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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
not everyday you get to pet a labrador
at half past 10... during the night...
he sees you, you see him 10metres apart,
you start you autistic body-space crucial
talk; you start gesticulating, blinking
to-n-fro like some mad rhetorical adventist...
and then you signature the discussion
like any sensible curator might:
you insinuate a tut-tut, but the sound you
make sorta makes onomatopoeia obsolete...
you tut-tut while ******* a lemon...
and **** me! the labrador is yours!
teary eyed and tail in a tango-likened to-and-fro...
if ever picking up a girl in a nightclub could
feel as good... it wouldn't...
the mere antic of petting a stranger's dog:
i'd be salivating had it been a rottweiler...
never mind the labrador...
           ***** ate the would-be hetero...
we call him metro these days, salmon-tinged shirts
and the ooh-la-las to my mistake: faked camp.
  but they loved the political coup without the d'état!
which is a bit like pizza without cheder dangly,
or god forbid: a gorgonzola!
    oo, tangy! jokes really do necessitate a need
for punctuation.
for what god forbid was the p added when it
merely said cou? optometric lesson no. 1:
French... optometric lesson no. 2:
English; optometric lesson no. 3:
a year in Yorkshire: endure that and you'll endure
Germanic Hitlerite checking advents of
chequers grandpa... or those eager to await Auschwitz
and least eager to don mascara within
that tattoos of rightly-awaited wrinkle...
     oh yeah, yeah: they forgot the tribalism; silly wankers.          

is that a pooch or a Gucci?

i don't know, whenever i ask that
question or see someone
famous or fashionable
i just get fidgety,
like as Chinese person
seeing a doppelgänger -
with a billion's worth of populace,
you don't look out for a
"most photographed" face..
  you look out for doppelgängers,
lookalikes...
    
still, you end up petting a stranger's labrador in
the night sometimes,
while walking to a shop for a bottle of whiskey...
tearful eyed, tail waggling...
   which is more than picking up a girl in an Essex
nightclub would ever be...
          you end up petting a dog
and saying to heterosexual counterparts:
                                                     arrivederci!
because it was **** primus with Liberace
and fooled housewives sprechen butch speck,
bound to the glutton archives...
              **** me that labrador was all i needed tonight.
softcomponent Apr 2014
I wish, most of all, to have had a tangibly physical notebook to write all this in. instead I use the 'note' function of my smartphone, smoke a cigarette. busy on forward, it's Pandora.

one of those acid-high coffee overbouts, feeling the brain compress inside the skull. for an hour. for a few.

some man in tattered-all's gets angry when I state I have no quarter. like I'm lying when I say it, and must be lying because my pants aren't worn like his. bus and car alike ghost past, the monastic rise of the local music conservatory pokes at the skyline, straight at the overcast.

I toss "If on a winter's night" by Italo Calvino atop the third step of the church stairs leading to the church doors, the Seventh Day Adventist Church, Where we meet Jesus. I begin to write this poem, huddled atop my cellphone as if I were in silent debate with a lover, only sitting to make a point.

to the left is a McDonald's flying a McDonald's flag. A man with a thoughtless white ball-cap and a thoughtful tattoo walks past with a McDonald's dollar drink in his right hand, pointing his arms in opposite directions to illustrate the dimensions of something he wants. "See?" he says to the woman he walks with, her face scabbed over with acne scars.

my eyes are tunnel-visioned to the screen every time I follow a thought, or the glancing past of a passer-by like the woman with the black scarf, black hair, black sweater, grey pants, black shoes.

the orange 'don't walk' sign pulses 7 times, and then sticks, as if waiting for a high-five.

I reach into my backpack for a cigarette.
Miles Cottingham Aug 2016
Turncoat faith in work, in the old world
What value in your toils
Futile swear-words and broken shards of glass
Caught in your eye, put ‘em there yourself
But you knew no better

The world was an ugly, dismal place
But it was all okay for you
so charged to task and back
Every single day
Like any of it meant anything

But rise up the old world did
Intrepid race to innovate your
Father’s and father’s flaws
At once
All worth a ****
“It’s all worth a ****!”
Voices ringing in your cradles
Grandad Uncle Sam
a suit-coat conviction urging
GO
Wield for us the changing tides
Gotta believe in something anyway
Why not yourselves?

