"alsatian" poems
Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.
Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.
Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.
Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.
I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.
Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories ****** but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.
When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.
43.4k
Looking out of the kitchen window
Stirring decaf all vaguary-prone and listless
To the lawn, where, this morning,
George, the Alsatian now deceased
Frolicked amongst brambles.
Before he went berserk. Before,
Alas, I had to kick his head in;
I am suddenly eight years old
And lost, in Whitstable Castle.
Around me, humans traipse
And march their aching infants around
Unknowing that I am lost. I cry out:
"Father! Your child is missing,
Father! Do you not notice?
Can you not see?"
My father, however, winds
An unending reel of film
On a now long binned disposable camera
With his thumb. Raking through
Fresh memories, a combing sound
With never a click. His is absorbed,
Cannot hear my cries.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 8:03 PM UTC
The stroll took place around 7.30pm
Pathway narrows off coming to its end
Tarmac river escapes to the other side - push on or go back?
Step out with trepidation, speedway of death growling
Clear head, open ear – to carry me
Uneven ground takes over the direction
Poppies swaying among tall strands of gathered grass
Almost removed from my skin
An alsatian leaps and barks – introduction or warning voice?
The undergrowth moves and cracks
Sky light continues overhead, securing me
A passer by greets me and continues on
It is strange to be acknowledged in this way
A small group of adolescents takes their turn also
I am encouraged from this monosyllabic stage of life that they would even bother
Reaching the tunnel of sounding motorway transport, it echoes
I notice homes not seen before in swift passing
Branches bathed in green, stretch out blocking
As though reaching to connect
Pushed aside, I continue
My head freeing up
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 6:13 PM UTC
/ you sure that there's an actual vinyl
revival?
it's stirr-frying my testicles
back in england
and vinyl is on the comeback?!
**** yeah!
i tried interpreting an ancient egyptian
concept of a fanning / ***** police
for days on end...
newspaper? no...
saturday nespaper magazine?
no...
c.d.?!
no...
impromptu napkin
"loophole"?
nope...
vinyl?!
oh **** me!
i own a vinyl sgt. peppers'...
don't really want to listen to it...
but, vinyl, within
the framework of a revival?!
july sunday pants...
you can fan me back and
forth, back and forth that
elongated into circular *******
liquorice...
finally! vinayl has a secondary,
degenerate purpose...
fanning equippment!
spread the air...
unless you're me
lodging a ******** imitation of
a ******** with
ice-cubes dangling in front of a fan:
spreading nothing,
but hot air...
honest to god, in this weather:
the beatles' vinyl?
means as much crock-shit
as i'd really love for a
nefertiti:
"woof"...
or a...
wave of air...
a bellowing bull
with rotten breath...
but at least we found out that
vinyl is useful afterall...
way past the newspaper...
or a pigeon flapping,
or the comment section
that's coorporate...
vinyl?
perfect flapping equipment!
disperses the air...
like sinatra disperses
bad singers...
drunk and...
'opely 'opefully on to "it".
is that like: the dead come (back)...
and then we hit karma redemption
with reincarnation?!
limited contra dough-dough-deep
state affairs?!
new delhi ***
new york?!
no wonder i can't stop laughing
as if that could even be translated into
slavic languages!
you pompous
anglican-integrated-inbred...
****** english women...
you?! you?! you?! you want
to dictate, rules for me?!
****** now i want
to fight your side's resemblance of goliath!
i've petted an alsatian and a dobberman
up to the age of 8...
i think i'll manage...
shit-fisting your granny's egotism
rooting for: ahmed no. 1.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
i’m not here to pay my taxes
blah!
octopi strings attached into thinking
i’d down a bottle of *** without the hawaiian angels!
to hell with you!!!
she’s
the last cause i have of me,
but it’s
the one that makes billions accounted for
in history, dead numbering 70,000
by only one historian's care for facts, that's
when history is dyslexic with numbers instead of words,
it says: solomon's appetite, the reverse onomatopoeia
recorded of hum? mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm... *******
waves of virginia ah wooooooo!
