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Shofi Ahmed Jul 2018
Dancing the billow in the sea
the cool one will show up
in no time with love.
Deep down from the deep
with the flute on the lips.

Listen to the flute!
The chorus clouds bang out
floating by the river blue,
singing down the sky as they move.

Popping out of the secret valley
the sun branches in
ambling with the wonder light
as if the punter sun knew it,
knows the flutist's arty
rise from down the sea!

Every planet is a flying bee
twirling around the inner music
nothing ever stops in the solar disc.

The waning and waxing Moon
in silhouette and in the half-light
swings over the sea full of life.

It all starts from the ground;
it was from our sea waterfront
Him the creative sweetheart in the midst
floated the leading light the bumblebee.
All the stars bubble in the galaxy
they know this ancient story!

Since then the brightest bulb
the sun in the solar ring  
leads the bunch’s mindful
butterfly dance on the way home.
Following the enduring haunting melody
of the pre-design command ‘Qun’ be!
A poem from my upcoming book Qun: Love is Unconditional
Celestial Vince May 2015
I'm not good in arts
Never hit the bull-eye
In a game of darts
But mine eyes can be arty
Especially when dissapointed, by the one I'm hearting
If my thoughts were painting(s), vivid they would be
Above everything...

The mirror never lies and I've tested this
And everything on it I can see my bliss
See the reflection of my tears, the point is
My mirror never lies

Beauty is in the eye(s) of the beholder, but as you grow older
You will know that there's no order in this
A diamond is a diamond to me, but just a stone to you
Yes its true

Mine eyes are arty
I know this is confusing but, the celestial environment I dwell in
Just took over these thoughts and blew me away
So now I say, try and surf my wave
I'm far away from the normal state
I'm calm, I'm rough, I'm tumbling
Call me a high tide, I'm reaching for the zenith
Cause in it, I find myself
Growing floral thoughts

This mirror is creative, or is it my eyes
Cause I see myself wading
And everybody, waving
As if I'm leaving
All along I've been creating a lake with mine eyes
These none **** brown eyes
Have created a lake of tears
Tears of joy

Man my eyes are arty
Abstract thought of the eyes being arty, and cretive. And the mirror is the reflector of the occurance. Tears of joy can lead to Celestial thoughts.
Obadiah Grey Dec 2013
Sphincter factor nine approaches
food for the fish n roaches
methinks its time for me perhaps
to open up the rearward *****.


------------------------------------
AAChoo !!

Oh, liddle sister, Josephine,
you sure don't keep your
nose real clean.
got stalactites
o' pure pea green
my infectious sibling
snot machine.
----------------------------------------
I thought that I might shoot the breeze
with God or Mephistopheles
and ask them please to ease my wheeze
of my bad back and dodgy knees
---------------------------
Croak with the raven
bluff with the crow
the urchin
the field mouse
beneath the hedgerow
in a flurry they scurry
away away go.
Yelp with the *****
howl with the hound
and bay at the moon
till the sun comes around.
------------------------------------------
Gino's bar and grill.

Away, away afore Bacchus
doles out befuddlement
and Morpheus has his way,
lest I awake to find myself
in the company of
sodamistic bedfellows
with buggery in mind.
---------------------------------
Harry Potter has grown a beard
he lives alone and turned out weird.
Dumbledore, Albus, no more
turned his toes and 'ad a snore,
Voldemort, who's *** is taut
has no nose with which to snort.
====================

Ahem !!

Behind two Lilies- sits Rose,
then Daisies
for two and a bit rows.
with Poppy, and *****
Petunia, Primrose.
and Bryony - who gets up
- my nose.
----------------------------------------------
Amen.
God bless the Cows - for beef burgers.
God bless the Pig - for their bacon.
God bless the wife n her sharp knife
for the slice of their **** she's taken.

-------------------------------------------------
We can, no more fetter the sea to the shore
nor the clouds to the sky
or tether the glint
in a lovers eye,
As sure as the shore loves the sea
so shall I love thee, together,
together for eternity,

-----------------------------------

It bends for thee
sweet chevin,
the cane thats cleaved
by three,
wilt thou now
sweet chevin
yield, my friend ,
for me.
-------------------------------------------------
There's Marmalade then Marmite
and Jams thats jammed between
the buttered bread of bard-dom
a poets sweet cuisine.
---------------------------------------------
I took up campanology
and fired up my ****.
I rang that bell
to ******* hell
till the busies
came along.
--------------------------------------------
so, I've been whittling away
at a buoyant ****-
fashioned something approximating
a poo canoe-
in it, I intend to
surf the **** tsunami of old age
to-- death;
I have named it Public - Service - Pension.


