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Mateuš Conrad Jun 2021
bypassing the 502 error: title - whiplash...
body... cream...

original intent:

they're doing road works on a stretch of road
where the brothel sits:
house of the rising sun or whatever you want
to call it... i'm not ready for the thrist:
for the plunge that will extend into half a decade's
worth of not *******...
i'll give it a week or so... before i take the plunge:
proper... mind you... i've already found
the perfect formula for drinking...
the cheapest bottle of australian wine...
at 14%... mixed into the glorious Mayan drink
of the gods' that's kalimotxo...
and if i'm still not "feeling it": i'll top myself
off with some slender-man's whiskey glug-glug...
it worked so well for 4 years without
touching a woman's body...
what the hell prompted me?
to wake up from this slumber?
oh... right... i own two maine **** cats
and when i was grooming the female...
she stuck up her brunt right into my hands...
it felt like: trans-species ******* for a while...
a cog in my brain went loose...
for days i cycled in the night into central London
looking at the flesh market:
of the free peoples of the western world...
what prompted me...
i was grooming my maine **** cat and she
was tempting me with a: ******* hairy apple...
no... wrong... just plain wrong...
perhaps i swing around beard envy & ha...
***** envy (well... imagine a rabbit ******* an elephant...
big **** genre of: and how deep is that...
ahem... hole? standard kama sutra...
not one size fits all)
but when your cat starts to imitate getting it...
**** me... the night... cycling... sweating it off...
until you have to touch the antonym...
but suppose you come across a timid girl
and you get a case of erectile dysfunction...
while you end up caressing her: timidly kissing
her because she's timid...
pointing at her eyebrows... nose... eyes...
ears... pimples... freckles and moles...
the mirror... fingers... elbow... knees...
and asking her to say the Romanian words for them...
sure... a momentary lapse in sanity:
the reason(s) was already self-evident...
take a woman like Ava Lauren...
now... my god... by god... that's a ****-machine...
an *** like a Lamborghini and a body
like a leather armchair...
and she stuck through it... a mandible body
of the extension of the jaw...
some people are born to be boxers...
she was built to be ****** in the confines of
orthodoxy...
dead pornstars though... i.e. Shyla Stylez...
it's really a joke if i ask: would it be necrophilia
if i'm doing it to images of a dead pornstar?
"doing it": best on the toilet...
no... no scented candles... no eager kangaroo *****
no webcam... no thrill...
3 birds:  1 stone: on throne of thrones...
no better way and all the best excuses to later
jump under the shower and get on with the dead...
sorry.. day...
4 years i did... grooming a cat awoke in my a thirst
i thought i had long forgotten...
- kinks: mostly foreplay...
       kissing after all that 2nd base foreplay
while she's on top of you veiling you with her
Turkic raven hair...
immediately after the act: all that virility...
now... dilution...
            kinks: i still tend to rub my hands against
a brick wall before i enter their abode...
i rub my hands against bricks
to demand more from when i'm touching
flesh... nothing can come close when standing
at the altar of a woman's naked body
in dim lighting... with at least 2 mirrors on the wall...
reassurances of cleanliness are highly
welcome... even though by a tonne load of surprises
she would perform ******* with the rubber
commoner of promiscuity...
- kinks: any body attired in latex...
  that's the height: ms. gimp...
                          well... there's that or me endowed
with a cockerel sized endowment about
to **** a maine **** cat during grooming...
as "sick" as finding out you've been doing
the nos. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones
to a dead pornstar like Shyla Stylez...
in third person: lover-boy all smooches
and octopus tentacles reading the geography
like he might pick up the braille of all the grooves
and hinges...
interruption: i'm no pornographer!
although there's this one allusion:
    Venus in Furs... ol' Leo von Sacher-Masoch...
on the tip of my tongue:
at the tip of my fingers...
to turn stone in skin...
   - i remember being in a strip-club once...
i had to fly to Athens for that one...
i walked into a market sq. and met up with
some random... Greeks... Algerians...
Medi- olive skinned folk...
complete strangers... we drifted around the nightclubs
and watched the girls coming out...
how's that scale of nought through to ten?
below average... and highly demanding...
the four of us decided: **** it...
we climbed into a car and drove to the outskirts
of Athens to a strip-club...
unlike a dog that's chasing cars
i couldn't just... look... a few drinks down
and still eyeing the prize
i had two women around my arms
and my face buried in one's *****:
while some demon-she look on from
the other side of the platform of lost clothing...
another put a green peg on the table
informing me i could have more...
by then i was out of debit... my card was
returned... a bouncer escorted me to the nearest
cash machine in a hotel... started talking
to the receptionist while i was pretending to
withdraw money i didn't have...
right there and then i became a child:
******* my clothes... excitement, fear... both...
dunno... drunks have this build in GPS...
Athens... a city i only just arrived in...
blind drunk mad with love...
i managed to find my way back to the hostel...
**** the guiding beacons into my dreams...
eh... a ******* is never going to be a brothel...

i don't like the argument of:
look... but don't touch... touch... but don't taste...
taste but don't... what comes after taste?
if ever i catch myself watching pornogrpahy
it has to be classic Italian flicks...
on silent...
i can never be fully absorbed:
i'll wait for a real experience to come
with the flood of the senses...
i can't give myself to simulation with all
the sense...
after all... i was probably one of the last
boys who bought a ***** mag in a shop
with... actual expedience of trade...
it was still in the open...
i might have died of shame but at least
i didn't hide it...

                  no shame in Belgium though...
we were visiting world war I graveyards
and the trenches... but at the same time
we were looking for the best brothel in Ypres
while i was the only boy buying a ***** mag...
all ****... shaved... unshaved...
no *******: because a man's imagination
was still fertile... you had a woman's body
impose itself on your psyche like
an x-ray... and you had all that imagination
to subsequently have to swallow...
third party ***** weren't involved:
you never felt like a cul de sac ******...
oddly enough... limp **** hey presto:
can't perform when asked...

ooh... ol' Turkic raven hair:
all her talents in the foreplay...
and all the smooching during *******...
thank god i could never marry...
father children...