*um um dumb d’uh 9 oh 6, 5 ah ah index pinky 1 2 3... ******* retards... throw that alsatian off the red brick wall to learn a few mannerisms of broken feet! i’ve had enough! pickle those foetuses in brine for emperor peter the great to intercede! i’ve had enough of the philistine peasants! i’m going coo coo in the artefact of the rolling composers loosing it in the muzak spectacle of the st. petersburg fountain; give me davy jones’ eternity on loop without insect ***** or interactant activity of the interpreted state of affairs, for the dictator to civilise his “insects” and reel in a misery that could never be a puppeteer’s excess shadow of string with the shadows wholly formed into balance of a hand picking up a stone excusing any excess of cobweb to interfere.*
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
HUNGER
When I think of you
I marvel at your fragility,
How little you sustain yourself with.
If I could do what I would, I would,
I would bring you coq au vin with carrots glazed in brown sugar,
And onions glaces a brun, ringed with pommes duchesse;
And saffron pistachio rissotto with lobster ravioli
Bathed in a tomato champagne reduction sauce;
Or salmon poached in Alsatian Riesling,
Smothered in a rich Hollandaise, on a queen-sized bed of spinach.
I'd fatten you up,
Feed your body;
But of course it isn’t proteins, calories, fats, carbohydrates
That you quest for:
That would be so easy.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
.*don't worry, inter-racial mingling is prominent in the first generation of a white dad, and a black mum... 2nd generation? well... that depends... if a woman deems her father in high esteem, she marries a white guy, and her children end up, pejoratively white... or she carries on the splinter fetish... and marries a camel-jockey... and hey presto! a full rainbow! slurs... ******** slurs... let's begin with one... in the north of England... vermin says so.*
i'll just say the uncomfortable ********
that you wont:
Oreo to a *******
****** your ***** all night...
made crumbs...
your incy-wincy spider
of a **** couldn't
get you a one-night-stand...
******* to an Oreo:
so... you think that i care what
******* ***** chooses, or
makes preferences of?
or are you worried that
i don't really want to ****
an Oreo girl?!
well... unless she's from the Bahamas?!
****** make a choice!
hey... **** as many...
what is this innate,
a priori presupposition judgement
where...
where...
like...
i don't want to **** your
women? what's up with that?!
you boast:
now i'll boast...
it's only fair that way...
yeah, and with regards
to the women you ******
i started thinking (as a child)
of injecting human ***** into
the body of a dog...
after all... my best childhood
friends were dogs...
Axl (a Doberman),
and Bella (an Alsatian)...
what?
your best friend was
bush-meat?
****** we can party...
but some advice...
you know the best place
to put out cigarettes
on a human body?
near to the bone, on the knuckles...
it's like...
coupling nearing the bones
is...
a complete hard-on.
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 9:56 PM UTC
sometimes the nobler route involves
living with puny fears,
or like writing poetry with the specifications
of it being unheard,
so that there’s a hoped for sense of fluidity,
but eventually something else emerges,
like the investment in what’s against
the freudian interpretation of dreams,
a way to block images from the unconscious
layering over images from the world
and one’s life;
there’s an antidote to this layering of images
from the unconscious,
it resides in having heard stories from
the days when you were a toddler and
were the opposite of animals and insects,
with weak **** muscles and a weaker bladder,
not even remotely within the architecture of
the collective of herd or swarm, without an individuality
that would precipitate into a consciousness:
with unique self-awareness that’s missing in herring or locust,
that’s how i cured myself from interpreting dreams too much,
this realm that provides false images
and is like a virus for the memory bank of the world
and the winding river of experience that you and i am.
it is relevant then to utilise words to shake off this realm of
image impregnation that can rot away your truer memory,
sure you will remember a dream once in a while,
but to allow interpretation of this dream
and being as lucky as joseph & the pharaoh is no good, unless
the dream is so potent as to predict the future
and only then, because why would any man desire
to uncover the ontology of man to only then justify the evils
and brush aside the good by packaged delay in prisons?
never mind, from what my grandfather said, the utility of words
that became more potent than any image impregnation
in the unconscious: ‘when you were a toddler you used to
put your hand down the alsatian’s gob, right in there
and she didn’t do anything, you grew up with here,
you used to ride her like a horse and she didn’t do anything,
and when someone faked scorn against you she would
bark & bark and protect you.’
there are no pictures of this, therefore no images, only
the noting of the sounds with these phonetic units... and
with these phonetic units noted and compounded into words...
images can be crafted solidly, even though there are no photographs
of this... even though there are photographs of my grandfather.
but the point is... apart from the whole dream impregnation
as an erosion of the truer memory of being awake and in the world...
apart from the jungian theory that we’re like herring or locust
within the framework of the jungian collective unconscious theory...
apart from all this...
