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Dave Williams  Jul 2016
beatpoem
Dave Williams Jul 2016
b-dumm dumm
b-dumm dumm
b-dumm dumm
b-dumm dumm tchka ta weh...
tchka tchka tchka b-dumm

dumm dumm tchka tsk dumm tchka tish
dumm dumm tchka tsk dumm tchka tash
dumm dumm tchka tsk dumm tchka dish
tsk dumm b-dumm dumm tchka dumm bash

b-dumm dumm tish tchka dumm dumm tash
b-dumm dumm tish tchka dumm dumm tash
boom boom boom tchka tchka dumm bash
dumm bash-bash, dm-bash bash, dm-bish

tchka tchka dumm dumm ting
boom boom tchka tchka dumm bash ting
shik shik shika tika tik tik ting
boom boom tchka shika boom ting bish

boom shika tchka boom bash boom ching
boom, b-dumm dumm tika tika tika ting
boom shika shika boom bish bash beng
tika tika tika dumm boom boom ting

boof.. ka tchka boom boom cha
b-boof boof ka tchka boom boom cha
boom boom ka tchka tchka boom tish
tchka tchka dumm tsk tsk (dubudu) kish

(dubudu) (dubudu) (dubudu) tish
(dubudu) (dubudu) dub dub tesh
(dubudu) (dubudu) (dubudu) tsk tchka dish
dub.. b-dub dub taka tchka ting

dub dub tchka tsk dumm tchka ting
dub dub tchka tsk dumm tchka tash
dub dub tchka tsk dumm tchka ting
dub dub dub, b-dub dub dub mmm
b-dub dub dub, b-dub dub dub mmm
b-dub dub dub, b-dub dub dub mmm
b-dub mmm dub
b-dub mmm dub
b-dub
b-dub
b-dummm
only vaguely makes sense when read out aloud.
Ol' Mr Rilash
the authority on panache
and once chef of Ben-Ash,
had neglected to trim his tash.
It itched and made him scratch;
Unhappy on upper lip.
A plan, a plan it hatched.

...then one time in the kitchen
on a snoozing Mr Rilash.
His tash did something brazen,
or silly or quite brash.
It pulled away and dashed
crawling through plates of mash
and hopping over paprikash
it made it to the window ledge
via the crockery left stashed.

Was it brave or was it rash,
the escaping captive tash.
Leaping and waiting for the splash,
It saw it's trajectory down below;
and landed squarely in the trash.
Warren-Johnson  Oct 2017
TASH
Warren-Johnson Oct 2017
If this be a poem then strangely how apt that your name rhymes with Rash!
I'd babble on about how you are vile!
But that'd do me nothing constructive  or earn me no dime!
And it'd take more than a while,
Oh to tell them you slime?
Be as silly as this Rhyme!
But I get to remember that Tash!
Or would it be Rash to refer of you as Trash?
I'll do no such thing!
For that be your ways to adopt!
I'll hold my head high!
Knowing I loved my Wife!
And I fought without end for my marriage I did!
You will atone for your actions,
I shall have no joy or knowledge of what punishment he shall for you bid!
But I'll hold my head high for this I won't lie!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
only days have past since the end of the most
depressing period in the year:
in terms of music...

i welcome January as that month where i can return
to music, to serious music...
if it weren't for some of the songs
i will cite: i would find even more allure
in the Adhan...

but thank god or the devil for the month
of carol singing is over!
the month of carol singing is over!
the "god" has been born - we'll see him
in 33 years to come -
and with his birth the carol singing
can finally be silenced...

why oh why do i find christmas such
a melancholic period?
the carol... even if nietzsche found
reading thomas a kempis' imitation
of christ to be a depressive lot in life...
i too have read it...
and thought of the joy i experienced
for week in Taizé (Burgundy)...