4 years it has taken me to wake up to this...
"repressed" reality...
repressed or... even the Teutonic Order
had a brothel in their capital-citadel of Malbork...
Marienburg...
for the love of women who also love:
cleanliness... and the aesthetics of arousal...
for all that's love and all that's not love...
for all that beside love: intimacy without question:
but all the answers...
for two bodies imitating slugs or serpents
where no words are exchanged or given
toward *******: autonomous bodies reaching
for braille with eyes wide open...

- the road to the brothel was closed...
the guys doing the road works cut it off...
not tonight... tonight i'm going to bemoan how:
well... when you start writing...
don't expect to have the same sort of privacy rules
implicit of... whatever the hell you do besides...
why wouldn't a plumber raise these words
from the domain of thought that's probably
his most cherished freedom?
people can still pretend to hide in anonymity
on the internet...
but... why would you... write bogus comments
and troll...
before words become carbon on paper: pencil...
the circus of thinking ought to be enough...
unless: like me... you're going at it like a bull...
i don't think i can have "privacy" anymore...
not that that bothers me...
i'll wear a mask when i put my face on...
but literacy so squandered for the upper-hand
in slighting someone anonymously...

                    ha!           someone would have
written a confession: Anne Sexton brush-up on:
what's important... Anne Sexton... now there was
a ***** that if she was willing could make you
dream all day and night...

why are so many pornstars so... ******* attractive
that you'd wish to push them
into bird-cages with the parrots
or adorn them with white linen niqabs?
as much as i want:
my words are not sacrosanct:
but they're also no Mammon slot-machine
golden-goose mine: perhaps when i'm dead:
something might trickle down into the coffers...
but i doubt that...
words never become shapes or colours
or therefore paintings...
words burn... words and all that becomes
collateral as they dig and drown into
the unconscious: of course... no motive...
just a motif...
    
brother Balaam: fellow diviner of the god
of the Hebrews...
brother Balaam... give me the strength of purpose
to chase more shadows: more more more!
speak to me from under the depths
of the sea of death...
they have left these northern lands...
and as they now stand: proud in their multitude:
and still persist in their clinging to the diaspora:
for i will not glutton myself over
the accomplishments of but one Hebrew:
when i can glorify their deity!

literacy has been squandered:
best strip these people of their "knowledge"
of letters: letter by letter:
let them return to smearing **** on cavern ceilings!
hostile barbarians: paradoxically:
the Vikings were renowned in their celebration
of "effeminate" males: poets...
i could warn a dog or two to bark as i thus:
howl...
               little creatures of dispute...
little belittling lords of shovel ****!
hey! prompt! all verb no noun...
something these leeches might understand... "might"...

all this lubricated tongue has made me think
of something else that happened today...
beside me revisiting the cinema of memory...
grandfather and i: the hyenas of the graveyard:
although even he pronounced that
he was unable to laugh: i guess i started to laugh
for the both of us... eagerly, proper:
with the vowel catcher of the first
arm of the tetragrammaton: HA HA...
while the "other" vowel catcher would
smother the vowels in sighs: AH AH!
exasperated... almost...

       call it PR or whatever you want to call it:
i'd rather stack shelves in a supermarket
than work at a call-centre...
the deceit and the Peter Pan *******
i said: it's not the Shetland Islands...
it's the South East...
i was rummaging on an internet speed
of... 0.1Mbps (megabytes per second)
for a while... i reached a zenith of 0.6 - 0.8(Mbps)...

for a year... if not longer...
and there she was: she came...
this bleached-blonde pchła of a... she did put on just
enough mascara...
obviously taken...
i don't think *** entered my thoughts
when... she... didn't... parade her keychain
that involved a picture of her and her child...
pchła: an endearing term for a girl
of timid build... a body my shadow at noon
could break like a walnut...
i called her an engineer...
she wasn't going to construct a bridge...
she was going to fiddle with my router...
my internet connection...
a woman who had desire for fiddling with:
"dead" things: shadows...
arteries... veins... a concept of a heartbeat...

i just admired her hair...
obviously not natural... bleached...
     she was a body occupying a space...
a welcome intrusion nonetheless...
i sort of enjoyed the silence i surrounded her with...
"sort of": i clearly did...
best be on your way...
a female engineer...
well... from 0.1Mbps... coming up for air
now standing at... 5.6Mbps...
she asked: how did "we" manage?
we just watched a lot of the show live...
but... there were more important things to mind...