my perfect teeth... obviously yellowish (but i rather call them 2nd milky)
from nicotine soot...
and the fact that when a dentist wanted to prescribe me braces once
i refused... and by refusal my teeth aligned like the planets
in a straight line in that fable of someone celestial being born in man.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 7:08 AM UTC
1
Weaknesses are so powerful,
They show the flaws of strength
Man in all his wisdom and evolution
Fails to comprehend simple nature
2
We have drawn from nature
Suckled upon its left breast
Toyed with the right one
We have seen but half its light
3
Dogs bark, Alsatian ones, Bull ones, Wolfhound ones , Greyhound ones and all sorts, black ones, grey ones, yellow ones, white ones, they all have at least one thing in common, they bark. Everyone sees them and calls them a dog, they love the variety, they may have preference but are mostly cared for equally.
Trees stand, some short, some tall, some fat, some thin, they sometimes dance to the rhythm of the wind, some have leaves, some don't , some shed, some don't , some have fruits , some don't , they are all trees, nobody despises a tree because of it's bark, different tree barks could make useful herbs and other useful materials. people love different trees, they even make good shades in scorching summer.
In the human sphere, we have all sorts, tall, short, fat , thin and in beautiful colors- with all other variegated features but what we see is what we do not have in common: culture, religion, color... difference. Where there is no difference, we fabricate it, we fabricate inferiority and superiority, we create deplorable history, lies, we create vain interests and fight unjustly to fulfill them.
4
Nature prides in uniting varieties into a coherent beauty.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 9:38 PM UTC
*pronouns as non-identifiers of nouns equate to excess psychiatric diagnoses.
yet using this direct symptomatic identification of matters is unsatisfying
due to the fact that one would rather expand one's vocabulary in other interesting
areas other than: bilingual bipolar, unipolar depression etc.,
usually starting with family genus in latin, of carnivores.*
it was the most amazing dream, i was walking through dreamy venice
to a beach enclave with many boats,
bella, my alsatian shepherd was walking with me,
but i didn't have her free roaming without a leash
or on a leash: my right hand was behind my back
and her snout was cupped in my hand, and she was sniffing something
and walking obediently;
i was trying to get onto a seaplane.
someone else with a dog was there, i let bella have a wee dip in
swimming with elephants and horses, head bopping above the
sea, three men and a sycophant woman were there too
looking mighty interested in something that would otherwise
dictate a chance-opportunity of autography - then the lament
started. 'i'm stranded on the shoreline! i can't get to the seaplane
without a boat! i don't have a boat!'
then... out of nowhere... alec ******* baldwin appears...
out of the blue... twinkle in his eye and a diamond solution
in his pocket - says to me he has a boat, flicks out a keyring with
a beeper to start up the engine for a boat - i thank him
for "out of the blue" solution and he says: 'what are friends for, eh?'
the story goes that baby me used to put his hand into
the alsatian's gob to try and pull the dog's tongue out
and speak with it; well, the hand that did that is still harsh on typos.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 7:22 AM UTC
i could be told a worldwide amount of praises
and then be gifted a lifetime of abraises
feeling nearly the same throughout my phases
learning how to collocate the right phrases
i'm prolific in procrastination
hence becoming the opposite of a cation
i hope i can acquire an alsatian
to make me stable
there's no telling
when i will be able
to suffice
and be looked at like gneiss
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 10:14 PM UTC
i might be cruel at times, but one thing is for sure: truth always is, esp. when drinking.
i find the concept of the "rhetorical" question slightly
bewildering,
it's simple enough -
whenever a "rhetorical" question is asked
you rarely hear a counter -
the person asking the "rhetorical" question
in all instances continues the "conversation" -
by a rhetorical question i'm sure the implication
states (as asked): that i invite you into
the discussion - and, from what i've heard or seen,
that's rarely the case!
why ask a rhetorical question when only
the rhetorician asking the question is the only
person answering it?
the smug punctuation mark and cliche that
a "rhetorical" question has become is just that,
a semicolon in a monologue...
how about asking a solipsistic question?
you know, pierce the membrane, get someone
out of their head, out of the pronoun
hemisphere - and into: hey, john, what's your
take on it?
to ask a persuading question to later add
that it is a "persuading" question, does not
really invoke a persuasive counter answer -
this entire "rhetorical" question is a pompous
double-under-cut against dialectical fluidity -
fuck's sake, people had to found debating societies
to speak in godot's terms,
and as ever, a man in his 30s and a man in
his 70s, and a park bench,
is all it takes to be civil...
