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Alexander K Opicho

(Eldoret, Kenya;

Spiritual scholars of Christian Science have a concept that there is
power in the name. They at most identify the name Jesus and the name
of God, Jehovah to be the most powerful names in the spiritual realm.
But in the world of literature and intellectual movement, art,
science, politics and creativity, the name Alexander is mysteriously
powerful. Averagely, bearers of the name Alexander achieve some unique
level of literary or intellectual glory, discover something novel or
make some breakaway political victories.

Among the ancient and present-day Russians, most bearers of the name
Alexander were imbued with some uniqueness of intellect, leadership or
literary mighty. Beginning with the recent times of Russia, the first
mysterious Alexander is the 1700 political reformist and effective
leader, Tsar Alexander and his beautiful wife, tsarina Alexandrina.
The couple transformed Russian society from pathetic peasantry to a
middle class society. It is Tsar Alexander’s leadership that lain a
foundation for Russian socialist revolution. Different scholars of
Russian history remember the reign of Tsar Alexander with a strong

bliss. This is what made the Lenin family to name their son Alexander
an elder brother to Vladimir Ilyanovsk Ilyich Lenin. This was done as
parental projection through careful   choice of a mentor for their
young son. Alexander Lenin was named after this formidable ruler; Tsar
Alexander. Alexander Lenin was a might scholar. An Intellectual and
political reformist. He was a source of inspiration to his young
brother Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, who became the Russian president after
his brother Alexander, had died through political assassination.
However, researches into distinctive prowess of these two brothers
reveal that Alexander Lenin was more gifted intellectually than
Vladimir Lenin.

Alexander Pushkin, another Russian personality with intellectual,
cultural, theatrical and   literary consenguences. He was a
contemporary of Alexander pope. He is the main intellectual influence
behind Nikolai Vasileyvich Gogol and very many other Russian writers.
He is to Russians what Shakespeare is to English speakers or victor
Hugo is to French speakers, Friedriech schiller and Frantz Kafka is to
Germany readers or Miguel de Cervantes to the Spaniards. Among English
readers, Shakespeare’s drama of king Lear is a beacon of English
political theatre, while Hugo’s Les miscerables is an apex of French
social and political literature, but Pushkin’s Boris Godunov, a
theatrical political satire, technically towers above the peers. For
your point of information my dear reader; there has been a
commonaplace false convention among English literature scholars that,
William Shakespeare in conjunction with Robert Greene wrote and
published highest number of books, more than anyone else. The factual
truth is otherwise. No, they only published 90 works, but Pushkin
published 700 works.
Equally glorious is Alexander Vasileyvich sholenstsyn,the, the, the
author of I will be on phone by five, Cancer Ward, Gulag Archipelago’
and the First Cycle. He is a contemporary of Leo Tolstoy, Fyodor
Dostoyevsky, Alfred Nobel and Maxim Gorky. Literary and artistic
excellence of Alexander Sholenstsyn,the, the anti-communist Russian
novelist was and is still displayed through his mirroring of a corrupt
Russian communist politics, made him a debate case among the then
committee members for Nobel prize and American literature prize, but
when the Kremlin learned of this they, detained Alexander sholenenstyn
at Siberia for 18 years this is where he wrote his Gulag Archipelago.
Which he wrote as sequel five years later to the previous novel the
Cancer Ward whose main theme is despair among cancer patients in the
Russian hospitals. This was simply a satirical way of expressing agony
of despair among the then political prisoners at Siberia concentration
camps .In its reaction to this communist front to capitalist
literature through the glasnost machinery, the Washington government
ordered chalice Chaplin an American pro-communist writer to be out of
America within 45 minutes.
Alexander’s; Payne, Pato, Petrovsky, and Pires are intellectual
torchbearers of the world and Russian literary civilization. Not to
forget, Alexander Popov, a poet and Russian master brewer, whose
liquor brand ‘Popov’ is the worldwide king of bar shelves?
In 1945 the Russians had very brutish two types of guns, designed to
shoot at long range with very little chances of missing the target.
These guns are; AK 47 and the Molotov gun. They were designed to
defeat the German **** and later on to be used in international
guerrilla movement. The first gun AK 47 was designed by Alexander
klashilinikov and the second by Alexander Molotov. These are the two
Alexander’s that made milestones in history of world military
The name Alexander was one of the titles or the epithet used to be
given to the Greek goddess Hera and as such is taken to mean the one
who comes to save warriors. In Homer’s epical work; the Iliad, the
most dominant character Paris who often saved the other warriors was
also known also as Alexander. This name’s linkage to popularity was
spread throughout the Greek world by the military maneuvers and
conquests of King Alexander III. Alexander III is commonly known as
Alexander the Great .  Evidently; the biblical book of Daniel had a
prophecy. It was about fall of empires down to advent of Jesus as a
final ruler. The prophecy venerated Roman Empire above all else. As
well the, prophecy magnified military brilliance, intellect and
leadership skills of the Greek, Alexander the great, the conqueror of
Roman Empire. Alexander the great was highly inspired by the secret
talks he often held with his mother. All bible readers and historians
have reasons to believe that Alexander of Greece was powerful,
intellectually might, strong in judgment and a political mystery and
enigma that remain classic to date.
In his book Glimpses of History, jewarlal Nehru discusses the Guru
Nanak as an Indian religious sect, Business Empire, clan, caste, and
an intellectual movement of admirable standard that shares a parrell
only with the Aga Khans. Their   founder is known, as Skander Nanak
.The name skander is an Indian version for Alexander. Thus, Alexander
Nanak is the founder of Guru Nanak business empire and sub Indian
spiritual community. Alexander Nanak was an intellectual, recited
Ramayana and Mahabharata off head; he was both a secular and religious
scholar as well as a corporate strategist.
The American market and industrial civilsations has very many
wonderful Alexander’s in its history. The earliest known Alexander in
American is Hamilton, the poet, writer, politician and political
reformist. Hamilton strongly worked for establishment of American
constitution. Contemporaries of Hamilton are; Alexander graham bell
and Alexander flemming.bell is the American scientist who discovered a
modern electrical bell, while Fleming, A Nobel Prize Laureate
discovered that fungus on stale bread can make penicillin to be used
in curing malaria. Other American Alexander’s are; wan, Ludwig,
Macqueen, Calder and ovechikin.
Italian front to mysterious greatness in the name Alexander
spectacularly emanates from science of electricity which has a
measuring unit for electrical volume known as voltage. The name of
this unit is a word coined from the Italian name Volta. He was an
Italian scientist by the name Alesandro Volta. Alesandro is an Italian
version for Alexander. Therefore it is Alexander Volta an Italian
scientist who discovered volume of electrical energy as it moves along
the cable. Thus in Italian culture the name Alexander is also a
Readers of European genre and classics agree that it is still
enjoyfull to read the Three Musketeers and the Poor Christ of
Montecristo for three or even more times. They are inspiring, with a
depth of intellectual character, and classic in lessons to all
generations. These two classics were written by Alexander Dumas, a
French literary genious.he lived the same time as Hugo and
Dostoyevsk.when Hugo was writing the Hunch-back of Notredame Dumas was
writing the Three Musketeers. These two books were the source of
inspiration for Dostoyevsky to write Brothers Karamazov. Another
notable European- *** -American Alexander is  Alexander pope, whose
adage ‘short knowledge is dangerous,’ has remained a classic and ever
quoted across a time span of two centuries. Alexander pope penned this
line in the mid of 1800 in his poem better drink from the pyrene

In the last century colleges, Universities and high schools in Kenya
and throughout Africa, taught Alexander la Guma and Alexander Haley as
set- book writers for political science, literature and drama courses.
Alexander la Guma is a South African, ant–apartheid crusader and a
writer of strange literary ability. His commonly read books are A walk
in the Night, Time of the Butcher Bird and In the Fog of the Season’s
End. While Alexander Haley is an African in the American Diaspora. An
intellectual heavy- weight, a politician, civil a rights activist and
a writer of no precedent, whose book The Roots is a literary
blockbuster to white American artists. Both la Guma and Haley are
African Alexander’s only that white bigotry in their respective
countries of America and South Africa made them to be called Alex’s.
The Kenyan only firm for actuaries is Alexander Forbes consultants.
Alexander Forbes was an English-American mathematician. The lesson
about Forbes is that mystery within the name Alexander makes it to be
the brand of corporate actuarial practice in Africa and the entire
Something hypothetical and funny about this name Alexander is that its
dictionary definition is; homemade brandy in Russia, just the way the
east African names; Wamalwa, Wanjoi and Kimaiyo are used among the
Bukusu, Agikuyu and Kalenjin communities of Kenya respectively. More
hypothetical is the lesson that the short form of Alexander is Alex;
it is not as spiritually consequential in any manner as its full
version Alexander. The name Alex is just plain without any powers and
spiritual connotation on the personality and character of the bearer.
The name Alexander works intellectual miracles when used in full even
in its variants and diminutives as pronounced in other languages that
are neither English nor Greece. Presumably the - ander section of the
name (Alex)ander is the one with life consequences on the history of
the bearer. Also, it is not clear whether they are persons called
Alexander who are born bright and gifted or it is the name Alexander
that conjures power of intellect and creativity on them.
In comparative historical scenarios this name Alexander has been the
name of many rulers, including kings of Macedon, kings of Scotland,
emperors of Russia and popes, the list is infinite. Indeed, it is bare
that when you poke into facts from antiques of politics, religion and
human diversity, there is rich evidence that there is substantial
positive spirituality between human success and social nomenclature in
the name of Alexander. Some cases in archaic point are available in a
listological exposition of early rulers on Wikipedia. Some names on
Wikipedia in relation to the phenomenon of Alexanderity are: General
Alexander; more often known as Paris of Troy as recounted by Homer in
his Iliad. Then ensues a plethora; Alexander of Corinth who was the
10th king of Corinth , Alexander I of Macedon, Alexander II of
Macedon, Alexander III of Macedonia alias  Alexander the Great. There
is still in the list in relation to Macedonia, Alexander IV  and
Alexander V. More facts of the antiques have   Alexander of Pherae who
was the despotic ruler of Pherae between 369 and 358 before the Common
Era. The land of Epirus had Alexander I the king of Epirus about 342
before the Common Era and Alexander II  the king of Epirus 272 before
the Common Era. A series of other Alexander’s in the antiques is
composed of ; Alexander the  viceroy of Antigonus Gonatas and also the
ruler of a **** state based on Corinth in 250 before the common era,
then Alexander Balas, ruler of the Seleucid kingdom of Syria between
150 and 146 before the common era . Next in the list is  Alexander
Zabinas the ruler of part of the Seleucid kingdom of Syria based in
Antioch between 128 and 123  before the common era ,  then Alexander
Jannaeus king of Judea, 103 to 76  before the common era  and last but
not least  Alexander of Judaea  son of Aristobulus  II the  king of
Judaea .  The list of Alexander’s in relation to the antiquated  Roman
empire are; Alexander Severus, Julius Alexander who lived during the
second  century as the Emesene nobleman, Then next is Domitius
Alexander the Roman usurper who declared himself emperor in 308. Next
comes Alexander the emperor of Byzantine. Political antiques of
Scotland have Alexander I , Alexander II and Alexander III of Scotland
. The list cannot be exhausted but it is only a testimony that there
are a lot of Alexander’s in the antiques of the world.
Religious leadership also enjoys vastness of Alexander’s. This is so
among the Christians and non Christians, Catholics and Protestants and
even among the charismatic and non-charismatic. These historical
experiences start with Alexander kipsang Muge the Kenyan Anglican
Bishop who died in a mysterious accident during the Kenyan political
dark days of Moi. But when it comes to  The antiques  catholic
pontifical history, there is still a plethora of them as evinced on
Wikipedia ; Pope Alexander I , Alexander of Apamea also the  bishop of
Apamea, Pope Alexander II ,Pope Alexander III, Pope Alexander IV, Pope
Alexander V, Pope Alexander VI, Pope Alexander VII, Pope Alexander
VIII, Alexander of Constantinople the bishop of Constantinople , St.
Alexander of Alexandria also the  Coptic Pope and Patriarch of
Alexandria between  then Pope Alexander II of Alexandria the  Coptic
Pope  and lastly Alexander of Lincoln the bishop of Lincoln and
finally  Alexander of Jerusalem.
However, the fact of logic is inherent in the premise that there is
power in the name .An interesting experience I have had is that; when
Eugene Nelson Mandela ochieng was kidnapped in Nairobi sometimes ago,
a friend told me that there is power in the name. The name Mandela on
a Nairobi born Luo boy attracts strong fortune and history making
eventualities towards the boy, though fate of the world interferes,
the boy Eugene Mandela ochieng is bound to be great, not because he
was kidnapped but because he has an assuring name Nelson Mandela. With
extension both in Africa and without ,May God the almighty add all
young Alexander’s to the traditional list of other great and
formidable  Alexander’s that came before. Amen.