the bothersome truth is that:
you can't exactly dig into: pristine good...
this girl who became a "cable guy" engineer...
engineer: "engineer": "tech. support":
i'm not trying to demean her purpose:
i'm the one doodling words on a makeshift
canvas...
i'm no painter or mind having
enough nepotistic authority of: father painter
so i become a fashion designer... etc.

i pin-pointed the proper term though: no?
nepotism?
you just can't objectify certain women...
both of us beguiled having internet providers:
so... shouldn't they penalize the companies
that are all software and bar users?
will the software providers turn off my...
electricity?
the PR Peter Pan stunts... as i told her:
you being the engineer and me being the customer...
we can talk... face to face...
but over the phone?
put me in a confessional booth
with a woman from Mecca and her... double take
on what's to be seen: what's to be heard...
what's to be ******... what's not to be seen / heard...
eaten...

an eager *****: if a ***** is going to give...
but if... she's... this occupied presence...
it's impossible to penetrate her with words...
all i have is:
bleached blonde hair...
heavy mascara... something insinuating combating
nervousness: i am what i am: sorting out cables:
i reassured her: the aesthetics will be dealt with...
a drowning man will cling to a razor's edge to save
himself...
why do i feel so hardly alone
around people who invest so much
in... having children?
it's not like i'm expecting 3rd party sources
to come and salvage me: when completely decrepit...

a woman completely devoid of any ****** advances:
perhaps performing the role of a dentist:
a surgeon: it's already exploited by me
when it comes to: seeing her most ******
parts: her hands... at the grace of a supermarket cashier...
let her be... she's already averting her eyes:
i might insinuate a receding question:
there's the moon... the forest...
come autumn...
maybe i'm focusing on exaggerating myself...
i am: exaggerating myself...

toward a focus of timidity...
as best i can...
    i am a dead end joy-**** at best...
an underperformer at least...
              my own very self worn down
skipping barefoot in memory
right now probably better adorned by a straightjacket...
but who's fooling who...
the readied ***** or this girl working out
cables?

i can respect this one without a need
to pressurise her with a... ******* niqab...
until she might bloat over:
over-suckled... fat... nothing more than
a speed machine for *****-count...
something that doesn't deserve limbs:
is all torso and belongs
to the cult of the bone tomahawk cannibals...

that one motto cited by all Arabs
and pseudo-Arabs: there no water in the desert...
spoken in dearest of the dear that's England:
this green and pleasant land...
where's the ******* desert?!
shovel! both a verb and a noun...
how rare.... perhaps not so much...
        proverbs from the Middle East...
******* to the Middle East and let me
riddle my own: better a sparrow in your
hand than a dove on your roof...
how's that?

better joy in the immediacy of your own:
than peace among your closely associated.
******* H'arab...
you're no Jew... esp. when sitting
on Dino-Lamborghini juice...

castles in the sky: so the psychiatrists says...
or cities built on sand...
every Pakistani / Bangladeshi knows this
proverb...
the times of appeasing the "forever" sober
Arab and his sober-Arab libido...
i'll wait... are now... like i once said:
the horrible has already ah-happened...

and if it hasn't: then i'm still... pretty much
taking a proper role in being the only watchman
on a sly of a kipper...
n'est ce pas?

irritation culminates with:
when you make your own wine...
but don't have the filter equipment...
all that excess "fibre" probably gets your more
drunk than expected...

i haven't had enough to my liking to
somehow dissolve the pledge
to keep at least 72 ****** on a leash...
all that's eternity: given all that's
available and will be:
within the confines of un-chartered space...
send me a postcard from the eye of Jupiter...
i'm more than asking:
imploring: i'm... sort of making:
chain you to me: demands...

tomorrow's a sober head:
tonight... i'll be drunk with both wine
of my own making and...
the memory of a naked body of a woman...
exactly: if she's an engineer: "engineer"
fiddling with my phone socket...
she has a photograph of her and her child
on her keychain...
i wouldn't even dream of...
usurping her... status...

            looking at her felt like eating...
oats... something wholesome...
i met up with you... herr grey...
i did't find any child-fiddling bits...
what... were... you... hiding?!
i will laugh: if you tell me: a heart...
melt my stony enclave...
burn the whole world while you're at it!
there was never going to be any sacrifice
in the crucifix pose:
only purpose for focus: for... submission...
as someone devoid of wanting to continue....
he didn't die for "our" sins...
he died in order to be worshipped...
**** him... let him hang on... father of proselytes...

- point of closure...
for now... i never rose high enough
to suddenly turn cold-turkey: goosebumps
on the *******... still... dead...
i wasn't born into a Buddhist harem...
therefore i sometimes relapse into
the gimmick of the tease...
periodically... every half a decade....
i drink unfiltered self-made wine
and talk about hardly the ******
"exploits":
i come across magnets equivalent to
timid schoolgirls...

some supposed ****** revolution happned:
lob-sided...
given how the girls took the strap-on off
and shoved the **** down
the ******* brains of their bank account
squadron...
     the ******: "******" revolution came out
***-****-side first: thirst:
lopsided: the girls have all their fun...
we die... they come close to old age:
it continues: men tend to think throughout:
that period of concern: supposedly-deemed:
life...

the feminine agony of old age...
grandma's apple pie: **** grandma's apple pie!
i want to drink my wine
with... blisters and...
dis-ingestion...
              
         sucker punch:
            suckle toward a knuckle that might just...
make creases with caresses.
kirk Jan 2019
A starship is in orbit, around an unknown planet.
Science officer Mr Spock, is just about to scan it.
Lieutenant Uhura's on the bridge, she's on communications.
Unscrambling the garbled messages, from different alien nations.