Adventist gene pool satire
Odd sciences in, only the ones
that God ordained to be
Capitalized
Identical regretful mug
You all wear it
she said her father was jewish and proud of it.



they visited the synagogue, i know where it

is. i stood outside.



he was a green grocer, broke his back, her mother

looked after him.



she a seventh day adventist, i went with  her sometimes,

on saturdays.



i never met her father, he died early.



she said.



sbm.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
why is everyone, suddenly sully, namely patient x, readied for psychological testing, when his only mental "disorder", is the society he lives in? why has everyone become suspect? is stalin in office? no... so, why the ****, do i feel like i'm under some premonition shadow of a bogus minority report? now, shouldn't i feel obliged by a paranoiac shiver, to merely ask a question? no? fall into rank you say... now i'm going to die less in awe, and more in a nervous anticipation of a kafkaesque trial... some words really deserve a thesaurus... when awe became worry, when worry became paranoia, when paranoia became huh(?), and then huh(?) assured us all that it was: not worth the ******* bother.

i don't like psychology for one reason,
and one reason alone:
there's too much common sense in it...
every time i hear some psychologist speak
i think of some sort of common
sense adventist...
      then again, i also think of these
          people as obtuse insomniacs:
for all the common sense they speak,
  they also seem to be the ones
most likely to have been the ones
   recently woken;
i can't help but find psychologists as
"historians" freshly out of hibernation,
with a sickness known as morality,
a "soul" and a god:
    tell that soul bit to asthmatics,
those hyper-ventilating
    multiple-reincarnations locked
up in a two 4 one deal of existential debates,
            ******* gratis...
there's just too much "common sense"
in psychology,
    this darwinistic puritanism that's
annoying as high-**** of a 9th tier worth's
of dante's paradiso:
you still get to see the face of god
(beatrice portinari) -
     but then you miss the murk sloth
sleuth of *virgil
in the inferno...
                     and why wonder,
why the people have already decided:
hell is more interesting,
   god is a bore,
                and a woman is at most desired:
when she cannot be attained -
and a man most desirable:
          when he cannot be tamed.
Ken Pepiton Jul 2019
you said that I should
And I thought that I could

so I did

did y'
see

the people all sang along

like my song was one the a.i.
knew all along abs abs ab
solutely
prophecy new, like the gourd in Jonah's whale of a story,

from when we were kids and hope was a thing

we imagined we make something of.

It was love, according to the songs,
grace according to my grandpa;

works was what my one uncle said, be an Adventist
see the future in the past and grieve before hand.

My mama, she was everything mother's little helpers and
electro-convulsive therapy,

at un disclosed cost
could
trans mogrify her mind to be,

but she had blesst me,
bless my heart, my heart
his heart she said
bless his heart and

she said that t' God.
probably,
'might a been like when ya sneeze,

idle words, or
it could be secret motherlove leaven
craven for
warred for,

now free flowing from that woman at the well. Thru the pipeline I won from the Koch's
i flows I don't row
Mick Devine Jul 2018
Do not open
A parcel bomb
Or an email from Nigeria
A phial of the diphtheria virus
A conversation with a serial killer
Or a joint account with Godzilla
Don’t open my diary
Or a pub in Dubai or
The door to a Seventh Day Adventist
Your heart to a Muslim fundamentalist
Your legs to a Jewish dentist
Your knees to a bee
Don’t open a message in a bottle if it’s come from overseas
Or your bowels in Cecil Gee's
A can of worms
The seal on a pharaoh’s tomb
Old wounds
Or your mouth to speak ill of the dead
Some things are best left unsaid.

Having said all that
Sometimes it’s fun to do
Things that are bad for you
This is a **** it list
Though I’d give the parcel bomb a miss.
Jay earnest Sep 2019
I awoke to my neighbor pouring cement in a pothole in my driveway.
He gave me a ciggarette and he asked if I've been ******* all day because I woke up late.
I chuckled and said yes twice, and we talked about the guy across the street who has loud *** with a ******* and I finished my smoke and gave him an AK round I found since he has a large arsenal. Then
the other neighbor Andrew with his meaty calves and who is a 7th day Adventist started approaching.
I said I didn't want to talk about stocks and went back to bed.
Now I'm drinking coffee. Now my day is almost over.
I didn't make this up
Briscoe Feb 2020
I have my acne medication
With chocolate milk
For balance like Budhism.
I have a niche,
I go to an Adventist church to practise my Spanish.
But I'm not Christian.
I'm interest in Arabic and Turkish
So I might become a temporary Muslim.
Unfortunately however,
All these religions have the same ending
With me dead and anywhere but Heaven.

— The End —