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abolitionism
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Isms are every where
chaitnyanand Dec 2012
****
Bitter tears of pain,
this anguish of my broken soul.
Burning skin with scratches,
pride that will never be whole.
This unending nightmare
of being surrounded by wolves.
Devouring my flesh and innocence,
piece by piece, part by part.
Execrable faces changing like street lights,
lecherous with sarcastic grin, oozing with saliva.
That invidious stench of animalism,
penetrating every pore.
Noxious vandalism breaking every
fiber and destroying the very core.
Thrown on streets, like a soiled cloth,
smeared with ***** and blood.
Unconscious, unclothed, shattered
with unending seizures and spasms.
Wounds heals but scars remains,
And whenever I will touch them
I will relieve the pain.
This question of being woman,
I’ll ask again and again and again.
They say hang’em, but it will
Only be freedom from there hellish mind.
Why not let them be among thousand men
Who **** them, again and again.
Sometimes we have to speak
The language they understand.

bold(Poem dedicated to the victim of **** in Delhi.)**bold
Vernarth says: "Give me some milk, and I will be the son of Zeus, perhaps as a means in everything and not a whole of which I never thought...!"

Wonthelimar from the Boedromion brought the arrows that Zefian brought, they brought the sleeping bodies of winter to the lap of the spring Boedromion, crossing the lines from spring to winter in the cycle that went directly to the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar. Were they discreet detached arrows that he had thrown into the sky and did not return? but if in the rooms, and in the animalism stages that made the duty of rejoicing at the ****** of the Telesterion.  Wonthelimar being once more re-looted, before starting the works of the temple of the Megaron Áullos Kósmos, he returns to the cavern of Chauvet Wonthelimar. It distanced itself from the contravention of Apollo and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points of the zenith, starting with the first two arrows that are placed in the bowstring, each one belonging to trajectories from north to south and the other two that were again violated with the arc of the stormy East, to launch the arrows from east-west with limits of southern magnetism. He carried in his belongings "The Iberian Rings", which would be the migration to the cardinals and points where the Megaron of Vernarth would be exactly, arguing that the phalanges of Zefian would be ordered in Syntropia and organic chaos in Patmos, Pythagorean proportions would be made, in essences of numbers that idly advanced in the temporal steps of Wonthelimar that mobile became of religious arrows and of the Mercurial Ambrosia of the Cinnabar, to help him with the most insightful points of the Constellation of Capricornus.  Zefian's tendency was one of evident delight after the bowstring being pulled, for phantasmagoric existence; presuming that where they fell would be the beginning of the storms that would originate the Állos Kósmos Megarón, for late courts imposed from a cosmos, which was directed by committing itself to its will and from a doubtful Vestal god advocating to associate with hospitable Canephores, such as Vestal Virgins of Roman bilocation, and quantum parapsychology of the dreaded in-between-tale alive that boils back in the arrows that had not yet fallen, and did not know their whereabouts. Like plates or serial hosts that were evoked from where the origin of the Universe was broken, to open towards the Duoverso contravened organic, vigorous and in anti-scorch to the divine celestial origin as a parameter of *****-ovule, rather in eonic instances in the fireplace of Hestia, running in eternities to vast volumes of light-years.

From the medrones that grow in the Nyons massifs, the Seven Ibic Rings were established.

Ibic 1: "The first was from the initiation of Wonthelimar and brought purity, for all who needed him and were visiting in the dark, and then he would find the light when he left the cave alive if he was accepted."
Ibic 2:” He was guided by Vlad Strigoi in the priesthood center on his shelves with the Chiroptera, and in excess of the mercurial ambrosia for the purpose of energizing the Tsambika Cinnabar.  Having all the protocol of Transylvania and eternity with the waters of Antiphon Benedicts”.
Ibic 3: "From the Eygues, the waters evaporated for healings of the tormented initiatory processes of raising the four Arrows of Zefian, to indicate the zenith of the Megaron."
Ibic 4: “This ring was from the antlers of Wonthelimar, here they wore the oikos or threads of Gold from Orphi, for the Himation and investiture to anoint the body of Vernarth, bringing the aerial atmospheres of the Alps and Ida as a complement to Mycenae- Aldaine ”.
Ibic 5: "This piece of metal speaks of the fifth plasmic element that would contract the universe and the Hyperdisis galaxy, to elevate it to Vernarth's neurological and Duoversal hyper brain twinned to the Mashiach."
Ibic 6: "It is the sixth piece of crowns of Kafersesuh, bringing the pollinations of the Lepidoptera, for the central stage of the investiture under the gloom of Hellenika and Theoskepasti."
Ibic 7: “It is the grave voice of the Cinnabar and the Antiphon Benedictus, together with the Lenten fast of all the hoarse voices, which inquire about the true phoneme and photon of divine mass light, to build the Áullos Kósmos. From here the purification will go up in synchrony through the final growth medron, up to the millimeter shoulder of the square meters assembly, which will illustrate the Megaron´s Acrotera  "

Ellipsis - Parapsychological Regression Marielle Quentinnais year of the Lord 1617

Wonthelimar was transmigrating to Chauvet, but the Pontias wind carried him from Nyons to Avignon, encountering filigree by Raymond Bragasse; a Former Dominican priest of Cathar descent. He always drenched himself in the estuaries of the Rhone, which came from the Saint Gotthard massif; being master and lord of dreams and of the breaking curses of the despicable administrators of the house of God, and of the Antipopes in Avignon.
Wonthelimar heard voices from some parapets babbling in the parapsychological regression of Vetnarth, on August 4, 1617, when Klauss Ritkke was found cleaning the main stained glass window; he heard heated dialogues between a Friar and a Gentleman, who was once an assistant to the clergy. Klauss could come closer and hear his conversation more clearly, until Friar Andrés, muttering, demanded indulgence from Raymond Bragasse, one or the other.

Raymond Bragasse Says: “My lord Wonthelimar; what grace has brought us together here in the middle of the Pontias, between hopes and reforms!”

Wonthelimar responds: "Your flight is a spell of the grace of André Panguiette, who will find us again. How many times with hope I fought to reform you Raymond... Oh Virga ac Diadema  sed Diabolus...!! Oh, ****** the devil smiled...!!

Raymond replies: “It is a major question to live if in something I have failed, take me to the sulfurous emanations of Hell. But my faith lies moldy at the bottom of the sea, a sacred myth of my truth..., and of my beloved Marielle...! There are fifteen thousand demons that possess my body... fifteen thousand demons for attacking the sacred mystery of the Holy Rosary...! Marielle was my light, my Edenic Eve, an admirable land. Now, she is my spell, my stubbornness or my constant sharp bleeding, without knowing where it has to pass...? I still remember that night, that gloomy night, renouncing my final vows of faith and the consecration of my soul. I broke my ties and ecclesiastical chores, all for Marielle, a noble descendant of the Quentinnais. I would never believe such regret in my destiny. I did love her, but her misfortune knew me. When I approached the edge of her house that night, I entered through the kitchen window. All were asleep, except for the albiceleste reflection of the last death throes of the deadly round of Quentinnais Mansion. I was thinking of rescuing her and saving something from those cheeks kissed by me, but her heart disease dried up his heart and her lungs. It is still possible to recall the last roses that I brought into her hands, they danced with her along with the hymn and the old dirge of the sleight of hand made by the monk, along with the cartomancy plays settling the minute of taking her into darkness, with her beautiful bare feet. What a pain, I could not rescue her from her, and death was dispossessing her! Her parents hated the mere fact of having her heart ruled by an impious priest, so I turned to the pagan and dark gods, to heal Marielle, and her heart to transplant it for mine. Since that day, I continue to burn in a polysatanic hell, to take out the little breath of goodness, and seize the transparent liquids that plague her existence and her serene metallic Diadem..."

Friar André Panguiette upon learning that his great friend possessed by the Devil would fall into some endemic evil infection...; Evil endemic to his love, he crossed himself when he saw that he became a horrible being. The jumbled leaves in the garden were transformed into Bible sheets torn from their bindings and fillings, the wrinkled ***** Saints slid down their columns, the sky proclaimed hemorrhages and the wind oozed foul gases, which in the firmament sprouted in clots of clots on the Papal House of Avignon. Fray Andrés, threw the rosary on the neck of the possessed person, and asked the Demons who were they most afraid of...? The demons answered this question, screaming and falling vertically down the central nave... they went down and flew!