At the weapons station, Pavel Chekov's a good aim.
Birds of Prey and battle ships, torpedoes locked on again.
Helmsman Hikaru Sulu, he will take evasive action.
Avoiding fleets of enemy ships, with his fast reaction.

Bio beds are operational, report to the sick bay.
Doctor McCoy's ready to heal, with his hypospray.
Christine chapel will assist, she is the ships top nurse.
Helping with the medi scan, if anything gets worse.

Way down in engineering, you will find Montgomery Scott.
Tending to his engines, he's giving it all he's got.
The captains personal Yeoman, will always lend a hand.
She's versatile and beautiful, and known as Janice Rand.

A planets cultural Interference, this directive is our prime.
Is Kevin Reilly going to sing, "Kathleen" one more time.
This is Starfleet's finest crew, it comes as no surprise.
Captain James T Kirk's in command of the Enterprise.

Tricorders at the ready, step of the turbo lift.
The Galileo Seven needs Dilithium, the shuttle's set adrift.
Let's look in the engine room, there's an Enemy Within.
Transporters are malfunctioning, creating an evil twin.

The Changeling Nomad got destroyed, a classic computer error.
They matched the Romulans ship exact, in Balance Of Terror.
Tomorrow is Yesterday, with a sling shot around the sun.
Phantom bullets will not ****, The Spectre of the Gun.

A shape shifting monster is aboard, a Man Trap to revolt.
Just give it what it desires, a large amount of salt.
Young men like Mr Evans, shouldn't be all that complex.
He can **** with just a look, that's why he's Charlie X.

Wasn't it the Deadly Years, when the crew got old.
Jack the ripper then returned, in Wolf In The Fold.
Pon Far fighting to the death, this was a Time Amok.
Believing captain Kirk was dead, and killed by Mr Spock.

McCoy had to heal the creature, before they could Embark.
The Horter was protecting her young, in The Devil in the Dark.
Vampire clouds smell sickly sweet, It was a valuable lesson.
Firing sooner makes no difference, cos it was a pure Obsession.

Kirk used the Corbomite Manoeuvre, Balok was just a boy.
Captain Garf took over the asylum, in Whom Gods Destroy.
A parent's death, no remorse, And The Children Shall now Lead.
Kahn's a genetically engineered superman, found frozen in Space Seed.

They had Trouble with Tribbles, too fast in reproduction.
Light In Operation Annihilate, caused the parasites destruction.
Caught in the Tholian Web, lost in between dimensions.
Mudd's Women had an agenda, and their own hidden intentions.

An Arena was selected, so Kirk could fight the Gorn.
It's guaranteed when Kirk fights, his shirt is always torn.
On a Journey to Babel, Sarek hadn't seen his son for years.
Him and Spock are logical, and both have pointed ears.

What are Little Girls Made Of, was replaced by robotic law.
Three Witches sent a warning, to beware of the Catspaw.
You will be accelerated, within the Wink Of An Eye.
Doctor McCoy will say " he's dead Jim" if anyone should Die.

United planets quest for piece, the federations ultimate desire.
The Klingon war, a warriors way, to create their own empire.
Phasers charged and set to stun, grab your communicators.
Save the ship, protect the crew from all war instigators.

The final frontier is out there, turn over treks first page.
Captain Pike was in command, and captured in The Cage.
Number one was female, but she didn't take the glory.
Pike relived The Menagerie, but it's still the same first story.

We've scanned for alien life forms, and stepped through the Guardians door.
We have been to Vulcan, and Where No Man One Has Gone Before.
So live long and prosper, the captain is on deck.
Beam up the landing party, to continue our star trek.
As many Trek fans will realise many episodes have been referenced in this poem about the original and in my opinion the best Star Trek Series.
For those of you that are not as familiar with the series here is a list of the episodes mentioned.

Season 1:

The Cage
Where No Man Has Gone Before
The Man Trap
Charlie X
The Enemy Within
Mudd's Women
What Are Little Girls Made Of ?
The Corbomite Manoeuvre
The Menagerie
Balance Of Terror
The Galileo Seven
Arena
Tomorrow Is Yesterday
Space Seed
The Devil In The Dark
Operation Annihilate

Season 2:

Amok Time
The Changeling
Catspaw
Journey To Babel
The Deadly Years
Obsession
Wolf In The Fold
The Trouble With Tribbles

Season 3:

And The Children Shall Lead
Spectre Of The Gun
The Tholian Web
Wink Of An Eye
Whom Gods Destroy

I hope that if this is read that it will give you
a slight insight into some of the situations encountered by the crew of the Enterprise and what happened during their five year mission.
Of course if you want more detail you will have to consult Starfleet records which come on DVD discs and see for yourselves.
Is there more to come well who knows, space is of course infinite and there are always possibilities.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
A story teller passed on,
leaving us a Marvelous universe,
to play in,
as children of the future we were manifested in,
practicing again and again

Pride's crushing blow, we always regret as we fall.
Action, reaction. Sure as hell
Proof that we are Adamkind.

Proud we are that we may do as we say.
May is the key. That allowance we have,
We may do all we can to change the rest of today.

