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Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
i write for an injection of a venom, for a sense of disorientation, poetry shouldn't be about the skill of narration, a clear Renaissance painting of some school, it should invoke a ******* random macabre, a sense of disorientation, there's no real technique to practice with poetry invoking a tarantula's venomous bite... poetry the art of disorientation and a fulfilling disillusionment, nothing else, nothing more... to prescribe disorientation... upon charging into a blank page... the brute of squalor and slashing of grime, marbles and marrow!*

as quoted by Bonaparte (oddly enough
a psychology student and former
girlfriend of mine who i lost my virginity
to, while she got drunk and slid into my
bed at a party, and asked dreamily for condoms
scolding me about the three pictures adorning
my student room: marquis de sade, Bonaparte
and Plato) - quicker the goat in the frying
pan than on the steep cliff face - mooch kiss
you Isabella i would a second time,
you remind me of Annie from Masterchef -
the way the stiff upper-lip is missing: signature of
french girls, the curling and cuddles -
ooh mooch chuckles and mushy peas -
p p p - belinda carlisle melted cheese goo in my heart;
stony ******* i ain't, but my drinking habits
are not boyfriend material, sorry... try next door:
se vie se la - the french know their eccentricities,
and therefore exploit them in the grey -
the english stiffen up and exploit the same
but to a too obvious exploit: bowler hats and umbrellas,
nothing will make this London gloom repent
even if you're donning St. Petersburg's architectural
multi-colour... did i mention Bonaparte the patron
saint of the Duchy of Warsaw?
over here there's Adolf with a heretics hat
never bothering to read history twice,
history you read in a blurry haze of being drunk:
reminiscence is hardly nostalgia, but sure as ****
history save Moscow from the French and the Germans
but not the Poles and Mongolians...
the Russians know this and hush thing over,
sweeping stories under the carpets using
a babushka as an excuse for the prime propaganda
technique - go on babushka ride the Ferrari
on the stairway! canapé mit crayon caviar?
yes, Isabella, if i weren't a ****** i'd move to
Grenoble - sheriff's honour.
                                                  you weren't
the first, you weren't the last,
i need bragging rights - and a hot colt to shoot with...
then the lacrosse initiation ceremony -
Lycra tights, drank a whole bottle of whiskey
of Glaswegian whiskey, stumbled into
Isabella to my shame parade of whatever that was
lad banter etc etc. - pleaded on my knees, my knees...
apologies for the inexperience,
she was seriously into Japanese cartoons,
studio Ghibli;
                          so she scolded me over Bonaparte,
and i said: it's not exactly Piłsudski - in my town of
birth they praised him, raised statues,
later with communism desecrated them, then later
raised new statues - but what's bothersome is that
she didn't mind the Marquis... a psychology student
after all... she wanted native speakers for a little
psychology experiment, that got me,
learning from scratch aged 8,
pitch-perfect elocution and she didn't bother to use me
in the experiment... that ****** with me...
hey! i'm hardly a cockney! coached croquet pears
ready for a beating... what's the rhyme, ah yes:
apples and pears = stairs... seriously, musically
cheese sometimes works, they had a Monday cheese
night at the union - all the usual buggery of
a mid-life crisis...
yeps, that Annie from the current Master Chef reminds me
of Isabella - dracul - RA!
a bit of high culture (Ezra's cantos) and a bit of low
culture (marco bailey's Enter the Dragon)...
while sitting on the throne of thrones (a toilet)...
it's like my dream... although better... Ibiza two-point-oh.
L B  Nov 2017
Disorientation
L B Nov 2017
Can't see the dawn
from the angle of dusk
Even harder to believe--
it could see me?
Why would sunrise care about its setting?

“I think you'd hafta be flyin', er sumpthin'

Maybe if I banked a 180
gazing into that new east?
Okay--

I know it's not

I could still see the reflections
of where it was
of warmth and color where it used to be?
Okay--

...and now I'm just the warmth of the reflected
disorientation

--*******, that poetry-killing six syllable word!

