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Jing Xi Lau Nov 2018
They print their lives on a price tag,
Those big fat numbers,
All they do is brag.
My daughter’s a neurosurgeon,
Graduated from Johns Hopkins,
Saving lives by the hundreds.
My son a number-crunching accountant,
A career that keeps his wallet thick,
And his pockets filled.

They wonder what I do,
I tell them I work with words.
They gasp,
Eyes widen.

I tell them that,
I can count the spaces between adjacent letters in a word,
String words together to build a sentence,
Layer each sentence above another like bricks,
Place a single powerful mark of punctuation in between,
The glue that holds the bricks intact and forms a wall.
A wall of stanzas,
Connected by commas and semicolons.
A wall of paragraphs,
Big enough to block numbers out.

Because words fill souls while numbers fill pockets.
Words are immeasurable.

Dylan May 2019
The buzz, a cacophony;
unwanted recipients press me like a cup of juice.
The swarm.
They swarm to simple sugars,
As if butterflies. A word could mean
the world in this chaos.
A word so desired, even I can't be sarcastic.
Our thoughts; effervescent, as if a cup of juice, forgotten;
More adjacent than I'm comfortable admitting.
Thoughts sitting at a busy bar.
trf Nov 2018
you could never take a compliment
they're buried with the rest of 'em

my mind is prone to atrophy
rewind your body next to me

no lies in our comfort zone
take this time turn off the phone

we are not an accident
don't be so incredulous

  it's getting dimmer, swimming in a shoal...
  dinner bells resound like white fog around a light pole...

heaven cannot face us
not to be complacent

devil wears my shoulder
your angel is adjacent

seven years of chances
still drowning in a basement

you could never take a compliment
they're buried with the rest of 'em
mariadt Aug 2019
I have consistently felt a fraud in describing myself as 'determined', or 'driven'. Not due to any quarrel with my faith of ability or self-esteem; myself and my worth quite frankly stand side by side, in quietly ferocious agreement of what I can and will achieve. But, for the days that I find myself debilitated by this intruder, inhibition, I seem to find it much easier to succumb to a detour I have been prudently avoiding for the sake of progress. It is these days I cling onto during my most self-critical moments. As this invasive oblivion washes over me, I cannot fathom desire or purpose in anything of passing. The built up flecks of dust that quiver in the dim gap of the curtains adjacent to my bed make me sneeze, and act as an unbearable physical reminder of the overwhelming force that has seized any means of motivation. I bathe myself in a self-pitying despair, noticing my reflection in the crisis act of a drama, then turning off the TV before I can take heed of any resolution. Memory infatuates itself with devastation and regards love as a courteous aftermath of guilt. Then comes this hurtling, unapologetic force of liberation; a rush of self-destruction or anger, it doesn't matter, it is energy and it is mine. It's the only emotion I have experienced so far in my life akin to electricity. Poets write about how being loved by another is electric, a wave of newness whenever their skin brushes against yours, becoming real and sincere as it travels through your nervous system and synchronises the flow within your veins to their power source. That is until this surge of hunger rises in my throat, begging for an action. Passivity sinks deep, I come to terms that it will reignite, but for now I find myself enamoured with a need to create; to create beauty in my surroundings. This is the drive and determination I had inadvertently deprived myself of; steered by passion and leaving no trail, because there does not have to be material evidence for progress. It may falter into a wandering delirium, but I cannot describe to you the beauty seeped in knowledge of return.
Dylan May 2019
Words expeditious, forward, plain.
Intently I contemplate words unheard by even you, the speaker. You, the playwright. You, your only concern.
My lips move, as if a part of your play.
My thoughts, seemingly adjacent to yours capture fleeting moments of your attention, elusive as it is.
You, so focused. You, so certain.
I feel loneliest here, with my thoughts, the unseen appendage;
Thoughts, as a phantom limb.
Listening to someone on stimulants.
guy scutellaro Aug 2019
(meeting Snowflake)

The pup sits up and Jack caresses her neck but much to the huge pup's chagrin the man stands up and then walks away.

Jack has his hand on the door about to go into the bar. The white pup issues an interrogatory, " Woof?"

The rain turns to snow.

The man's eyes grow bright and he smiles. Softly, he whispers, "Man you're the biggest, whitest, what the hell are you anyway?"

Jack shivers. His smile fading, the night jumps back into his eyes.

Snowflake raises her head, chuffs once, twice.

The man is gone.

The room would have been a cold, dark place except for the bodies who sit on stools or stand on the ***** floor provide heat. The cigarette smoke is burning his eyes. Jack looks down the length of the bar to the boarded shut fireplace and although the faces are in shadow, he knows them all.

The old man who always sits at the second bar stool from the dart board is sitting at the second bar stool. His fist clenched tightly around the beer mug, he stares at his own reflection in the mirror. The aging barmaid, who often weeps with her apartment window open on a hot summer night or a cold winter evening, is talking to a young man playing darts. She is going to slip her arm around his bicep at any moment.

"Yeah," Jack smiles, "there she goes."

He knows where the regulars sit night after night clutching the bar with desperation, the wooden rail is worn smooth.

In the mirror that runs the length of the bar Jack can see himself quite clearly. Brown hair and brown eyes. Just an ordinary twenty nine year old man. "Old Fred is right," "he exclaims to himself, "if you stare at shadows long enough, they stare back." Jack smiles and the red head returns his smile instinctively crossing her long legs that protrude from beneath her too short skirt.

The bartender recognizes the man smiling at the red head.

"Well, Jack Delleto, Dell, I heard you were dead." The six foot, two hundred pound bartender tells him as Delleto is walking over to the bar.

"Who told you that?"

"George, while he was swingin from the wagon wheel lamp."

"George, I heard HE was dead."

The bartender reaches over the bar resting the palms of his big hands on the edge of the bar and flashes a smile of white, uneven teeth. "Where the hell have you been?" O'Malley extends his hand. They shake hands.

Dell looks up at the Irishman. Then Delleto says, " I've been at Harry's Bar in Venice drinking ****** Mary's with Elvis and Ernest."

Bob O'Malley grins. Bob puts two shot glasses on the bar and reaches underneath the bar to grab a bottle of whiskey. After filling the glasses with Wild Turkey, he hands one to Dell and takes one for himself. They touch glasses and throw down the shots.

"Gobble, Gobble," O'Malley smiles.

Cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and lottery tickets litter the linoleum floor. Jack grabs a bottle of beer off the bar and crosses the specter of unfulfilled wishes. In the adjacent room he sits at a table next to the pinball machine to watch a disfigured man with an anorexic women shoot pool. Sometimes Jack listens to them talk, whisper, or laugh. Sometimes he just stares at the wall.