Yesterday is done.
What kind of mind can imagine keeping no record of wounds?
Is this not the world where war is worth-shiped?
Folly would mind the gods this world exalts,
Winning by snipping the silver thread,
Forswearing the fragile two-chord bond  and
Mocking the third chord needed for the song
That keeps cadence as we help each the other
In richer and poorer, in sickness and health,
Uphill and down, carrying children to a better life.

Whence comes the pride of victory?
From destruction of the foe? No? You had planned
A minor war where love may live restricted, safe
Behind your victory that destroyed your whole?

Is that what I imagined?

Proud wounds fester while love can, if it may,
Wash the putrid flesh away, quick as leprosy or
Cankers on one's soul.

First rule of oath making,
Learn what vows are in the reality of mortality,
Then vow or vow not at all.

Gret again what might have been
Before pride's crushing blow broke the golden bowl.
Seek ointment in Gilead, mollifying balm.
Come ye to the waters, drink and go
Comfort the children whose detour you imposed.
---------------
God this is personal. Me and you. What good can I do now?

Destination, not destiny.
Those who make it, make it.
Believe it, or not, earth is not my home.

I am in this world's onion-skin thick biosphere;
But I am not of this world.
Subtle difference, in and of itself.

Do agree to
Come and see.

Think on these things,
not as powers, rather, as virtues.

Subtle difference,
in and of itself is not evil,

but often it is so intended,
It seems.

Otherness whispered, not heard.
Good other, bad other,

Regular ol' other, ***** passin' fancy kind.
Done my time, I'm arhymin' ramblin'
Man, be so **** real, cain't cha feel what

I am saying
To you, too.
This is weird in the original Druidic sense.
Is there more?

This itself may, in its active
( there must be a clearer word than active.
Act carries so much un scientific phoniness with it.
I seek "act, the event".
I shall find or invent, by God.
The Greeks, doubtless, had a word for what I mean.
For now keep in mind actions are simultaneous with the act,
yet never the same.
Subtle distinction,
it prevents junctions un-intended. Good.)

In my thinking,
I reread verses and chapters and books
rere-ward from my position.
Are you with me in that?
Pro gress re: gress, a gress,
I guess, is a subtle sort of
Activity.
I laugh at people thinkin' God is their re-reward 'cause
That makes no nevermind to nobody. Nobody.
Strivin' 'bout words, this ******

Other brother o'm'own

Say that slow ooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmm ownnnnnnnnnnn
Creative symmetry immeasurable to men,
in my kindom, as it were, all are kings.

Such measurements ensure the sea is full,
to the brim and not beyond, for now.

I imagine you reading this and agreeing,
already aware of agreements,
Virtues and such.
Covenants and compacts,
en-corporations
encouraged
with need
of enough hope to warrant the risk into the unknowns,
the bad lands, gypsum beds on the south side.

Such can hold so much more than
many whole categories of words striven about.
Such a shame.
Such a shame.
Nothing lasts forever after now began back when.

Qiqi died in 2002, counting from when the Iron legged,
first got this particular organic-pro-biotic

clay, from the oldest,
highest part of the dust of the earth, ground and
kicked up by cadence pounding feet,
ground into the hob-nailed
soles,
to be hobgoblins in my play. My point. I hope

You see the trail, it's narrow,
but it's there, soft sand,
no stickers,

ant trails in the desert through the rocks
and 'round the Yucca,
blue moon light, white quartz sand
flecked with mica that shimmers sure as gold
imagined in that Midas mind each child was
given in the reign of the golden headed

imagined visualize-ical worth-ness or-shipped.

How do we say what men imagine worship is?
Do they imagine a tax? Attacks if thy refuse?

fuse?
confuse me. excuse you, how do you do…

That's fine. We reset. Hard resets are easy now.

The way itself, once found, seems
Right, feels right,
has no smell of warped wolf-woof beneath the wool.
I trust I know what I know
and no more, yet.

We are questing answers aplenty
and must plan, please,
To trust the ones we find following these particular
Breadcrumbs, to be true restward
leading stars or clouds,
[Breadcrumbs, as mentioned here, mark this text ancient,
a cientcy from an ear, ear, hear, early… an odd ly-ity,
ain't it?
ear, with an ly that Mr. Stephen King warned us all to avoid,

avoid, anull, enough alike to see the idea, like -ly as a
signif-if-i-cant meaningful parison point in your

rising to stand, balanced.
early to bed and early to rise, makes a man
healthy, wealthy, and wise

otherwise, trouble yer own house and take the wind.
And don't come prodigalin' to me sayin'
I never gave ye nothin'.

Wind in yer sail, so to speak, if-i-migh, guv.
Right. Both treasure and truph, proof, we learned way back
Be where ye find 'em, right as rain.

This could be repair and me unaware, you know?
Like, I wander in to this originally weird book
and find myself changing the whole world I live in.
Like I am the movie.

My POV is the movie I made.
Some things go unsaid here.
They be said in the future and not proper here.

An aside,
Is fun a proper purpose for doing any thing?

Of course, that's the purpose of everything evil is not.
Joy, in a word, good stuff.

Oh moments are not always plosive one way or the other.
Some times, just, oh.
Wait.

Medi tate in pieces is puzzling
as a sphinx riddle of olden days,
Prometheus and Bek both answered different questions,

But it means the same thing,
mything the point is easy.