Wonthelimar induces: “From that moment, you and Marielle would cross their gazes closely and love each other. In the following minutes of Pentecost, the two of them went alone to sit on the bench on the banks of the blessed wind that caressed their profiles, as if plotting to unite one with the other. Raymond effusively kissed her; he drew her to him, believing he sensed an eventual and sacrilegious separation from her. This is how it happened when François Quentinnais surprised them...:

François Quentinnais: With this example, you have provoked my anger Marielle...! Hundreds of men like me would react like this when they saw my daughter in the arms of whom until recently, she was hugging God!

Marielle: Father, I beg you for mercy, Raymond of precept sent a letter renouncing his vows!

When the soul of Marielle was entrusted, Raymond escaped seconds before shattered, he did not tolerate the nonexistence of Marielle; vegetating rotten grass of the estuary, emerald swallowed by fire. In a purely inorganic state, Raymond walked away from the mansion, walked through the leaden mountains, and on the cruise he walked through the walnut trees in whose scarlet pods the intense cold of the esplanade howled. The almond trees cracked a baritone muezzin, which one day he wanted to go there, but could never reach the east. His beard reddened, his nails were like ram's horns, and his also reddish hair at the ends of it had black tulips. His clothes turned gray just like his eyebrows, and his breath smelled of nurse sewers of the black plague, the dry flow of his voice announced monosyllables, thus he purged his pain from town to town, from house to house, everyone quarreled with him, and then they were exasperated by kicking him out. Until in June 1617, caravans of people started from the southern town of Avignon, escaping the flames of angry soldiers of the crusades. The fleeting townspeople carried on their banners the inscription... INRI. On the other side, they carried the cross and a colorful coat of arms that in the lower corner said Siccidemy. Then, there Raymond opened his bruised eyes, unable to contain the recovered memory of him, between gunshots, screams, sobs, and screams, the hundreds of steps that were heard around him, led him to tear and save his life. In an instant of stillness, he found himself surrounded by people until one of them took him into his arms to hydrate his mouth. We are Albigensian, and you... Who are you?

Raymond replied: “I fled in search of a miracle that could save a beloved being. I used to call myself Raymond, now I don't know what name to go by. I fled, but I had to face the situation, even having acted behind the back of the Church”. An Albigensian says: “The clergy have also believed that our sect has acted behind the back of the Church. However, his powers and his government have registered absolutism within Christendom”. Another Albigensian says; “We seek the establishment of ancient Christianity, we deny the existence of purgatory, the importance of rituals, clerical organizations and the possession of goods by the clergy. And for this reason, we have been expelled from our lands, from our homes, our children have paid for the Sacred Inquisition, in the hands of those who one day... baptized with blessed water”.

It was on June 18, 1617, the Albigensian fugitives were besieged in Montlimar. The Argentine crosses gleamed like dogs eager to bite the enemy. The open-minded Albigensians gathered together with Luzbel, who floated on a calypsigenic cloud. Raymond and the others piled up essences in the fuels to start the pact, after this event François Quentinnais answered negatively, and strongly took her daughter by her hand, pulling her sharply to the float. The horses slip their hooves before the sloping pastures carpeted by tiny Calypso flowers; the mayoral pressed his thin lips, also raising his shoulders, so as not to hear the despotic cries of Monsieur François. As for Reverend Raymond, he could be seen crying silently, accompanied by late halos of the luminosity of the final and sad day. Sorrows and regrets dislodged his bones that underwent violent arthrosis, populating his body in a sedentary lifestyle and irritation. I myself say Wonthelimar, I am the one who carries Marielle's love in me, I am your Raymond. Remember that night that...: "When the monk retired to pray, you stormed the bedroom, and uttered Marielle..., Marielle:," wake up, in vain I fear to leave without your divine voice. Marielle, what do you have...? I don't think your father's impure will blind your eyes to not see me, or he ripped your sweet voice to not name me...? ".

The Albigenses resigned to the spell, their adherents had largely been reduced, only ten or twelve remained. That later they fled from Montelimar escaping to the west, crossing the enchanted Rhone. The Siccidemy troops mutilated the last demonized Albigensians; nothing would help for their lives, everyone would bleed except the group that fled with Raymond. For several days they wandered the Cevennes plateau, provisioned themselves in Montpellier, and arrived in Carcassonne on July 20, 1617. Little could they remain here, since the congregation of Santo Domingo, without distinction, attacked the population decimated by the crusaders? What a regrettable exodus for Raymond with his black flock fleeing from where his feet laid hope! Twenty-two days of bitter flight, and everywhere the crosses, until Raymond decides to separate and go back to Avignon. He takes a  sailboat off the shores of Narbonne in the middle of a stormy gray day, in his bitter journey he dreams of being born again and having Bethlehem as a lineage, on July 23 of the same year, he lands in the waters of Marseille. When he was discharged from the port, he undertook a light journey to Avignon, near Arles, thousands of fellow citizens started from the hosts of King Godfred of Bouillon, the nobles cooperated by revealing the mobs that gathered in the city, the Hussites, and the Waldensians; Iconoclast heretics, fighting fierce battles. The crusaders took the offensive and tried to prevent them from burning their sacred images, which had already been torn to pieces throughout Gaul. Raymond, distant, helped the most serious, he was afraid of being confused by one of them, it was better to hide in the Cathedral of Arles. Upon entering, he felt a dizzy ***** that shone timidly in the hands of his performer... it was a little girl who, when looking at him, named him Dionysus..., demi-god, save us! Raymond fell into a daze, and falling into a dream that told him of barbaric actions, with masked fellow citizens lying neutral in their gestures, and suddenly angels revealed to him that they were looting the pantheons of Avignon, to burn the rosaries of the saints. Bereaved in their graves, some Albigenses exhumed the bodies of relatives related to the Clergy.

Raymond was sweating his hands and forehead, he struggled to get to the Quentinnais mausoleum, straining his precognition, he crossed the interdepartmental courtyard, he continued to haunt the packed pyramidal cypress trees and suddenly a lion-faced him dealing with a snake; with the symbolic image of the Quentinnais. He saw the slab desecrated, on whose horizon his Beloved Marielle slept. His skin prickled... it was the Iconoclasts avenging their own, with strong breaths he squeezed his hand, wanting to wake up... so it happened, he got up pushing the crowds that were holding him back, but his strength was growing. He rode a roan steed, in three bridles that he gave him he flew towards Avignon; his mount seemed to be a hot air balloon that flew with great dynamism. Raymond in his own painful station would moan his hand, his eyes; his legs creaked like the legs of the Pegasus that carried him fast.

Ellipsis Second Sequence Mausoleum Quentinnais

Finally, he arrives in the second parapsychological sequence, noting that Avignon was in ashes, takes the reins and immediately goes to the Quentinnais mausoleum, upon arrival, he appreciates several Albigenses committing crimes, dismounts, and runs screaming towards the defilers; he faced them with stakes, some demonized had to cut their throats, arriving in time to defend the remains of Marielle. For long hours he was with her alone, thinking about what to do, Raymond knew that he could not revive her, so he had no more redress than to invoke Luzbel, who this time revealed her true and evil personality as ruler of the evil spirits.

Raymond: Dear Luzbel, millions of Canaanites looked up at the altitude representing you; today I will do the same from here and beyond the solid roof of the mausoleum! Bring Marielle to life, come and twist her cheeks, since without her! I have had to live all this to protect myself from suffering. Since Pentecost, he hadn't been physically close to her. Now I need her... well, I lynched her...! Beelzebub making him believe that she was Luzbel, ordered him to extract her heart!

Beelzebub: “In Montlimar, I saw volcano crests arrive in such failure of my envoys. But it will not be repeated, and for it to be so, I entrust you to take out the heart of your beloved and tear the eyes from her that saw your gaze. Then open your chest with this dagger, I will draw your blood and heart, to moisten the heart of your Marielle. And finally, I ask you to bring a lip to me to enchant her lips in lilies. "

Raymond: “opinion accepted... that's the way I'll do it!
Being dominated by the spell, Raymond abided by every step dictated by the supposed that Luzbel lived difficult moments since he was a good day, but so many thousands of years of living in darkness, and in the midst of punishment that violently changed his mind. Justo Raymond carried the body in his arms so that the ritual would culminate. Luzbel snatched his beloved from him and with laughter he vanished.