"We have a winner," the pinball machine announces, "Come ride the Ferris Wheel."
Third Eye Candy Jun 2018
The mug stains leapfrog a linoleum asphalt countertop, sunbathing in the breakfast nook.
A magazine proofreads a hole in a bagel. Scanning for clues to the whereabouts
Of a Jewish heart. Beads of Oolong tea archipelago from a resting kettle
All the way to the 'good ' China. A cup on a pearl, laying flat… ear to the ground.
Listening to the stories only Formica can tell. Deciphering the steam
Rising from a steep. Curling whiskers into omens, embroidered upon a shaft of light
Heaven sent. Postage dew. Gilding quaint luxuries, tucked in a cozy roost
Smelling of oak musk and slow roasted dreams, evaporating before memory may lay claim
To the riddles of Morpheus. There’s an aire of Return.  
It molts in the bacon fats hovering in the strata unique to kitchen islands lousy with active volcanoes that shuffle in stocking feet and terry cloth bathrobes. Restless and foggy minded.
Looking for the keys. And...
Chewing a thumbnail. Staring out the window. Where there used to be a car in the driveway. But the officer flagged a taxi. Explains the migraine, like a Vulcan; stoically flipping switches in a fuse box wired to a vague recollection of a soiree.
All the while holding a pitchfork and today's horoscope.
For irony and street cred.

{ But out of cream cheese. }

Concurrently... This part of the house still has the rustic naivete of a celibate beatnik picking teeth with a signature pen presenting an Hawaiian girl with a vanishing skirt; blinking in and out of Vaud-villainy, like Erwin Schrödinger’s Cat. A kind of hole in a barge with an ornate cubby; loitering with sugar cubes and a bendy plastic fern.
Like the foyer to a room, still under construction.
      A busy little metaphor, lounging around the east wing of a humble abode… like news clippings in a mason jar… it’s superfluous handle threading a ceramic eye.
Like a stainless steel joke under a refrigerator magnet, pinned to a plate in your forehead. As any lamp-shade with ambition.  
      Playing to a rough Cloud, hung over an ashtray; that has seen Better Days - envy the baroque occlusion of monotony and routine, merging a hangover - into morning traffic. Replete with modest gains.
And Horizons that stab bleary eyes that would know a gypsy
By the weight of her purse…
     When the day begins, it gains a foothold by the spine of an overdue book, reclining adjacent runcible spoons and antique kitche. As a bathroom light squeaks between a door and a frame.
As ancillary and precise as a beacon for a blindfold.

Like turpentine palming a brick. And Wagner.
Liam B Mar 2018
As ships pass in the night
I still tremble upon your vision
morning and night your beauty never escapes
your smile melts me as a cutting torch renders the steel
and the warm rush fills the void

My soul pants for thee,
for you, O thief of my heart
my heart that waged a secret war within my chest
waving the white flag of surrender
you have won for I cannot fight it

The battle was as if
sending smoke signals from adjacent hilltops
a wordless struggle trying to search
finding two hearts that beat as one

As in the spoils of war
I am your secret trophy
if just only in your heart
where I hope you keep me

For my life is forever changed
just knowing you exist
a beautiful dream
I shall never forget.
J J Aug 2019
Along the grass,beneath the sky
The draconic sun vitrified
The lover figurines.
Flattening them
Adjacent to the surface,
Skin blent in crackly tessellation,
Deforming to fit the sphere,adhering to it's
Wondrous silence.
Frail limbs minute,heart's heavy as whole islands.

Is it not love embodied to lay defined as an image?
To be held as shatterless glass,reflecting it's deity's melting
In progress, 'neath the star that impelled a shelter,
The star that paved their meeting,that overlooked
Their life and death in a predetermined stasis,
The divinity that shimmered underfoot at all times,
The star that held all places of the earth in one.

The figurine lovers, faceless mannikinis
Sentenced to worship forever without a choice,
For prior love, for prior sins,
It matters not--they rot and twist as the Sun's play-dice.
~Bardic magistry
Woven unto
Sage & Seeress
Whose vision
The Temporal Expanse.

The Crowned of Epistemology
Reigns sovereign
Unfurled upon the Seven Seas,
The Firmaments,
And The Gaian Mother
Aeonic & venerable:

Dedicated to the
Sagacious, sapient, source of sonority;
Mine Matriarch Mavenette
Wielding wisdom
Pristine, amidst
The Chaos of Chthonic,
At times, adjacent,

Valhalla of the once Valiant Soul
Twas I
The Wound-Bearer;
Convalescing in Light
Of the Simulacrum of the Sun,
Greater Eden arrives:

Through lore the soul is lifted unto heights once denied;
The onerous edicts of Gravity begotten to be defied.
We peregrinate this plane searching for Lovelit Life;
We depart in ascendency beckoned by the rapture of the Divine.

No soul knows all, yet by lore, we come to rise, rise
In our excellency sired by the Empyrean Sublime.
By the exhalation of our Exodus we ne’er know how to fly,
Yet the Wings of Phantasmagoria are bestowed upon the Wise.

Let reverie propel you eternally into the Baptistery of the Sun,
for His love is infinite, His light needs ne’er be won.
The Ages are ephemeral & the Zeitgeist like Winds of Time:
Yet the Sciential is forever & wisdom transcends time.

Know that there is more than seen with the eyes;
In this boundless cosmos, precepts are meant to be defied:
Make history therefore of thine bygone days,
For the unborn waxeth thine present: a time-transcending sage.

O, She is the Millennial Maven
Transcending Space & Time
Rising through the Exosphere; Excelling Ether
into Mind’s Fire.

O, She is the Sage of Dreamscapes, Summoning
Luminaries unto Gaia:
That the Wisdom of the Ancients
Illuminate Orbis Terrae.

O, the Impossible is Possible,
Through Amazonians such as thee,
Waging Warfare through Wisdom
That her Clansman might live free.

O, Rapture in a Zephyr
(Aromatic & Fragrant Winds)
She harnesses the Tempest of Futility, that
Ineffable splendor is borne in stead.

O, the Tapestry of Eternity unfolds
(Through the hands of thee)
For through thine counsel are souls made stalwart,
In the Visage of Shadows made to see.

O, been hazed, been dazed
Mine entity hath been flayed,
Until incarnadine raiment arrayed
And through Nox & Somnus, mine heartsease is betrayed.

Lo!  Yet as a wraith in pining
For the Land of Living & Immortal Truth,
O, the Priestess of the Sacrality of Sapience
Doth forge a revenant anew.

O, continue upon thine Pilgrimage
For thine spirit, it gleams:
Upon the Feuillemorte Leaves of Autumn
The Sacred Lotus, impregnable, breathes.

The Hiemal Sun glistens brighter
As discernment and time wax Sovereign Reign; knowledge is
The Diadem of The Epistemic Empress:
  The Monarchy of your claim.

May Splendor and Mercy
Be promised unto thee,
May you promenade life’s trek in credence
That the Wings of Manumission make thee truly free.