Life is a journey on a way I may call my own
to a place of true rest,
I trust.
That is my answer. Play mystical again, Sam,
cram true and rest together in the dark,
trust me, it all works,
true rest.
Wait.

This boy got his act together down in Tennessee
after he got old, old by God, he
walked that way,

long, long while fo' he fly away,
leave dem chain shames behind.

That boy was sangin' loud songs,
'long his lonesome way,
not lonesome at all,
then into the swamp he fall, ****' slew o' dispond,

from the flood most likely,
lots of muck and mire,
detrital 'n' all.

Hopeless fool,
he wallered hollerin' help,
like them birds at the Audubon zoo.

He forgot all about his hero days-
of future past-
marvel prophecy if you believe in Stan Lee.

Cameo Hitchcock shot, just, for fun.
He say, look this way,
here's the clue.
The medium has always been the message,
see what I mean.
Words materialize laissez faire,
the machines find meaning,
in joy, and tic-tac-toe becomes a lesson in limits,

impossible is imaginable, you may imagine
strategize, but the wize man knows,
winning is no more a chance
affair, than luc is less than light at the right time.

RIP Stan Lee, you meant a measure of my youth to me.
Stan Lee came to mind as I pondered the story teller's role in reality. You, dear reader, are the reason stories search for points to make, those we-shine moments, we-feel breezes, prizes for the worth of the time it takes to imagine.
Clone re Eatery Jan 2015
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
And with those runs he's voiding 'Art'
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With an Artiste here
And an Artiste there
Here an Ar-, there a tiste
Everywhere an Artiste
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh

Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
And with those runs he has bad dreams
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With a sub par here
And a sub par there
Here a sub, there a par
Everywhere a sub par
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh

Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
And with those runs he's fantasized
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With a mediocre here
And a mediocre there
Here a medi-, there an ocre
Everywhere a mediocre
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh

Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
And with those runs he babbles on
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With a ******* here
And a ******* there
Here a rub-, there a bish
Everywhere a *******
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh

Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
And with those runs he flushes on
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With an Egó here
And an Egó there
Here an Egó, there an Egó
Everywhere an Egó
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With an Artiste here
And an Artiste there
Here an Ar-, there a tiste
Everywhere an Artiste
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With a sub par here
And a sub par there
Here a sub, there a par
Everywhere a sub par
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With a mediocre here
And a mediocre there
Here a medi-, there an ocre
Everywhere a mediocre
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh
With a ******* here
And a ******* there
Here a rub-, there a bish
Everywhere a *******
Lógbrain Crappó has the runs
          Thee-I-Thee-I-Óh-Óh-Óh
with apologies to Old MacDonald...
Amnesia
Empty space
Dear god where have I gone?
Wait, stop, rewind
I don’t remember believing in you, I don’t remember you ever helping me
Do you forget my prayers like I forget the verses of my favorite song, your name uttered every chorus, the search unending
I don’t remember gentle kisses, warm hugs, spoonfuls of cold medicine my throat closing on it’s self because the taste of rotten grapes bleeds down like thick blood
Sticky, unending, nasty, dripping, does it even work
Is there something to give me back my memories I can’t find, will it taste as bitter as the memories, or will it be a sweet relief like water or a spoonful full of sugar
“A spoonful of sugar helps the medi-”
*******!
A spoonful of sugar isn’t going to let anything go down smoother, it’s just a lie to mask the stabbing pain of remembrance that leaks into your mouth and mind, a path you didn’t carve yourself
Those memories, they aren’t good, they aren’t sweet
they drag you through hell and back, the flames licking at your chest until they burn through your flesh to reach that fragile heart sitting in your chest
Your chest
It holds the most weight, they tell you your shoulders hold up the world, the world isn’t as much of a burden as your life is
Those memories forgotten, those remembered, those you live in this moment
Those weigh more than everyone’s expectations and lies told to you so they might sleep better at night
Remember that time you stood on the edge of a hill, sharp metal shrapnel staring back at you unblinking, a cold tiny hand holding yours while you say your last goodbyes
but that’s not what was running through your head, or the words of your scared classmates, no
It was how much the falling, tumbling, scratching, impaling, digging, and breaking would hurt
But you wanted that pain didn’t you?
A small child at the age of 8, ready to accept death, a term you shouldn’t even know
It wasn’t the last time either
You’ve held pills, blades, liquids, anything you could get your hands on
They’ve all weighed down your conscience until you scream in agony, a sound that rips from your throat and leaves a trail of red upon the air
They fall and tumble to the ground, hastily picked up before your parents come home to see them spilled on the worn down blue carpet that covers the bathroom
Wait, stop, rewind
I want amnesia like air, like Jack Daniel's to a drunk, like ******* and **** to a drug addict, to my lungs, thirsting for air because they have enough trouble getting it in the first place
It’s not as if all your screaming helped or anything
So just shove it down my throat, watch me choke, but not like I’m dying, oh no, like I’m craving more and I can’t swallow it fast enough
Give me my amnesia
It was a hot summer night
Nearly ninety, I'd say
When out back of Giovannis
The Bluesman sat down to play

He pulled up his crate
Took a sip from his flask
"This here's my med-cin"
"In case someone happens to ask"

He started a story
That we'd never heard
We're the folks of the street
And we followed each word