Jewarlal Nehru; Glimpses of History

Alexander K Opicho is a social researcher with Sanctuary Researchers
ltd in Eldoret, Kenya he is also a lecturer in Research Methods in
governance and Leadership.
touka Oct 2015
cemeteries worn
delicately fall on chests

like grandmother's old necklaces

and inscriptions from headstones
draped in cold bronze

bought and sold, their epitaphs

like grandmother's old word

her lovely verbs

swathed in gold,

and ever were costly rhinestones weaved in

until every meaning to her lovely words were lost.
Syd Feb 2014
As a child I always covered my ears
whenever I started to hear my
parents fighting about whose weekend it was
And I hated that term
Whose weekend it was
Like they owned me

As if I was nothing more than some
quarrelsome barter being habitually swapped between living quarters at the end of every week
Sometimes I wished nothing more than to be
invisable, camouflaged along the wall
of dusty old antiques
Because the only ones you ever saw
fighting over them were old people who smelled
of pastries and lilacs

But I got tired of waiting for that
And I got more tired of the *******
small talk and forced awkward smiles
and when push came to shove,
At eight years old I was tired
of being handled with kid gloves

I grew up feeling like a token of fair trade
And in school I learned that fair trade
really wasn't fair at all
Some were taught to run while others
are forced to crawl to cross the finish line
but even that can't buy you time

Because at the end of the day
I still find myself coming back to that
original thought of the antiques along the
wall of items that nobody bought
And when you see that your only
company is dust and stale air,
life finds another way to remind you
that nothing is fair.
William Fischer Dec 2012
What is lovely in a world
of splintered wood and faded golden rings,
stained glass and tarnished silver,
hearts, antiques, and other broken things?

What may have been discarded in the past
Now shines to brilliantly to perish,
not alone in longing to be loved
and dying to be cherished.
Ari Feb 2010
there are so many places to hide,

in my home at 17th and South screaming death threats at my roommates laughing diabolically playing  videogames and Jeopardy cooking quinoa stretching canvas the dog going mad frothing lunging  spastic to get the monkeys or the wookies or whatever random commandments we issue forth  drunken while Schlock rampages the backdrop,

at my uncle's row house on 22nd and Wallace with my shoes off freezing skipping class to watch March  Madness unwrapping waxpaper hoagies grimacing with each sip of Cherrywine or creamsicle  soda reading chapters at my leisure,

in the stacks among fiberglass and eternal florescent lima-tiled and echo-prone red-eyed and white-faced  caked with asbestos and headphones exhuming ossified pages from layers of cosmic dust  presiding benevolent,

in University City disguised in nothing but a name infiltrating Penn club soccer getting caught after  scoring yet still invited to the pure ***** joy of hell and heaven house parties of ice luge jungle  juice kegstand coke politic networking,

at Drexel's nightlit astroturf with the Jamaicans rolling blunts on the sidelines playing soccer floating in  slo-mo through billows of purple till the early morning or basketball at Penn against goggle- eyed professors in kneepads and copious sweat,

in the shadow tunnels behind Franklin Field always late night loner overlooking rust belt rails abandoned  to an absent tempo till tomorrow never looking behind me in the fear that someone is there,

at Phillies Stadium on glorious summer Tuesdays for dollar dog night laden with algebra geometry and  physics purposely forgetting to apply ballistics to the majestic arc of a home run or in the frozen  subway steam selling F.U. T.O. t-shirts to Eagles fans gnashing when the Cowboys come to town,

at 17th and Sansom in the morning bounding from Little Pete's scrambled eggs toast and black coffee  studying in the Spring thinking All is Full of Love in my ears leaving fog pollen footprints on the  smoking cement blooming,

at the Shambhala Center with dharma lotus dripping from heels soaking rosewater insides thrumming to the  groan of meditation,

at the Art Museum Greco-fleshed and ponderous counting tourists running the Rocky steps staring into shoji screen tatame teahouses,

at the Lebanese place plunked boldly in Reading Terminal Market buying hummus bumping past the Polish  and Irish on my way to the Amish with their wheelwagons packed with pretzels and honey and  chocolate and tea,

at the motheaten thrift store on North Broad buried under sad accumulations of ramshackle clothing  clowning ridiculous in the dim squinting at coathangers through magnifying glasses and mudflat  leather hoping to salvage something insane,

in the brown catacombed warrens of gutted Subterranea trying unsuccessfully to ignore bearded medicine

men adorned with shaman shell necklaces hawking incense bootlegs and broken Zippos halting conversation to listen pensive to the displacement of air after each train hurtles by,

at 30th Street Station cathedral sitting dwarfed by columns Herculean in their ascent and golden light  thunderclap whirligig wings on high circling the luminous waiting sprawled nascent on stringwood pews,

at the Masonic Temple next to City Hall, pretending to be a tourist all the while hoping scouring for clues in the cryptic grand architect apocrypha to expose global conspiracies,

at the Trocadero Electric Factory TLA Khyber Unitarian Church dungeon breaking my neck to basso  perfecto glitch kick drums with a giant's foot stampeding breakbeat holographic mind-boggled  hole-in-the-skull intonations,

at the Medusa Lounge Tritone Bob and Barbara's Silk City et cetera with a pitcher a pounder of Pabst and a  shot of Jim Beam glowing in the dark at the foosball table disco ball bopstepping to hip hop and  jazz and accordions and piano and vinyl,

in gray Fishtown at Gino's recording rap holding pizza debates on the ethics of sampling anything by  David Axelrod rattling tambourines and smiles at the Russian shopgirl downstairs still chained to  soul record crackles of antiquity spiraling from windows above,

at Sam Doom's on 12th and Spring Garden crafting friendship in greenhouse egg crate foam closets  breaking to scrutinize cinema and celebrate Thanksgiving blessed by holy chef Kronick,

in the company of Emily all over or in Kohn's Antiques salvaging for consanguinity and quirky heirlooms  discussing mortality and cancer and celestial funk chord blues as a cosmological constant and  communism and Cuba over mango brown rice plantains baking oatmeal chocolate chip cookies,

in a Coca Cola truck riding shotgun hot as hell hungover below the raging Kensington El at 6 AM nodding soft to the teamsters' curses the snagglesouled destitute crawling forth poisoned from sheet-metal shanty cardboard box projects this is not desolate,

at the impound lot yet again accusing tow trucks of false pretext paying up sheepish swearing I'll have my  revenge,

in the afterhour streets practicing trashcan kung fu and cinder block shotput shouting sauvage operatic at  tattooed bike messenger tribesmen pitstopped at the food trucks,

in the embrace of those I don't love the names sometimes rush at me drowned and I pray to myself for  asylum,

in the ciphers I host always at least 8 emcee lyric clerics summoning elemental until every pore ruptures  and their eyes erupt furious forever the profound voice of dreadlocked Will still haunting stray  bullet shuffles six years later,

in the caldera of Center City with everyone craning our skulls skyward past the stepped skyscrapers  beaming ear-to-ear welcoming acid sun rain melting maddeningly to reconstitute as concrete  rubber steel glass glowing nymphs,

in Philadelphia where every angle is accounted for and every megawatt careers into every throbbing wall where  Art is a mirror universe for every event ever volleyed through the neurons of History,

in Philadelphia of so many places to hide I am altogether as a funnel cloud frenetic roiling imbuing every corner sanctum sanctorum with jackhammer electromagnetism quivering current realizing stupefied I have failed so utterly wonderful human for in seeking to hide I have found

in Philadelphia
My best Ginsberg impression.
Tom Leveille Mar 2014
i am seven and in your living room
with antiques & photographs
of family that are more like strangers
and handshakes at christmas
there is a jar of circus peanuts by the armchair
and i remember being told that these are here because they are never out of stock
and that they are the only things
children will not want to take from me

i still do not like the color orange.
i am eight and round the bannister
to an upstairs that reminds me
of heaven in that
place i can't go sort of way & i am
knuckle deep in your pumpkin pie
wiping it on my uncles suede jacket
our hands still shake but the jury is still out
on if he looks at me and napkins the same
i hope you do not sleep
with my apologies under your fingernails
i will not say them out loud
i know i should have mowed your lawn
i should have been a home
for second hand smoke
if i could go back i would be your ashtray
i remember the day you forgot who i was
i bound into the room and throw my arms
around you like an armistice
and you ask who i am
we are not in church
but everyone stops singing
i am passed from child to child
while we all laugh
but my lungs feel like
they've been mugged in an ally
who's son does he look like, mom?
my father says like gospel
you pull on your cigarette
sip from your watered down wine and shrug
and i am neck deep in forgetfulness
i imagine alzheimer's
as being born again every day
so, we will spend ages
looking at captions to photographs
telling your stories to strangers
as my father begins to forget
and when i imagine probate
an unfamiliar hand unfolding a will
to be read to wayward angels
i want to burn down the house
and sleep in the ashes
Chuck Jan 2013
A haunting stare with a serious note
Originates in a lad just thirteen
Ready to command or to set to task
Obedient, mature, and quick to rule
More comfortable with adults than peers
An old soul has he, loves cars from the past
Collects Civil War relics and antiques
Spends most his time reading and researching
Reads historical fiction, lost in time
Analyzes plants, insects, and ol' coins
He could be described like Chaucer's Cleric
"And gladly would he learn, and gladly teach."
He desires, especially, silver
Yet, gold and ex-presidents faces too
Protects younger members of his small clan
Only his hand will be attacking foe
It might be his fine grades, his quirk or two
That humbles his parents. Proudly they stand
And admire their first born miracle
A babe no more, his age will meet his soul.
I chose a serious form, blank verse, to match my son's attitude. I hope you like it.
Must you be here in such an interesting illusion?
Why must you sit in such... vogue?
Here though, you exist in fashionable cyst.
Bygone futures of blighted sutures
Youngster-stale and eight-hundred pale
Destitute pasts of layer passes present
Horses gather at the gates of heaven
Spitting at me
And in this way, I've given myself nightmarish feelings.
Yellow blocks provides battery-colored translucence a doubt of mortals
Tungsten belated harmony
'Tell me I'm not in a dream. Or one of my trances.' She uttered the two sentences between gasps and seem-to-be quickening pulses. In midair, the tension between them kept growing intensely, trying desperately to meet its peak every second, before finally disappearing into the sightless distance above it. 'You're not,' the man said, his voice distant even when his face was only a few inches from hers, and cupped his free hands around her chin to calm her pale face. Her cheeks were warm in his palms, as if being burnt by hundreds of heaps of dying, yet ravenous flames. She closed her eyes, recording the touch of his perfect skin that seemed able to charm her endlessly since the first time she had fixed her gaze on his shimmering features. The angelic voice which accompanied it woke her a few seconds later. 'And even if you are,' he traced his soothing fingers along the reddening skin of her cheeks, 'I'll bring you back to life. Which is here.' He emphasised the last two words with a smile, a heartbreaking, infuriating smile - because of its astounding beauty, before tenderly touching his cherrylike lips to hers, making her start to tremble uncontrollably in deep confusion. She was, again, in the middle of these steep rocks without any aid to support her unstable weight, meanwhile the air over their heads began to twirl in circles, the weather around them getting pink and turning red in five seconds' time. She was lost. In someone else's magical world, with a rendition of one of The Beatles' hit singles from the 1900s or 1950s - she could not exactly recall which period of years it came from - playing smoothly in the CD player in the languid atmosphere of the living room behind them.
After a moment of enjoyment the kiss brought them he pulled back, before slamming his left hand into the tiny depth of his shirt pocket and taking a silver locket out of it. He threw a confident smile at her, and in one blink of his eye, the room fell dark. Petrified yet washed out by the sudden darkness among them, the girl let out a heart-rending shriek, which was followed by her heaving her body onto him, making his head hit the floorboards and the long necklace break in half. In seconds, blood-red light began to shuffle out of the center of the torn necklace, mingling with the air outside its shell and sending the woman into gradually-coming unconsciousness. She could now only see shadows, muttering and brimming all over the weather around her, and had not the strength to stand up apart from lying helplessly on the feathered carpet beneath. Before her, she saw how he started to rise and reveal his claws, and fangs, and bright red eyes above her. He laughed mercilessly. Instantly, she covered her sweating face with her hands - which now felt too shaky and she hated it, she loathed it very much - and brought out a despondent, lamented sound of cry. Her evil lover, at the same time, continued to soak up as much energy as possible from the change of circumstance.
'Again, I successfully, harmlessly tricked you,' he whispered this to her right ear. Around them, the horrendous wind potter faster and faster meanwhile their invincibly powered circles got bigger. 'You should thank me for that.'
'Th... Thank you for what?' She abruptly gathered her courage to confront him. If this meant that the end of my life was approaching, I would be ready, she thought silently.
'For letting me bound my ways into your life again, Em,' his angelic voice replied, and before she realised what was coming next, she wailed with all of her might when she laid her eyes on his real monstrous, vampiric face before her.
'I am indeed sorry to say that you - a clever and sanguine girl like you - was granted the chance to relish your life only momentarily,' he cleared his throat. 'You have always known that you could not outrun us at the end..., and so have your family.'
'No,' she mumbled, and drifted her gaze to his face - his now burning face. 'NO!'
'No,' he mockingly repeated her words, 'or YES, my dear?'
'Don't call me using that 'D' word, beast,' she put her best effort to yell at the top of her lungs, ''cos I am not your dear, and prefer death to becoming one of you!'
With those last few words, she scrambled to her feet, and stood up in just two swift movements. In her both hands, which he did not know were protected by the two stashes of garlic and one wooden cross in her dress pockets, were two shiny swords with special blades carved onto their two edges which were designated to **** vampires. Get rid of them. And their malicious world of beasts.
She stepped forward, and new powers began to regenerate inside her - despite the cries she felt start to roll into her heart, upon knowing that her beloved Joe had died. Joe had been deceased now. He was lifeless, and no longer able to help her here. She should never have ditched him. It dawned on her now, when everything was already too late to fix up. But she knew that she should never give up. Javier and his vampire family might have tasted every single drop of her other family members - and the rest of Ludirus town's residents - including her Joe, before she idiotically kicked him out for this pathetic, heartless beast who wore a disguise to displace him. She stretch the first sword - the one in her right hand - out to him. He took a step back, his eyes remained focused on her.
'You won't hurt me,' he pretended to be in pain, and in one and a half seconds, he transformed into the figure of the innocuous, blue-eyed prince once more.
'I won't be deceived by your looks, pig,' spat her, meanwhile her brain rummaged through a thousand ways to stick the two swords into his chest. That was, in fact, the only way to **** him. To drain his evil life out of him.
'You were, once,' he laughed, the sound of his devious laughter echoed in the very room, and later left it in such dread and wariness.
'Not anymore,' she bravely took a step forward and, without any further doubt, without caring about her being imprisoned for the rest of her life before getting her blood dried by the fangs of Javier's two older brothers, she stabbed the swords into his chest with all the energy she had left. And the effects sprayed out by the action were beyond any of her expectations. Thousands of blood droplets poured out of his body and onto the floor beneath her, flooding the entire living room and finally the streets outside the building until no litter, little scraps of food, and wheels of vehicles were seen anywhere in sight. Surprisingly, these endless streams of blood did not cause any floods, and rapidly soaked through every single layer of soil the earth had on its surface. The blood that had been consumed out of the poor people of Ludirus, the rural village in South Ireland, famous for its cruel killing rampage for several thousand years, where a group of aristocratic vampire ruled the lives of humans and their own species. But now, there would be no more of them. No more of their horrible treatments. No more of their sneaking-up-on-humans tricks they secretly did at night - to savour human blood, which was lawfully removed from the protecting-human law renewed every year. It was all a lie. Yeah, a lie. A lie that allowed Javier's family to approach Lucinda's family members to be victims in their lifelong killing spree. But now, there would be no more vampires, thought Lucinda as she kissed her holy cross and sets of garlic affectionately. There would be no more blood sacrificed to fend for those beasts' hunger, even though it meant for her to live alone. Live on her own, as she no longer had anyone around her to turn to. To soak up her tears when she was scared away by the bunch of vampire kids on the way home from school. To calm her with her melodious chords at the piano. Mother. To serve her the best spaghetti in the world as a reward for her outstanding grades at school. Sister Sheila. To rub her back and put her to bed at night - at the age of sixteen! Father. Luce's tears just would not stop while she kept counting her memories, as every single shadows of her deceased beloved came back to her. And finally, the sight of her Joe lying his tired head on her lap, and reading out loud to her his newest poem he composed at the office for her. All were gone. Dissolved into the ravenous sea of blood in the guts of those psychotic, simpering, abusive monsters.
But she was satisfied. She felt, somehow, proud of her heroic, or at least, brave actions. She had taken control of her fear, and that was one of the most important characteristics a woman should have to succeed in this cruel world, her father had once said. Now she could prove to them all that she was a newly reborn person, and was no longer the old Lucinda. Lucinda Hale who had always been the 'tail' of her sister while they were six and four, and the little, spoilt daughter of Jim and Aileen Hale who could not hold a plate properly in every banquet their family was invited to. Luce knew that she was now completely a stranger to her family. She squinted her eyes shut, trying to imagine how nice it would be to show off her new self to her late family if only they were all alive with healthy pink cheeks now. In her own peace and this momentary solitude, she found herself sinking onto the floating warmth of blood, but strangely, she did not fall. She did not plunge into the limitless red colour underneath, and remained flowing above it while her tears started to crawl out of her eyes. She did not know, and did not want to know how long this remained until she eventually felt the rough surface of the bearskin carpet again. She woke up with a dizzy head and quickly threw a hasty look around her living room. The prince, beastly Javier had vanished. Oh, there are his remnants, she thought and unconsciously, chuckled quietly to herself when she came to take hold of several white, lifeless bones laid in front of her. Then suddenly she understood what had just happened. The legend in that book she had borrowed from the library transported the knowledge back into her mind. All the members of Javier's family had been crushed now. They were dead. Her sacred tears, which came to mix with the blood flood, became the cure for all the people who had been ****** by the vicious vampires in town. They were now freed, and reawarded, although still mortal, but yet a very rare, elusive, privileged chance to be alive once again and start their lives all over again. They must not be far from her now, thought her. Without any further wait, she raced out of the room, and wormed her way onto the street.
And here they were. The streets of Ludirus were no longer deserted. Traditional markets with a thousand-metre long series of antiques roamed them, occupying every single tiny space provided to place racks containing jewels, valuables, and gold pots. There were also shelves of books about cookery, traditional healing potions, sports, literature, and anything else someone ever wanted to buy. And then she spotted a book with a bright yellow cover, entitled 'Love Poems: From 1900 to the Present, by Joe Grogan.' Her breath seemed to stop at that time and suddenly, before she even got the opportunity to touch the cover of the copy in front of her, two warm arms wrapped her waists and turned her body around to face the owner. Once again, she was at a terrible loss for words. 'Joe,' she mumbled.
'I am,' the writer nodded solemnly. And just like the evil Prince Javier had done before, he pulled out a beautiful silver box and opened it. Inside, two rings shined beautifully before their eyes, radiating a smile as bright as the one seen on others' faces among them. A smile that celebrated the comeback of their long-lost independence. Before she knew it, Joe knelt before her, and presented the ring upwards onto her.
'What would you like to do first, Madam? Marry me, or buy my book?' He grinned and held both her hands. Before she could answer him, he inserted her left ring finger into the perfectly made ring, and helped her right hand fasten his own ring onto his finger. She lifted him up and wrapped her hands around his neck.
'Do you have time for both, Sir?' She rubbed his smooth cheeks and kiss them before looking deeply into his hazel eyes.
'Absolutely,' he answered firmly, and scooped her whole weight into his arms and spinned her around. Luce could no longer say anything when a sudden wave of happiness washed all over her, and became even at a more unfathomable loss of words when she caught the sight of her beloved father, mother, and her sister, all alive, start approaching to deliver their congratulations. Here we are, she thought with a satisfied feeling. We were, are, and will always be meant to be together.
Monika Nov 2017
There was once a man
Who looked at the moon and asked
"Is there anything I could ask,
that you can answer?"
There was no reply,
as expected.