If by chance you findeth enfettered
Your soul through sentiments strewn
Wonder upon the liberation
You’ve woven into mind’s renewed.

O, the Soul shall reapeth,
That which it sows,
You’ve harvested the Seeds of Liberty,
Let the Diadem of thine Ascendency thus be made to grow.
May the sacraments
She confers,
Alight upon
Own soul,
May She
in the Light of The Empyrean One

~Happy Holidays Beloved Ones.~

"Therefore, become imitators of God, as beloved children"

-Ephesians 5:1
JDL Nov 2018
Our lives are like ocean waves, born of a celestial entity among a diversified sea of possibilities. Direction and intensity set at birth with a future blurred by the endless horizon

Some waves wander alone, losing momentum as they are gradually ushered down by Earth’s gravitational pull before tragically coming to a rest among the blue abyss, destination never realized

Others are born of the unseen violence and upheaval between tectonic plates battling for dominion over the volatile landscape deep beneath the surface. Knowing no other way, they perpetuate the violence that created them, destroying and consuming everything in their path

Yet some join together, superimposed into a harmonious union that multiplies their strength and propels them forward until it’s waters gently meet the shore in an actualizing marriage of journey and destiny

Storms often boil up out of nowhere, dismantling adjacent waves. While a select few resist the onslaught, instead gaining strength and vitality. Like a conductor bringing a symphony to crescendo, the roil pushes these waves further than others in pursuit of their destination

This dynamic tapestry of new beginnings and violent ends blend together as one, eroding and shaping the land around them as they work out their daily squabbles. Heads barely above water, they continue onward towards the horizon blatantly disregarding a future for which they create
Lou Feb 2019
                          I was
                             to do
                       ­        only

One month in

I sent January flowers on the third day
without even telling him.
He needed it after that last week.

White roses.
To creep out the dead
and question the living stuck inches deep under water.

Thursdays were mine.
Everyone of them,

I fried colons in grease and became an adult
when I was thrilled to be greeted by the polished grill
adjacent to its elder and a former twin.

I became closer to gambling and God.
Or Mammon?
I am all of theirs at this time
and boy,
does it literally say I am not to love both.
Or all.

Also; January you child.

I know you were angry when you had to leave.
Three days cooped wasn't going to pluck a Buffalo.
All of those times you got away with building walls for fists.
Just target practice and misses every time.

Cut yourself shaving and cry for a month.
I don't shame you,
this is your voice,
only you spoke this long while
I let you ignore the roads of the west side for generations
and complain from the heated indoors of mine.
Staring at a bus stop

I'm singing already with her, February.

I given you addictions both grand and small.

One month of January,
thirty-one says and three now, February.
I Stand still; in frame of a calendar,
Reflecting deadlines on my face.
Dark circles around my eyes and dates.

It is due to be the fourth before I know it.

Twenty-five opportunities reside in secret paths.

I can't find possibility knowing her name other than, February.

Soon March.
My life and thoughts in Jan'19
Donall Dempsey Jan 2019

first the city
ate an adjacent town then

put out a suburb
like a great paw

a factory

devoured a well known
beauty spot

that was soon
forgotten as such

ate a field and
ate another field

the city's hunger
fed by greed

sent out pylons
striding across countryside

like giant
alien beings

vomiting asphalt
so that green was as if

it had
never been

its scenic magnificence
now only available

in an out of print
1930's guide book

even its memory
dying now with old Joe Hart

who managed to make it
past the hundred mark

the town he was born in
no longer to be seen

except in sepia
or Kodachrome

a picture postcard
(3 for 2)

in the bright new


The title is supplied by one Seneca the Younger (c. 4 BC – AD 65) that well known and renowned Roman Stoic philosopher, statesman, dramatist.
guy scutellaro Oct 2018
(picks up after "you 'll produce love and dreams. jack has moved into a room above the bar.)

second to last chapter

Jack goes into the room. A place he thought he would never end up. He studies it. The light from the unshaded lamp on the nightstand casts a huge shadow of him onto the adjacent wall. There is not much to the small room, a sink with a mirror above it next to the dresser, a bed pushed against the wall, and wooden chair in front of a narrow window.

It is raining.

Jack feels apprehensive. The panic turns to anger. His anger into rage. He rushes towards the white wall, meets his shadow, and explodes with a left hook. He throws the right uppercut , the over hand right, the left hook again. He punches the wall and his knuckles bleed. He punches the wall and when his arms are useless, he begins kicking the wall.

At last exhausted, Jack collapses into the chair in front of the window. Fist size holes in the bloodstained plaster revel the bones of the building. The room has been punched and kicked without mercy. The austere room has one.

Desperately, Jack takes the yellow note pad with the pencil in the binder from the night stand, and although he tries, no words will come.

Exasperated, and with the stub of the pencil he writes, "Insomnia , the absence of all dreams." and then he smiles.

He reaches for the lamp on the night stand, finds the switch, and  turns off the light.

The  Wagon Wheel sign outside the window seems to throb to the cadence of the rock music coming from the bar downstairs. Taking the Quaalude from his shirt pocket, he swallows it and sits back in chair watching the shadows of rain bleed down the door. His thoughts come slower. The darkness around him intensifies . Jack slides toward the darkness.

                                           * **

The rain turns to snow.

With each lunging step he takes the pain throbs in his arm and shoulder socket. His raw throat aches from the great drafts of cold air he ***** through his gaping mouth and although his legs ache, he does not pause to look back. Jack must keep punching holes with his ace axe probing the snow for crevasses.

The pole of the ice axe slips effortlessly into the snow. "**** it, another one."

The mannerism you express when struggling silently are adjacent
To my adversaries
I snuggle in my comfort zone and neglect everything else.
I sense no one comprehends what's really at hand.
Be conscience is what my guides tell me.
Now I am here in my home land restarting again.
Andrew Guzaldo c Nov 2018
“I wish to seek the feeling on the banks of our enclave,
It has been a part of our procurement of happiness,
Just my words cannot repair all that is now lost,
The copula as of our time together cannot be repaired,  

My thoughts is all I now have to ascertain moments,
Those fortunate moments we shared in passion,
Bitter is the voice of calamity and sounds of anguish,
A bemoaning of once flourish will destroy ones heart,

Remorse weakens strength from within where love has left,
Cataclysm sounds nothing in the ears of those once loved,
Vacillate music of sadness has no fortitude for the heart,
Delve not the sun above until it sets away from surge,

You were the chapter that I was unable to construe,
I knew it existed then finally upon highest mountains,
Yet were always there to help walk on stormy mountains,
As days pass the nights wear on it is only harvest days,