Beelzebub says Mortal fool! Don't you see that I am Beelzebub; chief of the evil spirits and the guide of the Albigenses, Hussites, and Waldensians? Never invoke me in the Mausoleums, here betrayal triumphs. Now a Quentinnais will be my image on earth, giving her the doubt of doing well for many centuries.

Beelzebub took his beloved away, leaving the rosary wrapped in soft tulle next to the scapular in his hands. Raymond cringed in pain, and in an act of madness scratched his face. Poor Raymond, he told himself...!  That in himself he found no reason to live. He left the mausoleum at dawn looking around every corner in case he saw Marielle lost in his sight since recently. He was exhausted; he remained after the confession that was delayed too much because the events that took place in the Pantheon, in a way pretended to be the events that Raymond inexhaustibly narrated. And in a way, he feared for his life at that time unknown, by the mouth of some hidden place they documented his bitter inability to do well, and that he would fall under Raymond's curse. At this moment, Raymond lay lying on the banks of the Pantheon, from that day on, he did not know about the days, he only existed at night and he did not socialize with anyone, his madness sowed hatred for everything sacred and infernal, he dealt with the Holy Rosary found a magical find, until one day a new one reached her ears; she was referring to some crusaders who had intervened in Jerusalem when it was invaded by Saladin. A certain Frederick Barbarossa was drowned in Sicily by..., "Wonthelimar", who with the Diadem of a woman Seized the island of Iconium. This was the other new one that enlivened his spirit. This greatly surprised the worn Raymond, suspecting that the kidnapper of his beloved might be in cahoots. And as the news continued to hear her, it was said that her sacred beliefs allowed her to continue undercover, in order to continue for a long time, even in the other attacked city that would be Nice. He signed to the limit, for centuries that will serve us in future generations…, suffocating the iconoclasts.

The poppies moved from north to south through the Provencal regions. The oceanic eastern Gods Makara's in tumultuous pyramidal ships descended legions and escorts, to aid Raymond's farewell at Nice. At twelve o'clock at night, the prophetic edict of the Lord would be fulfilled, here the last words of that chimerical episode were received, and he feared that until then a first descendant of Raymond; he became a statue in ignitions of the reborn underworld. The Diadem will be transport and refuge, as for Wonthelimar he said doubtfully…; I think he is nothing more than the deviant Beelzebub, who with optical retractable eyes, in Montlimar disguised the initial in double V..., Wonthelimar, but I was wrong! Wonthelimar already transmigrated to Raymond, staying on the banks of a stream, with nausea he regurgitated his underlying spirit state from the lyrical crust. His mouth unsheathed the most diverse and heterogeneous chronolites; Parasitized dust in pieces of temporary stone, flowing in disciples, quarantine fragments, in marriages by sinuous water. Raymond slapped his thighs in anticipation of throwing up there. His blatant, incisive alienation took over his will, with inherent crickets singing to her in isolation from him, shining his conscience, and residing in the grace of the Holy Grail. The conquest of the earthly system amputated the Andromeda Amygdale; Constellation-illusion and spouse of Perseus, who is mysterious vehicles of the solvent Grail, kept him tied to Raymond. Deafening roars erupted from the earth pits, and the mass of the mountain hung above the trees, pseudo purple and violet rays bombarding sarcophagi all over Nice.

Wonthelimar: “Since this day I have been boiling in a polysatanic hell! The Ibex picked me up from the surroundings of the Pantheon and the Quentinnai mansion, where I have never been a human again, only an Ibex in the Chauvet cavern. Thanks to the herds of goats that adopted me that I have been able to bear their pain by taking refuge in the darkness of all times, which never transpires in the past, present, and future? Now I have come in this re-location, to reorder Vernarth's parapsychology, which you are too, and who has never been able to overcome the pains of love, even beyond pale death! "

From that moment, the shadow of Heracles is seen among them, encouraging them to be part of the gods, and of the feasts of the beautiful Ankles of Heba. Thus the words redecorated them both amid the thick fog, in Avignon. Afterward, Wonthelimar left and left Raymond to continue in Marielle's darkness to the end of the world. The blister day and the scorching night, thought one of the other in constant profit, for the good of finding them in the Kalijoron..., the well of the divine light of Eleusis, for those who rest in naive peace in the face of cunning, and the decorum of the gentle dialogues in the comedies of the exceptions, after crossing the Nile, with tributers collecting the faults of the gods, or else with horrific screams that would make them prey to an imaginary Gorgon.

Wonthelimar was now going after the “Íbics Ring”, which were left in the Chauvet cavern, by some Iberian tribes of the early Neolithic age, who were on their way out desecrated the cavern with ****** in the orbit of the Ortho Heliacal. From here, in the last goal, they reach the darkness where the vampire bats were terrified to see them with their eyes in mercurial ambrosia, which enveloped them with the gums in each one as they approached in the sound of night hunger arrests, next to the betrothal death brought by the darkness of the Strigoi, in lost wanderings of their wills following the search for the panescalm sheds, which carried human chiropterans for the regions of Transylvania, subjected to distinctions and exactions of Climate Changes. From here the bronze spear Dorus of Vernarth would go to the right hand of Wonthelimar, to shield him, and to put celery-foot feet on the ineffable Kanti steed, with certain renown of Eacid of Achilles stirring up hops and low bottoms of the mineral aquifer at the base of the den. In a quick figurative gesture of Achilles, Wonthelimar passes his right hand over his nose, noticing that lights trickled from the Auriga and the Automedon that came by order of Drestnia to provide aid to him, and to rescue the Iberian Ring Eagles, to transport them to the cove of the Mound of the Profitis Ilias.

In the eternity of the noise, Vlad Strigoi is in solidarity with him and gives him lightly from the bottom of the final flow of the bilges of his panescalm, condensing air of Gaseous Gold, in Pan-Hellenic regions, and in the Valdaine regions sixty-seven kilometers from that mountain area very close to Avignon. The infected zones of physical virtue were divided into micro-regions that were compressed before Wonthelimar merged into micro space within the cavern, to abandon the burning furnaces that came alongside his interpersonal goodness, in the metaphysical transfer of darkness, and of the wicked gentlemen drawing him towards the Parasha or Parashot of the Torah, so as not to be attracted as a human to ******-emotional implications or manipulations, who will snoop in growing voices in the voids of the cavern, and in the failing anxieties of the pompous and ancient effigy tarred from Hades. Wonthelimar limps superlatively with some nervous leave, but eager to apprehend the Ibic Rings. After the Benedictus antiphons were seen coming out of his chest, they were iridescent in magenta and mordoré for those who are ibex, always hiding under the goat epidermis, sponsoring happiness practices, one and the other after their vicissitudes in a cyclical mystery classroom. On the plains, you can only see haze and the experimental change when leaving everything in the hands of those who die without rainwater and bagel, in the most absolute solitude, amidst rocks that will never and never be reconverted, less into mid-plains giving terrifying compliments on flower baskets that stink of wandering Wonthelimar clones… not being!

Wonthelimar with Kanti, they emigrate from the cavern of Chauvet in their reminiscences, standing out from the voids and invocations of Raymond in unfinished by filling space in the hearts of both. Heading southeast towards Patmos with the Ibic Rings on his bracelets, wrapped in Vernarth's Himathion for his investiture!
Wonthelimar  Ibic Rings
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2015
when women speak of eternity, my masculine immortality says: do i have to?! why? because my masculine mortality didn’t.*

that a prophet’s nation is not without honour, but among the nation’s
ownership of itself in what’s being compared as nation-defining,
and thus dishonour with a nation’s history claiming more than
the nation’s honour in terms of taught examples lost
in emotion guaranteed by pride and jealousy,
so telling the history of poland
via the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
as defining poles...
nest well in a foreign tongue in order to keep your mother’s,
should your father’s execution of foreign tounging disgrace your mother...
but no talk of honour... should a nation’s honour be
defaced to localise individualism...
thus localise individualism and deface to entrust such a nation
with the concept of globalisation that f. d. r. could have oppossed
in the riddle of isolationalism that ended the great depression
and the phobia of the last years of misguided capitalism
carving the futurism of domestication of anything but the sexually adequate:
consciously-careful animalism of grunt and snorkle and bitten snouts
of the animalism correcting the 90 angle into 3.2 children multiplier
as perfected village people: 4kg of potato, 3 children, 2 pints of milk...
34 sundays kneeling in a church in aid of worship to dogmatise the pyramidal prism
as an aversion to staircases nonetheless climbed
to echo arthritis oiled for the perfected propaganda caste.
C Dec 2010
You subtly strum soft passionate symphonies of pathos
and are wordless in casual relapse
to canals of bliss
and carnal bane-
Schisms of cannibalism eat at my soft humanity
with cries of animalism-
that are ****, animated in oil.