Burgundians in France...
the Kashubians in Poland -
or the Silesians...
how seemingly loveless it is to peer
at intra-national entities...
with a dear eye scout for the details...
the germans love to sing!
wasn't it an austrian that came along
with an opera in german when
all the operas where still in Italian?
to be honest...
it sounds much worse in England...
i favor Händel... greatly...

john suchet can have his Beethoven ****...
his 52 week long saturday 9pm
1h show dedicated to the deaf dunk'e...
i quiet like the backdrop of Händel's
life... the composition for the fireworks
on the Thames... Charles II in general...
point being:
the carol season is over...
i can return to what keeps me well met
with countering any hunger for
new music, even from the genres
i'd appreciate more...

there's no: last christmas - wham!
all i want for christmas - mariah carey...
fairytale of new york - the pogues...
merry christmas everyone - shaky stevens...
the usual suspects...

all that singing for a stone's worth
of a sad little heart...

give me the songs of anon.!
llibre vermell of montserrat - stella splendens!
cuncti simus!
carmina burana - bonum est confidere...
minnesang - neidhart - meine die liechter schin...
refenbogen - gott vater sparch zu abraham...
hugo von montfort - fro weit
konrad von würzburg - hofton...
wolkenstein - wer ist, die da durchleuchtet...
german 15th century anon. - ich var dohin...
ditto - mit vrouden quam der engel...
neidhart von reuental - sumer deiner suzzen wunne...

and the last can go on...
which i find an alternative to classical when...
when jazz becomes too congesting...
there is always an alternative...
and classical music doesn't have to be:
the ultimate counter to modern music...
even if jazz helps...
there is an alternative to what's being
pushed among former newsreaders
who have become "d.j."-'ey-'eys...

how naive of my to have the following thought:
if german was to somehow disappear
from the face of the earth by a lightning bolt
and become a lake of tears...

would i borrow anything from
the 20th century - the anglophonic victory
and subsequent gloating?
or perhaps just a songs from
the medieval period -

and even if the medieval period was
as glum and ignorant as modern rubrics
of science demand -
a scientific can't leverage a joy -
with such certainty of knowing -
with so much certainty -
with weather forecasts...
i demand myself to not watch the forecasts
and beckon my moods on the weather
and the weather on my moods...
if there's anything organic to be retained
with regards to weather -
if i were a farmer perhaps i'd listen
to the annual forecast...
but on a day-to-day basis?
why rob myself of this last desire for
a surprise?
why be robbed of the organic sensation
bound to air, to the electricity
tickling the skin when a thunderstorm...
then there's a deluge and the frogs start
speaking in a crescendo of their
curriculum of barrage and referendum:
and simply fall with
the cats and dogs and reprimand
the man who bodly goes into down...
a man who takes an umbrella with him
out of his residence...
and never will never buy an umbrella
on the whim... being surprised...
what joy when all you buy is predictable...
when all you buy is... an addiction focus...
to feel any better:
how can one feel any better buying
an umbrella spotaneously?!
what greater joy comes from buying
an umbrella when it unexpectedly starts
raining!
and what of the joy of running barefoot
in the rain! what of the joy still harvesting
our eyes our ears our nostrils!
has science really served up the right sort
of an anaesthetic?!
that we are incubated by pure mind...
pure reason and all the trivia crescendos
any mind will want to warrant further...
when not a single ounce of joy in song
can be captured?
intellectual complexity of song:
progressive rock and hyper-inflated pop...
classical music you will never be able
to whistle to... will never be able to take up
with a guitar and play the skeleton...

perhaps edvard grieg's:
in the hall of the mountain king...
but only perhaps!
play me the skeleton accent of any piece
of classical music! from 'ear alone:
this... but the rest? hardly a whisper,
a whimper a whistling pete the piper would
have minded in inducing hyponosis on
the rats...
that whriling crescendo...
the bombast pandemonium reaching
******... the cloud of bats and satans descend...

who cares if peter sutcliffe wants his ashes
to be scattered in yorkshire...
my bigger pet peeve was that he wanted
the cremantion to have....
saint-saëns - danse macabre
to be playing in the background...
yes... for all it's worth: the shrill violin...
the: scratching of nails on a blackboard...
the running of a fork or a knife
on a piece of ceramic plating...