obviously the 30s man asking permission
of the 70s man if he can continue drinking
his beer and smoking a cigarette.
rhetorical my ***
just say it plainly: it's not a question,
it's a self-empowering answer -
to continue the monologue -
there is no such thing as a "rhetorical" question,
simply because once the "question" is asked,
it's swept under the carpet -
because whenever a rhetorical "question"
is asked, it's embedded in a quick-answer dynamic
of the person making such a bogus request...
no one has ever answered a "rhetorical" question,
simply because the only person who can
answer such a question, is the rhetorician himself...
codswallop... that's what it is...
it's also called the barometer tactic of
checking if you're insane, when you talk to yourself
when you're alone...
hazelnuts 'n' all...
by the way... you want to stage a horror movie
scene? have a drink, no, have lots of drinks,
drink the whole **** bottle of wine...
but! but...
have a mirror in front of you -
nothing shows as much truth as a drunk
narcissus -
then again, if it was a puddle of *****
do you think he would have fallen in love
with his visage?
like any mug of a man after five pints and
six shots later: she was a 4 when i began,
but now? she's a tenner, an alsatian stunner!
oh right, they always say: it's not a rhetorical
question... so?
it's not really a question at all,
is it?
it's a self-serving answer...
and that always seemed to bother me,
why ask a question you already know
the answer to? oh, right: to gain rhetorical
momentum, and double-up on hushing
the oppositional argument.
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 11:26 AM UTC
December, end
of year, end of something,
my acquaintance will be forgot.
Ode to divorce, if we were hitched,
but hey! To a new beginning.
Night like charcoal
on windows. Out of bed,
coffee, new machine, shiny black
juddering awake,
spurting caffeine
into the vacant cup.
You’re doing my head in, you know that?
Yesterday’s game, lobbing
words, ping-pong tiff, oh
you didn’t think I’d forget?
Regret it? No. I was on top.
A dog barks.
I think of my grandpa’s Alsatian,
bounding tennis-ball-in-mouth
when I’m fifteen, hands sticky
with slobber, for a second,
when you were unknown.
I sip, finish, got new batteries,
make that gawky move
with the jacket, slip on trainers.
I take my Soviet Kitsch, Sigur Rós,
and your Killers. After all, the latter
is how it began, ‘it’ being us, your lips laced
with lager, my Dr. Peppered self
gushing with excitement
at being out of the house.
*Didn’t peg you for a fan…
I guess I’m not what I seem…*
ain’t that the truth darlin’? Everything
will be alright. Look
at me now, opening the door so quietly,
cold latching onto my skin
like I’m a magnetised substance.
I like how you don’t know.
Ginger cat scurries from under a car.
I think it’s running away too, running
from us. Right idea ****
You know **** means kiss and ‘tom’
means empty in Swedish? I think of that
now, funny how a strange thought
can leapfrog to the front of your mind.
I can’t drive, you can, but you’re asleep.
Boy, you’ll be wondering
where I am, but I was never
there anyway, really, I don’t think.
Hours from the shock of me, gone,
for reasons unknown,
a magic trick with
Carbon Monoxide in my ears,
your Brightside too.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
A large Alsatian barks at a passerby stranger
as the pond geese honk sensing grave danger
Trudges back home a rangy lone ranger.
Big and little aubergines cast a purple shade
In the twilight birdsong begins to fade
Night makes navy-blue of the greenery's jade.
Wolves howl in the distance
Panthers prowl near pig pens
Ocelots growl around the dens.
Dolphins perform in the aquatic circus
Kids count on the time-old abacus
All in all the miracle of creation's fabulous
Elsewhere the morn dawns upon wee ladybirds
And shepherds go about grazing their hungry herds.
A rare sight of starfishes settle upon beach pebbles
Pink salmon in a see-through lake breath out bubbles
Bombed by tech; corpses found in debris and rubbles!
Wild species lurk in the murky forest
Stands tall and hovering high mount Everest
A chance to enjoy nature at its very best!
Admit it O' mankind no one can ever be
at par with your and my versatile Creator
The billions of species is far too extraordinary
He single-handedly created all that variety in nature.
For even the clever human who invented the radio
did not as well model the computer.
The one who designed my dresser couldn't design my patio
It'd be rare for a shoemaker to also be a tutor
But God He made both ant and elephant
and there's absolutely nothing that He can't.