I strife with the rationale as you grovel in my mind,
I Strife now no more I shall bow down my weary eyes,
Eyes which to all these woes thy hearts have guided,
Adjacent the agitated brine the aqueous banks beat,
Soul tethered debacles in aqueous banks of the brine,
Thus home I draw as death's long night draws afore”
By Andrew Guzaldo 11/04/2018 ©
By Andrew Guzaldo 11/04/2018 ©   #Poem#136
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
sample precursor: there are three binding directions of a chemical group (e.g. CH3) to the benzene ring - the ortho-, the meta- and the para-... but i'll ask a different question: what is copernican north what is copernican east a copernican west or a copernican west without a "flat-earth" / how else to read / navigate a 2D map going from point (a) via vector (c) to point (b) along the short-cut of the hypotenuse - which, isn't a short-cut, but the logical conclusion of walking neither the middle path nor the right path, but the logical path? we're no astronauts... we didn't see the proof... we can only entertain the "idea" of a 3D object we live on, but we're still strapped to a "flat earth" in order to navigate... endless stories of how GPS tech. fooled people off the edge of a cliff... "flat earth" is no reverse psychology ploy... i'm no ******* astronaut... i never stood left right or center on the moon to have the foggiest sense of admiration for that awe-balancing moment that leaves so many deluded in it being otherwise: first come first served, last come: what's there's to serve that last man if not merely the drudge-report of a commute? besides... trans- and cis-, why are people borrowing from chemistry and attaching gender to what is exlusive to chemical compounds? look at them... pop chemistry... cis-trans isomerism... fine, let these people have that... my new n.e.w.s. (north, east, west, south): orthography, something clearly missing in the anglophone world (no diacritical markers, i and j do not count)... ergo? orthography = east... paranormal = west... since the west is obsessed with either aliens or hush-hush military projects... now... both north and south are meta- coordinates... on the basis, on the basis of what? two words really work well to establish a foundation: from ars poetica? metaphor (borrowed from a change of mind - meta- and -phren - mind, a change of mind, all mental illnesses are changes of the mind, alternatives to alleviate the stranglehold of the commune of the greater picture known as society)... but... there's also metaphysics... which is in the interest of philosophy... how else not to explain the obvious, how else to treat both the reader / audience as the well informed genius(es) but mistreat them as would be grander genius(es) if the socratic endeavour of "pretense ignorance" was not to be established? it's a hard juggle... east is already well established in orthography, west in paranomal... literally: metaphor - a change of mind, literally metaphysics - a change of groundwork physicality of things... a rock remains a rock in either "heaven" or in "hell"... metaphysically there seems to be a direct translation... this is why i'm terrible at crosswords, this whole puzzle structure of either working from a direct definition to the word itself, some random geographical posists, some historical posits, some outdated out-of-vogue words related to specified period idiosyncracy, a tinge of the therausus... my current crossword is an interchange: meta-phor, meta-physics, meta-phot, meta-physics and on and on it goes: even with the isolated prefix of meta-, if i return to the words: as they are... would: denoting a change of thinking (state of mind) or... denoting a change of physics, i'm met with metaphysics, i.e.: a branch of philosophy that deals with the first principles... sounds like a priori physics, yet all i can fathom if i wrestle this word to its casual use: isn't it a posteriori physics?! the what comes after physics? i should think that most people understand metaphysics on an a posteriori basis rather than an a priori basis... hence the question: what happens when we die? last time i checked: death happens last... birth happens first... any question-worthiness (according to heidegger) should begin at: the beginning rather than begin at the end, in the same way that all questions should be sought in a medium of predating the dates of events, rather than with a spirit of hindsight, hindsight belongs to the "what if" of history in that dynamism of expressed time... on the canvas of an infinitely expanding space: we seem to be riddled by a very cul de sac concept / expression of time: our quill - given that ****** didn't learn from napoleon when it came to russia... perhaps finding out what copernicus found out: "we" figured: get me off this ******* celestial carousel where i can't even feel the dizzy immediate of a ferris wheel! again: i'm terrible at crosswords, sudoku? no problem... but words: if not gushing out of me, waiting like a lizard predator for a linear narrative spew? count me out... i don't play with words, i use words... i'm a wordsmith, hence the ethnic origin denote: słowianin: slav - i don't know where these west-saxon punks derived their etymology from: słowo = word... *****-liquor juice teens thought it was: oh fo' sho' smart... still: metaphor, metaphysics... metaphor... metaphysics... disgruntled with the immediate compound readied for pop use... meta-physics... the vector is the prefix... why do philosophers push metaphysics so much, but in turn rely on the crutch of metaphor? to change their mind, if metaphysics is an abstract theory with no basis in reality, then the schizoid / metaphorical mind is an abstract in an abstracted theory of the mind - which has "no" knowledge of reality, or rather: "reality" excludes such a mind from ever absorbing an expression in it... a schizophrenic can't explain the reality of a person who can solve crossword puzzles... just as someone who solves crossword puzzles with a fear of alzheimer's: who treats the fatty tissue that's the brain as a muscle... given that the cells of alzheimer's disease are killer proteins... proteins as the antithesis of white blood-cells that feed of fat tissue... after all: what else could the brain be if not fat and water? slow burner... first the sugars, then the more complex carbohydrates, then the fat: last? the proteins... the process of starvation... you want up? you want down? again: metaphysics / metaphor... ta meta ta phusika... the things after the physics... so what's with the inverted: prior things? hence people associated a life after death... hence how philosophers have to escape into the poetic realm to quickly change their minds on the definition... a change of mind is much easier than a change of what physicality entails... most spew metaphors but keep on course... after all: given the genesis of the metaphor, a metaphor is just a tool, a humble stop-off pause... born from humble poetics: it's only a literary tool, it's not some grand pillar of morality associated metaphysics, which nonetheless dictates: first principles come last and last principles come first... here's my crossword puzzle: metaphor, metaphysics, meta-alpha, meta-beta, metaphor and the meta-alpha, metaphysics and the meta-beta... etc. etc., i will not solve this crossword puzzle, even though it doesn't look like a crossword puzzle... it's a narrative crossword puzzle, i'm just looking for the sort of fixed point people associate with prime words: red, left, blue, right, up, fox, dog... words of readied vocabulary, readied vocabulary dissociated from puzzled vocabulary... i want to established a fixed permanence of the dissociated close proximity grounded in the meta- prefix of the words meta-phor and, meta-physics... i'm starting to find this impossible, given how the words have dissociated themselves from the grounding in the meta- prefix... phor alias phren (mind) and the whole gush of isolated metaphysics of beginnings: meta a priori vs. meta a posteriori - and of course: meta a- apriori... hell if i can't solve crossword puzzles: since i already have a crossword puzzle in my head... what am i to do? try writing pop?! a dog does what his master orders, a jester tells a joke his king would find amusing... i'll just treat this enclave of an audience as a bunch of people subscribed to ulterior forms of voyeurism (dissociated from pain / pleasure gratification, esp. that of a ****** nature).