----------------------------------------------

A surreptitious delightful tryst,
with my honey, my sebaceous cyst.
she's my pimple, my wart,
my gumboil consort.
she's the zip, in which
my *******, got caught.
--------------------------------------
Frayed at the bottoms
ripped at the knee.
baggy and saggy
big enough for three.
faded and jaded
and stained with ***
but I'm due for a new pair--
Yippeeeee!!

---------------------------------------

Ther­e's Cockerel in my ear
and he bills and coo's for you
whenever you are near
goes - **** a doodle doo !!!!!,,,,,,,,

---------------------------------------------

Oh,­ for the snap shut skin
in the blue twang of youth
and to un-crack the spine
on the book of love.
now the gulping years
have flown away
we take sips of the night
and are spoon fed the day.

-----------------------------

Zeus made the Moose to be somewhat obtuse,
a big deer- rather queer- I fear.
then God gave him the nod to look funny and odd
the spitting image of you - my dear !!!

---------------------------------------

Knobbly Nobby.

Nobby has a great big nose
a great big nose has he,
and nobby knows
that his big nose,
is big, as big can be,
nobby has two knobbly knees
two knobbly knees has he,
his knobbly knees,
are as knobely
as knobbly knees can be,
don’t pity dear old nobby
for soon it’s plain to see,
that nobby has a great big ****
as big, as big as three !
now nobbys **** is knobly,
as knobly as a **** can be,
so nose and knee and ****
make three,
and we - are ****- ely.

----------------------------------

The Woman that wouldn't eat meat,
had reeaally, reeaally big feet,
her **** was as big as an hermaphrodite brig
and her **** were as hard as concrete….


--------------------------------

Hearken the clarion call of the crows
afore the snow-
they caw,
hey, get your **** into gear lads-
we gotta feckin go !!!

-----------------------------

Gods pad

I took a peek within
your house
wherein on pew, I spied
a mouse,
and in his hand,
a Bible clasped,
and out his mouth,
a parable rasped,

---------------------

I'd say she had
a pigeon loft in
her eyes and
bluebells up
her nose.

But then again
I wear a flat cap

and stroll through meadows.

----------------------------

Would you care to buy our house?
It's minus Mouse n devoid o' Louse,!
Spiders, Roaches, Bugs or other,
have all been eaten by my brother,
snaffled up n swallowed down
then jus' crapped out a - yellowish brown.
so would you care to buy our house?
from an oddly pair -- devoid of nous

-------------------------

Though the Crows got her eyes
and the Worms got her gut.
comes as no surprise
death can't keep her mouth shut.

-------------------

Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.

-------------------

Been whittling away at a buoyant ****
and fashioned something approximating a canoe,
in it, I intend to surf the **** tsunami of old age;
I named it, "Public service pension"

-------------------------------

.
Well,
     I could wax on the wings of a butterfly
but, I ain't that kind o' guy.
rather kick the nuts off ******* squirrels
pluck the wings off - blue assed fly.
I'm the stuff that flops off dog chops
when he's up for it and high.
an infection in your sphincter,
a well
that's jus' run dry.

----------------------------------------------

befeathered­ and bright scarlet
is my ladies bonnet,
jauntily askew and -
lilting on a paramours
grin.

"- Gladlaughffi -"

I'm reliably informed that dear ol' Muma
sported a goatee around his **** sphincter,
now, whilst this is merely educated speculation
from my esteemed friend his "groom of the stool" ! 
who was in fact required to wear a mask,
ear muffs and a blindfold whilst he went about his business,
He did possess reeaaally sensitive fingertips
somewhat akin to a blind man reading brail,,
and, swore blind that said "**** sphincter' spoke him in Arabic
and asked him for a quick trim, (short back and sides)
I myself being a practising proctologist of some repute
am inclined to believe my friend the "groom of the stool"
as I've come recognise -- Arsolian when I hear it !!!!!!!!
-------------------------------------

In a Belfast sink by the plughole
where hair and gum gunk meet
'erman the germ-man  and toe jam
bop the bacillus beat.