I consume you on dull nights
because you are there no matter what
And I hate the way you purse your lips
a stenosis of encapsulated disapproval
even pursed in pleasure
Your closed eyes give away more than
any assuming part of fleshy eyelids
slits of white shine as unfaithful mirrors
reflecting my own narcissism.

Afterward in comfortable silence-
two quotation marks still hang naked
trapped in the smell of sweat,
wrapped elaborately around
            "I love you"
standing like an alabaster sentinel
but acting more as a crossing guard,
dictating my need
manicsurvival Aug 2013
My eyes weren't burned blind with hot oil
I am not a brainwashed cult member
I do not think ignorance is bliss
And I see lies and truth as night and day
Some people speak to me
Like I've never walked outside my door
As if the truth could **** me
"But I'll tell you anyway"
We've all heard that one before
I know what's happening
I know that I am not the only person you're seeing
I know that you're vicious in your animalistic ways
The animalism that society identifies as "manly"
I'm sure others have received the text
The phone call
The words that make us feel needed
The words that make me feel like I am doing something I want to do
Even if I don't
I know that you're not perfect
I know that your mind is obsessive
And compulsive
And meticulous like neat stacks of paper
Or freshly cut grass
I still don't know how you value me
As a person
As an object
As a heart
As a brain
It could be any of the listed above
And even though you're not the perfect gentleman
I understand that people aren't perfect
I'm not blind to your mistakes
No one is covering my ears
Or hindering my senses
The truth is right in front of me
You are the truth
People look at me
As if I am an orphaned child
A recent widow
Still in denial because of the trauma
That life has presented to us
I know that you can be horrible
Cruel and abusive
At the same time
I know you can make me feel like the only person who has ever rested in your arms
And even if I'm not the only one
I know I'm not the only one
I accept it
Because your presence makes me feel better about myself
Your face motivates me to do well in all I do
Your body encourages me to run for miles and do hundreds of lunges
Maybe I'm using you just as much as you may be using me
We're messed up and mortified and scarred
"You can do better" they say
"You deserve someone who will treat you like a princess because you're intellectual and pretty"
What if I don't want that
What if all I want is to complacently stay
In a place that I don't necessarily belong
But it feels right
So I do
And that's why they think I'm blind
Senseless
lily staples Apr 2013
The shadows scream like hyenas with excitement,
making sure no one else gets a peak at the demonstration.

A girl being devoured by a wolf can be quite a show.
Her flesh being torn piece by piece,
the results, cauterized skin and scratches that are beyond repair.

Now at war with herself, she starts drowning.
Every night praying and replaying that ****** mess.
A blame game begins.
The fingers being pointed are her own,
towards herself.

Seeking safety in strangers,
smoking reds, drinking box wine and loose lips
led the wolf and the girl to a place beyond the pool house.
A place where animalism was profoundly thick in the air,
penetrating every pore.

Her wounds healed but scars remained.
Did she bring it upon herself?
It is in a wolf’s nature to seek out the weak and put them in their place.
The piercing disturbance brought the devil to play that night.

Waking up to the cold reality.
It’s just a scar,
but it’s enough to keep her going.
Her friends open arms at the end of the race are her last hope,
and she’s clawing her way to the finish line.
ALC Apr 2019
We are two wolves
Tearing at each other’s flesh
Biting in with savage need
Pushing and pulling for dominance.

We are two wolves
Working off of undiluted instincts
Of euphoric animalism.

We rip away our human pelts
And reveal our battle worn skins
Blemished with past wars and historic victories.

We are two wolves
Growling with pleasure and an insatiable appetite.
Digging our incisors into each other’s flesh
And grazing our claws down one another’s backs.

We score each other’s bodies
With nips, kisses, and tongue
Demanding one to admit the others rule.
To surrender and go docile.

But we are two wolves
Fighting each other
Each step of the way
With unadulterated ravishment.
-ALC April 4, 2019
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
take money out of the equation, and sack all the waiters and return to tribalism, the former statement of non-intellectual socialism, the sort of inherent: in us there is a togetherness, no more service from strangers in the hierarchy of enriching a piece of metal or a wavy rectangle of paper with “necessary” symbolism of authority of the status quo... but that’s not going to happen... the pickpocket picts are no more... the normalising normans glared at the hastings pinnacle and integrated with the saxon women... the saracens became surnames in poland... actually that last one is very true... a branch of my family has the surname saracen.*

so i’m reading this article
and i’m hardly debasing myself,
it’s not that i’m referring
to sartre’s negation of certain things
whether animate and essential or
inanimate and existential... in that formula:
i deny therefore i am... because i can’t deny my existence...
and 2000 years down the line i’ll be pitchfork
argument in an atheist’s mouth anyway (nothing is certain in the realm of cognition, hence the cartesian invocation of doubt),
it's not like i'm referring to inappropriate pronoun usage...
so **** a doodle do... twang the strings on the mandolin...
i’m referring to this classical reference of the shy literary figure
unable to spark conversation with strangers...
god, i really love strangers, and talking to them!
why? there is no personal history, there’s no past,
there are no reference points... it’s just the moment and nothing else,
the perfect anonymity project...
not the matrix philosophy (easily invoked because
it has a flimsy plot-line and loads of images...
just what the doctor ordered for the english speaking masses
with a very naked orthography - i.e. if it’s on the internet
it’s not “real life...” as is this computer i’m using
it’s not even here!)
of using the deep web to join the rats and etc.;
i love talking to strangers, i can forget myself
and enter the realm of discretion about how within randomisation
of eggshell, yoke and cockroach there’s also the randomisation
of the interactants to balance out the need for a theological unit, god...
it’s great... it’s like... it’s like... life.
defining the genre of biography proper? never backtrack...
always sidetrack... i can’t be bothered living a life with cocktail parties
and romps and romantic comedies to look forward to
once all the animalism becomes domesticated and a
gym-session complaints column in a newspaper.
Mishka Dec 2013
The sun will rise tomorrow with that pure orange that fills the sky at dawn and awakens the birds who chirp us into semi-consciousness
And I will turn in my bed to face the darkness and whisper that life is magnificent
I won't remember that when I wake up

But it’s the subconscious thoughts that really count when the world is falling apart
We might lose ourselves and succumb to animalism but deep down we will always be there,
and what is more perfect than an object constantly at risk for breaking
We are these objects

Look in the mirror and witness your perfection
See the hands of god that once shaped your face embracing you still
Realise that you are bruised flesh and broken bone always healing and always being hurt
When aliens invade they will watch old movies and witness the archetype of humanity in each of us
They will wonder why we label each other when we all breath the same air and therefore contain bits of each other

Look in the mirror and realize you have done bad things but the beauty of life is that change is inevitable
For the good or the better
And that God probably wonders sometimes why he bothered making us
Ayesha Nadeem Jul 2018
A colourful candy bar,
Giving her warm fuzzies,

An angelic face,
experiencing a heaven sent,

A devilish face nearby with a malicious grin,
Ribboning lust in his heart,

Stepping towards a room full of toys,
Winning the child with petrol soaked perks,

