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Iz May 2019
I knew what I was getting into
My mom knew too
She didn’t ask if I was willing to go
just assumed
So here I am again
The ER room
What did I expect
A welcome home
I saw her face
She was fine
Her wrists were sealed unlike mine
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
.                         ****** mantis...
  and playing
the heavy-tow
pixel
scrap of a PS1 console...
metal-gear solid...
how much is a **** fetish?
what, with songs
like bunkertor sieben...
me? i enjoy the fringes...
makes me aware of
possessing eyebrow,
before i counter the urban
argument of switching
to zeppelin ****-storming
the whole dictrum....
you can actually
pick out that i'm quiet
"desperate"
       succumbing
to the tongue of "Odin",
i.e.: i've exhauasted the
English, the Latin,
     i'm just teased by
the use of German....
       i was up in arms with
the whole atomic man...
to a point...
where...
  grammar was
infringed...
then i was like...
      nein, niet. nie
plain and ******* simple
no!
    the dead are not worth
any take on reasoning
to concern ourselves with
a conversation...
           there's a recurrence
to succumb to...
a mind hidden beneath
the white tinge...
         i seem to tend to
"forget"...
i know why the British
decided to leave the European
Union...
  eastern-European
migrants...
                   i know the ****
chicken shop will open
as usual...
     my ethnicity became a problem
when they were
the more capitalistic
offenders
    of the pro workforce...
that's how capitalism works:

the more
you're benign efficiency...
the more...
well...
important as many
pakistani immigrants...
do i even look
like i ******* care?

i'm here,
i'm not going anywhere...
so now i'm your welcoming
hands of a
shamima begum
being invited back
into the circus?
this isn't a nation,
it's a circus...
    
but i do remember england,
circa 1997...
    i was deemed illegal
back then...
                i was sent home
packing...
   able enough
to punch a brick wall
from what appears
the jews do, everyday,
meat-heading silent
the hakotel
with a stipend for
a moshpit
                   attempt
                 of analysis...

look at me "talk" my bit...
every time i land
back in Warsaw
i'm hit with a whiff
of nausea from
a the effects of a homogenous
society,
every time i land back
in England,
i also tend to find
a new Norman, normal...
of a society left to be
experienced via
a norm of...
                      first come,
fist served (no, there's no
R in that sentiment)...
    post-colonialism...
i'm left, riddled with the Eire...
and the Picts...
           but there's still
a part of me that says:
enough of the Anglican-Zunge...
let us return to the genesis,
and tame some deutsche...
  i'm a realist in a *******
delusional society...
        it's probably akin
to watching the partition
of the polish-lithuanian
commonwealth...
   the crux-zenith
of the post-colonial nationhood...
back "home"...
i'm not at "home"...
the only people i talk to
are either old,
or retired...
  back in England?
  whatever "England" is
these days?
      me, you, clueless...
      i speak the tongue well enough
to comply to economic migration
of a chamaleon's misnomer
for an ability to adapt...
but? that's just it...
if i adapt,
and i am simultaneously
unable to provide
the prickly thorn assertion
of copper...
but... merely: simili cutis?
     oh... FAIL...
           i worship this tongue like
a deity...
because i found the french
tongue begging...
    diacritical markers:
my idiosyncrasy....
        
  the reason why i'm teasing
lessons in german?
          of the liberal sons...
i came to find the strict
fathers...
                      and i know
that the fathers are the harangue
aloft levitating halos of
a permanence
with an attitude ascribed
       to excessive pride...

such a sight to behold,
though...
               a once framed opulance...
become so riddle-infested
by time,
                 and all manner
of the negation of ease
(dis)
               having no better
origin, other than in...
counter to the semitic strict
obligation of keeping
the phonetic skeleton...
to the letter...
vowel (female) **
  consonant (male) YX...

   allowing its free citizens
the status of ronin...
and the "reinvention"
of the hieroglyphs of the emoji...
:)...
              
       rule number one...
don't think that, just because,
you allowed people to attain
the status of literacy...
they would remain literate
to an orthodox, standard,
and would not deviate...
      disinhibit themselves
into a the use of a degenerate
phonetic encoding "language",
akin to the emoji hieroglyph.

you were wrong,
i wasn't even born
to predate the current problem
with "said", words.
#er
Phi Kenzie Oct 2018
Observable words
turning in circles
perfectly working
affirmed in impermanence

Serpents within swirls
swerve in the verve
curvature burned irksome
turbidity skinned earnest

Journal pearls quirked
turpentine turbulence
since worries serve nervousness
the cure in spurts of churlishness
Delia Darling Sep 2018
She's going to make it
Lost a lot of blood...
****!
High alcohol level
Ten minutes away
She's okay, she's okay
Losing her fast
She's gonna make it!
————————————
My head is reeling
Dear god, the world is on it's back
Please,
Stop panicking— it's only blood
No, I don't want an IV
It's okay, I'm okay
Don't give me an IV
Don't touch me, I said no!
agh!