.you know like in latin you had the interchangeable tongue twisters æ and œ? well... english resurrected one more... au... oh stralia... auntie; ******* hell i've been speaking this since aged ate and i still can't get my tongue into that phonetic plughole... or what's that onomatopoeia for: it really hurts? awe... nah... aw... aw... well no cute kitten about to say aww.

well it began with the usual... i wish i didn’t...
sitting in the autumnal garden
drinking coffee and eating a nicotine croissant,
watching the fog recede into nothing
while the earth showed its naked cleavage
after what seems like centuries of arcane dryness
befitting a story of an egyptian idol...
then the panic set in...
what to cook?! what to cook?!
my mother is away visiting her parents in poland,
who celebrate the feast of all saints with the usual
tackle formidable in poland:
forget the paris fashion week, forget the london fashion week...
forget the next gucci advert...
all the action happens in poland’s annual all saints’ fashion week...
through the cemetery (ahem) cat walks
(more like death on rollerblades donning a tutu
and looking fatter than size 0 models)...
because that’s when the fur coats are worn,
the make-up is heavier and everyone comes
to discuss the materialistic jealousy of a small town...
it is a small town after all...
death knocks with all the nine cat’s lives just to prove
the point...
anyway, so i’m the head chef, and in panic
i search for a recipe... i’ve only got pork on the ready
in the recognisable frozen state...
but i also have shrimps... tiger prawns...
so i look through the usual suspects... thai green curry...
ah ****! no coconut milk!
what’s it going to be? prawn korma curry
(better mild than hot i say, with all this maple syrup
and honey colours about... talk about decay),
active ingredients? chilli powder (1/2 tsp), cinnamon
(1/2 tsp), turmeric (1/2 tsp) and ground almonds (2 tbsp),
there ready... looking suntanned my gorgeous twirls of seabed manure...
enough to spare my father making himself sandwiches (i always
disguised my “dyslexia” by associations... sandy witches...
the t broke the barriers and the floods entered)...
with toasted nannies / au pairs... relatives of some sort...
then onto writing my father’s invoices:
project plaistow hospital and some housing development near
the city airport... beckton we call it... backwards and forwards
stink crowned with drinkers regurgitating on the pave...
now that is a *******... recycling centre or horse manure?
then to tesco... for the nightcap...
oddly enough tesco has become a friend of mine once more,
i divorced the turkish shop, they added 10 pence to the polish beers,
now i’m on the sedative medication of this bottle bavaria beer
and whiskey... 1 quid for the former... 10 quid for the latter -
i’ve sold my soul! never mind...
then to the beacon that’s home... it’s night... it’s spooky...
it’s essex: that non-touristy place in england people with passports
never dare to visit, shambles.
well one thing came out true... none of the above though:
you ever consider the theory of the aeroplane syndrome in writers?
you know, like with rock stars you get the full package,
you get the aeroplane and the retrieved delay of the engine mushroom,
but with poetry (which is competing with music,
philosophers just wait in that queue for the cheese, wink, whine and wrinkle)
you only get the sound... that delayed mushroom...
you see the poet but never hear him...
it’s a typical delusion i’d call parallel or even adjacent to narcissism,
you walk down the street and the closest you come
to someone recognising you is a stranger uttering out: ‘hey richard!’
‘name’s matt mate.’
‘oh... sorry.’
it’s this aeroplane syndrome theory... it’s perfectly acceptable...
you have the image but don’t have the delayed sound...
you have the delayed sound... but you only get a photograph...
you have the english national health service mental health unit crisis...
and then you have people shunning intellectualism
trying to cure people by burning / not reading philosophical books;
the day ends with drinking and reading
an article about keith richard’s antics in the sunday times’ supplement
and the thought: well i gave her a stabbing chance
at feminism... she thought the active ingredient in anti-contraception
pills was placebo... she phoned and gave birth to me...
i said abort... you’re no post-teen mum at university, you won’t be...
******* was great but i’m not that much of a match from a cosmopolitan magazine quiz
(as duly taken on my way from st. pestersburg to moscow to see
metallica play), plus there are no roofing jobs in scotland...
the scots have mountains already... there’s no point building
scratched sky skylines with mountain ranges nearby...
so even though i went to a catholic school...
i did my first redemptive act by reading about gnostic heretics...
and not getting confirmed being the second...
i would have not taken first communion... but playing the xylophone
at the nativity play was too much fun...
plus it is the only salvador dali bit of the story...
after that you have st. sebastian...
plus you see where this is going... the greeks translated
the tetragrammaton into the gospels
of st. matthew, luke, mark and john...
and the romans were duped into the legality of
things... first name, second name, confirmation name...
The Moon and Sun shared Ecliptical Longitudes the night They murdered The child.

Beneath a stelliferous empyrean,
Like Sojourners among the quiescent Twilight, Mother and child, Ventured to meet the woman’s husband, the father of the child.

She, no more than five and ten years Old,
The child, a girl, of only months,
Lay swaddled across the Woman’s
*****, tucked inside a papoose.
A rustic device carefully woven
From wool and hide, in it contained a
Priceless world.

She cooed and clucked in the frigid
Night air.
The sound penetrated the
Spectral calm and was matched only
By the maternal soothing of a muted hum.
Together, they represented the
Heathen form of the wilderness,
The Tempi Madonna among the
Silver and shadow moonbeams that
Glimmered like the dust of diamonds
Across the river’s obsidian sheen.  

Ahead, where the river narrows,
The silence stirred and was broken.
Hushed voices rose from the outer
The woman strained to listen.

(British Soldiers, she thought)

Foreign words...

        (Drunken and ravenous)

                         ...slithered from their mouths like Venom. Fear bloomed in the woman’s Chest.
Her heartbeat quickened.

        (Touched by the chill of terror)

Her eyes darted madly about the

         (Alone no longer)

Their  shadows manifested like
Smoke along the tree line.
Features blurred in the darkness.
Their gestures muted.
Like birds of
Prey, they set motionless upon their
Perch along the stony shore.

I say, a man said. Indian children are natural born swimmers,
Capable at birth of swimming great distances.

Utter foolishness, old boy, another opined.

We will need proof of this claim, my good sir, an anonymous voice Quipped from somewhere in the dark.

She let escape from her full lips
The tiniest of shrieks.
Followed immediately

(stupid girl, her mother’s voice echoed in the dark.
                             You always were too impulsive.)

Rage consumed her as
She struggled against the current.  
She tried to paddle for deeper
Water as the men broached
The black sheen of the river.

The moments passed by
In jagged surrealism.
There was no sound
When they pitched the woman
And child into the
Frigid abysm.

