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Kain Semyonov  Feb 2018
Piss Off.
Kain Semyonov Feb 2018
I’ve woken up
No longer under your spell
Sobered up
And realised I’m in Hell
You played me hard
But you did it well
You built me up
But in the end I fell

Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
The truth was blurred but now it’s clear
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
My scars are now my souvenirs
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
I’ve lost it all and now I have no fear
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
Now I see that the end is near

Now you’re gone
And I can heal
You were too good
To be real
My heart was always
yours to steal
But you burned it up
And I can’t feel

Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
The truth was blurred but now it’s clear
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
My scars are now my souvenirs
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
I’ve lost it all and now I have no fear
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
Now I see that the end is near
13  Apr 2014
Zwo, drei, vier
13 Apr 2014
Electricity is talking; we understand
losing interest in conversations. creating land.
droplets of ice define the day
August ends in the middle of May

intrepid peeling; scabs of the earth
the hands fail; a dumbed feeling
Eins, the seeing blind have never seen
on screen, a shape of many faces

in through the open windows outdoors
smoke dries the unseen. air dry.
so paragon goners repulse the cleaver
the system has failed

so much detail to attention
when pink isn’t even a color
time is wasted on time itself
unfortunate cookie

wires once made you. complete.
ask for the answer to the question is nothing
Zwei light birds on a wire
the happenstance, the fire

where hell listens, there sight is drawn
selfishly we glare and mourn
******* ice cubes yelling “Jesus may…”
cold as **** the cesspool lay.

So, maybe I’m over thinking this.
Posted on 27th September 2013 7:55pm
Edited by Harish Nair (http://glimpsesoflucidity.tumblr.com/)
August  Jan 2013
Eins, Zwei, Drei
August Jan 2013
A tri-pod death
One-two-three
You should have seen
The way my sister looked at me
It was such a surprise
I looked at her widened eyes
She didn't understand why I cried
Sadness turned to rage
It wasn't her fault, but her age
I crumpled up the page
That brought the news
My parents sister, niece, and nephew
My fists turned black & blue
I was only six years old
Didn't grasp how fire made them cold
Of all these things that I was told
I screamed and couldn't understand
Why God, had used his hand
I think that's when I turned my back
On the promise of his promised land
The hardest part was the coffins size
One for an adult, a teenager, and a tiny child
Older, I later went and apologized
To my sister for the things I said
She didn't remember the words I bled
But it relieved me when she said forgive &
Forget
I don't write much about my past.