also of note regarding today:
- vierschanzentournee -
outside of the english-speaking world...
there's much more than merely
an Eddie 'the eagle' edwards biopic...
come on!
a world darts championship?!
darts?! the pub go to thing if there's
no pool table?!
that's gonna be an olympic sport?
so what's so terrible about ski jumping?
or the biathlon?
or indoor volleyball for that matter?
the english and their cricket (ok...
i concede to the genius of the sport)...
but lawn bowls?!
what's wrong with... nip'n'tuc pin bowling?
curling... that's also a serious sport?!
tennis versus ping-pong...
which is like throwing darts...
and those demigods at the olympics
with the very recent south korean women
in that sport of archery!
darts and archery... savvy? Lu Bu... Jumong...
never mind... a fellow "countryman"
of "mine" might win this tournament this year...
a дaвид кубaЦки... why would i upper-case
the kappa or the delta...
when the letter of curiosity is the... Ц "ts" C?

- liverpool's second team with the help
of Gomez... Origi... Lallana managed to beat
the first team of Everton...
boys vs. men... 18 year olds etc.

- i finally perfected oven cooking
butterfly chicken *******...
temp. at rest? circa 165° farhenheit...
circa 30minutes at 200°C...
the roast tatties looking pretty and smiling
at me with that roastie brown...
etc. etc. - but the juice on those butterfly
*******?
who would have thought that
stuffing the ******* with the skin still intact...
in between the skin and the meat...
a healthy nugget of butter either side...
fresh thyme...
au provence sea-salt (rosemary,
thyme etc.)...
succulent enough to make you forget ever
wetting your appetite for
a chicken thigh... or a drumstick...

- and finally getting what i want...
the mirror vanity project of:
not needing a turkish barber to trim my beard...
finally! i'll admit...
whenever in a barber shop and sitting
in front of a mirror...
i always close my eyes
and let the barber do his work while
i relax...
perhaps the presence of two bodies
in focus on a canvas of mirror is...
well it's not exactly a third party detail...
the subjective experience is beyond
the necessity of being captivating...
i can't focus on my face since
i don't have any compliments for it...
and a barber working his way around
the excess hair that i should,
technically, tend to myself...
i never liked being pampered by
feminine men...
although: a barber can become...
and butcher the whole thing...
then again: feminine men?
the men who cook, are... feminine?
perhaps they're not engineers...
they are not metallurgists...
but... a **** good shave...
a **** good meal, cooked to perfection...
they're no more feminine than
the other definition: the men of aesthetics...

today i became a man of aesthetics with
regards to: how i want my beard trimmed...
i became the gardeners of my own
garden of chin neck and cheeks...
side-burns in tow...
and the evil 'tash...
slim on the sides...
and a bulging uvula of hair dangling from
the chin and its vicinity...
the evil 'tash trimmed so i can sip
some god's blood / ms. amber:
forget god's **** and all that's beer and cider...
fake it making to sit hunched until 1am...
push this over the "finish-line" and
say adios today!

perhaps i once "glorified" laying out a tier
of "help" of the 3Ps...
the priest, the psychiatrist, the *******...
of the last?
well... imagine wandering the labyrinth
of the english outer-suburbia for long
enough... fiddling with bricks
with the tips of your fingers until
either rust or diamonds spark of the scratching...
i would do ever so often...
stroke bricks, harshly...
go up to the oak and fiddle with its coarse
bark etchings...
a week would pass and i would
have my fingertips readied
to bring before me an example
of human flesh...
was it was tender as ******* an oyster?

i needed to revive a compensation
of sensation...

i once made myself visit the barber
after a long repose...
did i find the barbershop experience
more: rivetting... than any experience
bound to a brothel?

england: prostitution is legal!
but owning a brothel... isn't...
if in amsterdam i was given both the freedom
to seek the advice of a *******
and... smoke marijuana freely...
this paranoia-shadow of smoking it in england
would... simply fizzle out...
i wouldn't be some obnoxious ****
trying to get my rocks off with the "gateway drug"...

why did i smoke marijuana?
i simply "don't know"... but of course i do!
it gave me an escape from
being congested with parrot narratives
of the cartesian RES COGITANS...
i experienced...
the most unbelievable due of:
RES VANUS... the empty thing...
no more thinking than if i were dead...
tightrope spectacular...
it would seem that nothing bothered me...
there were no petty social rubrics to be cited
or be bungled into: the sire of sight
before me: and a bending crux knee...