The splashing of water.
The gasping
For air.
The primal
Grapple and
Grunt of men.
The cold, pungent scent of
Fear and sweat mixed with the
Alcohol-stale air.
The twisting of
Hands that groped about the

         (Her rage now eclipsed by fear)

She inhaled.
Her body, numb.
Her appendages quaked.
Her body fading
As they fall upon her.
Their thick bodies
Blacked out the stars.
Their gaunt faces
Pinched and rucked in the
Reflected the fury, the
Hatred, and
The disgust for what would come next.
Their hands moved across her
Like demons as they
Groped at her small body
Beneath the choppy wash of the

(A hand grazed her thigh and she shrieked in Terror. Another
         gnashed at her buttock. Another fell upon her back. Her mind
         reeled at the possibilities of what would need to come next.)

They tore at her clothing.
Her body jarred about the water as
She writhed against their grasps.
She clawed against the murk.                  
         (Escape the horror)

She released the paddle—

(Forever lost to the deep, useless to her now)

Hysterical animalistic thoughts
Trounced off their tongues as they
Laughed at her doom—

        (Like a pack of hyenas)

She kicked at them in nameless
She thrusted her hand into
The fabric where the child had been
Moments before cooing and clucking. 
Mere moments ago she had sang to the
Babe the same song her
Mother had once sung
To her.

             (she felt nothing where the child had been…)    

She struggled away from them.
Her mind frantic with pain, the cold,
And panic
For the child.
She no longer cared for
Herself, or what they would need to
Do with her body.
Her appendages
Flailed and churned in the dark water.
         (A single gasp of air followed by
              The burning inhale of water)

A shrill call to the child—

(a name lost to time)

Her voice cut through their maniacal
It echoed off the water and vanished,
Disappearing entirely
In the outer gloom of the wilderness.

        (like afterthoughts, lost)

She groped relentlessly among the
Water for the child.
The men, near
Frozen, lost interest and returned to
The adjacent shoreline.
It was more ****** that way.
They jeered at her,
Proud of themselves.
        (The seething lust of the mindless savage, she thinks)

Their mouths salivate
As they watched
Her struggle
Became the current
For which she bore.
The impending death of the woman even
More satisfying than the feeling against their flesh of her cunning, wet crease that lies exposed between
Her brown legs.
They watch like wolves
Unable to reach their prey,
Desperate for fresh meat.
Despite the frigid cold,
Their *****, hard,
With the anticipation of death.

The woman clamored among the darkness
She searched for the child.
Heavy fingers fell upon woolen fabric
By chance—

(Hope bloomed in her constricted chest)

Her body finally beginning to seize
Exhaustion permeated
Her mind.
She freed the papoose
From the frozen depths and expelled
The last bit of energy she possessed
To swim to the far side of the shore,
Temporarily out of their reach.

The soldiers,
Quiet now,
Returned to the spectral woods.
They disappeared back down the
Black road from which they came.

She felt the blood as it began to
Return to her appendages, the pins And needles feeling erupting in them.
Her teeth clattered nearly exploding In her mouth.
Her body
Quaked Violently

         (The child, near in her mind, cried)

She reached for it.
Her chest,
Rising and
Rapid like the river
As she inhaled the burning,
Frozen air.
The child let loose a cough and  
She clutched it
tighter to her *****.  

(Deny the river its prize)

A stream of consciousness,
Steadily slipped from her lips.

       (A great heathen prayer calling up some
                       Great Spirit
                                As she relentlessly brokered
                                            For a
                                       Life for a life)

The moments passed by like hours.
And the
Great Spirit, with
His wanton lust
For despair, did not manifest that night.

The child fell silent, then still.
The tears came now.
Blurred vision and
Angry sobs.
Darkness consumed entire.

The river flowed by her electric as if
Its lights descended from a place far
Beyond the black taciturn veil of
Night to reflect the merciless
Tragedies among the wretched souls of
The Maine Woods.
Harriet Cleve Jun 2019
Tommy Smartarse hated smart arses . Especially intelligent smart arses. More specifically he despised the smart arses on the payroll of Narcissist Corp.

He loved to hear the sound of his own voice over the intercom.
'Mr. Tommy Smartarse will commence this afternoons meeting at three o'clock'.

If you weren't paying attention then you didn't get a second chance.
He had formally announced his agenda. End of.

No one though could miss that horrible whiny, nasal, asinine inflected,grating tone of voice.

His demeanour was reminiscent of a disgruntled hangman who had been informed of the abolishment of capital punishment.
The chalk white of his teeth were razor sharp and the gates that held back the venomous bile that swirled from his voluminous bowls.
A real nasty *******.

A swagger in his **** portending the arrival of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse.
His office was a cesspool of debauchery and smelled like the disinfected wing of a fever hospital.

His eyes gleaned with the glint of a thousand mad *******.
A small weedy specimen with a comb over from hell.
'Satan's representative on Earth' he liked to refer to himself.
Foul over-tanned wrinkled skin hung from his face.
A flaccid face like a rhinoceros' **** on a sick day.

Abandoned by his mother, it was rumoured, in the back streets of
Peckham; adjacent to 'Nancy's bordello'.

No one dared mention his parentage or the orphanage which spat him out at fifteen years of age.

Yes, Tommy Smartarse came up the hard way and his brain was all he had going for him.

A cunning, devious, three faced pile of ****. All five foot four of him. His vocabulary was borrowed from old footage of Winston  Churchill and he fancied the British Bull Dog was a secret relative.
Tommy Smartarse was a fantasist  to match the best of them.
Delusions of world ******* percolated in his grey matter and instilled a false sense of unbridled confidence in his own abilities.

Some said Tommy Smartarse was devoid of any decent qualities and this was evident in his deplorable character.
A bully amongst bullies. A prize swine amongst pigs.
The slurs and slanders that rolled off his reptilian-like tongue were legendary.

Today though Tommy Smartarse would meet his nemesis.
A new recruit would attend the meeting.
A suave young man with an Oxford education and the artillery of a thousand cerebral Einsteins. A brilliant young man named Martin Christopher Savant.

Tommy Smartarse's life was about to be dismembered.
Look to the person on your left
And to the person on your right
And pull out your phone, and look at yourself through the reflection of your screen

Each one of you has been affected by toxic masculinity

If you looked and saw a woman,
You saw a victim, someone
Who's been tied down and told what to do
To stand in the kitchen and do the dishes
While the man stays in the other room with the TV
And has an affair with the sofa

I hear the two of them are happily married now,
In fact, the couch and the man are inseparable

The man becomes the couch, and the couch becomes the man
defiling that once holy entrance to that place you used to be able to call a home

When you were younger, you couldn't have known what the world would tell you you are
But now that you've grown up, you felt the pains and gained the scars
Now you know where the world wants you, and what role you play
On this stage, where the director's decrepit creaking hands come and defile you,
You holy sacred place.