________

Doctor this I know as fact
that I have a blocked digestive tract,
I'm all bunged up and cannot go
my trump and pump is - somewhat slow.
I need unction jollop for junction wallop
some sorta lotion to give me motion.
If you could please just ease my wheeze
then I needn't grunt and push and squeeze.

-----------------------------

They are breaking out the thwacking sticks
and sparking Godly clogs
pulling tongues through narrowed lips
at the infidel yankee dogs.

------------------------------------

As a paid up member of the
lumpen bourgeoisie poetry appreciation society
I can confirm without fear of contradiction
that poetry is indeed baggy underwear
with ample ball room, voluminous in the extreme
and takes into account
the need for the free flow of flatulent gassiness
that is the want of a ****** up poet.

-----------------------------------------------

She's a rough hewn Trapezoidal gal
a gongoozler o' the ol' canal.
She's copper bottomed n fly boat Sal.

I'll have thee know that
that there hat
is a magic hat,
it renders me invisible
to the arty intelligentsia
and roots me firmly
in the lumpen proletariat .
-------------------------------------------------------
Said the sneaky Scotsman, Jim Blaik.
if the pension, you wish to partake,
bend over my son, lets get this thing done
and cop for this thick trouser snake !!

I met my uncle Albert,
down at Asda, in aisle three;
he got there in a Mazda,
jus' a smidgen after me,
said he'd traversed Sainsburys,
Tesco Liddle n the Spar,
but not one o' them flogged Caviar
Truffles or Foie gras.


He sidled past the pork pies
streaky bacon turkey thighs
a headin for the french fries
n forsaken knock down buys,
shimmied 'round the ankle biters;
expectant mums to be,
popin pills for bloated ills
in the haberdashery.

Fandango'd o'er the cornflakes
and the spillage in isle four

-----------------

I'm linier and analogue,
a ribbon microphone man
mired in the dust of the monochromatic,
the basement, the attic.

------------------------------

Simple simon met miss Tymon going to the fair,
said simple simon to miss Tymon - "pfhwarr what a luverly pair"
of silken thighs and big brown eyes and scrumptious wobbly bits,
Said simple Simon to miss Tymon---------- shame about you **** !!!

So sad sweet Shirl thought she'd give a whirl to clubbercise n pound

Squat, slightly,
tilt head 45°
and squint.
See the shimmering blurry
dot in the distance?
That, timorous ****,
is ME !
Fast twitching my
narrow white ****
to the pub.

There was a young lady named Sue.
whose ***** and **** was askew,
whilst taking a ****
she'd aim it and miss
and she lifted 'er hat when she blew.


Oh Mon Dieu !!

Obi.
DieingEmbers Feb 2013
Many
foreign tourists
simply  mistook you
for the
laughing Cavalier
Laughing in an art gallery tut tut bet you whistle in libraries too don't you M
Olivia Kent Jan 2016
Have a passion for music.
A passion for plays.
Must be left overs of purplish haze daze.
A passion for words and good looking birds.
Elegant peacocks and pheasants that flap.
Tail feathers extended in preparation for glory.
Male display is a vigorous thing.
All for the sake of having a fling.
(c)LIVVI
Terry Collett Jan 2014
Miryam unzipped
the tent flap
and looked out
pretty dead out here

she said
Benedict looked at her ****
hiding behind
the blue jeans

come back in then
no point
in going out yet
she zipped it

back up
and crawled back
beside him
and lay down

looking up
at the blue tent canvas
what do you think
Morocco's like​?

she asked
Morocco
he replied
she laughed

I know that
but to experience it
apart from what
was in the booklet

they sent
with the other stuff
she said
have to see

when we get there
he replied
are you sure
that ex-army bloke

won't be back?
she asked
not for a few hours
he's gone to see sights

in Malaga
lucky us
she said
make the most of

he said
she gazed at him
is there no
satisfying you?

pretty much not
he said
she smiled
I’m sure people

heard us earlier
she said
your fault
if they did

he said
all that noise
and giggling
and oh oh oh

more more
I didn't
she said
you're making it up

pretty much so
he said
she kissed his cheek
to think I thought you

were the quiet one
she said
I am quiet
as a mouse

he replied
what if he comes back early
and we're making out?
she said

he won't
he's off to see
where
Picasso was born

and other
arty things
Benedict said
people might talk

if they see me
in here too much
she said
they can't see you

in here
he said
they might hear me
then be silent

he said smiling
trying to unbuttoned
her jeans
she watched him

biting her lower lip
seductively
and turning her head
at an angle

who said you could?
shall I stop?
he said
no don't you dare

she breathed out
she held his fingers
and helped unbutton
until it was

all done
there now you
she said
and unzipped his jeans

with one motion
why would he want
to see
where Picasso was born?

she said
taking off
?her jeans
and what other arty things?

