered peacock... on the hunt for coy;
which is not exactly the darwinian daydream
of the short-hand greek alphabet...
the α-β male thermodynamic...
          the Σ-Δ female harem...
salmon swimming up-stream to spawn...
                             and... Ω-man / unicorn...
                     sha! schtil!
Jeremy Duff Aug 2012
A boy named Jake was so obsessed with finding a different reality where he was truly himself that he created it in his brain and entered it through a doorway while he slept.

He knew he didn't need to knock but thought of it as polite.
The door wasn't answered with an opening, rather
an invite to open.
So the boy opened.

Inside he found himself in a desert. It was almost time for the sun to begin its setting.
He realized that his hand was still on the door **** so he released and then shut the door.
He turned back around.

There was a small house a football fields length away. He could see a well just to the left and a stable holding no animals on the right.
He began walking over.
He was thirsty.
And hungry.
And full of questions.

Arriving at the house he found water in the well.
Cold, dusty water.

Inside the house he found a pantry full of corn, bottled sunflower seeds, and a odd yellow grass wrapped in pouches.
He ate sunflower seeds and walked outside.

There he looked back to where the door is.
Or was.
At first he was alarmed
but then liked the idea.
He was stuck here.
He was free.

He slumped down against the house and began to doze off.

His dreams were filled of memories of this desert. Of growing up in this house and occasionally visiting the town some miles away.
This became his reality.
He was himself.

A man dressed in black approached.
He pretended to sleep.
The man came and went.
There was no food left in the pantry although the yellow grass was still there.
There was no water in the well.

He waited for nothing for days.
He slumped against the wall and fell asleep again.

He awoke to find a new man approaching him, from the direction the other man had came.
The direction of town. DOOR, his conscious screamed. He pushed it aside.

The man came.
He was on a quest for a tower.
He was nice.
Jake grew fond of him.
The man said he would stay, only for a little while.
He was pursuing the Man in Black.
He was pursuing the Dark Tower.
Jake knew the man would stay, however.
And he was happy.
He was *himself.
"Childe Roland to the Dark Tower come."
John  Feb 2012
Bullshit Allergy
John Feb 2012
Ahh-choo, ahh-choo
Don't have a clue
Ahh-choo, ahh-choo
I don't like you

Blast through the door
Snap your fingers to the trigger pull
You want some more?
Got some lead, give you a belly full
Eat up, yum yum
Nutritious like a vitamin
Gonna give you one
Or two, three, four - Seventh deadly sin

Tasted the **** at the bottom of the well
Tried too hard in case you couldn't tell
Heard you mumble something under your breath
So I beat you mentally 'til you got nothin' left
Waiting for the inevitable
Ding, ding, times up, now you're moldable
Crash, bang
It's all the same
You've always been the one to blame
Sarina  May 2013
recollection
Sarina May 2013
I lived for twenty-five months, have been dead for five
still obsessed with how dirt in my cuticles
collides with a blood-stream like the train that took me –
my baby was on board and hid in a cubby
because he knew why, why, why I threw off my
conductor hat right then even before I could have guessed
he knew, knew, knew. Choo choo choo
I lived for a week and have been dead for twenty two.

Twenty-two, twenty-two,
twenty-two weeks and pounds in a giraffes’ big heart,
collections of key chains in my baby’s room
I will never see, and wild animals would adore me better
than any man could reach at just under six feet –
choo choo trains keep me dead better than I ever could.

— The End —