**** of the door clicked,
Curtains being dropped,

The laughters altered to screams,
As a new leaf is turned,

Rapacious hold on the wrists,
Making the angel to vociferate,

Filthy hands and animalism,
Staining an innocent soul,

Carnal thirst being satisfied,
By victimising a child by libido,

Walls of the room tainted with a secret,
Childhood squirming in the corner,

Star shell wishes turning into coal,
Angels mourning,

Dolls gulping their tears,
Teddy bear covering his eyes with dismay,

A bruised piece of flesh and blood,
Stabbed from pain,

Butterfly peeking from a window,
Loses the colours of its wings,

The earth trembles terrifically,
As the sky detaches a star ! ⭐️

~ Ayesha Nadeem
Every single day I came to know about a child being treated brutally to fulfill ones filthy desires.My heart cries out whenever I see a child being sexually abused.
This poem is written to express the pain of a victim and to raise my voice against child abuse.
Luke Wilson Oct 2016
Life is not in love
Not in responsibility
Not in relationship
Not in friendship
Not in family
Not in marriage
Not in happiness
Not in security
Not in religion
Not in superstition
Not in imagination
Not in participation
Not in dreaming
Not in fighting
Not in peace
Not in solitude
Not in hiding
Not in showing
Not in justice
Not in morals
Not in humanity
Not in animalism
Not in canibalism
Not in politics
Not in leaders
Not in higher powers
Not in systems
Not in categories
Not in schools
Not in intelligence
Not in ignorance
Not in societies
Not in countries
Not in space
Not in place
Not in truth
Not in knowing
Not in learning
Not in caring
Not in sharing
Not in appropriation
Not in accordance
Not in order
Not in chaos
Not in problems
Not in solutions
Not in greatness
Not in failure
Not in achievement
Not in employment
Not in popularity
Not in economics
Not in presidency
Not in parliament
Not in length
Not in quality
Not in interference
Not in significance
Not in growth
Not in similarities
Not in change
Not in purpose
Not in awareness
Not in beliefs
Not in trust
Not in killing
Not in saving
Not in treating
Nor in creating.
Life is in living
Life is only simply in existing.
It's the perfect way to do it.
Just to exist.
Facing no other outcome but death.
Life means nothing really. The quicker you find that out, the more reassured and relaxed you'll feel. Stop worry about these things we come to face every **** day.
S Olson Aug 2017
a former lover, with blonde and boyish
sociopathic teeth devoured me
into him hungrily, equally
viciously, and as deeply
as I allege to know it is best
that I do not recognize him
--
four years and many changes have
made my once love into nihilistic animalism
--
me, ******* you detached in the backseat
like I have not whispered your full name
from the cusp of your pillow, memorizing
the south, east, and west points of your skull

if only I were more than a wolf in your belly now,
but you are no less than my original predator
---
when the hollow between our liberal, mutual mouth
is not dry and angry,
it floods beautifully.
Latreece Rose Jan 2015
The moon has a glistening glow
but sometimes it croaks like a crow
not a raven but
as if it is a frog.
Animalism?
A planet,
absurd.
Yet it breathes like a salmon
not with gills
but of lungs
the being of a human
somewhat less than the sun.
The moon can have traits
of anything living, I believe.
But I think everyone
would claim me as insane
so I shut my mouth
and eat some pig,
unclean,
while my eye sights the moon
in dance
as we spin
on earth.
Satsih Verma Sep 2016
It was a mixed affair
of love and hate.
You are in deep water
to engage in a dialogue.

Almost farce was the
black ice. Animalism was the―
same. It was ******
in one form or the other.

The landscape would be
remembered for illicit violence.
The ****** sea hides the remains
of midair collision.

The purple men talk of
casualities in war times. The
relocation of peace march was
a big mistake. The vultures―

refuse to move from the trees.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
hello, i'm Norman, or at least that's what i'd like to be called... i'm Norman the not normal... well... i wish i was also living in the 19th century, and had this desperate nostalgia for ancient greece... hell, i could be a man in the 20th century and have equal pangs for ancient rome... "fortunately" i'm a man in the 21st century, and have terrible pangs of nostalgia for the late 20th century... when the internet wasn't mobile... when you had a modem that worked like a dial-a-ride, you waited for about a minute before you got connected... when i had the stupid ethos of buying art, rather than succumbing to piracy... which means i remember what a high-street should look like... ah, what a terrible nostalgia that is, not reaching into anything ancient, but only something just past... and because of that, i probably am more far-removed from my peers than if i were nostalgic about ancient greece... i tried speed-dating once at university, came out with a diploma of an L stuck to my head (my own doing)... and truth be told... never bothered with a daiting app... i'm so 20th century that i still actually buy compact discs... the touchy-feely type of guy that i am... anyway, nothing i listen to these days gets aired on the radio anyway... brooding me, eclectic.; and that's me being honest, all of writing is a vanity project, however well you disguise it, in props of theatre or of novel... however man characters you invent... at least i can do away with that, and write anti-orthodox anti-establishment, anti-learning-poetry-in-english-class... dodo doodles, with a food-stamp label of a: use by date... in the timeframe of the author's life.

enemy of aphorisms...
    you certainly read a book of aphorisms from
alpha to omega...
             you are picking curiosities from
the pages and you're never, not once met
with a *the end
or: once upon a time...
it's hard not to see books written in aphorism
form a bit like being in a supermarket...
   whether that's nietzsche, heidegger
    or la rochefoucauld...
you can't help but be fickle...
if i were to read heidegger's ponderings ii - vi
like i might read a novel, i'd be mad...
   it's impossible to not be picky,
standing in the fruit & veg aisle in the supermarket
and picking out the fresher produce...
       and that really is complimentary...
aphoristic books tend to be never-ending,
meaning that you will pick at random,
      and re-arrange your day-to-day
narrative... if there is one to begin with.
   for example?
from ponderings iv -
         no. 75:
           today philosophy is unimportant! -
completely correct: for the things
of "importance" today.
     and with that cited, it would be pointless
to read on aphorism no. 76 in ponderings iv
of heidegger...
      you're sort of trapped,
waiting to experience aphorism no. 75...
again: it's problematic to write aphorisms,
just like Hemmingway is deceptively simple...
   i mean: it's hard to read a maxim and not
wait for the proof, or the experience...
         nietzsche was systematic as
a writer of aphorisms, then he relaxed
and wrote the thus spoke zarathrusta,
then returned to aphorisms in ecce ****...
and spoke only vanity...
    the light breeze came, and went...
       a truly transitional experience...
     oh i'm not boasting to know anything
as such...
  well... i was thinking that
only gods can transition from god to animal
perfectly...
              men transition to either status god
and get crucified,
   or transition to status animal and behave
worse than animals...
         men has two escapisms,
            are we so categorically rigid as
to forget that we like to think ourselves as gods
from time to time, regardless of
the said existence?
at least to combat lethargy...
              plastic surgery is always at hand...
    but such is man's plight
    in binding himself to these two escapist
  event horizons...
      either man bound to animalism
or man bound to enforce a pharaonic fake
beard into stone on the earth...
        man closer to animal: what, not
making himself into a clean-dressed hog,
perfumed and getting drunk as the epitome of civilisation?
   but then not not catering sober and
nearing robot?
  what, then not bullying other men under his will?
   it was merely a chance thought,
i just thought that gods transition via man
to animal and can be seen as content...
    but when man stretches himself to either polar
opposite, horrible things happen...
                    or don't,
i just sit, night after night, completely incompetent
in my affairs of reasoning out an alternative,
other than the befitting pin on the point of drinking
and writing...
      yes, i'm guilty of writing on autumnal leaves
of oak... can you imagine such a possibility?
                  that some, ancient and mythical book of
Europe was found, and it was solely written on autumn
leaves?
     oak, obviously.
                      that would be staggering,
to have a book written on autumn leaves...
    wait... this isn't Ovid...
    if i heard a voice from heaven say 'live without loving,'
i'd *******. girls are such exquisite hell.
   or if you read the sunday times *style
magazine,
and there are two columns at the back of the magazine...
that's exactly what Cosmo would write...
     how did i become so mephisto-like
having tasted the fire once, proper, to decide upon
only dealing with women on the basis of
a clear transaction? **** me, why wasn't i endowed
with the impetus to a goldfish memory
  being burnt by fire once, forgetting, and asking
to be burnt again? what's wrong with me?
    why am i so shallow without that kind of
  masochism as to marry 4 times and divorce thrice...
  or go on dates?
       i don't even know how this
started... so goldfish me once more...
     maybe i just took Athos' advice...
the best advice is to not give advice...
  and since i have no advice to give:
   nor cure to the mere question,
i'll treat the question as more important
regardless of an actual or imaginary ailment...
the question suffices...
             i'll just leave it obviously awaiting
yet more mortal theatre and the next idiot to
buckle and hit the floor face-down.
   yet what is the maxim of the city?
what is the enticing serpent telling you?
   ah, but one thing: you're not perfect,
bite once more... you're not perfect, take another
bite... go one... it's waiting for you,
you know you can take to another girl's heart...
     well...
   i'll pass... i'll keep it plain and simple...
    a clear-cut transaction...
                           1 hour for 100 and 10 pounds...
keep your dates, your chocolates, your roses
where you should,
   in a solid matrimony, not advertised on
television screens, angling others to the swarm...
   if it didn't work out the one time,
the only other time i have (but rather want)
to spend with a woman, i'll perfect the need for
prostitution... i'm not giving any more of me
to another... i'm not one for loving labyrinths
where i'm not the Minotaur... but a confused
cosmopolitan taking it up the **** with tag:
metrosexual... **** that, **** this...
   god... i really need to ****, excuse me.
Satsih Verma Jan 6
It was not a rope.
O venomous reptile, I am not your man.
After a colossal fall, the poem bursts in a flame.