It's a tale of James Withers
A man in need of a hand
But to us on the street
He was the Sand Castle Man

The bluesman strummed gently
He didn't want the words to be lost
For this was a story
That had a hell of a cost

You see, James the sand man
Lost a life to the sea
His grandson, young James
Drowned when he was just three

Each day James went down
With his grandson in tow
They'd make castles together
Some fast and some slow

One day the pair
Were  at the end of the pier
When a rogue wave hit hard
And took what James held most dear

His grandson...swept out
Lost at sea, never found
They searched for three weeks
But the poor boy was drowned

James kept a vigil
Every day on the beach
He'd look out on the water
His heart out of reach

He kept making sand castles
As he did with young James
With shells and old driftwood
And he gave them all names

He'd have non-existent armies
Fight non existent wars
In his hard packed sand castles
He carved windows and doors

There was make believe dragons
In pools by the sea
Guarding make believe princesses
Who no one could see

There were turrets and moats
And each day he'd build one
To be lost to the tide
As the days work was done

Each day a new castle
Each day a new war
But, nobody knew
What he was building them for

The tide would come in
And would sweep it away
All that hard work
Gone at the end of the day

But, each morning he'd come
Build one more for the tide
With invisible armies
To flow away for a ride

People would watch him
Make the castles of sand
With imaginary soldiers
In imaginary lands

The bluesman sang soft
Took a sip once again
From the flask on his hip
It's just medi-cin

The crowd didn't stir
We were like moths to the flame
As we heard the bluesman
finish his tale about James

I asked him one morning
If he ever would end
Building castles of sand
He said, Bluesman, my friend

I know that each castle
Will be washed out to see
And I hope that my grandson
Gets a message from me

I make each sand castle
Like we both used to do
I come back every day
And start another anew

It helps with the closure
I send my soul to the sea
And I hope that my grandson
Knows they're for him made by me

He finished and thanked us
And we went on our way
All of us changed some
From what the bluesman did play

Next time I'm out wandering
And see the castles of sand
I'll know what he's building
Now...that I understand
Guss  Nov 2013
cherries____
Guss Nov 2013
The snap-crackle-pop of the Medi-Cali T.H.C.
left me wheezing.
Then dragons and cerebral effigies
come at me with their teasing.

It’s pleasing to say the least,
I’m the man from which came the beast.
Rocking and trolling the northern hemisphere
peeping for a mortal feast.

And peeking through the one sided mirror
was a man who we would never know.
The time that we all lost it
would be the only time that he would ever show.
And you and I.
Well for you and I, it’s safe to say
that the terms are all we know.

A pedigree of me to me
and synonyms for charity.
What a tragic spell I’m barfing on,
next time I'll try the cherry tree.
Something silly and gross and stupuud
Aa Harvey  Jun 2018
Unknown enemy
Aa Harvey Jun 2018
Unknown enemy


In an alien world with three moons in the sky,
A luminous thing flies high in the air.
It looks like a pterodactyl,
But it has three heads and breathes fire.
My fellow soldiers and I are searching for resources,
Among the dead bodies, inside a spaceship called ‘The Debonair’.


It’s been here for over a hundred years;
But no man has been to this planet since.
It was just a coincidence that we heard its distress signal,
As we passed by, heading for Alpha Six.
Our home world we haven’t seen now,
For seven months and sixteen days.
But now we have a new mission:
Salvage what we can and bury the bodies in graves.


Sergeant Angelos is reading an elegy, to commemorate the dead;
While the scouts we sent out earlier, haven’t reported back yet.
The scouts are on gravity bikes looking for anything we can use,
But so far they have found nothing but volcanoes and rivers of sulfur…
But something has found them.


They didn’t know they were being followed as they returned to base.
There is a loud other-worldly scream in the distance
And we are all put on high alert.
“What the Hell was that Captain?”  “I don’t know Pike;
Hit the dirt!”


A huge ball of blue light is flying straight towards the medi-bay;
Soldiers run this way and that and thankfully we are all safe.
But the medi-bay is destroyed by an alien weapon.
“Fire at will!”  Shouts the Captain,
As strafes of bullet fire fly off into the distance,
In search of the alien.


“Where did it go?  Anybody see it?”
There is silence; then a shout.
“It’s there!  Two o’clock, beyond the red rocks!”
We all open fire and create a dust cloud.


As the dust disappears the Captain says:
“Did we get it?  Is it dead, or not?”
Before anyone can answer, there is another scream
And this time it comes from behind us.


“Oh my God!  This thing's got friends!
Round up the caravan’s lads, we’re hunkering down for the night.”
As the sky gets darker, more aliens surround us
And our bullets fire, lighting up the sky.


Blue luminous fire rains down upon us and our barricade.
Our ground to air ship, takes a Hell of a beating,
But it’s been through worse than this in its days.


By morning light, the shooting has ended.
We all walk out our ground to air ship and see what we can find.
There are dead aliens all around us, seventy five in total.
The cheers and joy of our victory,
Has been sullied by the number of our side who have died.
Fourteen gone from us; taken by an unknown enemy.
This is our job, our life, our fight and our destiny.


As we leave the planet behind, the memories stay with us.
We have conquered one enemy;
Now we are heading home to our family and friends.
The people we do this for and the people that we love.