© Amara Pendergraft 2013
Gold  May 2014
Liebe
Gold May 2014
Ich habe Fernweh nach dem Ort an dem du gerade bist, und Heimweh nach dem Platz in deinem Herzen.
Ich liebe den Himmel, und ich wünschte ich wäre das Firmament über dir, egal ob hinter Wolken versteckt oder mit den Gestirnen geschmückt, denn dann würde ich dich immer sehen und immer bei dir seien.
Jedoch könnte ich dich nie berühren, von da oben.
Vielleicht wäre es besser, der Boden zu seien. Du legst dich in mein warmes Gras und atmest meinen Duft ein, nach einem Regenschauer, und würdest dabei lächeln. Aber als der Boden, würdest du mich je bemerken? Und wenn ja, würdest du nicht nur auf mich herabsehen?
Das würde ich nicht überleben, wir sind alle aus Sternenstaub, und besonders in der Liebe gleich.
Aber wenn du mir diese drei Worte ins Ohr flüsterst oder sie mir ins Gesicht schreist, dann ist es eh egal. Denn dann steht alles auf dem Kopf, am Himmel ist das Wasser der Meere und ich schwimme durch Wolken. Ich gehe über Federn, und das Federkleid der Vögel besteht aus Gras.
So ist es, zumindest in meinem Kopf, jedes Mal nachdem du mein Herz mit den Schmetterlingen, die du in meinem Bauch ausgesetzt hast, erschütterst hast.
I have a desire to travel to the place where you are right now and homesickness to the place in your heart.
I love the sky, and I wish I were the firmament above you, whether hidden behind clouds or adorned with stars, because then I could always see you and be with you.
However, I could never touch you, from there above.
Maybe it would be better to be the ground. You lay down in my warm grass and breathe in my scent after rain and smile. But as the ground, would you ever recognize me? And if yes, wouldn't you just look down on me?
I wouldn't survive that, we're all made from stardust, and especially equal when in love.
But when you whisper those three words in my ear or scream them in my face, than it doesn't matter anyway. Because then, everything is upside down, the sky is made of the water of the seas and I swim through clouds. I walk over feathers and the feathering of the birds is made of grass.
This is how it is, at least in my head, everytime after you roused my heart with the butterflies you set out in my stomach.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
keep poking that fun, until i ask you to come
back with me into the back-alley for a
punch & susie;
sorry your autobiography is about as
spectacular as a mc-donald happy meal,
but you don't have to give off a whiff of
"thinking" yours was better than mine,
****...
              take your irish, n' *** 'm home
for the p'ooh poo'h tatties...
******* i.r.a. leprechauns...
          you want a silent messiah,
i'll give you 'un... one beside the bullet
right beside your brain...
       ******* belfast ******...
      even bagbie seemed shocked...
   hibernian my *** with that sort of
***-crack of hairy welcomes...
and plus the dropping watermelons
to kick off blitz 2.0....
        oliver twist my ****** on a
portrait... when homosexuality was illegal,
and there were martyrs, and there was art...
now? you gonna bake me a cookie or what?!
******* ponces tigras of would be libido
lost among pancreatic cancers of spotty leotards...
tarzan quiffs in *****: and so much less
in pow pow tic toc efforts:
    a bit like graffiti shooting flamingos:
sure: ******* in the waiting!
  ******* rich butcher ***** akin to
george michael's, or elton john
      donald trump & kim jong-uns -
it's called a ******* sandwich...
scrub via three...
                  schrubben via drei...
yep, and the spiders from mars really did
much a lot...
                 and i did much more,
i was waiting for either gimmick,
or an advert,
  and i really wanted to make that 'vert
of toothpaste, to abolish ivory poaching
concentrating on my own nibbles...
      i also missed the badger cull -
as i never missed the ever present
          rat turned into fox in the suburbs...
but it was fun and there was art,
when something about homosexuality
was illegal...
  now that everything is legal,
everything has become so bedroom boring,
what a loss of the obstructed sensual effort...
so few less older women to cheat on...
so less (googlewhack) fabreaichi
(https://tinyurl.com/y7w2vfcc) -
so less few older women to fool, akin to
the grand liberace...
     thanks to making gay marriage official,
the long lost gay con artists double artist
of a gay will be long gone,
   and given the "wife types" of gay antics
worthy of pillow talk,
the old ladies will pack it up with the pope...
shame, really, art was once so grand when
there was something illegal...
        but even with the legality of drug,
as both with the orientational ****** promiscuity...
a tad bit yawn...
        it used to be so invigorating to have
an indian curry, to taste the **** spice...
but now? given it's so orientated in
jurisprudence? about as exciting as a pint
of beer...
                no matter as to why current art
in the **** quarter has been reduced to
refrigerator honeysuckle pictures done by
children...
           and by now, you can be the true
****** friend: **** sam, your boy is
a talentless hetrosexual in the making!
   but i'm sure he'll make a great plumber!
bite's back, doesn't it, *****?!
Dreams of Sepia Jun 2015
a love song
by O. A. Unwin

for Joseph Rembrandt Clarke
poet of the Bronte Country


Immanuel Kant
'' We are rich not in what we possess
but in what we can do without''




I.


Midnight hospital rooms flicked eyelashes
off the slow duel of hours

imagine tall lynch mob grass
or Sing a Song of Sixpence or Bye, Bye Miss American Pie forever

Today I remembered my upbringing
spoke of Turner,Ginsberg,human rights,
painted, swore,tore up a newspaper


the Nurse looked at me and said
' Not doing very well now, are we''
Dear Roman Empire, Tribunals


Otherwise this Southern town's
all hills, steeples, clouds
unsteady heartbeat of sandstone swept sideways


occasional channel fog krimi & arthouse
and lives ending whiskey half way to the sky




Welcome,set down your bags
to you I am a stranger in your land
to me you were a visitor in my town

Recently I have learnt that those who love
live life on the wrong side of the looking glass
and are forever being given speeding tickets


I also wander Redcliffe Wharf these days by the swallows' nests knowing that Angels tread the earth in the form of people like you

I have been there.
I have seen the Light.
I have drained my soul
out in tears Absalom oh Absalom
I have known the Wall
of my prodigal body a Tempest
Angel wings clipped by old ladies
on Old Market bus stops
catkin feet rotating the underdressed night
under the Arsenic Wheel of Stars
I have gambled my future
on the mere shout of your name
I have risked my very life

I should be a woman serene as a fish by now in a pond by a mansion house beneath Redwoods

this is not dignified.


Dearest, did I **** up
may I call you this
or shall we be
empty footsteps
Stasi hallways
a disconnected phone

No. Wait.
I am doing this all wrong

Dearest, gentle zeitgeist poet
of Yorkshire and the North
the way your writing
fleets me of your subtle frame
remembered briefly from one night
the inner fire of your face
and eyes mysterious as pagan gods
or lonely hermit huts and bright
as Northern Seafront lights
blinking renegade the dusk
amid the heady din of amusement arcades
the smog lilt of your lovely voice
now I know these things about you
I am a Matryeshka lost
but at least it's easier to write
of imagined boyish swagger to Elvis
or the way you might also sing jazz
I belt out Duke Ellington in the bathtub
oh lets dance lets dance