He sits there and pays no attention to the hardwork going on adjacent to him
His thoughts are confined to whatever pretty colors and captivating sounds float across that screen
His eye lids shut only to keep from having a drought because he does not contemplate
He just sits there and waits for you to be done making his dinner for him

And what if he's working in the other room, and you can't see it, is there some sort of redemption for this man?
I cannot say, but he cannot expect to stand to the side of his life, pretending he has no emotions, teaching his sons that this is acceptable behavior,

Stop sinking into oblivion!

And when the woman speaks up and expresses these buried emotions, hurt ones, she is antagonized, like
Isn't this just another ***** with her crazy feelings?
Like shouldn't she be watching so that the chicken doesn't burn on the stove?
Like what happens if I let my guard down and let her in
And acknowledge that she is a human being?

The man says he can't do that
He can't lose his power in the situation
So he tells her those feelings she has are invalid
He makes her feel like the antagonist of the story of this man's life
And the only reason she stays with him is because she's developed Stockholm syndrome
And she doesn't want to be alone
And because if she's heterosexual, this version of a human being is the only one that's so readily available to her,
The kind that treats her like garbage, disposable, unable to have her damnable emotions redeemed

But a critique of something doesn't merit doubling down on that ideology you grew up with,
It merits its changing

Men in the room, hear me now

You are victims too!

You are told to keep it in, keep the tears back
To stand up straight, to provide, to not show any weakness,
But you are most strong when you acknowledge those weaknesses openly
And possibly discover that some of them aren't even weaknesses
They're just a part of being human

And this trend is so hard to break, so hard to crack through stone that was laid 22,000 years ago
But here we are
The buck can stop with us

We can stop antagonizing
We can start acknowledging
We can stop treating people as subhuman when they express emotion
We can start skipping in the streets and holding each other's hands

Because there's nothing masculine
About treating other humans like ****

We can eventually reclaim that word, but first it has to be exposed for all the harm it's done

Look to your right
Now look to your left
And look at your phone again

Each of one you can be a part of the solution
Not a part of the propagation of bad myths
This is the script to another talk poem that I wrote but never published.
SMS Feb 2019
She swayed        with the wind
He held her tight against his chest
Graying hairs tucked under his chin.
Gosh this woman the love of his life
Their joints pop harmoniously
Their napping chairs adjacent
In old age and in youth
She’s always been
The one.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.i guess a loss of subscriptions is, somehow, a badge of honor, namely? i somehow managed to attach a screwdriver to my words... why? read below... English women consider motherhood to be a job... how ******* demeaning! gone are the days of womanhood attaining the stature of god, in the Christian methodology of encompassing the pivot of lady Madonna... perhaps a too high peddle-stool? i guess so... i'm not usurping the female status, but elevating a female stature, deeming motherhood an UNESCO status? seems it's too much... for some people... who make it necessary to befriend their shadow, and travel to the hinterlands.

just your atypical pedantry,
a translator's subscript comment -
who's richard rojcewicz's...
regarding what?
       das volk,
      and the three derivatives -
volkhaft (populist),
       volklich (communal)
           völkisch (folkish) -
i'm starting to suspect that
i'm tapping in the all things folk....
unconsciously, favoring folk
   see, us central europeans,
we bunch together and share
the most odd similarities -
   i never thought that the song
herr mannelig could be translated
from Swedish - as it was
translated into German...
then again... Vikings founded Kiev...
and all these loan-words
of Germanic origin in Polish...
    the only Anglo loan-word
that i know of, is, weekend...
hence, das volk, people -
   by the way... German has "too many"
definite articles,
   and only one ein - or eine -
is that the same rule as in Ęnglish?
i.e. N
                 in an example,
   rather than in a counter example?
   two vowels adjacent in separate
word, sitting across from the grand
chasm of... a spacing itch?
but look at German, i never get it...
             is there an aesthetic difference,
and only an aesthetic difference
to mind?
if there is such a thing as a western
   that sometime
    pompous obnoxiousness,
fair enough... no problem:
   but learn to hide it,
           feel it, rather then feed it...
it's not a question of a civilization,
but more...
    an answer to what is less
civilization, and more... a chore...
just like western women,
notably the english women
call motherhood a, "job"...
                   it's a... wait... a job?
doubt was big in classic philosophy
of the Cartesian schematic...
so no one knows that
the French existentialists
brought in negation,
    as the driving force to replace
              who the hell sees doubt
these days?
    either the know it alles -
or the hush-hush crowd...
           motherhood is a... job?
well... then i guess, being a man...
western civilization,
by that standard of logic...
   can't be anything more...
   than a.... ******* chore!
Ryan O'Leary Nov 2019

      It seemed as though he
         was practicing for a
      downhill slalom without
              a pair of ski's,

        And were it not a field
       adjacent to the Lee Rd.
       I would have assumed
                as much, but:

    Perception is deception, as
   I was to discover, when I was
    told that he was the famous
Corkman, known as Rick O'Shea!


The Lee Road is a nut house in Cork.
Ari Jan 2019
I do not see the (woman) hidden in the forest.

I am attempting to justify myself in your eyes.  I care very little whether I seem to anyone to exist.

Let your eyes rest on me,
Among the uninformed debris,
After their illicit glancings,
And their numerous advancings,
    I do not want your eyes on me:
Eyes that land yet never cease
Their wanderings and wonderings
On the color of my under things,
   And nauseate with their caprice.

While the scattered rest on the checkered floor
Position adjacent to the banquets,
Ask for more before
The completion of their pigs in blankets;
They ask for more,
As they lick their fingers free of grease
While discussing sports and Credit Suisse…

Perhaps I’ll have one - but just one,
I don’t want to become
Like a corpse distended in an attic -

I wish it had been me they licked their fingers of;
I wish that it is them I lick my fingers of…

There are eyes on me, I assume
As I rush to the little girls' room.

The truths of comets and little girls,
Death and a young girl
Skulk on painted toes in the murk,
Where Death and a young girl lurk:

    He is with a mannequin in the back,
Hugging it tight in order to lift,
Though the limbs are limp and head is slack,
He brims with hope
    Like a panner with his sift.

I go away and leave you now, I leave you and
go away.

    I know what it is to sprawl
Prostrate and empty in a stall
With these squalid fingers,
To hear the snickers and the whispers;
    I wish that it is me they lick their fingers of,

As they powder their noses
Then emerge from the gloom smelling roses,
They go away and leave me, they leave me and
go away.

   To know what it is to say,
“I am beautiful, o mortals, like a dream in stone!”
In a most definitely denigrating tone,
Though my words and eyes betray;
Or boast that my expertise is
    Spotting a prosthesis,
To call attention to one if I see it on
    [Including the curator’s toupee];
Or to pop a squat
On his prize Jean-Michel Basquiat,
    [Though He is my personal Jesus!]
You go away and leave me now, you leave me and
go away.