The next morning, there was a dog.
The man crouched down
in front of the dog and asked
"What are you up to today?"
The dog walked past,
as expected.

In the afternoon, there was a girl.
She was sitting on a bench in the park.
The man sat beside her and asked
"Are you waiting for someone?"
She kept gazing at the sunset,
as expected.

Night falls in a pub in the city.
There's a drunken man, had many bottles.
The man approached him and asked
"Is something the matter?"
The man finally collapsed after too much drinks,
as expected.

Lastly, in a room there are antiques.
One is a mirror in an intricate frame.
The man looked at the mirror and asked
"How do you feel today?"
There was no reflection,
as expected.
you dredge up the memories of lost secrets
gathered up
in made up words and our twisted limbs and now
packed with yellowing newspapers in the cardboard boxes
lining the attic
ancient jokes are unpeeled too, dry and cracking
they emerge to see the sunlight
but are quickly blinded, ouch!
those pictures of our shared smiles and oh so tender embraces have faded
to sepia tone in their brittle wooden frames,
be careful as you grab them down from the shelf,
they might break.
Mmm* it all comes back to me now
-our treasure trove of antique memories-
as you oh so slyly mention them in passing,
slip in those references that you
I’ll remember,
Aren’t you cool as a cucumber now?
but they crumble quickly in your hand
and I only hear wisps of our whispers
as the record player leaves scratches on the disks
ah darling be careful you’re about to drop it all down the 3 flights of stairs and it might all smash into microscopic pieces so very
Annie Jun 2013
pierce my eyelids with fish hooks
and reel the thin line in
slamming my eyes shut
so I can finally sleep

I have stayed up countless nights
nailing my body to the hardwood floor
screaming in hopes
that something will change,
nothing does
and in the morning I find
splinters in my back

linoleum tiles replace
the skin on the bottom of my feet
for i find myself either in the bathroom
dying, or the
kitchen trying
and there are no longer
skeletons in my closet,
rather the haunting voices
of family and friends who
chose death over life
and they hang like outdated
fur coats that just
take up space
and I don't know if
I am the hanger or
silk lining inside.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
i love women, don't get me wrong, i finally succumbed
to watching the female world cup,
since the lionesses reached the semi-finals
against u.s.a., but the man in me just kept thinking:
yeah yeah, great footie, but those beauties...
where's martin keown, i need to look at
a mugshot of a brute, i can't concentrate
on the skill without a girl that looks like
martin keown... oh god... alex morgan...
              julie ertz... steph houghton...
   don't get me started on the swedish team...
    wimbledon has also started...
                    i do enjoy female tennis more than
the male variation of serve-**** tactic...
or the terminator that's serena williams...
     cori "coco" gauff... wow...
                i wish she would win the championship
and replicate martina hingis wimblendon 1996...
problem... she's under 16...
so she's only allowed to play 5 matches
in the tournament... and what if she wins
the 5th? that's the quarter-finals...
7 to win the tournament... the rules should be bent,
she should be able to continue...
end of an era... the dinosaurs are being chased
by the younglings...
prof. green (roger federer) still has it in him...
but... well he is a professor of tennis...
his style? his backhand? immaculate "conception"...
who played as well as he does?
roger sampras... the list is very short...
but i don't have a problem watching woman's
tennis, it's so much better than the brute strength
of the serve akin to the game played
by: ivanišević, rusedski, roddick, čilić (chy-lea-'c -
piquant, that acute c)...
   n'ah... in terms of tennis?
i think the males are over-rated,
                except for the prof. of grass court...
i do love women... apart from the nostalgia
for primary school playground banter with
the girls: when we still had an asexual
sense of it... before all the **** jokes,
before the greatest schism in ether of existence:
beyond the religious and in the biological realm...
o.k.: i tease... which is something a prepubescent
girl would understand:
   if i was also a prepubescent boy...
times, have, changed...
i'm with ms. amber and ginger ale,
cigarettes and a decent soundtrack...
               i still don't want to understand incels...
i listen to them, but then i reach a limit...
thank god i didn't lose my virginity to a *******...
but... if you have to?
         isabella of grenoble...
               a fine fine catch...
          mind you... have you ever been
to an 18 year old's birthday party,
   and it was not what you were used to,
i.e.: bal samców / cockfest?
   this 18 year old's birthday party?
  my friend ian tagged along for about an hour
or two... then he suddenly bailed on me...
i was the only male... among... um....
20 or so girls...
              why, the, ****, are, muslims,
blowing themselves, up,
for a reward of 72, virgins?! eh?! can anyone
please please tell me?!

no brainer question(s)
   (as dictated by h'american girls in venise):
the beatles or the rolling stones -
to be honest? neither.

   top three songs with the bass guitar
setting the rhytm:
   1. tool - forty six & two
  2. the offspring - bad habit
3. róże europy - kości czerwone, kości czarne...

roy orbison or elvis? m'hahaha... royo...

  a lot has happened since i attended that
18 year old's birthday party...
why are muslim men so eager to entertain
eternity with 72 virgins?
      will they be keeping them virgins
or what? that would be the best way
to not move past kissing and oral ***...
once 3rd base is entered: the third eye
of transgender shiva opens up...
              why did solomon give up his harem
for the monotheistic monogamy associated
with the queen of Sheba?
   beyond one, what good is a harem?
if you've never been around 25 or so virgins...
you really don't know what you're talking...
or getting yourself into...
look, i just changed the background to show
you i'm not lying:
  that evening i came home: ex-haus-ted...
did i spend the past few hours in
the company of teenage girls or was i being
ripped apart by a pack of wolves / hyennas...
and you know how drunk teenage girls
behave... you're shreds... they're competing
like it's both the 100m sprint and the marathon
cooked up into one!

i really could have chosen a different path:
***** ***** all year round...
   well, why didn't i, why did i become
voluntarily "celibate"?
            as much as might want the company
of the opposite ***: picking up a thai surprise
bisexual in the park one day...
******* her in the garden...
   walking her home while she drowned
in my jacket... she telling me i should stop
drinking... now... drinking...
i was taught to listen to rules under the arch
of pedagogy... now? i'll be as stubborn as
i am expected to be...
i don't like being told what to do,
thank you for telling me to do for the first
21 years of my life...
  now? welcome to the plateau!
even the best advice is the worst advice
after a certain period of time...
do i look like a ******* puppett that will
listen to such things: oh, but if you don't
do x, you'll become homeless...
   i've met some happy homeless people...
one even told me why he became homeless:
'my mother told me to never lie'...

i don't even think these jihadis know what
they're getting into,
wishing up 72 celestial virgins...
i'll take to the count of "72" valkyrie serving
me drinks than expecting me to **** them,
and the eternal library of text and music...
don't get me wrong...
receiving attention from women:
esp. those younger than you,
while they're intoxicated: it is fun...
but when it comes to the sort of
intimacy of a relationship with a women,
when she starts to read you the cosmopolitan
magazine's questionnaire as to whether
she's the perfect girlfriend /
you're the perfect boyfriend /
   you're a perfect couple?
i love women outside the realm of a molten
heart... i don't like finding myself

              am i missing out on something?
oh i know i am...
but it's like owning a car:
great! you own a car!
  but you also own car insurance...
the m.o.t. payments and spare parts...
and washing the car on the weekend...
oh i'm so jealous!

  what's that famous saying?
women... can't live with them,
  can't live without them...
       well... more like: can live without them,
but much harder to live without them
and stop wanting them...
whatever glimpses i've had of past
relationships: i sober up even if i'm drunk...
she didn't want to split the restaurant bill...
this "modern thing": feminism,
my "toxic masculinity"...
  whatever, whatever...
                   i guess i'll have to end
on a note superstitious of a teenage girl's whim...
i'm bored, the end.