Turn, turn
Sunset on Sunset
pages, pages back
I am an August rose
in bloom over you
in Welsh view suburbs
A Brothers' Grimm fairytale
that mother cuts down
and I tie it back onto it's stalk
with a vial of water
as if it's calling to me
to say  'thanks for letting me die here'
red, red, Russian red
that's no way to make your bed
but it reminds me of my Grandmother's garden
so it's also English
and then there's the thought of you
so it must be French red,
the color of love
Existentionalism and Rousseau
Elinor and Marianne
hothouse flowers or wild
I was always the latter
wild, wild
a bold freedom of a child.




in Jane Austen's ' Sense and Sensibility'  the heroines, Elinor and Marianne's contrasting characters
are described by their love of flowers. Marianne prefers wild and this
is a tribute to her free, delicate spirit, the stern Elinor prefers hothouse.








I.I


This is bad.
I'm done dancing.
actually I was recently a mermaid
& my legs still hurt on land
I can't write good poetry about this.
It's too serious.
It's all je ne sais quoi
& unknown potential of star signs
I've read of the way you wrote
of a girl all bells and incense
and think now that oh you are Love, love
love itself-fragile and kind
beneath that manner bold
and cheek as a Sunday brass band bright
' Your name's a bit of a mouthful isn't it'
that's what you said,right?
but you can't fool me,Love
are you the all the vibrant flair of gentleness in my Soul

your trance of attention to detail
the way you've loved places and people
the thought that there is such a man
pierces me like Van Gogh's last hours




dearest, dearest
you're my drug
that's just the way that I am,
or used to be
I'm a Romantic.
Neither capitalist
Nor communist?
Me too.
Soulmate.
Yep..
Drastic.

But that's
all the word that's left.
Now I'm just in trouble
and need wine.

To think I'm usually
quite good at Scrabble.
I don't normally do Kitsch.
I promise.Be Kind.
I must remind myself of this:

Love is a house of cards.
could we just be a plane trail
a radio signal
a satellite
forbidden bliss.




I.I.I


You're right
the Southern middle classes are ****** up.
as for me Dad all kindly alcoholism
and Kolobok* frame died
Step-Dad walked out.
All my umbrellas broke.

I've tried

but it was pointless loving my parents
poetry and paleontology
just can't live together.

*
I should have been an heiress
but my mother
lazily lost the place
and kept me poor & this stings
or did till I grew a backbone.
Our landlord's in New York.
Our house
is surrounded by cypress trees

You only live once.

or so I thought.
but I've lived and lost so many times
that I'm simply glad that I just bought a typewriter
for a quid
and am proud.

* Kolobok - a character from a Russian folk tale, made out of dough.

I.I.I

**** this curiosity.
A question.
Arise, arise Atlantic dreamer.
Why are you you
America, Europe and England
and goodness knows what else



By Descartes's* fire
I beseech you
are you a dream
Am I Ariel,
or else
a marvel comic heroine
pick and choose
toss your dice


Lets face it
we are both gamblers
because we're not afraid to feel
& we are both Kafka
when I read you
I'm the Zen
of my transnational dreams
I can't help this.
Where are the boys I used to kiss in my head.
This is maybe just how the Mad are.
I'm mock bubblegum brains.
You are my roman candle


as I said
I'm not a little Bristolian
& Southerner at heart
so I'm a pirate.
that's that.

I am sewing our flag in neon thread
I am eyeing you up
the way Smugglers eye up cargo
the way Kings draw up maps
the way salt melts in water

& the way books looked and felt
has always been important
so you must know
my mother read me Ruskin as a child.



Tell me, friend
could we be Northern lights
by whom & what was the last film you saw
Woody Allen,
Wim Wenders,Gatsby.
lets make a list
have you seen
'Goodbye, Lenin'
it's hilarious.
tell me of yourself

Berlin, Berlin
einz zwei drei
no, this is not the Polizei

or Blitzkrieg grandmothers
just hide and seek
Do you like gingerbread
Why is my neighbor called  Pete.

* Rene Descartes - 1596-1650, french philosopher
* Ariel - Ariel, a magical spirit from Shakespeare's ' The Tempest'
* Ruskin is one of Rembrandt's favorite authors
* I used to live in Berlin
* One, two, three, no this is not the Police
Please be kind. This is a highly personal poem. There is more to it but it's too long to post in one go. It's the true story of my love for a fellow poet & how I wandered 3 days & nights through the town of Bristol in the rain, without sleep, calling his name & later ended up in hospital against my will for what they called psychosis just because for a while I was scared for my life. A diagnosis I hope to overturn someday. The poem starts off talking about the hospital. At about this point I told Rembrandt of my love & of my tragic experience & he rejected me. This was 2 years ago now & I'm still trying to get over it. I hope to publish this poem someday as testimony to my love for R. & this experience.
katewinslet Nov 2015
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