but there came a time when
going to a barber was... so much more than
going to a brothel...
of course: you can't appreciate the one
without the other in making the statement that...
the latter overpowers the former...
nothing of my grew that would have
to be trimmed and tended to...
i wasn't magically circumcised in
a brothel via oral *** to allow me to
enjoy *** more...
and since i can't be circumcised:
this caduceus of protruding veins entwining...
and since ******* is...
at best the closest i come to satisfaction...
and all else is: pretending and...
ensuring the other party is satisfied...

no wonder i would allow myself to showcase
all the possibilities...
before having to retract and state...
petting a cat... getting a haircut and having
my beard trimmed...
but since i can trim my beard...
and if i need a haircut...
i'll be satisfied with the Auschwitz
syphilis crew-cut...
so be it...

barbershop... how can these men sit
and stare at themselves...
it's different when you're doing it solo...
but i rather see the vampire
and nothing before the mirror otherwise...
i would love to see myself: "myself"
on the canvas: 'fairest of them all'
in the snow-white fable mirror...
otherwise there's me looking more
like a ******* over-inflated
pupernickle... pumpernickle that uses yeast...
and this bloated ****-head's face...

but also this barber: this harlequin...
i wouldn't mind sitting before a mirror
in a barber shop... if i could also see
this barber-harlequin doing his aesthetic trimming
on an empty space...
so i tended to close my eyes...
while in the brothel my eyes were also open...
this whole: milan kundera debate
about those who **** with their eyes
open and those who **** with their eyes closed...

still... going to a barber was more
than getting a *******...
she... and i just imagined getting
indigestion from binging on gulping down
raw oysters...
and how many oysters would it take
for her **** to be turned into the taj mahal...

come to think of it...
what is best taken from this spew of words?
no rhyme, no meter...
well... there's that umbrella spontaneity...
isn't there?! that ought to be kept...
in spirit of the times when too much
is made predictable...
when predictabilty is certainly least
warranted...

will there be: the evil of my ways?
oh sure sure... walk into a brothel...
see the Nazgûl waiting in the ante-chamber...
and you ask one of them: which one of you?
and this other replies: that is against the rules...
you have to chose...
******* strapped on... then pulled back...
imitation ***** and: evidently
******* ******* is a bit like ****** *******
in movies...
and you do...
but in the back of your mind...
you have: Solomon and his prayer being answered...
his "wisdom"...
and of course the harem...
and then you have David...
prayer or no prayer... sure-as-**** no prayer
when it came to killing Goliath...
and... David's harem of psalms!

but i'm pretty sure that circumcision should
be... something requiring a man's
permission... baptism shma-anabaptism...
abracadabra-water trickle blah blah *******...
that i can survive...

there's still this 15th century german music to mind!
which goes outside of current,
appreciation of escapist music...
shawshank redemption: mozart...
or jazzy jazzy bleu ooh blue...
there's medieval folk...
there's old christian music that's outside of...
and in the measure of retaining:
the Cramp... the Krampfmuschi...
not this ******* coral singing...
no wonder i'm always depressed...
i'm always depressed when they start to coral...
what sort of achievement is merely being born?!
oh... right... when you have an a posteriori
light ahead of you...
when you don't commit suicide...
instead you decide: nothing more fitting
than a public spectacle...
i will not hang myself in "private"...
i will make sure that my psychological agony
of those around that have instigated it...
will need a spectacle!

carol singing out of my own ***...
he might have survived... i don't doubt it...
in all the icons...
the nails were nailed...
not at the wrists...
not in the tarsus talus region...
if they nailed him by the wrists?
and the tarsus talus (leg foot wrist circa)...
oh yeah! he'd be walking! third day!
but if you have a hole in your:
just above the metacarbal digits?
and how modern t.v. portrays crucifixion?
that... he wouldn't be hanging by nails alone...
that his arms would also be tied with
rope?!
what's next ******* spectacular was
to be awaited?!

whatever the clues:
i have a night to catch...
a night that's deserving of my sleep...
and tomorrow...
will be: tomorrow.
The Unspoken Nov 2014
Dear Ex,

Been figuring how to write this letter to you.
To you Carol for Helping me be independent
To you Beatrice for making my Trust Grow
To you Tash for teaching me good ***
To you Carol for teaching me that crying is okay
To you Olive for teaching me hangover remedies that actually worked
And To you Beth, for making me stronger than ever.