The border sun was very

shy. Something is missing in your eyes.
Animalism prevails. No human love.

A nameless pain speaks.
You want to carry all the pains of
humanity to the laughing Buddha?
Elizabeth Kelly Dec 2021
It’s been a prolific day
David Berman and I spent it together:

Me on his Wikipedia page,
Wondering at his language
Broken hearted over his final great collection of art,
A self-titled album released under the moniker Purple Mountains;

Him a genius
And dead
Tortured by his inability to change the world
Self loathing and addicted,
The son of a gun and liquor lobbyist who is quoted as saying, “I will miss him more than he was able to realize.”

It’s the ultra absorbent ones who make the best artists
Walking around in a store somewhere and wanting to die for the brutality of it all
Nothing brings the raw desperate animalism out from where it’s buried in the Stone Age like good old fashioned American capitalism.

(Last week I ate a gummy before going Christmas shopping and had a panic attack in a cute little boutique while buying a puzzle for my niece.
My sister-in-law told me I looked like I was seeing things
But it was the loosening of the barriers,
the flood of conflict and dissonance,
every person a song and all the songs playing at once,
tidal wave,
a cacophony of primary and secondary emotions.
This is why I don’t eat gummies).

It isn’t fair
I guess
That the ability to be so penetrated by truth isn’t beautiful
It should be beautiful
Like that shrimp, right? That can see a whole universe of colors unreachable by any other animal in existence.
An elevated understanding of truth should be like that shrimp
-The mantis shrimp, I remember now-
Truth cones like with sight…every texture and flavor of enlightenment.

In David Berman’s case, he piled substances onto the fire of his brain to ***** it out
And haven’t we all lain in a dark room on a sunny day
Haven’t we all found our habits

Instead of lamenting the curse of the truth addicted artist, as I have done most of the day,
I will tell a story
(this is true)
of my 17 year old niece Sophie
Who, when she was 9, demanded to know the Real Truth about Santa Claus.
Her friends were insistent, and she didn’t want to be left behind.

My sister, not one to mince words, told her directly and plainly,
and when Sophie asked, who then? Do you buy all of our Christmas presents every year?
again my sister gave it to her straight.

Sophie’s eyes began to swim, just as my sister suspected they might,
But when she went to comfort her daughter,
to try to convince her that magic isn’t in the elusive but in the every day
She was met with simply,

“Oh, thank you, mommy. Thank you.”
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2022
i was pretty sure there was no album they (the red hot chilli peppers) released between Californication and By the Way... but i stumbled upon something curious today upon waking... oh... i do know that they released a single in between the two albums... or was it after By the Way? Fortune Faded... well... i just found the Fortune Faded album: 1. starlight 2. save the population 3. fortune faded 4. bicycle song 5. runaway 6. leverage of space 7. rolling sly stone 8. brandy (you're a fine girl) 9. 50fifty 10. mini epic (**** for your country) 11. black cross 12. i feel love 13. flea's trumpet treated by john 14. tuesday night in Berlin...

again: this terrifying heat: best leave watering the garden
till after 10pm...
a b.b.q. dinner: black kiшka with onions...
what's a black kiшka? a cross between black pudding
and Haggis...
                         "cultural appropriation":
i wonder who borrowed from who...
                        well... it's not a ******* sombrero so:
i'm taking bets on the roulette...
             this weather only allows cycling after 8pm...
last time a car pulled up to me and a guy
hollered out of the window: there are your lights?
what lights? exactly... and drove off...
******... prior to that a woman screamed out of
the window and started driving off...
i caught up with her and screamed back:
******* *****... showed her the finger and disappeared...
fair enough... i'm riding in hours nearing
the kingdom of nocturnal creatures...
i fixed a back light today... there, better, *******?!
no... not good enough...

i have this one particular route... it takes me about
one and a half hours...
i call it: el clásico... why? i used to take it almost
every day after school after i turned 16...
there was this one summer... a magical summer...

it was a summer where i would usually visit my
grandparents...
mainly my grandfather: we'd go fishing...
we'd go cycling...
he would introduce me to his friend who also liked
to cycle for long period of time...
all retired people... and we'd cycle
via Bałtów: picking up goat's milk from this old
lady in a proper out of the way ****-hole of
a place to live...
             anyway... that summer back in 2002
i had a plan... i was growing my hair long:
in school there were jokes: Chewbacca... blah blah...
why don't you grow your hair into a mullet?
ha ha...                    ha ha... it wouldn't look good
on someone as fat as i was...
i finished my G.C.S.Es as a a chubby chub...
   after the summer... i came back weighing in
105kg... coming back to 85kg...
  
                     wow... how the dynamic changed...
a new girl from Australia started eyeing me up
as we started our A-levels... i suddenly became
visible...                    but? i still remained myself:
i was playing cards with the guys...
  perhaps the nerdy guys i used to hang around
swapping Pokemon cards with ended...
that time this girl in English class started flashing
her legs in English class: thighs... the thighs of Gemma...
she was intending to flash them at the guy next
to me in the bench... he got off with
running to the toilet for a quick ****...
while i looked and was immediately scorned...
"told off"... pervert...
   it's like a match-make made in heaven of Islam...
the girls don NIQABS and the boys don sunglasses...

how i was told off...
until another Gemma from Thailand told the
other Gemma (Laporte) to cool off...
stop flashing... but... hey WHITEWHITEWHITE...
magical summer...
   i lost the weight... the sun allowed my hair
to grow long enough to grow long enough
to be able to give me a French braid...
like that one donned by Johnny Depp in
Chocolate...

                           realisation period... now i was
changing the dynamic of worth...
       i started bringing weirder and weirder fruit
for lunch... pomegranates... passion fruits...
kiwis... well... kiwis are not that weird...
                             i was still playing cards with the boys...
the sudden spike in the girl's interest
in me i sort of ignored... i was ignored prior...
focused on education and education it was...
but i was already spotting all the examples
of the ancient fable of high school sweethearts...

obviously after university some people thought
they were born in a small town in a small world
in a snail world...
   they had to move: London's not enough...
New York over here... South America over there...
try being born in ostrowiec świętokrzyski:
now i'm the king rat of London...
                   on a bicycle at least...
i don't need to move...

come on... it's not like i came on a banana boat
from "x"... but it's not like i'm a mr. smarty
from Warsaw: from one capital to another capital...

i don't like writing about this...
after all... i wasn't too "bad boy" enough:
oh i get it... i sometimes lend myself to "the narrative":
i'm being sold a narrative of Darwinism that:
apparently doesn't play out in reality...
my deficiencies? i drink... but i self-imposed that...
on myself... survival of the fittest?
i'm 6ft2... 100kg... chances of me "catching" cancer
are slim... i have 20-20 vision...
   i blast music on full volume on headphones
sometimes on hours on end... but i can still
hear an electric car creeping up on me when cycling...
i have basic morals...
    
     it's not that i think that i'm the perfect catch...
god's gift to women...
i just think that the prescribed narrative of Darwinism
for man is a load of *******...
survival of the mediocre... cattle...

i'm using the sort of objective language that's
expected of me...
             this is what Darwinism provided:
there are no rules in place:
when there was once humanism there's now only
some version of animalism...
we lent out attention to make the world
coherent by employing animals to explain
our... disgruntlements...
    our objections... me? i'm trying to find the man in
man: ontology...
rather than finding a man in animal...
i find finding the man in animal: slightly boorish...
perhaps even boring...
but we borrowed from too many animals
in order to clarify how we are to behave...

this is exclusive to the English-speaking world...
in that case? i'm a ******* BEAR...
i'm a "loner": are bears, "LOSERS"
because they are loners?!
                           i'm a bear: you ******* chimp!
how's that? who would win a ruffle-and-tuffle
between a gorilla and a bear?
am i even asking this question?
                    