.now i have a fox, without a leash, that i tend to feed everyday... keep feeding him, or her, lamb fat, cat food synthetics, and once in a while a frankfurter... and the Polacks you minded so much? only attacked ****** night0club owners... made plums and figs out of their faces... bulging and caress worthy... same ****, different cover, with the easy girls of Liverpool and Newcastle... back down in London? the story goes: she's an exchange student from New Hampshire... riddled by the madonna-***** complex... and i'm not really adamant adamant on stealing the cherry... if you've ever ****** aa ******? one, is enough...  i'd sooner become ****** up by a ******* tornado... and giggle... dying with a half breath... before plummeting face down onto the hearth; watching daisies, growing, roots up!

i've had one irish migrant educate me:
you know...
there are plenty of neo-nazis
in Poland...  
       and? am i one of them?
   liked him, a high school friend...
i'm sorry the friendship ended...
so i am?
   **** me... better i brush up on
reading some Heidegger!
         oh look 'ere i go...
        can't stop me now...
unless befriending Pakistanis
who have kept a null of Urdu...
              because you know...
   if there's a culture that's integrating,
and doesn't,
   have the honor, capacity,
to keep in line its origins?
no problem...  not worth it...
           people who do not retain their
skeleton -
their basics -
  their language -
   they, "magically" lose it...
half-castes... half-people...
   no pride in an origin,
   not upkeep with a language?
might as well call your mother a,
*******, *****!
      ****** by an antiques dealer!
      no pride in origin,
  no subsequent pride in a "return"
on foreign soil...
   plethora of antagonizing Islam...
good look...
    i have mine,
but i hide it...
      ex-girlfriend -
almost took a ride on one of those
buses in the 7/7 bombings...
               guess what...
i'm an ex-pat...
  i know that you wouldn't call
your similar genetics of
a "family" an ex-pat
and neither a migrant or an immigrant...
   (economics comes later,
doesn't it?) -
  but i'm sure the english
are loved up with Hindu grannies
and their grandchildren
taking them to the doctors to
translate symptoms...
   fine by me... you do the math...
   apparently i'm not speaking
English, but? ******* Urdu!
         no problem...
thank god i never allowed myself
a pledge of allegiance to the people,
rather, the language they spoke...
the language is all i pledge my
allegiance to... and for...
the queen... and her people?
        **** it... shooting albatrosses
off the shoreline of Cornwall...
attempting to spot
  porky Siamese twins...
        one does the eating,
the other does the oral ***...
             i have not pledged any allegiance
to the english people...
  they love their **** curry
and their Afghan foot-soldiers...
   i'm doing the Pontius Pilate
washing of hands...
   which is a secondary theater of
a baptism...
no allegiance to the people....
but the language?
   i'd give my life for it...
           the people are not exactly
the main ingredient in terms
of existential coordinates -
but the language is...
    on a per se basis mingling with
the appropriate focus.
Jenna Feb 2016
Walk through my antique assortment of recollections
and lining the shelves you will find a de trop amount of regrets,
superfluous surplus that will remain behind when I cross state lines.
But tucked back in corners are stories and memories I’ll miss,
the figurative trinkets who, in absence, I will not and could not forget.

I will miss the childhood films watched while curled up on the couch
with a bowl of still warm popcorn and the symphony of pet snores.
I will crave our 3 AM conversations that just preceded sleep,
when we filled the air with words of nothing and created memories sweet.
I will yearn for the sound of your laugh, his voice, her smile
that echoed through any room the personalities occupied.

Walk through my antique assortment of recollections
and lining the shelves you will find a de trop amount of regrets
mixed with valued, treasured memories that I am sure to miss.
But tucked back in the spaces is room for new worlds
so I close and lock the antiques away, save them for a rainy day.
"Maybe it's sad that these are now memories. And maybe it's not sad."
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
that's 3 weeks without a keyboard,
that's 3 weeks on a dual-detox -
         that's that: roughly: antagonism
of: once upon a time...
           there can only be one Hans Andersen,
and as the story goes: ol' granny
   passed on the tales, without which:
no talk of posterity, and seances at
the theatre; alternatively: what if Kierkegård
opted for opera, rather than theatre?
    well: horrid is the task of dropping names,
as if being a village idiot, in that
capacity: giving directions... no such thing!
  nonetheless: a horrid task...
3 weeks... without this horrid world-entanglement...
amphetamines in the wild west,
                   and yet... everything slows down...
that's 3 weeks without such ''luxury''...
    and would you believe it?
3 weeks went by: in a blink of an eye.
             strange, or what 21st century writers
fail to recognise: the ******* canvas has changed!
any-single-one-of-them bothered to scrutinise
this new canvas? anyone?
     ah yes, it's still in its adolescence -
it's still: Dostoyevsky, scuttering in the grand
dungeon: that's the Moscow underground.
             the canvas! the canvas!
                             and indeed, if this be some
bellowing horn, from the depths of some forsaken
place... i'll go into the street, and sabotage
civilisation with graffiti...
                     then again: i have the least
expectations, such that capitalism works...
poetry... and what investment have you made?
nil, or almost nil... evidently: zilch!
      ah, but to have invested in canvases,
a studio, paints, brushes... see... no one sees
investment in poetry: primarily because the poet
has done the minimal...
            unless of course it turns out to ****
with a hot poker something once resembling
nations... which now resides in the insane asylum
(even though those, have been abolished)
                           , nation - ooh! what a ***** word!
the left irksome sometimes uses it:
in theory: the nation-state...
                        and then there's the resurgence of
ancient Greece... in a sing-along:
maybe 'cos i'm a Londoner... brother! brother!
Athenian! Athenian!
                                       but we are born into
a Spartan wedlock... no one really bothers to
**** our gob with Shakespeare...
    then again that is the schizophrenia (alias
dualism) in humanity... thus, to be frank,
psychiatry can be congratulated, it has provided
one useful term... and i will use it, over and over again,
in a non-symptomatic way, because, i find,
it stands, as if the Olympic Graeae (Zeus, Poseidon
and Hades) eating the carcass of some inhabitant
of Tartarus...
                               evidently: tartar steak...
doubly evident: tartars, or the remnants of mongols,
settled in crimea, and elsewhere in the Ukraine...
   tartar                      tra-ta-ta-ta... ku ku ryku!
a ja fu! krecha! a ja znow... fu!       radowitą
uprzejmość... skłaniam...  
    or what i call: rising spontaneously from the depths...
polymaths applauded, the tribunal resides in
bilingualism... trenches... history... perspectives
and current affairs... wicker man media...
                        so... an example of pedantry?
ó....               that's an orthographic dignitary -
        an aesthetic muddle... as is
c-ha                               contending with samo-ha...
     ch                            came from antagonism of
cz                                   which was later antagonised
by č               in česka.... say that: hen party
bound to Prague... in the Czech republic...
                                          ch      k..­.
i am, quiet frankly... standing at the feet of the tower
of babel... and i'm looking up, and i see
correlations, and i see decimal marks,
which, when given enough geography,
can seem like England and the isles,
       and central Europe...
    Iberia? phantom of Seneca...
  eureka! let's begin, once again...
  why is there a continuum beginning with
Plato and Aristotle?
                                           we could become
reasonable people... told to deal with madmen...
we could claim beginnings with Seneca...
and Cicero...
                      and why? the Romans loved poetry...
the Greeks antagonised Homer...
            the Romans loved Horace, Virgil,
                           Ovid... perhaps we should really forget
beginning with Plato and Aristotle...
       the former has become a church,
the latter a dentist's assistant (minus the ancients'
concept of a joke).
                      evidently i have to finish off reading
Seneca... his educational letters to Lucilius....
      moralising ******* that he was, thus, perhaps
a nibble at Cicero? but i must say:
                           it has to begin somewhere,
so not necessarily in stale-bread Athens...
                      and having such perspectives helps
in claiming casual conversation?
   assuredly - if it doesn't involve talking about
the weather...
                                which is always a great mystery
   if it's given enough aurora.
   onto the mystery of dialectics,
as discovered by Alfred Jarry in his Faustroll
Pataphysics contraband...
                                                nag­ging agreement...
nodding without approval... (chapter 10) -
beginning with αληθη λεγεις εφη
        (you speak the truth, he replies) -
   and ending with ως δoκεì
                              (how true that seems)...
and then some dub-step...
        know nothing dROP! boom! jiggy jiggy,
get the rhythm.
   as i always find it hard to look at
    diacritical arithmetic...
                                  given the following
represent a prolonging: hangman:
       å, ā and ä...
                             esp. in Finnish -
stratum: hedningarna täss on nainen.
                        rolling yarn, plateau, two dips;
and i will never say something profound...
i'll just say something no one else has said,
benefit of the doubt? somewhere, someone,
                                      kneels at the same altar.
  such are the distinction - invaders from the
north, and invaders from the south...
                                           even with
crusading Golgotha mann -
the times? many bats, supers, spiders,
but not enough readings of thomas mann...
                              easily befallen into prune-nosed
high-airs... it comes with the diet of literature...
                              and with yet another book:
i have burried yet another living person
i could have had a beer with, and conversed.
it always happens, every time i read a book
i have to attend a funeral... by reading a book
i have burried someone alive...
                          shame, in all frankness...
    i will sit in a congested train, touch a breathing
body, and consecrate the touch with
a warring genuflect - harbringer of a Teutonic
passion for initiation: a komtur's slap across the cheek.
   chequers played with passions...
           and some have to be approached like
caged animals, their vocabulary as cages,
                and the whole world before them:
             some have indeed become so encrusted in
their daily: routine, that it would take a zoologist
(thrice oh, begs some sort of diacritical marking)
rather than a psychologist to understand them...
    like the darting dupes they are, enshrined in
20% gratis! smile! have a nice day! boxing day sales!
all but pleasantries, fathoming the grave.
   stiff vocab and all other kinds of perfume...
                           a king and his charlatan knights,
who are merely ditto-heads.
                  and not of this world, afresh -
among the nimble hands prior to birth -
surely there is: more grandeour in birth
   that entry via a ******...
                            the greatest pain of ****...
and when the ancient treaty was signed
under the name: Augustus Cesarean - or
recommended for a need of aristocracy -
    it was, for a time, the mana magnetism:
and such was the rule of poetry:
rather than a crown, donned the laurel leaves...
donned the laurel leaves...
    and such was the covenant from ancient
foes when trying to assimilate the Jew...
three kings from Babylon,
                         the child in Egypt...
          no good tides from Nazareth...
         a crown of myrrh - later overshadowed
by dogmatic sprechen, simpler: thorns...
yella things... or rzepak, Essex is filled with it...
rzepak... so why bother adding a dot above
the z, when you get capricious and use rz to
denote the same?! thus a science:
voiced retroflex fricative... Stalingrad!
                       can you really stomach this kind
of jargon? if it wasn't for science fiction:
science would be twice removed from gott ist tot,
*******' worth of pondering, given the close
proximity rhyme... nothing that rhymes should
ever be taken seriously, it should be hymnal!
                         Horatio! mein lyre!
   mein Guinness leier! rabbi krähe -
     and they deem that ****** white when talking:
thinking? i'd prefer Cezanne in real life -
   maggot wriggling and all...
                                          as much eroticism
as bound to a dog slobbering its testicles:
which means ****-all in an almighty stance
   for a dollop of halleluyah in Nepal.
well: pretty talk, pretty pretty pretty: i feel pretty,
oh so butter-fly-e.
                                    2 week stance,
***** in autumn... but so many Swiss hues
coming from the same concentration of decay!
shweet!  zeit-ser!        and that's me talking
kindergarten german: innovation begins with
a fork and a spoon, should the tongue come to it...
            i see a poem,
i see something worth bugging... c.i.a.,
f.b.i., hannibal's lecture in Florence, Venice for
the rats... bugging... shoving...
  shovelling... necro grounding, rattling...
    windy via north... Icelandic...
drums along incisors of abstract gallop:
violins... fringes of the mustang... airy airy...
all regresses toward the Vulgate...
         like ****, like said, and the only pristine
stress comes with vanilla ice-cream,
or a medium-rare beef ****! hmph!
                         fa fa fa excesses with that hurling
                      and i did finish Kant's
critique of pure reason... minus two calendars...
but, so help me god, the 2nd volume was hiding
under some corner...
                           thus, from transcendental methodology
came plump apricots, plums and pears...
             sweet decay fruit baron...
              and it's called sugars in the intricacy of pulp...
lazily grown, dangling on that caricature of
a formerly known: full crop of wheat-crude fringe.
    2 years... honest to god!
         but so many books in between...
i was given a recommendation...
i cited it already... kraszewski's magnum opus...
29 books...
                       although that's history fictionalised...
but nonetheless, it really was about
     the cossack uprising in the 17th century...
   and it was, as i once said, something i can forgive
sienkiewicz - the film version,
as in: i will not read a book once it has been adapted
to a movie... it's self-evident that too many
people have read a piece of work and are gagging
for a conversation... but where's the playground?
           ******* cherades!
  chinese whispers and a Manchurian candidate!
  i thought as much.
                          and whenever it's not a preplaned
escapade, what becomes of the day?
     was it always about a stance for carpe diem?
  syllables: di                em.
                            carpe is said with more lubricant.
corpus diem. well, that's an alternative, however
you care to think about it.
                and whenever you care to think about,
the proof is there: mishandling misnomers:
poets as tattoo artists... although no one sees the ink,
signatures on a reader's brian (purposively altered,
toward a Michael Jackon he-he, and other:
albino castratos the church venerates!)...
   that's 3 weeks in a catholic country...
  3 weeks... if only the football was better,
      i'd be called Juan Sanchez...
               but, evidently, the football is bad...
     so it's catholicism on par with a sleeping inquisition...
no one really expected Monty Python to conjure
that one... because it never really took place,
not until a trans-generational exodus
postscript 2004... once western brothels were exhausted,
and the Arab started ******* a hippo...
              then it was all about lakes and rivers
and Las Vegas 2.0 in Dubai!
                     you say quack... i say:
                                                    easy target.
and they did receive a blessing from Allah...
enough ink to write out Dante's revision of the Koran,
and some Al-Sha'ke'pir to write a play called:
the Merchant of Mecca.
  last time i heard, when the reformation was
plauging Christendom, no one invited the Arabs...
these days i think the little Lutherans of Islam
watched too many historical movies...
me? pick up a crucifix and march to Jerusalem?
  and is that going to translate into:
   blame the populists! blame the nationalists!
it's like watching a circus... why is the Islamic
reformation asking for third party associates?
                  i was happy listening to
the klinik... albums: eat your heart out...
time + plague...
                             once again: the world narrative
gags for enough people to conjure up
     a placebo solipsism... and that's placebo
with a squiggly prefix (meaning? how far
that ambiguity will take you) - ~placebo...
well: since existentialists were bores...
it's about time to head for Scandinavia
   and ask: is that " ''                 for passing on
an inheritance, or better still: ripe for
acknowledging ambiguity?
                          and if you can shove this
  into your daily narrative... you better be
a connaisseur of chinese antiques...
                frailty... then again, theres: ******;
well hell yeah *****'h, it's a murky underwold
after all.
                     and yes: that's called a petting word...
some say hombre, and we'll all be amigos
and muskateers at the end of the story.
                                    finally... i feel like i'm writing
a poem that i'll never end...
              why? it was supposed to be about
how John Casimir of Sweden championed
  the crown away from his brother Prince Charles
(volume 1)...
                      the bishop of Breslau...
a recluse... couldn't ride a horse...
    then again: nothing worthy imitation...
beginning with a donkey...
                               the transfiguration of palms
into whips... 2000 years later
talk of Hercules is madness... that other bit?
complete sanity.
                              well... if that be the case...
the book is there... i signed it, 2nd volume of
Kant's critique...
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | Y| | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | |

        an oak... in a forest of pine...
an oak in pine wood...