Benedict undressed
listening
watching
takin
her tight ****
in the blue bra
museums
art shops

galleries
that kind of thing
boring ****
she said

putting her jeans
and underwear
to one side
yes guess so

Benedict said
what if
he changes his mind
and comes back?

she said
laying down
next to him well he'll get

a free lesson
in biology
won't he
Benedict said

she smiled
and kissed his neck
and said
utterly ****

what the hell
what the heck.
come in many styles,
walking, soft top, striped,
you name it , they make it,
market it.

now then i buy cheap ones,
5 pair a go quite comfy,
with dots mainly.

we talked of clough ellis, his yellow
breeches, long wool hose to knee,
all arty and architecture.

she liked the woolly ones, chose
a dull colour over pink.

a day of rearrangement.

as you were.

sbm
Simon Soane Mar 2019
I’d hazard a guess there aren’t many folk who don’t know the tales of Harry, Hermione and Ron
and how with a cast of a multitude of friends they defeated Voldemort with aplomb,
rightly these heroic adventures are held in the highest regard,
and will be told forever by musicians, singers and bards,
these stories will be remembered, people will talk of those courageous and brave
and how they turned the evil tide of The Dark Lord with everything they gave,
how they dispelled the magic of horror with the strength of the Gryffindor lion,
but less well known than this wonder is the fable of Tayrn and her Ryan.
R and T arrived to Hogwarts  10  years after He Who Can Not Be Named was vanquished in the great struggle,
Tayrn was pure wizard born whereas Ryan was pure muggle,
both took to wizarding school easily and did well in all their classes,
of course Tayrn was a hit with the lads and Ryan a swoon with the lasses,
but it didn’t matter they gave all folk in their year at Hogwarts an involuntary love shudder
because ace Tayrn and Ryan only had eyes for each other!
Their wonderful sweet love was easy and went without a hitch,
spent Saturdays gazing at each other when they should have been watching Quidditch,
hand in hand they skipped around The Forbidden Forest, their romance knowing no rift,
saying hello to a friendly centur or a flying hippogriff,
they galloped around Diagon Alley, their souls full of cheer,
or sat relaxed and tranquil in The Leaky Cauldron sipping butter beer.
T and R were ace at spells, Tayrn’s best was with a wand swish creating healing
and Ryan’s wonderful arty prowess was painting The Sistine Chapel on any ceiling;
yes they were each other’s equal in the way they weaved the magic from above
and this is one of the reasons they were very much in love.
One night T and R were going on one of their romantic walks
and decided to have a jaunt to a wonderful clearing just near Hogwarts,
they sauntered through the darkening evening with a song on their lips,
swaggered along the green with the music of love on their hips,
as they got to the secluded clearing they were anticipating with glee each other’s hold
but then all of a sudden they started feeling very cold.
They both noticed that the summer grass was covered in a blanket of frost,
the trees were looking pale, freezing, withdrawn and lost,
the air was filled with frigidity and held the hints of scare,
the flowers were wilting with chilled terror, bloom given way to despair,
as Tayrn and Ryan wondered what was the cause of such floral bad health
just a few yards away  the answer revealed itself;
over a hill came a hooded figure that immediately brought fright to the fore
as Tayrn and Ryan paid attention in Defence Against The Dark Arts they instantly recognised it as a dementor,
but they noticed something different about this one, it was nearly trebled in size,
and had a deeper blackness where should have been it’s eyes.
Being skilled at magic they knew what they had to do to avoid any harm
so both quickly fired off their best Patronus Charm,
but these spells had no effect, the huge dementor merely shrugged them off
and they could have sworn beneath it’s hood it let out a derisive scoff.
The enormous dementor hovered over Tayrn and Ryan and from its mouth emerged a hiss,
as it prepared to give the two lovers their final goodbye kiss,
but as it stooped over them with it’s awful deathly hue
T and R looked into each other’s eyes and figured out what they were going to do;
they remembered in one class learning about the bravest man Hogwarts had ever knew
and how he was able to hoodwink The Dark Lord with a love strong, solid and true,
how Snape drew on his love of Lilly to ride through any storm,
even on his darkest night it was what kept him warm,
so Tayrn and Ryan pushed their wands together and thought of beautiful Severus
and how they both too shared the romantic love buzz,
and channelling the wonder of that special feeling thus
they both pointed their wands in unison and screamed Expelliarmus!
Emitted from the tip of each wand was the half of a love heart projected from each soul
that both came together to create the fantastic whole,
in the shine of such love the vast dementor instantly recoiled,
knowing that it’s draining wish was in no doubt foiled,
it writhed around and in the glare of joy did it’s nefarious purpose erode,
every bleak and blank about it started to corrode,
the dementor slowly ebbed away until all of it did go
and in it’s place was left a striking brown young doe,
it bowed it’s head to Tayrn and Ryan and then it flew into the trees,
gliding with majesty on the sweet night breeze.
Awed by what had happened Ryan and Tayrn turned and started to walk back to the dorm,
aware of what occurred was special and not the norm,
but then they stopped in their tracks and at the same time both did say,
“oh my beautiful love, I know  I’m going to marry you someday!”
cacia Nov 2013
the art i feel
is part of our daily
smart
to do it heart
we must start
realising
light
is part
bright
and part
might
darkeness
to it
guises
and starks
empty comes
out white
the two do not right
speechless is swiped.
Dacia B Oct 2014
She works a strange offbeat job
The type that requires things to be mis-matched
Where the place is decked with contradicting oddities which have
acquired small black dots and scuff marks of which origins are unbeknown to the keeper
Her thoughts lie like breezes between crumpled coffee stained pieces of paper haphazardly kissed with ink
Her work does not require fruit but it does sugar, salt and vinegar
Her hair is never neat but is always perfectly messed
She always leaves a little milky bitter pool in the bottom of her tea cup
She goes on with her head swirling in celestial affairs
Mike T Minehan Jun 2013
When you're a writer, you get invited to strange gigs
sometimes, where usually, the audience is arty farty
or even a bit precious and pretentious.
You know, the blue rinse set.
But I was once invited to recite poetry in a bar,
where I knew my audience might be ******,
or maybe even abusive, and wouldn't give
a **** about writing.
Yeah? Well, I'm a bit of a word warrior, really,
so I didn't back off.
I stepped right in for the fight.