Fears digress to slurred vocabulary
Over and over
"Am I broke? Am I broke now?"
Yah i don't like IVs...
Lauren Christine Oct 2017
theres a woman
at least i think a woman
who shuffles feet close to the floor
one boot crunched
her heel isn't where it should be in her shoe
but she doesn't seem to notice or care
horizontal striped shirt and loose blue jeans
spiked blond hair
her eyes sag opposite her hair
exaggerating the effect

theres a man in a wheelchair
i've never seen thinner shins under thick body
he looks smaller than he is
perhaps an optical illusion
he has glasses thin framed and his belly a perfect sphere
mounted on his lap.
he calls to the attendant
all he needs is to be pushed out to the parking lot
his ride is here but he can't move his own body

there's an old woman named patty
she leans on a pink and purple cane
the pattern rubbed down to the metal where
her hand always clutches the curve
she has high blood sugar
she didnt want to come
but the attendants at the nursing home made her
and she had just been bragging about how long it had been
since her last ER visit.
She had to call her son roland to drive her here

theres a son named roland
we made eye contact as soon as he came in and he is kind
he holds eye contact in that way that people do when
they feel responsible for a situation
and need to connect with another human.
he got his mother water with ice,
and she said she didnt need ice-
-like it was a luxury, not an inconvenience

There was a woman crying
i think her loved one was burned somehow
2nd degree, did i hear? on the face?
her family comes and she cries and hugs
and her father tries to tell her she should go home
she's not going home
theres no way that woman is going home
she calls people and coordinates with family and friends
and you can feel the panic radiating from her

there are two teen girls who sit in the low chairs
i've never seen two people look more tired or
drained
eyes red and heavy
sweat pants and socks in sandals
messy ponytail and bun
and they don't speak to each other
they just sit
and stare at the ground
seemingly endlessly.



i bet they are all still there except the man with the spherical belly and the thin shins.
i suppose none of us make it out of this life alive
its just that sometimes i forget
how many talk with death before they meet him
sometimes i forget how their families weep
for that conversation
i forget that emergency rooms even exist.
#er
Elkhan Asgarov Sep 2017
I sit, I glare and patiently wait,
I’m angry and tense, I warn you, mate!
Back off! Beware! Don’t push your fate,
One more step, and it will be late!

I don’t fancy blocking yer road,
No, just protecting my abode.
Walk your way now, I’ll walk mine,
Respect my fences and you’ll be fine!
MindsPalace Mar 2017
It wasn't that bad, that trip to the ER,
And my sickness didn't leave a physical scar,
But I must admit I got carried away
While making that soup one fine winter day.
See, my friend went and dared me to make the stuff,
And to this day it could've been a bluff,
But when I am dared, it's a serious matter,
So I started to whip up a little bit of batter.
Right into the fridge, my hands were busy,
Making that soup really got me dizzy.
A fish head, salsa, old dried beans,
Mustard, spinach, and coffee creams.
That glop must have boiled for hours and hours,
And that kitchen, I swear, it needed a shower.
At any rate, I don't yet feel regret,
But I'll tell you right now, the key word is yet,
Because I still have a big medical issue,
And on top of that, no social life, too,
But the occasional heart attack won't make me droop,
Because I loved making and eating that soup.
After a few days in bed
And finally reaching help
Upon hearing the news
I've decided that this is how it will be

This is my life
Unable to talk
Unable to move
I am to be worthless

But fate, it seems,
would have something very different to say on the matter
Because fate stepped in,
in the form of a Father.

My family was sad, but my dad knew what i needed
He found an orange, he knew we could beat it
He would hit me with the orange
Trying to **** me off

Telling me to catch it
In my head i would scoff
He said "Use your right hand"
I though he was a bit off

Angrily I worked
Just to get him to stop
Until finally one day
The orange had been caught

-Brian Patrick O'Connor SR.-
Thanks to Patrick D. O'Connor SR. for saving this mans life.
there is more to come. we are fare from over.
I feel fine, I feel normal.
Then, I feel numb and weak.
I feel panic and confusion
Sleeping alone in my bed for three days
Unable to process life, unable to stay awake
Fighting to even gather my thoughts.

Knowing I need help but not knowing how to get it.
I have forgotten "911"
I have forgotten my brother and my friends.
I have forgotten how to use a phone.
I try to drink water, but that falls out of my mouth
I can barely move myself around the house.

Then a knock at the door.
My friend! I know I should know him.
He knows me, but I don't know him.
He asks me how I am
My reply is only a moan and random sounds.

He carries me to my truck
He carries me to the ER
I am only 19, who would have ever thought.
The doctor comes in and simply tells me
I have had a stroke.

What is a man to do?

-Brian Patrick O'Connor SR-
True Story
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