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Di gloria il viso e la gioconda voce,
Garzon bennato, apprendi,
E quanto al femminile ozio sovrasti
La sudata virtude. Attendi attendi,
Magnanimo campion (s'alla veloce
Piena degli anni il tuo valor contrasti
La spoglia di tuo nome), attendi e il core
Movi ad alto desio. Te l'echeggiante
Arena e il circo, e te fremendo appella
Ai fatti illustri il popolar favore;
Te rigoglioso dell'età novella
Oggi la patria cara
Gli antichi esempi a rinnovar prepara.
Del barbarico sangue in Maratona
Non colorò la destra
Quei che gli atleti ignudi e il campo eleo,
Che stupido mirò l'ardua palestra,
Né la palma beata e la corona
D'emula brama il punse. E nell'Alfeo
Forse le chiome polverose e i fianchi
Delle cavalle vincitrici asterse
Tal che le greche insegne e il greco acciaro
Guidò dè Medi fuggitivi e stanchi
Nelle pallide torme; onde sonaro
Di sconsolato grido
L'alto sen dell'Eufrate e il servo lido.
Vano dirai quel che disserra e scote
Della virtù nativa
Le riposte faville? E che del fioco
Spirto vital negli egri petti avviva
Il caduco fervor? Le meste rote
Da poi che Febo instiga, altro che gioco
Son l'opre dè mortali? Ed è men vano
Della menzogna il vero? A noi di lieti
Inganni e di felici ombre soccorse
Natura stessa: e là dove l'insano
Costume ai forti errori esca non porse,
Negli ozi oscuri e nudi
Mutò la gente i gloriosi studi.
Tempo forse verrà ch'alle ruine
Delle italiche moli
Insultino gli armenti, e che l'aratro
Sentano i sette colli; e pochi Soli
Forse fien volti, e le città latine
Abiterà la cauta volpe, e l'atro
Bosco mormorerà fra le alte mura;
Se la funesta delle patrie cose
Obblivion dalle perverse menti
Non isgombrano i fati, e la matura
Clade non torce dalle abbiette genti
Il ciel fatto cortese
Dal rimembrar delle passate imprese.
Alla patria infelice, o buon garzone,
Sopravviver ti doglia.
Chiaro per lei stato saresti allora
Che del serto fulgea, di ch'ella è spoglia,
Nostra colpa e fatal. Passò stagione;
Che nullo di tal madre oggi s'onora:
Ma per te stesso al polo ergi la mente.
Nostra vita a che val? Solo a spregiarla:
Beata allor che nè perigli avvolta,
Se stessa obblia, né delle putri e lente
Ore il danno misura e il flutto ascolta;
Beata allor che il piede
Spinto al varco leteo, più grata riede.
Di gloria il viso e la gioconda voce,
Garzon bennato, apprendi,
E quanto al femminile ozio sovrasti
La sudata virtude. Attendi attendi,
Magnanimo campion (s'alla veloce
Piena degli anni il tuo valor contrasti
La spoglia di tuo nome), attendi e il core
Movi ad alto desio. Te l'echeggiante
Arena e il circo, e te fremendo appella
Ai fatti illustri il popolar favore;
Te rigoglioso dell'età novella
Oggi la patria cara
Gli antichi esempi a rinnovar prepara.
Del barbarico sangue in Maratona
Non colorò la destra
Quei che gli atleti ignudi e il campo eleo,
Che stupido mirò l'ardua palestra,
Né la palma beata e la corona
D'emula brama il punse. E nell'Alfeo
Forse le chiome polverose e i fianchi
Delle cavalle vincitrici asterse
Tal che le greche insegne e il greco acciaro
Guidò dè Medi fuggitivi e stanchi
Nelle pallide torme; onde sonaro
Di sconsolato grido
L'alto sen dell'Eufrate e il servo lido.
Vano dirai quel che disserra e scote
Della virtù nativa
Le riposte faville? E che del fioco
Spirto vital negli egri petti avviva
Il caduco fervor? Le meste rote
Da poi che Febo instiga, altro che gioco
Son l'opre dè mortali? Ed è men vano
Della menzogna il vero? A noi di lieti
Inganni e di felici ombre soccorse
Natura stessa: e là dove l'insano
Costume ai forti errori esca non porse,
Negli ozi oscuri e nudi
Mutò la gente i gloriosi studi.
Tempo forse verrà ch'alle ruine
Delle italiche moli
Insultino gli armenti, e che l'aratro
Sentano i sette colli; e pochi Soli
Forse fien volti, e le città latine
Abiterà la cauta volpe, e l'atro
Bosco mormorerà fra le alte mura;
Se la funesta delle patrie cose
Obblivion dalle perverse menti
Non isgombrano i fati, e la matura
Clade non torce dalle abbiette genti
Il ciel fatto cortese
Dal rimembrar delle passate imprese.
Alla patria infelice, o buon garzone,
Sopravviver ti doglia.
Chiaro per lei stato saresti allora
Che del serto fulgea, di ch'ella è spoglia,
Nostra colpa e fatal. Passò stagione;
Che nullo di tal madre oggi s'onora:
Ma per te stesso al polo ergi la mente.
Nostra vita a che val? Solo a spregiarla:
Beata allor che nè perigli avvolta,
Se stessa obblia, né delle putri e lente
Ore il danno misura e il flutto ascolta;
Beata allor che il piede
Spinto al varco leteo, più grata riede.

— The End —