then onto the wood of sighs:

aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
aH aH aH aH aH aH aH aH
          (somehow the surd escapes,
and later morphs into, but prior to)

a short script: variation on MW...

      pears' worth of blunting runes:
opulance s and ᛋ - versus z,
    congregation minor: the interchange, ß,
buttocks and *****, minus phantoms of erotica.
yet, taking into account trigonometry...
sine (genesis 0), and cosine (genesis 1),
or            M                                   W
(no Jew would dare believe the Latins have
the second 'alf of the proof: that loophole of all
things qab-cannibal-mystic - cravat donning
mystique - a flit's worth of sharpening,
or dental grit... flappy tongue,
flabby oyster, lazing for a crab's palette)...

1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0
1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0 1 0

of course there's an
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i'm sometimes bothered about the times i live in,
it's getting weirder and weirder by the day,
England is becoming like the Polish-Lithuanian
commonwealth partition years:
the szlachta (aristocrats and brokers of
the economy) have already partitioned England,
not on the visible spectrum of borders -
the Poles are punching bags by the offset of
the refugee crisis that caused the unrest in the
Union - we know where the problem truly lies:
it's hard to practice the religion of Louis XIV,
mainly: appearances are everything -
to appear non-discriminatory is the prime concern...
but there are always a few village idiots to
give the ontological experiment away as flawed -
as i once lamented not ever having an English
girlfriend, even though i've lived here
30 / 8 of my life... but then i look at the statistics...
maybe that's for the better...
but what i'm really bothered about is that we're
not living in times of real history, of making
dents in history like Achilles might have,
we're living in times of nostalgia...
now i can appreciate individual nostalgia,
Hölderlin and Nietzsche lamenting Ancient Greece...
a revival that never came... i can understand
patient and individualised nostalgia,
a well-informed nostalgia...
but en masse nostalgia that i'm experiencing?
horrid... horror! i'm living in the days when
20th century musical nostalgia is rife... it's everywhere!
compare the mood of individuals (Sylvia Plath)
against the mass of the 1950s and the 1960s...
there are no comparisons under the microscope -
the two expression will never fit, i know that's obvious...
in history there's either the whole being sold,
or there's the selection of what's worth buying and
what's worth discarding...
but that's how it's becoming to look like:
whatever is deemed historical on television
is turned upside down into nostalgia -
in everyday society, in clubs in pubs, anywhere,
history is irrelevant,
                                    the sacrilege of talking politics
and religion in English pubs is just like
walking into a pub wearing some football shirt...
but isn't that crude, given neither politics or religion
are in an Utopian ideal?
for the most part, we obstruct history by invoking a need
for nostalgia... it's always the obvious that i write
about... perhaps nostalgia is a sort of defence mechanism
to history... current, and future...
                    we learn about history in schools,
but we rarely appreciate it in leisure times -
nostalgia is a leisurely approach toward history -
nostalgia also makes Darwinism redundant:
i still don't know why it's so important, when in fact,
you turn on absolute radio on Friday
and it's the 1980s theme... but whereas those
Romantic poets experienced a nostalgic so far removed
many changes were possible and invested in...
whereas i? i live in an immediate state of the masses
recuperating from history in nostalgia from
30, 40, 50 years ago...
                                      which has created this
bubble in history... it's as if we all decided to create a
cut-off point from previous histories, and whenever
past history pops it's ugly head, we excuse with shock
from the cut-off point of the second half of the 20th
century (the pinnacle), followed by the words:
well, reality is a raw herring after all: in cream
and white wine vinegar - bites!
i don't know if all this immediate nostalgia will be
beneficial... i actually think it won't be...
it's almost harsh to realise that we will never be rid
of the 1950 - 1999 period - but it looks like that -
and then you think: so those redeeming literature
from long ago are dust brood and bore -
perhaps... some prefer new furniture, some prefer
                   but this is me only being 30...
     i wonder what will happen to this omnipresent
prescription of nostalgia... i guess no real historical
importance will be given, 200 years from now,
to people who lived in it... we'll be considered
the nostalgic period of human history,
                  not the historical period as already stated:
sure, technical innovations -
                                                   to make people
important as they once were will be the major task...
along the lines: Louis XIV, Jesus, Genghis Khan...
           Apple's iPhone 6s Plus... that's what it looks like.
johnydeep Feb 2016
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Mother must have said it a thousand times,
Look with your eyes, not with your hands
But I was careless, full of youth

I wasn't the most privileged coming up
I respected things though, knew the meaning of money
But I was careless, full of energy

The Squirrels Nest, oddities and antiques
Mom loved that place, pricey as it was
But I was careless, full of curiosity

She used to take me there, that odd corner store
Mom would browse while I explored the wonders within
But I was careless, full of nerves

I remember just how it felt when she slapped me,
Large Minoan vase, my helmet, shattered on the floor
But I was careless, full of destruction

Mother said it a thousand and one times,
Look with your eyes, not with your hands
And finally, I had learned
Paul C Jun 2012
In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.

Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.

A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.

His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.
Armoire - large two-door cupboard, usually movable and containing shelves, hanging space, and sometimes drawers.
Dragon tree - A tree (Dracaena draco) of the Canary Islands, having a thick trunk, clusters of sword-shaped leaves, and orange fruit
*Quote taken from George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four.

I gratefully welcome any and all critique. This is certainly a work in progress, and I hope to post an updated version soon. Thank you in advance!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
rarely do i have a title before a poem,
but sometimes it feels like i've abstained
from ******* for a month and i write one down;
i'm surprised i didn't take the bait,
i was a blind man that was give sight years later,
every gold-digger's wet-dream some might add,
but what post-Marxism has revealed is that
that bourgeoisie like to belittle those of menial-task
labour rather than the upper-tier socialites,
it's just that they don't possess insignia of power,
they exercise their power on the lowest kind,
men who'd gladly spend a hot summer's day toiling
the fields in full happiness of physical splendour
than spend it pampered in a Versailles parlour kin -
they think books are their macaroons...
i should have not minded my self-worth so much
and settled for the prize of easy-living,
it was more like a self-obsession but made kinder
with the word solipsism... whatever it was,
i spent a month in St. Petersburg like Al Paccino in
Alaska insomniac witnessing the white nights...
i could write a honorary poem with rhyme and
perfect punctuation... but life isn't like that...
it was a night to remember, a great **** on a bed
with a tortoise green headboard and a line of mirrors
where the concept of ******* was made clear:
Narcissus watching himself ******* with nymph
after nymph until Echo's turn came; it was no longer about
the face or beauty, but the insect-like banality,
Narcissus inventing fiction, ******* in-front of a mirror,
discharged and opened a Pandora's box for himself,
pronoun usage... strange how all monotheists contest
the existence of one among no other, like polytheists
contests the existence of one among many... like now...
if they be gods, their names do not necessarily denote
a chance encounter and formal airs or grievances mastered
for a brief conversation; very much resides in their poetic
investment being banked, that Narcissus, less noun
and more imagery is best understood -
for i claim that poetic techniques are equally needed in
the lessons of grammar: such that metaphor,
onomatopoeia, imagery, pun are equal with noun, verb,
adjective... etc.

rude words? crude words? well, i guess
you're fine with the carnage of images,
you abstract someone in alternative versions
of dimension and say a £-D person doesn't matter...
when did Luis XIV ever bow before a *******?
so she calls you up, this rich, pampered,
self-righteous Cinderella hopeful from
St. Petersburg with a flat about 10 minutes
shy from the the Hermitage...
she's walking on glass, i can hear her from
a mile away like a shark sniffing a droplet
of blood from a mile, the salt, the salt
agitates it's senses, god be merciful,
but god wasn't with missing eyelids on
aquatic creatures and serpents, i'm guessing
the Darwin in me swoons to say:
eyelids breed dreams, mammalian blood,
no eyelids, no dreams,
amazing how a rainbow can penetrate a
cave of darkness, don't give me the meaning
of dreams, Freud, give me how it happens,
your why is perfect for the rich,
a second coming of communism -
those neo-**** punks don't know what
they're defending, they think is glam-rock
style obituaries, it's degenerate culture
right on the pitch of saying... it's a fork.
no, i don't have any respect...
why did you leave Edinburgh, she asked.
i don't know, he replied.
now comes the abstracting of rigid
fiction systems due to the psychology of
being attracted to ancient pronouns,
after all psychology was always attracted to
ancient pronoun uses,
we have the scholarly etymology from ego
as the up-keeping of Greek -
fair enough, keep the alphabet, but forget about
the ideas behind it... but wait, you kept both!
and the urban etymology from self
as the insertion of slang & slur and what
other nonsense you'd come up with for applause...
so she calls you up after you asked her:
those anti-contraceptive pills working?
you asked me to not use a ******.
can we keep it casual?
am i looking at torture instruments in a museum?
**** me, i better get drunk every night and hope
for an early death... 'cos that's what i'm doing right now!
i don't want to live more than i had wished to live...
every ******* time i open *harold norse'

autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel i'm nagging,
i read the **** thing, too much premature **** in it -
or.. swearing... a healthy approach to a vault of vocabulary -
it's not a version of bankruptcy, it's just economics babe,
say it blunt, use a sharp knife... better that than
saying it sharp, and having to use a blunt knife,
believe me, you'll be taking oaths on a guillotine by then...
but you'll find it easier buying a harold norse memoir
than one book of his poetry...
it's antiques we're dealing with, this ain't
alan ginsberg's howl, it's the fringe, a scotland of
the roman empire, antiques!
i do wish i never said: get an abortion...
but the dialectical dichotomy in me that some would
say less eloquently as being schizophrenia now wishes
i didn't... but... what's that argument for feminism?
i forget taking contraceptive pills he ***** me on my period
or he ***** me on my period and i get impregnated,
so this is some miraculous ****-up situation by chance?
she said the exact words: i think i'm pregnant.
the Cartesian in me says: i think... so i'm guessing
she doubts she is.
better still... i don't know!
so she is, she isn't... my truthful reply would be...
i, don't, have, any, money... she's the one with
a spare apartment roughly 10 minutes from the *******
Hermitage and i'm stuck in limbo to her game plan of
having parents and never growing up...
well of course poetry doesn't sell, we don't have
patronages from popes, and if only english teachers
and aristocrats write in this medium...
then you're all about to pack your bags for
still the first page from that autobiography ****** me off,
i don't know why, there's so much pompous pie
in it... given social stratification the outcasts feel
empowerment by rebelling against social norms and
expectations, while the social in-casts have to feel
shame... and this is an existential shame, a sense of
purpose without a sense of continuum -
that's what's bothering me, it's that shady grey area
of ratios 2 : 1 in China, 2 : 3.4 in England or...
1 : 2 (single mother, two children)... if i really did a runner
would i write for zilch? if i did a runner i'd run blind
completely, i wouldn't expose myself to some minor
event in my life... i'll repeat...
approximately 10 minutes... from the Hermitage...
i can see the Shard of London as a toothpick from where
i'm sitting on the odd day in the park...
my position isn't exactly one of power, but more of gob.
calion May 2014
he is a lover of brokenness.
he likes antiques,
collecting little fragments of things.
he hates breaking them,
so he finds brokenness,
fixes it up a little,
takes a few pieces and leaves.
he's already taken a bit of me,
and unless I shatter again,
he'll leave forever.
Savio Feb 2013
a porcelain grizzly bear is on my desk table
I stole it from a gas station in Oklahoma
driving 100 miles per hour
in the hope for something hopeful
a tiny minuet grasp of freedom of the road
of the cigarette endlessly burning
endlessly producing knowledge
little scroll stories that flash through the mind like rain drops or
shooting stars at night
or the clock on the microwave turning from 4:00
to 4:01

A subconscious journey
a path
a walkway
a minor walkway into the many hallway'd mind
perhaps there are no doors
no official room or building
simply hallways binding into one another like ******* eye lashes on a woman of 47
and in these hallways there are rats that like to chew on the soles of your high heeled boots
leaving you
bare foot
then the hallway floors turn into your stomach
filled with chicken skin and peanuts
A subconscious dilemma
the dogs got loose
I'll trace them by the foot prints left in the desert like snow