I said straight up that my poem was especially
for people like them who thought that writers are
wishy-washy, woffling, **** weak and luke-warm.
So then I said,
PPPHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrtttttttt.
Very loud.

I told them this was some royal raspberry,
just for people like them,
who thought this was going to be another boring poem.
And then I threw in a few words like, ah, ****, doggy fashion,
finger up the ****, you know, just to liven things up.

I told them what I really thought.
***** You! Especially seeing as how you think poetry’s
some wimpy, bleeding heart, limp **** stuff. Right?
So let's get right down and ***** here.

Which is much more interesting, eh?
And do you know what that says about you?
No?  You bleeding, blinkered, blind-as-bats
broomstick-up-the-arsed, boring, bonehead *******!

So don't call this poet ****-weak any more
or I'll hit you bang between the eyes
and up between your thighs.
I've got some things to say you'd better not ignore.

When it comes to words, I'm a gouger and a biter.
I'm a brawling, hard-as-nails, no-holds-barred street fighter.
I'm a writer.

Yeah, well, no surprise here. That made them quieter.
I'd shut them up. So what did that prove?
I'd just abused and confused them.
It made me think, well, why did I bother?
Poems are for believers and lovers, aren’t they?
They don't need me to fight for them in bars.
Poems just are.
Yes,and some of them might live
as long as the stars.


Mike T Minehan
Who is this poet?

Is he faithful to his poetry
as good as pretends to be
or his heart is ever on the darkside
nowhere near of what he writes.

Who is this poet?

Is his hat real or fake
he’s weak and easily breaks
he aims only to teach
never follows all that he preach.

Who is this poet?

Is he really that sweet
joyous and good as his wit
does he expose truly his heart
or the real he hides behind his art.