Mar 10, 2020
Mar 10, 2020 at 2:48 AM UTC
This is tale of Daring Do,
Indeed, a true tale for you,
I was walking my fluffy dog one day,
Chanced upon an aggro dog along the way,
It assailed my little fur,
Really bad, not even a stir,
So I battled the Alsatian and won!
Saved my fur friend number one!
Yes, not bad for this old lady,
Walking fur under trees so shady,
That's my tale of Daring Do,
Indeed, a true tale for you.....
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
Crustacean
At the
Bus station
Frustration
Of a
Just Haitian
Castration
Of an
Alsatian
Internationalization
Of
Telecommunications
Worship
Of a
Satan
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 1:23 AM UTC
why even attack,
slyly creep under
or even parasitical nibble
at a figurine
that in 100 years will (
gain impetus akin
to an Alexander the Great... ?
a joke of a surname... )
when you have
all the grey
areas of an erwin lambert
to mind...
the joke that was ******
that became the mythological
romance akin to Attila...
the congested mouth of
human history,
lacerated, cancerous,
tooth-rot
and a tongue of gangrene,
nothing, but theatre,
surviving;
give it 100 years...
and no sooner the moths
that might agitate the flame...
but all they grey-mass-in-between...
ihre vater, die "wenigscherz"...
how these children
sum up the evil
in one but man...
peddlestooled into the lime
from the cameo...
dictator helpless before
dictatorial mass of bureucrats...
hier! hier ihre eisenvorhang!
break the rank
of the patron of bureucrats
(herr Kant)...
and place
the sztylet of Brutus,
with a semi-patricide scorn into...
a nail within
the hanging frame of
a dandy crux...
a feeling akin to:
castrating a pedegree Alsatian:
shining teeth...
pumped teeth...
impersonal the gnashing...
most of the time i imagine
myself reincarnated
in a theatre of a castrated
rottweiler...
making stretched-clown-masks
from strangers' skins
of childrens' faces...
just for kicks...
mind you...
apparently the N.S.A.
has all the personal data briefing
whether or not...
i'm jihadi material...
or just a fantasist /
fetishist...
good to know that even I,
do not have knowledge,
of a minority report;
must have whisked passed me
on a feline whim of
teasing a whisker before
a fetish for: leisuring a Mexican
in cleaning a dilemma's worth
of a paw;
prepare th mince...
an obese exhibit with
Alzheimer's...
during warfare,
war dogs & dogs require
the most contaminated meats,
to add to their expected
ferociousness...
ha ha...
the Nazis didn't insaminate
their subjects with
feline *****
why is Frankenstein
so pale...
and transgenderism, so, norm?
May 18, 2018
May 18, 2018 at 8:33 PM UTC
it's like these
"nazis" never petted
a ******* dog...
schnell...
woof-what?
well yeah...
jetzt...
hier!
these "nazis" never
managed
to pet a dog...
of course
i'm apprehensive
given the current
people
are burning books...
the current
people have
never managed
to cite
the **** cite
of calling a dog...
it was
always either
hier
or jetzt!
or?
fuß!
english people
were never good
at petting dogs,
cats?
they can do that...
dogs?
n'ah... not so good...
retards...
never attempt
to pretend the stature
of ****
among the english,
when the english,
will do nothing more,
than...
covert...
their comfy stature...
wankers...
and slacked *****
all the way...
*besagt, fuß!
jetzt, borke!*
at least that lets me know
there's a Jew,
happy,
beside Europe...
in Israel...
eh...
whittle Rommel knows...
please please let
me tease tease
the basic
******** out of these people?!
i've owned cats for too
long...
i'm being way too nostalgic
about owning a dog...
i need a dog...
i want a dog...
i need a dog...
chicken wings
eaten in absence of
the curiosity
of a family circle
is simply,
not enough...
cats will not do...
i need a dog... i need...
******* rubric
of
*besagt! hier!
jetzt! fuß!
borke!
zahn stand leise!
beißen...*
i miss... petting dogs...
it's like
someone amputated
the already existing limb
of mine...
and fed it...
to some existentialist
chimps...
me...
i... much prefer
petting a dog,
notably an Alsatian
shepherd...
cats...
ugh... cats is such an
anglo-saxon "thing"...
you know when
you walk into a forest
at night...
and...
your shadow just simply
isn't enough,
for company,
and you're like...
a bad metaphor of Hades
trying to find Cerberus?
yeah... that's me.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 1:33 AM UTC