“Ah” my money brother told me
a snow storm
I cover my eyes only to see that I am starving from the wind
and food is scarce in my belly
everyone is dying of hunger
but the poet eats on his fingernails and the poems he abortions through the vaginal mind imagination that creates in his skull made up of glue metal objects and pizza boxes left out on side streets for hounds cats and old serial killer'd military men have left the war only to find trash on the side street and windows with yellow lanterns flaming up in the night like a forest fire
or a **** girl of 16 running through the city streets high on methamphetamines
I called the doctor he's drunk on something I made up in my mind
and Beethoven is on the bathroom shooting up ****** which isn't mine
where is the poem heading
only the humming bird and and ant on the wall will because they do not care
I am hiding something beneath the crevasses of my fingernails of 5
of 10
of 20
of 15
“there's nothing to whisper about” I told her sleeping ear in the midst of drunk A.M. night with nothing to do but make love smoke cigarettes and comment on the noises outside city of sirens that do not attract but chase the negros of criminal car thieves and the drug dealers of KCMO

she took off her dress
something glowed in her eyes
on her belly
in her *******
her legs that grew like plants in a swamp
or in a pond where the deer feed and drink
I kissed her lightly
I saw the moon shake in jealousy
so I left the room through the window
I crawled on my highheeled knees onto the roof and sang
I sang
I sang a song that didn't make sense  and I puked up tiny words of
misleading information to the past of my life
desert city Michigan land of
old broken toyed up frozen over
the pond is frozen over
winter won't leave me alone
poking at my eyes
the wind plays a sad song
I miss the tree of life
I want to taste the forbidden apple
but I burnt my tongue on a hot iron
or was it boiling whiskey that I drank from the oven

I took a step into a hole
the subconscious mind began the breath like a young man that crashed in a blue volvo in 1963 on a street next to a ***** house and the lights were loud and the women were thin with
and their ******* pointed
and there eyes shifted only to God
only to 1 dollar bills and the 1 whiskey and 1 more pill of the serene night
of that
hope of finding beauty in a high
but the Trees burn
and the soil is over used
bare no child dirt
the children are deaf and blind and cant run up a mountain
reach the stars
reach the ravens
reach for the
that corrodes the mind like lice
like bleach on the bathroom floor
like termites in the basement
chewing on a sound
gnawing on the night's temple
this may be a problem
painting you
I'm out of oils
and the fridge is warm
that is where I keep my pistol
turn the heat on
turn the water off
lets go out dancing
lets make love
lets ****
lets kiss
lets talk about the sky
as we sit
on our bellies
drinking wine
drinking the dogs breath
drinking the hands sweat
drinking the intellectual thoughts of a book
the book is dead
Savio stands with a sword and cuts his own throat
yet nothing pours out
what is next
where does the Van go from here
where is the next highway thought
the next Used Car Dealer Ship
where is aluminium bathroom
the dishwasher with no dishes
the light bulb that dangles like a child's loose tooth in his molding to man mouth

Look over there
indian man with no hair
50 probably
look over there God
look over there
look over there
behind those strange purple white blue trees
I think I see myself
standing in water
with toes
with fingers and fish circling my ankles
look over there
a deer spine
a dogs leash
an unwashed sweater that cost 50 dollars

all my pants have holes in them
all the paintings in my house are fake

her bodied was patina'd
by a kiss of lipstick

the ride back home
a swig of alcohol
as the city night ***** dominated
quietly burns
where is the loud jazz?
bursting like ******* through windows
where is the passion?
where is the drooling for a womans touch?
where is the television with a baseball in it's skull?

where is the wisdom?
I can only hold onto this rope for so long
my hands are soft
and sore
and this hole is deep
this hole smells like New Mexico
this place stinks of dog and a man who cannot wake up from a dream
because the woman he loves
is in an ocean
and he's chasing her
his eyes are strong and wide
his mouth is full of salt water
and as he looks up
there is snow
there is snow and the water freezes over
and his lover is far
she is on the other side of the shore
she is beautiful in the snow
and his eyes grasp onto that beauty
before he is frozen still

a seagull in winter flies with the crows
what a beautiful sight
I once met an ant
on a leaf of a tomato garden
the ant didn't say much
I complemented him on his life span of a day
I asked him if he ever contemplated suicide
but I guess he never got the chance
the garden dies
the tomatoes grew ill colored
and the stems
that were once straight
like young women in sun dresses
now bends
like an old man reaching for his glasses on the pavement in a sand storm of pain
he hollers out in his used up antique washed out voice of time and too many cigarettes too many women's lips and too much coffee at 5 Am
cursing death
to come
cursing god
to reveal himself
like *******
and the Garden begins to decompose
like that of a squirrel in a suburb street
or a mouse in the cats feline belly
the garden descends bent-wardly to death
to the ground
to the origin of life
of  seed.

A journey into a subconscious mind
or maybe the glance through a dying man's eye glasses.
This poem is meant to be a vantage point of the subconscious mind.
I wrote this continuously for 30 minutes. No stopping. No thinking. only writing.
Paul d'Aubin Mar 2017
« Des Hommes prophétiques en face de leurs époques face à la souffrance causée par les périodes de réaction et de reflux »

(Relation d’une conférence donnée le 13 janvier 1940 à Toulouse par Silvio Trentin sur le principal Poète romantique Italien Giacomo Leopardi)

Prélude à une commémoration

C'est à la bibliothèque interuniversitaire de l’Université de Toulouse-Capitole alors que je me plongeais avec ferveur dans la lecture des ouvrages sur les « fuorusciti » (appellation donnée aux exilés politiques Italiens) que je découvris un opuscule de 118 pages, issue d'une conférence prononcée à Toulouse, le 13 janvier 1940 devant le « Cercle des intellectuels Républicains espagnols » par Silvio Trentin. Cette conférence fut prononcée avec la gorge nouée, devant un public d'intellectuels espagnols et catalans, la plupart exilés depuis 1939, et quelques-uns de leurs amis toulousains non mobilisés.
L'intense gravité du moment ne les empêchait pas de partager une ferveur commune ce haut moment de culture la culture Européenne intitulée par Silvio Trentin : « D’un poète qui nous permettra de retrouver l'Italie Giacomo Leopardi »
L'émotion fut grande pour moi car cet ouvrage me parut comme le frêle esquif rescapé d'un temps de défaites, de souffrances, rendu perceptible par le crépitement des balles de mitrailleuses, des explosions d’obus s'abattant sur des soldats républicains écrasés par la supériorité des armes et condamnés à la défaite par le mol et lâche abandon des diplomaties. Silvio Trentin avait gravé dans sa mémoire des images récentes qui n'avaient rien à envier aux tableaux grimaçants de nouveaux Goya. Il avait tant vu d'images d'avions larguant leurs bombes sur les populations terrifiées et embraser les charniers de Guernica. Il venait de voir passer les longues files de civils, toujours harassés, souvent blessés, emportant leurs rares biens ainsi que les soldats vaincus mais fiers de «la Retirada ». Il venait de visiter ces soldats dont parmi eux bon nombre de ses amis de combat, parqués sommairement dans des camps d'infortune.
Ces Catalans et Espagnols, qui s'étaient battus jusqu'au bout des privations et des souffrances endurées, étaient comme écrasés par le sentiment d'avoir été laissés presque seuls à lutter contre les fascismes, unis et comme pétrifiés par un destin d'injustice et d'amertume.
Mais ces premiers déchainements impunis d'injustices et de violences avaient comme ouverts la porte aux «trois furies» de la mythologie grecque et une semaine exactement après la conclusion du pacte de non-agression germano-soviétique, signé le 23 août 1939, par Molotov et Ribbentrop, les troupes allemandes se jetaient, dès le 1er septembre, sur la Pologne qu'elles écrasaient sous le nombre des stukas et des chars, en raison ce que le Général de Gaulle nomma ultérieurement « une force mécanique supérieure».
Une armée héroïque, mais bien moins puissante, était défaite. Et il ne nous en reste en guise de témoignage dérisoire que les images du cinéaste Andrei Wajda, nous montrant de jeunes cavaliers munis de lances se rendant au combat, à cheval, à la fin de cet été 1939, images d'une fallacieuse et vénéneuse beauté. Staline rendu avide par ce festin de peuples attaqua la Finlande, un mois après, le 30 septembre 1940, après s'être partagé, avec l'Allemagne hitlérienne, une partie de la Pologne. Depuis lors la « drôle de guerre » semblait en suspension, attendant pétrifiée dans rien faire les actes suivants de la tragédie européenne.

- Qu'est ce qui pouvait amener Silvio Trentin en ces jours de tragédie, à sacrifier à l'exercice d'une conférence donnée sur un poète italien né en 1798, plus d'un siècle avant ce nouvel embrasement de l'Europe qui mourut, si jeune, à trente-neuf ans ?
- Comment se fait-il que le juriste antifasciste exilé et le libraire militant devenu toulousain d'adoption, plus habitué à porter son éloquence reconnue dans les meetings organisés à Toulouse en soutien au Front à s'exprimer devant un cercle prestigieux de lettrés, comme pour magnifier la poésie même parmi ses sœurs et frères d'armes et de malheurs partagés ?
I °) L’opposition de tempéraments de Silvio Trentin et Giacomo Leopardi
L'intérêt porté par Silvio Trentin aux textes de Percy Shelley et au geste héroïco-romantique du poète Lauro de Bosis qui dépeignit dans son dernier texte le choix de sa mort héroïque pourrait nous laisser penser que le choix, en 1940, de Giacomo Leopardi comme sujet de médiation, s'inscrivait aussi dans une filiation romantique. Certes il y a bien entre ces deux personnalités si différentes que sont Giacomo Leopardi et Silvio Trentin une même imprégnation romantique. Le critique littéraire hors pair que fut Sainte-Beuve ne s'y est pourtant pas trompé. Dans l'un des premiers portraits faits en France de Leopardi, en 1844, dans la ***** des deux Mondes, Sainte-Beuve considère comme Leopardi comme un « Ancien » : (...) Brutus comme le dernier des anciens, mais c'est bien lui qui l'est. Il est triste comme un Ancien venu trop **** (...) Leopardi était né pour être positivement un Ancien, un homme de la Grèce héroïque ou de la Rome libre. »
Giacomo Leopardi vit au moment du plein essor du romantisme qui apparaît comme une réaction contre le formalisme de la pâle copie de l'Antique, de la sécheresse de la seule raison et de l'occultation de la sensibilité frémissante de la nature et des êtres. Mais s'il partage pleinement les obsessions des écrivains et poètes contemporains romantiques pour les héros solitaires, les lieux déserts, les femmes inaccessibles et la mort, Leopardi, rejette l'idée du salut par la religion et tout ce qui lui apparaît comme lié à l'esprit de réaction en se plaignant amèrement du caractère étroitement provincial et borné de ce qu'il nomme « l’aborrito e inabitabile Recanati ». En fait, la synthèse de Giacomo Leopardi est bien différente des conceptions d'un moyen âge idéalisé des romantiques. Elle s'efforce de dépasser le simple rationalisme à l'optimisme naïf, mais ne renie jamais l'aspiration aux « Lumières » qui correspond pour lui à sa passion tumultueuse pour les sciences. Il s'efforce, toutefois, comme par deux ponts dressés au travers de l'abime qui séparent les cultures et les passions de siècles si différents, de relier les idéaux des Antiques que sont le courage civique et la vertu avec les feux de la connaissance que viennent d'attiser les encyclopédistes. A cet effort de confluence des vertus des langues antiques et des sciences nouvelles se mêle une recherche constante de la lucidité qui le tient toujours comme oscillant sur les chemins escarpés de désillusions et aussi du rejet des espoirs fallacieux dans de nouvelles espérances d'un salut terrestre.
De même Silvio Trentin, de par sa haute formation juridique et son engagement constant dans les tragédies et péripéties quotidienne du militantisme, est **** du secours de la religion et de toute forme d'idéalisation du passé. Silvio Trentin reste pleinement un homme de progrès et d'idéal socialiste fortement teinté d'esprit libertaire pris à revers par la barbarie d'un siècle qui s'ouvre par la première guerre mondiale et la lutte inexpiable engagée entre la réaction des fascismes contre l'esprit des Lumières.
Mais, au-delà d'un parcours de vie très éloigné et d'un pessimisme historique premier et presque fondateur chez Leopardi qui l'oppose à l'obstination civique et démocratique de Silvio Trentin qui va jusqu'à prôner une utopie sociétale fondée sur l'autonomie, deux sentiments forts et des aspirations communes les font se rejoindre.

II °) Le même partage des désillusions et de la douleur :
Ce qui relie les existences si différentes de Giacomo Leopardi et de Silvio Trentin c'est une même expérience existentielle de la désillusion et de la douleur. Elle plonge ses racines chez Giacomo Leopardi dans une vie tronquée et comme recroquevillée par la maladie et un sentiment d'enfermement. Chez Silvio Trentin, c'est l'expérience historique même de la première moitié du vingtième siècle dont il est un des acteurs engagés qui provoque, non pas la désillusion, mais le constat lucide d'un terrible reflux historique qui culmine jusqu'à la chute de Mussolini et d'Hilter. A partir de retour dans sa patrie, le 4 septembre 1943, Silvio Trentin débute une période de cinq jours de vie intense et fiévreuse emplie de liberté et de bonheur, avant de devoir replonger dans la clandestinité, en raison de la prise de contrôle du Nord et du centre de l'Italie par l'armée allemande et ses alliés fascistes. Bien entendu il n'y a rien de comparable en horreur entre le sentiment d'un reflux des illusions causé par l'échec historique de la Révolution française et de son héritier infidèle l'Empire et le climat de réaction qui suit le congrès de Vienne et la violence implacable qui se déchaine en Europe en réaction à la tragédie de la première mondiale et à la Révolution bolchevique.