Ya wanna pass that joint
before I land this heap without My wheels down”
Sometimes I need to not-- be so serious.
Culpoetry Apr 2014
Discombobulated
beyond a miles’ worth
of snapped and razor-weight
wires, my roots have yellowed
and have split into insanity

My mind is crippled
By conditioning

Corruptive chemicals diffuse
shattering senses, imbalancing,
Dancing in an inverse orbit
Around this crumbling mind
For nausea and disorientation

My mind is crippled yet again
By the **** conditioning
Dada Olowo Eyo Mar 2014
Pervets practice beastialism to sample variety,
Homosexuals wish to discover compatibility,
While only the earthly desire is all but satisfied,
True fulfilment is only achieved in the spiritual magnified.
Justan Rahming Feb 2013
We are trapped in our own river of Time
being pushed forward faster the longer we live
We can see behind us to where we have been
before us we can only guess what will come
There is madness being thrown into the rapids
confusion and disorientation fills my mind
as the cold feelings fill my lungs and heart

I long to sit in a steady pool of water
a lake of peace or an endless ocean
anything to stop this maddening journey
I cannot keep up with the speed of the water
everything that I was has washed away
I am drowning in Time, the present does not exist
constantly moving forward, nothing is now
TJ Shadows Feb 2018
The taste of bitter toxicity
The feel of obsidian
The sound of inhalation
The excitement of exhalation

Heart racing and it begins
Butterflies start to dance
Rushing flow of ecstasy
giddiness embracing

Flying higher and higher
Freedom and happiness
awareness with every touch
bliss

Heart compressing
Stampede of hysteria
Slow crawl into desolation
Loosing grip

Falling faster and faster
servitude and disorientation
Restlessness with every thought
desperation

The taste of bitter toxicity
The feel of obsidian
The sound of inhalation
The excitement of exhalation
Addiction, to whatever you’re Addicted to.
Micheal Wolf Mar 2013
Indulge me for I'm sat looking at a scarf
As I transport rather splendid G and T
To its final destination
Not mine I hasten to add, my scarf that is not the gin
Purple not my colour you see
I had issue with burgundy as a child, frightful memories
I digress but it was left behind like a signature
Not intentionally just in a sweet forgetfulness
I can't pick it up, crazy as it sounds
I mean if I did it would be real not imagery
The moment lost, but no real moment as I can't feel it
Do you understand ? Perhaps not
I have admittedly been reminded of its presence
I imagine it's scent, no I imagine her scent
Her presence in the room, her smile lifts me
I mean it's just a scarf I mean it can't exist can it?
Do we leave a little of ourselves behind?
Emotion like lost property
I don't know, I honestly don't
Is there a course for metaphysical disorientation and the re repatriation of lost purple scarfs?
I guess not. I'd probably fail in any case.
It will still be here tomorrow. In plain sight, just hidden from my reality
Goodnight scarf.
Faeri Shankar Feb 2012
It’s the sugar on your tongue.

It’s the ignorance at your side that encourages

The cane to slither off that flavorful muscle.

I don’t remember how it tastes. I obtain no desire to.
What happened old chap?

You used to own the world with that sickle.
Does it hurt?

That prioritized thumb

Pinning your will with darts.

Wriggling your way into false self-explanations

As to never admit defeat. But old pal, you know it’s true.

You've hit the bulls eye,

You've met your match.

Walk the tracks.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.too dumb, it would seem, to evolve into a bilingualism, but then... somehow, miraculously, able to dictate censoring the origins story, while at the same time dictating a counter to identity politics, while simultaneously working around a trans-grammatical feud with: what's involved in the geographic region of donning underwear... well **** me! so the atypical English man, who's turning into a complete and utter, ****... allows me to smoke a cigarette in the street... but has a problem with me smoking on my private property?! has a problem with me being bilingual calling me a schizophrenic?! but he doesn't mind a Pakistani grooming gang from operating in the north of England?
look who's looking for some long lost allies? not me! there's so much i can do to integrate... but i can't just, erase, a knowledge of a language i said my first syllables MA MA in... you be the pretty boy... English, man... learn a second language, or keep your ******* on a tight leash! because i'll fight... i'm actually hoping for  fist fight... after i put out cigarette stumps on my knuckles? i don't care about winning or losing... i'm a sadist... i enjoy pain! no, you don't get to tell me to erase the tongue i said my first syllables in... teach a **** to fry you a battered cod next time!