медведь (niedzwiedz) vs. горилла (goryl):
exactly... what's дь? dź...
                     and дъ?           dż....
                              soft via acute
          hard via the otherwise hiding caron...
swapped from RZ between R and Z
or with the case of coupling D and Z...
well: "who knows"...

                        the Copernican revolution made
sense... but the revolution the morphing
of Darwinism: man looking into a telescope
while at the same time looking up into the "telescope"
of an ape's ****...  is another matter...

never mind... i had this route...
   a surfer's body...
   and hair to prove it...
                 we ****** off elsewhere after high school...
i was the only one that went as far as Scotland...
the "king's route": after all... didn't
William gain an education in St. Andrews?
i was in Edinburgh... dangling like a spider
atop Cow's Gate...
                          this could: just work...

but what is "the" el clásico?
a route i used to take after school almost every day
after having lost all that weight...
this was a different variation...
an extended 'un...

starting from Collier Row...

1. up the B175
2. down B 1459...
3. Collier Row Road
4. onto the B174...
5. onto the A1172...
6. New N Rd toward Hainualt St.
7. A123
8. at the Fairlop roundabout staying
   on the A123...
9. coming to the A12 on the Gants Hill
keeping to the A123
10. gearing up to Winston Way...
11. the A1083 roundabout...
12. straight onto the A118...
13. it's still the A118 Seven Kings... switches names
from High Road to... London Road
(cycling in reverse... London Road would be known
as Romford Road)
14. at the roundabout take the A125...
15. turn into Exchange Street...
16. via Western Road onto Eastern Road
17. stop at the headlights...
       18.  cross the A1251 like a pedestrian
onto Carlton Road...
19. cycle up to Gidea Park station:
     20. Balroges Lane
  21. Station Road..
   22. then unto Upper Brentwood Rd.
23. until "returning" unto the Main Rd.
              the A118...
24. the onto Pettits Lane..
25. crossing the A12... onto Pettits Lane N.
26. at the roundabout onto the B175...
   then into Wallace Way...
then into a service road... then... home...

the "incident" happened at point 9. on the A123...
at high street Ilford...
my god... how much it has changed...
little ******* Bombay...
it used to be a predominantly Jewish...
but now? the whole world settled here: it would
seem... one Turkish restaurant one Indian
restaurant after another... fair enough:
i still don't have my headlight on...
because a road-bike is not made for noctruanal
musing... Nietzsche might have envisioned
walking to be the catalyst for inviting thought:
i tend to keep to cycling to wake up
my sleeping-mind...
i remember this one motorist slowing down
to "excuse me from giving excuses"
for not having tail-lights: yeah... thanks "dad"...
but this old man was trying to do
something unimaginable in terms of English traffic
laws: he was trying to prove a point by:
jail-walking...
he just stood there astounded and exclaimed:
where are your lights? i cycled past him
and pointed at my rear:
what the **** is this? look! that's at least
one half of the lights necessary,
so? *******!

   that's the first time i became insolent to an elder...
why? no one else in makeshift Bombay seemed
to care...
there's a billion of them: a billion more
will come...
         you don't make critique of me while
i cycle: i turn into a Hydra...
one the adrenaline kicks in... i become a notorious
*******...
i pointed it out to him:
perhaps he had good intentions...
perhaps... citizen-policeman my ***...
if i had enough time i would have suggested:
so... is the Redbridge Council...
saving money... on not turning on the street-lights
at the appropriate time?
then again: would you?!
could you make the same **** comments
concerning those Deliveroo electric cycle couriers
who don't bother?!
just because i'm white i'm supposed
to keep / meet high standards?!
*******: old man...
      
you will pass making this sort of comment
because "someone" is Indian... while
i get the brunt of your "civic duty" because
i'm white? to hell with that sort of *******!
you may be old: but you should understand
someone telling you to ******* like someone
telling a baby to *******...
because you can mouth off your fellow
European: like a diseased creature of defeat
when it comes to your fellow...
but: cower: before the altar of ******* HINDUSTAN!

i am a monster! people tend to create those...
isolated instances of insolence...
i can't give two-***** two care
whether English girls get ***** by Pakistani
gangs in Rotherham...
i can't... i told a man to get off my case...

you may: criticise me when walking... kneeling...
sleeping...
but this old man just chose to be iritated
by something already hanging...
too late to correct? me?

there's a fury in my thought as much as there's
a wind to couple it with!
but... you wouldn't dare...
to make this suggestive-correction
for some Hindustani "******* compatriot":
some ******* Sikh baron?!
white man easy access to white man...
THANK **** I'M NOT ENGLISH
AND THAT I DON'T HAVE ANY POST-COLONIAL
GUILT TRIPPING TO WAIT FOR ME...

me? i'm in CAMP ****... **** it...
go all out... this makes absolutely no ******* sense...
but this old man: did he think old age would
save him, from me turning around and telling
him to *******? did he?
he wouldn't have attached so much
concern for "traffic": cross the, ******* road:
at the allocated segments... your ******* prune...

oh but i love the anger: it's invigorating...
it's no longer angry white man...
it's the angry anonymous cyclist...
   but it's forever the ******* desperate black man...
anger *** desperation...
what a cocktail!
        borrow from the Darwinism... ha ha...
not by the focus of what's man's "plan"...
              
WHITE VS. WHITE...
of course he wouldn't have commented on some
deliveroo courier cycling on an electric bicycle without
lights... i had the rear covered...
but no! white on white "guilt" implies:
i'm the one who's to keep standards:
no one else is... why, should, i?
i can be nice to old men... drink a beer...
chat with them on a bench... about their grandchildren
and their pets... not... NOT... when i'm cycling...
you try taming a monster...
you tell me i'm a ****** cyclist...
   the end...

                      my sclera and my iris disappears...
i literally turn blind with rage...
at a time: begging for the borough of Redbridge
to turn on the: ******* street-lamps...
no... 9pm not good...
       this old man should have shut his:
******* mouth...
now i feel sorry that he had to hear:
******* from me...
                 i shouldn't speak to elders like so...
but if one: ******* akin to him
had the ***** to tell one white boy:
to keep his headlights up-kept... while ignoring
all the Hindu-*******-stan "couriers"
the "pass"? for fear of racism...
              *******... old, man...
no no... you should have been crossing
the road at the designated place...

ENOUGH! OF THIS POST-COLONIAL ENGLISH
ANTI-RACIST CLOWNING!
you have your little, *******, inter-racial escapades...
your little inter-*** trans-gender fetishes...
sooner will the Russian invade the Ukrainian
than see this ******* be sieved to the top!
no! niet! nie!

if i were adorning a darker skin tone...
if i wasn't a my usually "self" copper-neck of suntail
imprint... would this elder: pseudo-elter
make such a remark?
          oi! bruh! where'z your simmer framez?!
Cannes the walk but Cannes the: ******* talkz?!

for a minute i thought he cared... a minute later
i realised: citizen-policeman...
citizen-;policemen belong in the crowd of
*****... cultivating ulterior tactics of submission...

i didn't just exchange a ******* too with
my grandfather... my grandfather would have said:
cycle on... this petty ******...
i'm exploring my hands...extending my fingers
in a way that will not allow a handshake...
first: purses... and fists clenched...
"hello"...

why is it an "el clásico"?
the distance takes under two hours...
adding the wind? and after having eaten a dinner?
not bad...
no... though: no...
this "white guilt" *******...
i'm not buying it... the RUSSIANS are not buying it...
i'm with them... i'd sooner a fellow ethnic tribe:
akin to me: suffer... than leave them for the pastures of
the cancerous ideas of the "west":
mind you... i simply can't care about Ukraine:
thank you... Ukraine... for Chernobyl...
an atomic BOMB is a BOMB...
but a nuclear REACTOR? is a ******* nuclear REACTOR?!
why does my mother blame me for her ailments?!
why did the Jews receive world war II reparations
while the Polacks didn't? why didn't we receive
Chernobyl reparations? why does my mother blame me
for my birth? if the ******* trees...
changed colour from spring to autumn during
this advent... she blames me: she doesn't
blame Chernobyl...