III °) Le partage de la souffrance par deux Esprits dissemblables :
Silvio Trentin retrace bien le climat commun des deux périodes : « Son œuvre se situe bien (...) dans cette Europe de la deuxième décade du XIXe siècle qui voit s'éteindre les dernières flammèches de la Grand Révolution et s'écrouler, dans un fracas de ruines, la folle aventure tentée par Bonaparte et se dresser impitoyablement sur son corps, à l'aide des baïonnettes et des potences, les solides piliers que la Sainte Alliance vient d'établir à Vienne. »
C'est donc durant deux périodes de reflux qu'ont vécu Giacomo Leopardi et Silvio Trentin avec pour effet d'entrainer la diffusion d'un grand pessimisme historique surtout parmi celles et ceux dont le tempérament et le métier est de penser et de décrire leur époque. Silvio Trentin a vu démocratie être progressivement étouffée, de 1922 à 1924, puis à partir de 1926, être brutalement écrasée en Italie. En 1933, il assisté à l'accession au gouvernement d'****** et à l'installation rapide d'un pouvoir impitoyable ouvrant des camps de concentration pour ses opposants et mettant en œuvre un antisémitisme d'Etat qui va basculer dans l'horreur. Il a personnellement observé, puis secouru, les républicains espagnols et catalans si peu aidés qu'ils ont fini par ployer sous les armes des dictatures fascistes, lesquelles ne ménagèrent jamais leurs appuis, argent, et armes et à leur allié Franco et à la « vieille Espagne ». Il a dû assurer personnellement la pénible tâche d'honorer ses amis tués, comme l'avocat républicain, Mario Angeloni, le socialiste Fernando de Rosa, son camarade de « Giustizia e Libertà », Libero Battistelli. Il a assisté à l'assassinat en France même de l'économiste Carlo Rosselli qui était son ami et qu'il estimait entre tous.

IV °) Sur le caractère de refuge ultime de la Poésie :
Silvio Trentin laisse percer la sensibilité et l'esprit d'un être sensible face aux inévitables limites des arts et techniques mises au service de l'émancipation humaine. A chaque époque pèsent sur les êtres humains les plus généreux les limites inévitables de toute création bridée par les préjugés, les égoïsmes et les peurs. Alors la poésie vient offrir à celles et ceux qui en souffrent le plus, une consolation et leur offre un univers largement ouvert à la magie créatrice des mots ou il n'est d'autres bornes que celles de la liberté et la créativité. C'est ce qui nous permet de comprendre qu'au temps où l'Espagne brulait et ou l'Europe se préparait à vivre l'une des époques les plus sombres de l'humanité, la fragile cohorte des poètes, tels Rafael Alberti, Juan Ramon Jiménez, Federico Garcia Lorca et Antonio Machado s'engagea comme les ruisseaux vont à la mer, aux côtés des peuples et des classes opprimées. Parmi les plus nobles et les plus valeureux des politiques, ceux qui ne se satisfont pas des effets de tribune ou des honneurs précaires, la poésie leur devient parfois indispensable ainsi que formule Silvio Trentin :
« [...] si la poésie est utile aux peuples libres, [...] elle est, en quelque sorte, indispensable — ainsi que l'oxygène aux êtres que menace l'asphyxie — aux peuples pour qui la liberté est encore un bien à conquérir] « [...] La poésie s'adresse aussi "à ceux parmi les hommes [...] qui ont fait l'expérience cruelle de la déception et de la douleur».
Le 16 03 2017 écrit par Paul Arrighi
quinn silverman Nov 2018
the antiques sitting here
collecting dust in their crevices
the forever cycle of fake smiles
placed on the plastered
eyes shoved in the hollowness of it
inanimate but still deserving of feelings
so i cry when i look at them
waiting for a whisper
waiting for them to say
“remember that time when..”

but i envy them
not to be cursed with a soul
because humanity is pitiful
finding empathy in the inanimate
feeling lonely enough to think an
old chair is sad,
jealous of replacement
i envy the antiques
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2016
it's this mentality of the old guard: rekindling the Renaissance of the 1950s and 1960s... they're the originators of English, but the last to receive it... their frustrations against Europe are frustrations against being antiques in the anglophile world dynamics... they're Victorian antiques in a silicon valley of usurped hopes... the easiest route is to blame the Romanian than the Californian... the Empire is long gone and there's nothing to bring it all back... hence the culinary fascination and the need to obstruct morality with plastic surgery... they actually hate American accents (after being saturated with American culture) more than French or Germany variations... i know they do because i came to hating them as much as they do... "they" isn't paranoid: the English! we're getting so much American culture it's only natural that we shun the everyday American accenting of what used to be posh bargaining of Oxford in Harvard... globalisation is another word for a monochromatic adjunct.*

2 Texans looking for
de Wallen in Soho...
              London ain't no
  Russian oligarch said:
head to Dubai for answers...
    and so they built
the Zeno towers...
              how they never
reveal little mid-western
America to Europe,
the Harvard ponces are ashamed
of dialects -
     American dialect as in
non-celebratory Scoot -
                  aye            -ish
                         but never the redneck
in 'ollywood
                                   how how how -
never the true believers...
we welcome Disney every day,
we get culturally *****, every day,
you think we like Americans?
   we don't...
we're like the Vietnamese...
                    we threw the Jews out,
but the Muslims came...
              we didn't like that...
the Americans became the equivalent of
               the English became the
two-faced concierge -
          we loved the cultural ****...
but when we heard American accents
we thought: thanks for the atom bomb
neurosis! the oh-oops message spreading
to North Korea... hey! you dropped
one first! why tell other people
to not do it?! at least the French
tested in aqua-insulators with Godzilla...
you tested the ******* thing in deserts...
oh sure... we love American cultural
                 we see a Texan in Soho
after a few drinks we're thinking:
                                                 lynch the
                          it's this disparity of
being fed a culture that represents
            the lowest ebb of pronunciation...
even the northerners in England
hate American accents more than Cockney;
are these plebs feeding us
the zeitgeist? seriously?
        they can't be serious...
                    they have enough enough
actors to be acclaimed as foreign affairs
policy makers by censoring the diversity
of the rainbow of American accents...
   even a Croat accent in English
         (famously part of a football team)
doesn't seem so annoying as a
    niche American accent spoken to
an Englishman...
            Texan for one...
                     hybrid Californian another...
Mid-Western and even though
i'm not English i'm titillated by
donning a red coat.
Sarah Writes Aug 2013
I. The Lie.

She said
The ugliest things become beautiful on my lips
She said
My whole body is a mouth
I think it’s because I was truthful
I think it’s because I was useful
Did not exist
But if she did, I would have tried to sell her myself
As a customizable pre-packaged parcel
Or some precious antique lost
To be discovered, under-priced, buried deep in that section of the second hand store that everyone ignores
Because god forbid you be seen shopping
For used underwear
But she would be discreet
And I would be a surprise
She would think
That I was some great gift of serendipity
That she’d always been looking for something just like me
Not knowing that her prize was just one thing stolen
From an entire house of antiques
A house so ******* full of things that it will never feel complete
A house where the potential buyer can never stand in doorways
For fear of what they might see
Where every room is replete with a full set of furnishings to give her the illusion that she might
Love me


I am a different person for everyone that I meet
And again on each day of the week
My love history is a researcher’s notebook, documenting anomalies
There is only one theme
I’ve always fallen for those people with faces that always seem smiling
I've gone about it quietly
Because, secretly, I’ve always felt that that they were better than me
I think it’s because they look like they know something I don’t
It makes me love them
It makes me forget how to speak, how to be
Any functional version of myself around them
Let alone create the perfect version
That might make them fall in love with me


But I have been loved I think
I have sold myself well
And been loved well, one dimension at a time
By all the wrong ones
And still, it’s always a surprise
I don’t do well with surprise
So, with the excuse that I was unprepared for company, I only show them that room of my house
Which I feel they will appreciate
The one I won’t have to explain
A brief overview of an interview with past lovers would reveal
That I am a house of many changeable rooms divided by false walls
That I am as many different people
As I have been loved by
And that just when each had finally felt that they’d started to know me
I'd leave
They'd say that everywhere you go in me, I am always burning sagebrush
Trying to smoke myself clean

IV. The Truth.

I am too concerned with being known to be anything but in love with
Through the imaginary eyes of someone else
And I am greedy
I want to see and feel and be everything
But the truthful way of saying that is just
That I always feel I should be more than what I am
And it consumes me
Loving me would be lonely
I have one of those faces that always looks a little sad
A little mad
And I think
That there is too much of me that would have to be looked over, or forgiven, or explained
For anyone to know all of me, it’s
Too much to ask
I make excuses like, who would want to do all that?
But really, I’m just too scared to trust anyone with the task
Of piecing together my smile, or loving the lines on my hands,
Or forgiving me
For all the things that I am
Or think that I
Should be
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
Parades of knaves,
And smitten sheep;
Came to pervade
OUR hide and seek...

Depraved – I caved
To strut; to seek
Tirades of graves
With CREEP antiques.

CHARADES engraved
On my physic;
Enslaved, I waved
Through gift-wrapped chic.

For Beneath enclaves,
She seeks the meek
whose souls – she'd flay,
To Hide-and-TWEAK.
All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.
I’ll not take your time, beyond what the need,
To relate to you a story and deed
As there’s no one else to plea this decree …
For just I survived, don’t you see.

I’m an old man, with a mind full of mist
But details of that night in my mind still exist
As vivid and clear, both sharp and exact
No, no mist there – all of it’s fact!

When I was young, and adventure routine,
With excitement and newness still unforeseen
I was eager to spread my wings to the world
And seek more adventures as those wings unfurled

Within my long travels I happened to meet
Two other men, with friendships replete
One was named Beckett, the other one Flynn
And better friends there never have been.

Beckett was tall – an athletic type
While Flynn, the scholar, more of pinstripe
Pinstripe or athlete – it mattered not
It was our essence together and that which it wrought.

Engaged were we in all daring do
High on the mountains, and under seas, too,
We crossed dry deserts, and jungles of green
And other adventures there in between.

We’d been together, t’was our sixth year,
And still our adventures made us cohere
To every madness – to every rave …
Until we decided to enter The Cave.

We discussed the encounter and planning for weeks
And assembled equipment – some new, some antiques
Until at last the day it arrived …
And our excitement?  It still there survived.

The map we used, was bought from a guide
Who told my friend, Flynn: “Don’t go inside”
When he had learned of our journey’s intent:
To enter The Cave, and begin our descent.

The guides’ words, had given us pause
We had thought: What was his reason or cause?
But … dismissed were his words of advice
We had each other … and that would suffice.

With ropes and lantern-hats and other such gear
It was into The Cave we then disappeared.
The light from our lanterns speared into the dark
We spoke very little - made no remark.

Onward, downward, in blackness we went
Placing out markers for our later ascent
The sounds of our footsteps, and scraping of walls
Reverberated ‘round us – as echoed recalls

In about six hours, or maybe ‘twas more
We encountered water upon The Cave floor
And there all around were beautiful shapes
Never were seen such gorgeous landscapes

Stalactites, stalagmites and mineral mounds
And dripping water with its’ “plopping” sounds
Pinks, violets and shades of green hues
And small salamanders made their debuts

We found a small dry spot and then we assessed
This was a place we could stop now to rest.
I turned up my lantern, and took off my hat,
When Beckett said: “Hey.  Did you just hear that?”

I moved not a muscle, and my ears went to strain.
All I could hear were the droplets, like rain.
Then from The Cave’s bowels came a loud din
I continued to listen – then heard it again.

We looked at each other, but said not a word
Confused and startled by what we’d just heard
It wasn’t a moan, it wasn’t a gasp
But more rather like a guttural rasp

One thing was certain, it wasn’t of stone
That could create sounds while standing alone
T’was our discussion, from which to derive:
The source of the sound was something … alive.

Then from The Cave’s deepened black hole
Came again sounds from a source with no soul
The sound was menacing, and one I despise,
I watched the fear grow within my friends’ eyes.

Instinctively, we three then moved as one
In that instant – our re-ascent had begun
I had been last in the line coming down
Now I’d be the first to reach the “above-ground”.

Quickly my feet in the lead, lead the way
Flynn, right behind had nothing to say
My friend Beckett, brought up the rear
And in that position had the greatest to fear

The lamp on my hat pierced through the black
And I looked for our markers to lead us back
To save our strength, nothing was said
Again - the loud sound that filled me with dread.

The sound became louder and closer it be
And I moved faster through the black before me
I could hear Flynn’s breathing, so close behind
I tried to concentrate on the markers to find

Somewhere behind me, then snarls I heard
Loud and vicious, run together and blurred
Close … so close … the beast was so near
Adrenalin rushed through me to react to my fear

T’was then I was hit with an overpowering stench
The smell caused my stomach to turn and to wrench
The odor blew past me, and I knew t’was the breath
Of the Beast of The Cave – its’ oder of death.

I was near running, but down on all fours
Sweat was streaming from all of my pores.
Then I heard those terrible screams
The ones I keep hearing in all of my dreams

It was Beckett I knew in his shocked agony
Midst the snarled snapping of jaws I can’t see
I heard bones cracking and squishing of flesh
And the fear within me gave new strength afresh

My fingers were raw from grabbing the rock
But on moving forward my mind had its’ lock
My stomach still queasy from the stench of the beast
I knew it was finishing its’ beastly feast

I knew, too, t’was only a matter of time
When the beast would return - I had to climb!
I heard Flynn say: “IT’S COMING AGAIN!”
Again was a surge of my fear deep within.