so... the idea of integration
is fine...
while i'm some ****
instrument of insurgence?
but not when i'm a ******...
who says...
sure...
i'll learn your language...
your ******* tongue...
i'll learn it...
i'll even learn to practice the profanity,
much agreed upon,
of eating fish & chips
on Friday night...
    oh you're ******* pushing it...
you're pushing it!
you want me, to,
forget, ever speaking,
a single word,
of my native tongue?!
WHAT?!
you have to be ******* with me
right now...
you, expect, WHAT?!
WHAT?!
    how about you get off your
lard greased *** and learn a language
yourself?
guess why Western, your
so prized Western Europe
is experiencing a migrant crisis?
ever heard, how...
Belgians speak better English
than the natives?
  it's like they have
an imbedded
        coercion with the English tongue...
**** me...
they must have conquered these
lands prior!
the Norwegians speak better
English than the English!
wait... or **** on me...
vikings! it must have been the vikings!
guess what...
why do the migrants do not come
to "eastern" Europe?
well done,m sport...
just shy of the Urals
in terms of a geography class...
you want an: east is in the east,
and the west is a vaguely defined term...
whether in Copernican
terminology or, otherwise...

no, ******, i can dance dance dance
like a can-can ponce all night long!
i'll do it for free to boot...

no, the English people didn't vote
to leave the European union
with a fear of the Turks...
former colonies...
these wankers hated the notion
of the A8 coming over...
they doubled down
on Romania and Bulgaria
joining the party...

  the Turks were never the problem...
plenty of Turkish shops,
and god save the barbers to boot!

good for the "eastern" Europeans...
not speaking a *****-tongue
of English...
            they only arrive on the Western
shores because.
English?
         pristine... perfected even...
outside the confines of these,
**** grand isles of beauty and
perfection...
         and don't mind if i do...
shock multiplied by awe,
whenever a school trip took place...

the Belgians speak better English
than the actual English...
and have a diacritical neutrality
to boot...
         well **** me!

                      ain't that, something?!
no... English isn't a secondary
language necessary
to be spoken in a nation that's
past or south of Berlin...
  no necessary...
          the usage of English is,
a gateway "drug"...

but if the English, "think",
that i'll be properly integrated
into their culture,
while: speaking their native
language and respecting their culture
and whims is not enough,
and that i'll have to forge a pact
with myself to forget or rather,
erase the language i was born with?

how are your matriarchs of
Manchester doing?
  why do i ask?
   i'll sooner cut my **** off and
then **** on it...
before i speak a word of English
in my household,
or for that matter,
"integrate" by erasure...
  
  you best be ready to cut my tongue out...
which is why...
how can a Welshman be
deemed an esteemed creature
of kept pride...
if he doesn't speak a word of
the "hiding" tongue?
the Belgians speak a better English
than the ******* English!
whether or not they still
retain speaking Flemish is beside
the point...

               what cause for whatever there
be a need to make, a cause,
if the Welsh are not speaking
Cymru,
and the Irish are not speaking Gaelic?!
you don't make an argument
in a language that
has left Europe's west flank...
******* its way through
being easily speakable,
and semi-integrate-able;
thank god the majority
of the Polacks do not speak,
even a majority riddled
tourist majority English...
   and they don't...
even in places like in Warsaw...
it's like banging
their heads against
a brick wall when it comes
to the Muslim, wealthy tourists...
no hope in sight...
but no...
i will rather retain my native
tongue,
and respect the culture of
the English, than allow myself
to "forget" my native tongue
of Urdu... let's say...
and then turn around,
and abuse the native culture....
calling it... debased...
no!
you don't come against my
tongue, and then expect
me to remain neutral...
    but if you do...
you come, dictating what the rules
of integration are?
i'll be there...
telling you,
where you went wrong...
not everyone likes
the culture that England
entertains...
but everyone likes
a citation using the English
tongue, with however
horrid diacritical disorientation...
and i will give a part of me, up,
to, "integrate"...
take my language away?
you might as well blind me
and cut my tongue off...

   no... i'm telling you...
smarten up...
  how about you learn a second
language?
rather than discriminating
against bilingualism like
it's a schizophrenia?!

— The End —