    He is with a mannequin on the checkered floor,
And when he is completed
He licks his fingers and asks for more;
I would show him my portrait and say
    “Ceci n’est pas une moi,”
And agree to disagree,
I would show them my portrait and say
    “This is not a me,”
And they would laugh at my simplicity,
Then whisper hatefully and frown
Into one another’s ear
How they wish they could fit into my evening gown,
     I wish I could dwindle down
And fit into an opaque sphere.

This is not a me, the powdered nose,
The needle between painted toes,
The creak of leather and swinging chains,
The clumps of hair swirling in drains,
There is still beauty in blackened veins -
Was there beauty in these veins?
Mascara streaks and piercing shrieks,
Do your eyes still rest on me?
I would cut them from your face,
But I need lines for me to trace,
Lines to guide me where to cut.
Do not take your eyes from me,
I will not be precise if they are shut.  
Do not go away and leave me now, do not leave me and
go away.

Do I drift between stations,
Bow and curtsy, nod and smile,
Titter courteously at prevarications,
    Struggling to suppress the bile? -

    “Oh my goodness, she got so big!”  
    “Yes, she must be back at it again” -
    “But I love her book club” -
    “Oh my goodness, me too!”
    “Ha ha!”
    “Ha ha.”

There are so many with me, so many eyes,
So many hands resting on my thighs…
I cannot find a solitude,
This is not a solitude.
I am a beautiful use of negative space.

I count my age in eyes I detect,
The older I grow, the less I collect.
    Time leaves us out of focus…

I do not want to grow old…I will not grow old,
Unless my mind loses hold.

In this sepulchral cattle car
    We ride,
Like cattle to the abattoir,
With our patron saints beside,
    We take them all along for the ride.
This is all so familiar,
    So familiar…So familiar…
Do I want it?
Time to gargle a gin and tonic
While being shocked catatonic.
Your eyes will still be with me in my vacant sleep,
To function as my guide.
Break me into bread and partake till no sign of me
    They have all been taken for a ride,
And even God will lick His fingers.
Inspired by Prufrock
Lash Feb 2019
just like everything else,
you are who say you are.
you are not subjected to rhyme schemes
and bars.
no literacy rules and proper grammar.
no literacy tools and open stanzas.
it doesn’t matter what you write,
as long as it’s from your heart and
it doesn’t matter how many poems you have
or how long ago you started.
all that matters is that you love it
& you let your words speak.
do not be focused on anyone else
and please do not seek:
if you feel you can be better,
just be patient.
no ones ahead of anyone
we are all ADJACENT.
we are all writers and we all have stories to share,
we are all exactly who we say we are,
incase you were unaware.
thomezzz Feb 2019
I used to love the moments of love
Like the gratuitous glances
We exchanged in the grocery store
Or the brief belly laughs
That reverberated in our bedroom

I found myself living in them
Like the kind kisses
We had in the tight kitchen
Or the sly smirks
Reflected off the shower stall

I wanted them all the time
Like the ample adoration
Down adjacent bookstore aisles
Or the careening caresses
Of my thighs in the car

Even when sour, I held them so close to me
Like the damaged despair
Of broken plates in the dining room
Or the warning words
That echoed off white walls

I remembered every moment
Like the accusing anger
Spread across awful afternoons
Or the effortless embraces
Given in endured evenings

And sometimes, I wished I could forget them
Like the somber silences
In separate sides of the bed
Or the tearful touches
Of hands tightly ****** together

I used to love the moments of love
Like the beginning beauty
Of blushed bedroom faces
Or the frightened farewells
Under falling rain
Dan Hess Dec 2019
Low density
slow entropy
expansive ethereal
immaterial inclusive
conducive conclusive
collective perspective

Interjected perplexing
Vexed intensive directive

Perspicacious intonations
repulsed over nullified
Emulsified dry mindless intrinsic duplicitous insistances
redacted and reacted upon retroactively,
in posthumous alacrity,
as backed and packed to me
are primitive tenacities
by classless massless animalistic catastrophes
in baseless traceless
uniformly adjacent replacements

Tasteless abasement
in braced,
placed erasure of nature
Replace her with infrastructure
Good old abundant mother, **** her

I'd love to plug her with rubber
unsung troubles debug her
rewind and entice
and drown and rend blind with devices incisively derisively winding
her planar engagements
to ownership taken
forsaken by god
but we're shaken by odds
of new values in clods
of endowments toward rods of power each hour we glower
and how her entreatment
might trap and devour
if we weren't so clever
we'd sever our heads as we shower
in the ichor of the dead
and instead we're just thicker than blood
with our money and crud
replace water with crude
and a bad attitude

I'd be true to the money
but wouldn't it be funny
if deigned be the dummy
as warless and lost
in the loathesome defrosting
of planetary exhaustion?

Now tell me the cost
of the death and the offing
of all we've been coughing
to the air we've been drawing from
gnawing the earth to her bones
always want some more worth from our home
but it's worthless if we end up alone
We used to be spiritual
Now it's all about that empirical material imperial
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
.when it comes to certain issues, i have enlarged pupils with a lost iris ring, some whiteness of the eyeball... and? ****** in my eyes.

so... wait a minute... wait a minute...
you... want to bleach myself?
somehow, magically forget where
i was born?
forget my mother-tongue -
even though, i speak your tongue,
better than, some of
the migrants you're defending,
primarily focusing on skin color?!
you're mad... just like my neighbor...
who rudely "asked" me...
is... this... the ******* king
of England addressing me?!
i thought so...
you don't get to tell me...
     the following newspaper
articles reads:
   only 8,713 A-level students took
French this year...
     in 1996 (22,718)...
and P.E. of this year?
        what sort of post-colonial power...
doesn't at least pursue a...
"schizophrenia" of bilingualism,
with at least one
post-colonial ally...
like France, or Spain?!
     lazy English ***** think their
society will run, "better"...
if i somehow do a hee-hee
of a Michael Jackson bleaching
and somehow, learn amnesia,
of forgetting my native tongue...
not gonna happen!
        you learn French!
how's that?!
      you dictate elsewhere...
how about you take the time
and effort to teach your former subjects
your language...
and i?!
i will teach you... TACT!
  because you've clearly forgotten
your excellence in exercising it!
   imagine your father,
working for a construction
industry... and a site manager
starts calling him at 9pm...
you do know...
  that work-calls, past 5pm...
are illegal in, of all places, Germany?!
the English have forgotten their
prime attire... of tact...
less tux and more tact...
do the English even know that it's illegal
to make work-focusing phone calls
outside of the sensibility of
the 9-to-5 schematic?!
no... of course not...
the women can't cook pasta...
over-cook it, or under-cook potatoes...
but sure as **** they love,
"working"... work in their sleep...
   wait for office phone-calls at 9pm...
so efficient in their prescribed
allocation timing...
    that's not... "WORK"!
the English, we can thank...
have perfected PROCRASTINATION.
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