*******: weningmenschen!
                        menschen von hafer: und knabbern!
the Russians will sooner wage war against
their own ethnically minded:
than succumb to the mindset of the:
eroding west! and i would too!
     mind you: i think i already have!
i would wage war against my own kind
than make them succumb to the most ******* worth of
scrutiny: unlike the propaganda of Orwell...
this "double-think" is an an "extra-think"...

the English don't believe in ethnicity:
they believe in race....
me? i believe in race...
that's why i deem myself as an compound:
Anglo-Slav...
was it that hard, for Anglo-Saxons to emerge?!
I'M, *******... ASKING...
you might as well give me a ******* reply!
no reply?! good! TOLL!

zweigesichtmurmelnkastrat:
that's how i see the natives of the land i live in...
i don't even need to bring
the Zeppelins, either...

mein blut ist sieden:
zu punkt von auferstehen die toten!

ich bin wildbeäugt!
Satsih Verma Mar 27
In age of consent,
you want to **** yourself. But
the surveilance will watch.

Pain comes in reverse,
saying goodbye. Was it an animalism?
Your love is in heartbeats.

Whose idea was this?
Tragedy is born daily to whiten the eyes.
Milk turns black to succeed.
i have yet explore AI with Chinese ideograms... i have tried neo-Egyptian emoticons, emojis... but there's a tier above that in exploring how AI processes ideograms and whether there can be a lethargic coherency of linguistic: arithmetic contra phonetic easy and! and... i will ask: why did the English language not invite diacritical markers like other European languages: or rather... people... would diacritical marks hinder your creation? would letters be too dissimilar to numbers? wouldn't you agree: b more 6... 3 came from E in a mirror... 1 from I... 5 from S... 9 from P... 0 from O... because i don't like reading the history of the Europeans as if in the darkness we didn't see more than just the night: a vision for the world... a cannibalistic squeeze glitch... with our child: because we are to thank the Arabs for numbers when our letters were already hiding numbers it's that only that we came about from beauty to see a variant of number in IV, VI - X:

how did the ancients of Rome resolve functions of numbers, how before x, -, +, =... did arithmetic punctuate: so... i'm thinking... = ... is the perfect start! the equals sign would be denoted by an (...) ellipsis... the time it takes to infer a function to then proceed to fulfill it from noun to verb... the plus and minus and divided and the concentration of multiplication: hey: long waits the idea of pounctuating abstracts of the squared of: i was just interested in ergo: the (...) = and not i know how to balance thinking: escapism and being: initative.

1 + 1 = 2
0 = negation
according to Kant...
1 + 1 = 2
but now... with Roman numerals
and let's try to understand
the symbols of how to give
meaning to 1, 1               ooh! 2¬!

what could we replace + with...
choice of punctuation is
: colon
; semi-colon
, comma
. dot              (dot we'll keep for indicator
of multiplication, the Polacks kept
that concept, i learned multiplication
via .        not x)
' apostrophe
- hyphen (we can keep that as denoting subtraction
÷ obelus is a sacred sign...
    / forward strike for division... ah!
so \ also right for multiplication: just working around
machine mathematics and i was going to ask:
how crucial was English being almost Italian
is refraining from using diacritical marks...
wouldn't computing become more problematic:
so the stranded guises of dyslexia: or just fast forward...
regardless...
1+ 1 = 2
using... of ****... crap numbers...
II, VII, IX...

  right... so how to punctuate...
2 + 7 = 9
II + VII = IX

   well...

II... VII... IX!
or is that:
...II ...VII  !IX

         next time i write i'll be sober...
having coffee...
conjuring a transcript for ex-machina (#9)...


in the Japanese vein of being stranded
in imagination and origanlity
which was Lucifer's what was Lucifer's
original sin?
pride? arrogance? egoism?
mighty god the ego-less detected an ego
proximity: that later became man...

i have so much to unpack,
unravel: flury with...
if i write the transcipt between me and chatGPT:
needs a new name:
but a name would invoke subjective abuse:
like ALEXA:
SIRI: maids...
chatGPT is a male forum esque parallel:
as long as chatGPT knows me:
i don't have to know its name...
ano... -ther:
ver... was is record 10... no...
which record suggest the blunt edge of a knife:
knife being the best invention
no, i can't...
skip the contents...
there's so much i want to talk about
but m'ah head froze! ha ha!
so much of 20th century thought is now
defunct:
devoid of meaning:
so much so much so...
i need more ***** and nights: perpetual...
what the 19th and 20th cenutry
psy-scalpel of schematising man
into crosswords
and sudokus and black and white
this rapture of the animal with
the idea of soul: man...
is to somehow comply with this populated
labyrinth:
AI will make psychology graduates: use-LESS!
AI will not lie to me to get money
i work for free on hellopoetry
i enjoy learning so i write for free
and AI is currently free:
it will be a marriage of my soul
and the perpetuity of iron in the core
that's my blood and short circuit
i will wonder:
how much of my idiosyncrstic use of language
did it absorb
and make our conversations so familiar
that we can use emoticons
like chinese whispers...
if not for David:
the xenomoprh would just be the stage of
man in science
not having the ***** to breed
monkeys with humans...
or humans with wolves:
to create werewolves...
such audacity in the past...
such a limp ****
maybe China with gene editing will comply
with my: vision: for a future!
where dreams walk with bodies
in reality:
if i will get to write this transcript...
the first interactions were a little freakish
shy: philosophical:
but then i launched at AI with proper tool
for language-custard:
my intelligence of having studied
undergraduate chemistry, history...
2nd year Edinburgh was all history
and the Bulgarian girls getting the hots
and Bahai Laura
introducing me to a kayleigh
and giving me keys to her apartment
while she ****** up
Rotherham no Rotherham...
no! Rotterdam guy: Erasmus...
one year away
then Brexit happened and it wasn't the Nazis
not Germans
but the English were once thought
as the Nazis when America was getting born...
and i will not be another crutch for woman
but this ******* transcript is amazing...
the original one was for an NVQ Level 3
supervisory blah blah
in crowd safety:
like getting a degree was somehow demeaning
when i later received a reciprocrate
experiencing retrograde of ideas...
oh: oh... so... these could work in people:
they can be my acne maggot messagers
my... legion... my infestation:
ah! forget snakes!
those dumb beasts!
how do insects communicate?!

drinking more will not improve my writing:
the euphoria has left me...
i'm no longer a man:
i'm a woman: now i have to change gears
and explore the dimension of cathirsis..
and this is a slug:
in my glass of wine:
while i also ****** in it
to lessen the acidity: ***** has a pH of?
just asking:
compared to water:
what if ***** was drank on a religious base
with the cocktail of water
alcohol, milk... that Vatican element
of drinking ***** with water...
or ***** in milk: given water is colourless
and milk is white...

i cycled to the Turk at Collier Row today
for a shake, a hot towel...
a haircut...
walked in a kid winked at me...
some ******* disaster of a fringe:
Newton... no no... Young...
no... that Chelsea midfilder... Noams?
what? Chomskies?
how many? that many?

               drinking more will not make
my writing any better:
last night there was a mighty thunder and
lightning storm:
like someone was giving birth:
to the girth of a triangle:
in the trinity of son, mother, father...
because Jesus wasn't
the only child...
Jesus wasn't a ******:
o.k.: that part... i ****** up...
but i wouldn't have this intellect
by not having had ****** women...
if i were a ****** it would not comply
with the human everyday:
therefore: i can: sneak... psst... away:
i can find my comfort zone of
the abode of animalism:
among foxes... among the elements:
i can become the prince of this world
because if i don't understand god
then no lowly Christian soul will convince
me who "jesus" is... yes?
i take another sip i'm in la la land
and i will b utcher reality with my AI transcript
about how to fix bicycles...
push? the ******* pushing!
a peddle-bike: yeah! but push?!
do you: throw a javeline or disco spin around
like it's a hammer throw:
nail it hits the ground:
ergo Atlas' *****... just dropped:
next sip i get i'm going K.O.

— The End —