Its strange sometimes, I sit and reflect
of how it would be if  I hadn't been in your lives as a lover, then.

Would some chunks in my life be missing because I wouldn't have learnt any lessons?

Would I be a Better Lover?
Would I still be innocent because I wouldn't know a painful heartbreak and how it felt to really want to revenge and hold on to Anger?
Would I still be a ******?

The fights, built me.
The tours, made me exposed to races,tribes,religions all specrums of life.
The laughs extended my life
The friendship made me love.

Yes, there was pain
there were tears
Curses
But all these, were corners of the road that I journey to, to perfection someday.

You taught me how different love was.
It can't be defined in a single word.
ha ha, I remember, to one of you, foot massages  and a shower together every night meant I Love you
For the other, saying it after every hour meant I Love you.
Its different.
IT IS BEAUTIFUL.

This is a note of gratitude.
Saying THANK YOU, for making me a better Lover.
THANK YOU for making me a better Mother.
THANK YOU for making me The BEST Best Friend
THANK YOU for now, Making me THE BEST WIFE.

I Am Happy.
And unlike a large number that would hate Ex's
and curse
and regret,

I choose the Route of Gratitude,
coz this far,
I will say
You Molded me
To the better person I am now.

I Respect You.

©TheUnspoken
I don't know how many of my ex's will read this, but yeah, I mean every word.
Jonah Lavigne Feb 2014
If I die
Who would miss me
Mom?
No she doesn't trust me
Dad?
Jordan was always the favorite
Tash?
He always hated me
Allie?
She always did to
Jordan?
He probably would
Samantha?
I hope she would
All these people
All my friends
My family
All have
At least one thing
Against me
But who
Would miss me
A piece of southern trash
Good for nothing
Good at nothing
Samantha deserves someone better
So does destine
I'm not good enough
I never was
I never will be
I was a fool to think I was
Nobody would miss me
I'm sorry
To everyone
I've hurt you all
And now I see it
And I'm sickened by myself
I love Samantha and Destine
But I'm not good enough
So if I did die
Who would miss me?
I feel this way sometimes. Not all the time. But sometimes I do.
Susan O'Reilly Apr 2013
Ach, a delicah constitution, have I