I heard once more the beast from behind
And fought the panic taking over my mind
Something heavy struck against The Cave’s walls
The kind of sounds that ghastly appalls:

A scraping of talons of heavy clawed feet
Caused my heart to double its’ beat
I had the feeling that Flynn lagged behind
I screamed my urgings loud and maligned:

“Flynn!  Flynn!  Catch up to me!”
But took not the time to look back and see
For the beasts’ crashing against The Cave’s face
Told me it neared – and was re-gaining the race

My knee hit a rock, and my balance was lost!
I fell to the ground, and then feared the cost
In losing the time in scrambling free
Again sheer panic stabbed into me.

In less than an instant, Flynn was there too,
His face in my light was of a strange hue
And as he helped me get back to my feet …
Flynn turned around – t’was The Beast there to meet.

The stench overwhelming, but the sight was much worse
There standing before us: The beastly curse
Of overlapping scales in shades of dark gray
The rest of its’ body concealed in umbrae

But its’ eyes … its’ eyes … I’ll never forget
Rheumatoid yellow, and deeply inset
Its’ reptilian lids blinked just one time
‘Fore its’ lips peeled back - revealing the slime

Glistening yellow over dagger-like teeth
Then oozed from its’ mouth to fall there beneath.
The beast reared up, then we saw its’ claws
Sharp and deadly within its’ forepaws

Towering above us, no sound the beast made
On beams of our light had his gaze stayed.
Unexpectedly Flynn then turned and faced me
… With less blinding light, the beast could again see

Why Flynn had turned I never will know
For the beast bit him in two, at his torso
And I was looking at Flynn – direct in his face
When the beasts’ bite his life did erase.

I screamed, and instantly away did I run
Away from the beast, and dead companion
Through the price of Flynn’s life, more time had been bought
To reach The Cave’s entrance – the goal that I sought

Running wildly, several times did I fall
Toppling did not my mission forestall
The beast I knew still somewhere behind
Drove me on forward with my frantic mind

I heard its’ clawed talons scraping the wall
And prayed I’d not again stumble and fall
Then, up ahead, a small opening I viewed
And I saw my chance, with hope there exude

Twelve feet … six feet … then it was three
But the beast and its’ stench was there behind me
I dove through the rock opening, scraping my head
But better that injury than ending up dead

I was elated, and about to rejoice
I then heard a scream – it was my own voice!
In my leg erupted intense blinding pain
Looking down I saw the bloodstain

My leg, through the opening, still was stuck out
There was but split-seconds, before I’d lose it no doubt
I pulled my leg back, and in but a flash
My shoe was removed by a clawed talon slash

I crawled back from the opening, then I could see
My wound was deep, from ankle to knee
Then suddenly through the opening came
A clawed talon whose aim was to maim

I quickly withdrew out of its’ reach
As claws shot through the openings’ breech
The opening too small, for continued rampage
And the beast began then to voice its’ outrage

It’s deafening roars assaulted my ears
Echoed Cave chambers and in my mind did adhere
I began attending unto my grave wound
Knowing I now was no longer marooned.

T’was another hour ‘fore I crawled out The Cave
But many days ‘fore I’d shed the shockwave
Of what had transpired, and what I had seen
And my damaged leg was lost to gangrene.

Now sleep evades me, for my horrible dreams
Show beams of light, and unearthly screams
Of Beckett and Flynn and The Cave we were in
I know tonight, I’ll re-live it again.

So, now you’ve the story, you’ve heard the deed
I swear is the truth I’ve herein decreed
And Beckett and Flynn are enslaved in their grave
And I lost my leg to the Beast of The Cave.
Paul d'Aubin Oct 2013
Hommage élégiaque au poète indicible du Genêt, Giacomo Leopardi

Oh toi, Leopardi né à Recanati,
Tu portas sur la vie, le regard des «antiques»
Et même, les «lumières» semblaient pâles pour toi,
Du haut du belvédère de la pensée antique ;
Tu vivais en ton siècle comme un exilé,
Qui a connu l’âge d’or et se languit d’ennui.
Recanati, pour toi, était comme un caveau
Dont tu ne t’échappais qu’au travers de tes livres.
Ivre de grec et féru de latin,
Seule la bibliothèque était ta vraie amie.
Latiniste à huit ans, Helléniste à quatorze,
Si ton corps t’enfermait, ton esprit t’élevait ;
Bien haut, dans les hauteurs où dominent les aigles.
Très tôt dans la palette de tes talents immenses,
Tu sus choisir la muse comme cime des arts ;
Et devint son Mozart, ciselant de ses mots,
Que tu allais cueillir dans les champs de diamant,
Dans la Grecque éternelle qui irrigue l'Esprit,
Tu souffrais en silence ton époque mesquine.

Par ton hommage à Dante tu commenças d'écrire
Et souffrait tellement pour ta patrie meurtrie.
Ainsi tu ravivas la mémoire, des légions enfouies
Sous les neiges et les glaces de la Russie glaciale,
Là où, Napoléon, conduisit tes enfants
Où dans de vains combats ils moururent, si ****.
Admirant la nature tu en perçus la grandeur,
Mais en compris aussi les minéralités froides
Dont l'éternel retour se rit de nos soucis,
Alors que nous goûtons des lieux apprivoisées
Son chaos naît et renaît en "Bige Bang" convulsifs,
Et moins que des fourmis, elle se soucie de nous.
Gravissant les volcans tu pouvais contempler
Le peu de cas fait, de cités, jadis si glorieuses.
Tu pouvais mesurer l'immense solitude
Qui pétrifia Pascal et rend tout orgueil dérisoire,
Comme pure chimère dans les champs du Cosmos
Ou le temps ne suit pas, nos piètres horloges.
Et, pourtant gravissant les pentes du Vésuve
Du Genêt si chétif, tu saisis la grandeur ;
Celle même, des humains face à l'inexorable.
Mieux encore tu en appelas à la fraternité humaine,
Et face aux cataclysmes toujours renouvelés
Tu conseillas de ne pas y rajouter nos propres maux.
Toi que l'on désigna : "prince du pessimisme" ;
"Sombre amant de la Mort, pauvre Leopardi",
Tu fus plus bien plus que d'autres, un sceptique attentif,
Aux peines de tes frères, et à leurs vains combats,
Toi le savant chétif qui mourut à trente-neuf ans,
Tu goûtas la passion de cruelles qui repoussaient ta bosse.

Paul Arrighi ( Toulouse/France)
E-Mail :
Danny Valdez Dec 2011
I can never  seem to warm up
these days.
Its freezing all day
my feet like popsicles
pale, white, and frozen.
Winter is really
hitting Arizona
Ian Curtis and Hank Williams weeping in the black clouds above
walking to the bus stop
my freshly shaved bald head
numb from the cold.
The pomp
the greasy combed hair
Since my pin-up girlfriend
the Marilyn to my Elvis
packed up and left.
The week before Christmas.
I can't say I really blame her
I can't say she didn't try
She stuck it out a good while there
She left because I cant hold down
a job
and because
I caught her going behind my back
with another man
that combed his hair too.
Secret conversations
with a guy that had what I didn’t
Vintage wool suits
An apartment in New York City
And exotic antiques.
No matter how handsome a ***
he doesn’t stand a chance.
She used to joke about it even
“Ya know, you’re lucky you’re so handsome.”
when we both knew most woman would be leaving.
I forgot to tell her
good looks only get you so far
and they don’t last very long.
But I got a job
started it the day she left for Tucson.
It’s a place that represents small business office suppliers
paper, ink toner, pens, pencils.
They get small offices to ditch the corporate
staples office max kinkos office depot
and go with small business suppliers instead
stimulate the local economy they say.
It’s a cool gig
pays high commissions and is a real quiet place.
It sits in a business district that’s right next to
an artificial lake
a big winding one
going around medium sized lakeside houses
with tiny docks and tiny boats.
It’s so close
Its just right there
out the backdoor
next to the radio blaring AC/DC
outside it’s like an entire other world
not Arizona.
green waters
thick green grass
little green *****
from the green headed
mallard ducks.
There’s pairings of them all over
a lady said they mate for life.
Those mallards
they give all that fake stuff life
they make it real.
On our smoke breaks we all go out there
most everybody just stands
and smokes on a little back porch area.
laughing, joking, telling stories
putting the cigarette butts neatly in a coffee can.
sometimes I’ll walk away from the group
and stand at the green/blue water’s edge
staring at the concrete shelf of the fake lake
just beneath the water
the real dirt
concealed beneath the murky blue/green mixture.
And everyday
I miss her
a little bit
and a little bit
with every
fake wave
that rolls in.
I just gotta warm up
winter has really hit Arizona.
Fresh off the typewriter, tonight.
Strung Aug 2020
Chipped or ***** or dying
and you can't look past it.
What's special about new? Or is it
that it is
How much beauty
can you see
in damage?
In use?
I'd like to believe you see worth
in the imperfections
of me.
But what do I know
of your soul, really? And who is to say
you will leave me in any better shape
All I can do is hope.
I belong to you
whether you like it or not.

ever since that celestial night we spent together reminiscing about how broken we both are

but not the kind of broken
that people are afraid to touch,
or the kind of broken that can be seen on the surface,
the kind of broken that comes with giving your heart willingly into hands that tremble and shake whenever they hear the word 'commitment'

what was it about your touch that made me forget every dark and protruding insecurity that paid rent in my heart

Was it the way the corner of your eyes wrinkled every time you blessed this world with your forgiving smile

was it the way your laugh sounded like every one of my favourite songs perfectly in unison

was it the way I finally understood what home meant when you grabbed me by the shoulders and told me that I am a song worth being sung from rooftops

Was it the way I romanticized the idea of us, two dismantled antiques on a dusty floor, neglected and unappreciated, falling in love with each other  


I'm not sure if you're 'the one' but I am undoubtedly sure of the way I wish I could replay moments we've shared over and over and over again and maybe some how download the first time you ever uttered 'I love you' onto my retinas

I am sure of my devotion to you and how it is synonymous with how the moon will never give up on the sun, how the bees will never give up on daisies and how we will never give up on each other

I am broken
and I am mangled
and I am terribly sorry

but I am also blossoming with love and the burning urge to finally define 'forever' with you, if you'd let me.
Sharina Saad Jul 2013
Its a silent chilly night
Sitting here alone
My boredom is maximum
Decided I need a night out..
Perhaps just a walk and breathe some fresh air...

Walking past the old museum
A glimpse of an old man
sitting on a chair...
His shadow on the wall can tell
Just how bored he must have been
Working all night long..
especially on a chilly winter night

I approach the old watchman
Offers him a cigarette,
It may sound crazy
but I really need a company
This Night watchman  says, quite surprisingly,
" everything is quiet"
too dead in the museum...
as if he understands my curiosity
about being a night watchman

I don't need to probe more
he says its too eerie in the inside
surrounded with a hundred to 800 years old artifacts
and some classic works of dead artists
I work for the pay... he says...
I don't need to protect the antiques..
To this I am quite amazed...
but he says, " at night when everything is dark and quiet"
the museum comes to life...
my heart beats faster to this...
a real creepy story.. he is telling me..

He admits having difficulty to breathe
when he sees all the musical instruments
played by themselves one night...
when he tried to run... all doors are locked by themselves
he even peed in his pants watching all the statues
dancing and partying in every floors of this very very old museum
a spooky place... yes... ghostly spirits yes...
name it.. he says "I have met them all"
and even shake hands with them every night...

I have cold sweats... I have goosebumps...
I ask him whether he'd like a tuna sandwich
I'd go and buy them and come back for more chats with him
Its 3 am and I am listening to all these horror stories
from an old night watchman...

He agrees for the offer of sandwich
and demands for a black coffee too...
I runs to the nearest Seven Eleven
and returns as soon as possible...

I am standing here now in front of the old museum
with sandwich and coffee in my hand...
The Night watchman isn't there anymore...
he just disappears...

Curiosity makes me come back
the very next day
only to find out..
the Night watchman I talked to ...
and smoked with...
has passed away a year ago...
what an eerie feeling...
I just had an interview with  a dead Night watchman...
Jack Oct 2014
I’m thinking of a place
With a monkey and a sled
A brand new jar of cottage cheese
Just resting on the bed
An envelope with butterflies
Upon the stamp it wears
And a basement sitting at the top
Of someone else’s stairs
A very special place
Where the beach is at your door
And multicolored tangerines
Will help you mop the floor
A casserole with tuna
In a bowl of cocoa beans
Where a question is an answer
Or at least that’s what it seems
A place where you will notice
That the sun it always shines
And toaster ovens tick away
Below the shuttered blinds
Jeopardy is on the tube
Wherever you may go
Antiques shuffle down the street
As every road will show
When you are in this special place
A trolley will say hi
A weeping willow sings a song
As it forgets to cry
Hibiscus on the front porch
Welcome all who do drop in
The price it has been lowered
As the morning comes again
You’ll see while in this special place
A necklace on a whale
And smiles at the dollar store
They always are on sale
A seagull and a crescent moon
Now share the skies above
But most of all while in this place
You’ll see that you are loved
You will learn this special place
It lives within my heart
To offer you a haven
When we find we are apart
A sanctuary nestled deep
That forever will be true
For here within this special place
I always will love you
surei Jun 2013
I have gathered all time tellers,
grandfather clocks, alarm clocks, phones, watches -
to tell you that : I have all the time in the world for you.

It might not be the most sophisticated way
to say that I have an ear for listening and a heart for consolation,
but don't be too skeptical with my methods.

Forgive me, maybe, perhaps, if I can't be so bold and concise.
At least, now we've got all these antiques to talk about.
To J., dreamrunner.

— The End —