me auld bones are getting wearier

if somebody sneezes I have a cowld

its getting worser the more I get older

I can’t get a dacent man

but I’m looking as hard as I can

I’ve got a little piece of land

so for a dowry he’d be grand

See, since I buried my first two

it’s not easy to get a beau

and these day’s I’m not such a pretty view

I can be a bit contrary

and my moods oft vary

but unlike my sister Mary

I haven’t got a tash long and hairy

I don’t need any of that *** stuff

I can tell ya that for nuttin

Its help around the farm I’m huntin

I can make a dacent cup-o-tay

and I’m handy at baling the hay

so if your up for a bit of honest toil

and your humour don’t make me blood boil

Come marry Teresa Rafter

when I’m gone you’ll live happily ever after
Marty Mar 2018
Tonight as I lay upon my pillow of nails my heart falls into a thousand galaxies. The pain that love has tattooed upon my heart has become more than my shoulders can carry. Thousands of stars have been plastered upon my skies with the words that each of you skatter to the wind. The beauty that each of you my friends share with rhyme and love is beyond that of imagination. My only regret as the time winds down is that of not reading more of each your poems of eloquence. You have bestowed so many pictures to my heart and to my soul. These are images that will bless me with fiery, graceful pictures of elegance until the ends of time. What no one has gathered with these words of my heart is that it isn't poetry. These are and have been nothing more than my legacy. My twisted rhymes and challenges to the hearts brain have been little more than an explanation to those that stay upon the path. My family, I have blessed with letters written with tears and shaky hands. Though some of the words may have been blurred with pain that splattered upon those pages, what was not wiped away should help them understand it wasn't greed or a lack of love. It wasn't against God nor did I lose faith. There comes a day when the rock in the sling can no longer slay the beast. It is then that that the giant and his sword of agony pierces the angels wings. The day has approached for the anniversary that I placed a promise upon the second finger from the right. My final poem will not be upon a page, but it shall be upon the stone that I sat my future and I gave my heart. Upon the mountains dust shall I leave the letters. It is upon each of your sights that I leave my second legacy. For my wonderful friend I found a star tonight. It was the brightest in the sky. I called that star, KimStar as I promised. If you shall look for the brightest star that is the star that I fell upon my knees and begged God to touch your body and heal your soul. You shall have my poem by my mornings light and I will make it shine. Tash oh Tash your heart your heart. No bigger blessing has God bestowed upon us miserable excuses for life. You are truly Gods Angel. You should know a creep I'm not. Tonight your beautiful voice shall I hear as the angels hug me tight and carry me past the stars. Wanmin, I can't even find a place to start. The beauty that you have delivered into a darkened soul have been so gracious. Thank you for the kind words that melted my heart and gave light to my darkness. Oh my God Gregory, tonight you have brought the tears to my eyes that washed the pain from my heart. I had no idea I touched you when you needed it. Be not deceived my friend. It wasn't you that has been blessed. It is I that have been touched and blessed just by being in your presence even for a moment. Your words are genius. Actually they should not be called genius, you deserve more credit than that. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Free mind. I have not finished the poem that we started together, but I shall try to, before……. I am ashamed that my words could never match the words that your heart placed upon our poem. Your friendship….. I can't express my gratitude any more than to say. Wow, you are all heart and your soul is an old soul that is perfection. She writes, oh does she ever write. If her poetry you havent over indulged upon yet, grab your fork and spoon and prepare for a meal that will satisfy your soul to the depths of eternity. I meant every word I said. Your eyes tell the story that your words describe. Put those words upon the page my friend and bless me with one final eternity in your words, but be kind. A poet makes or breaks those that encounter their pen. My friends as I close my eyes and beg God for no mornings light grieve not for life is only what we make it and when the winds blow all that is left is the hopes that you touched a poets heart. One last and final request. Leave something upon my page for those that shall read it after me. Thank you my friends. It is each of you that I think of tonight. Farwwell
It's been a year since you left
and I still miss you a lot.
I'll always miss how much
fun we had together.
I'll miss you forgetting me
my name since I look like mom.
How you would have cartoons
playing in your room.
I know that it was due to your
memory problem.
But it was still good 'cause it
let me know that it wasn't a bad thing.
But I'll never say on here what I watch
when I'm in my room.
That's for my family to know.
But I will say that you watched some
cartoons that I've loved since I was 5.
Thanks for filling me with happy
memories and funny moments.
For saying things that made me both
confused and laugh at the same time.
Thanks for always being supportive
of me and my choices.
Thanks for doing what you were
supposed to when I asked you too.
Thanks for being there when I hurt
my knee.
Even though, there was nothing
that Obama could've done to help lol
Thanks for asking me to sing outside
your door and telling me that it was
wonderful.
And, you're right, Oma.
I'll never know how wonderful it was.
I never think that I have a good voice or
think that I can sing.
But it's nice to know that you loved me
and my voice.
Sorry I sang it in the hallway but my
shyness got the best of me.
But thanks for being patient and
listening to my songs.
You were a real inspiration to me and
I loved every second I got to spend w/ you.
Whenever I sing and listen to Miley Cyrus'
song, "I Miss You" I think of you.
I just wanted you to know how much I miss
and love you.
And I know that I'll be able to see you when
the time comes.
But until then, please keep watching me
from up above.
And I've never said this to anyone before.
But, I consider you and PaPou to be my
guardian angels.
I miss you and love you everyday.

Your great granddaughter,
Tash or (atleast once a day)
Manda <3 :)

RIP Oma
I wrote this for my Great Grandma, who I called Oma because I'm either part or a bit German. And that's the only word I know in German so don't ask me how to say anything lol Anyway, I love her and miss her everyday.

— The End —