Who is this poet?

Does he have in him
all his painted dream
the lover’s happiness
he does profess.

Who is this poet?

Is at heart he's that pure
what with words he conjures
or all them are just his arty wile
he's merely spinning tales in style.
the lens turned to self.
Yenson Sep 2018
The Marshmallows decided to have a top Party
Dressed gaily in white, pink, red, green and yellow
They mingled and floated around looking arty-farty
We're going to dance in town not partying in a garage
And guess what, We won't invite Toffee he's not like us

Go melt and burn says Toffee with rightful disdain
who wants to party with a bunch of soft silly buffoons
Overblown and presumptuous you lot melt in the rain
Nothing to you all but egging and hot air you poltroon
Who wants to dance with mixed up softies with no brains

I am Toffee hot and hard and always ready for the bite
You can't lick me in a hurry and I take a while to crack
I am brown with brawn and brains and ready to fight
Got rhythm with the moves, tastes and flavours top whack
Not some boring twirls or stumps gathered together tight

Come try me if you dare and see me squash you down flat
I'll go into you hard your softness yielding like knife on butter
Can marsh you with my strength till you're nothing but mellow
Or stick to your puffy wooly state and squeeze you still flatter
Till you beg and squeal your surrender showing you're shallow

I am not like you and don't think, see, look or taste like you
I am brown and sweet, hard and chewy and I really don't care
For emulsified vain brainless no substance marshmallow tools
Who can only be brave and big when all packed together like
So go party and kid yourselves softies I don't party with fools
Natalie Clark Feb 2013
“There's loads of boring stuff. Like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons. But now and then there are Saturdays.” ~ ‘Doctor Who’*

People think that Tuesday afternoons are boring. These are the type of people who get up at three-***-em on a Saturday afternoon then pa-a-a-arty all that night.

I don’t get on with these people.

No, for me, Tuesdays are glorious. Tuesdays are ‘me’ time.
Tuesdays are full of art, like French and English and cinnamon lattes in Costa as I read a book.

Or I write.
I create some poetry or prose – nothing spectacular but something that means I’ve said something about the world.

Then, sometimes, the afternoon is empty.
I don’t have a tutorial, I don’t have work and I don’t have people. I can just bake and dance and sing without having to pretend.

I love Tuesday afternoons.
at the start of 2016, old time rocker Bon scott decided to start u[ a rock band

and the songs he will play is the music of astrology and the members of his band is

David Bowie and Lemmy from motor head and Glenn Frey, you see Lemmy and Bowie

and Glenn frey were rehearsing with each other and the first song they did together was

jupiter arising

we were moving up and down the great walls of outer space

understanding that there was a concert playing there

the ,music that was playing was hotel California and the heat is on

and then David Bowie sang ground control to major Tom

you see the music was very loud ya see, very very loud

it was like being back on earth singing to our crowd

oh yeah it is now the hotel california to you

the party that we have, was getting drunk on bottles of scotch

you see that was what my name was mr bon scott

and then i woke up dreaming saying what the heck is happening to me

and the dreaming of a local farmer losing his stock

you see the farmers name was scott and so is my last name

maybe we need to stop terrorism

maybe we need to stop crimes in general

people are committing too many crimes we need to flee them to stop

I know one cosmic music concert isn’t going to stop it no

the man named Jesus Christ said come on Bon we need you to entertain us

my next life is a down syndrome man, living in Canberra

you see he moves his body when he is waiting for the ute doing head banging oh yeah

i really think this whole death thing is quite stupid oh ****** yeah

please send my next life to have some fun, oh yeah jupiter arising


and now here is Davie Bowie

ground control to major Jupiter ground control to major jupiter

this is major jupiter to ground control

planet earth looked doomed and there is nothing more to do

and i will leave my next life to come back and say, i wanna help

ground control to major Jupiter ground controll jupiter

i think planet earth became real bad, with terrorists and people losing lives and all their possessions

ground control to major jupiter

the party is on for young and old and we have no party if the earth doesn’t move

ground control to major jupiter

ashes to ashes fun loving monkey

we know major Tom’s a ******

stuck in heaven and then i met these singers and other singers followed me up

ground control to major jupiter

ground control to major jupiter

i know planet earth is doomed and there is nothing else to do

ground control to major jupiter

all the people in the crowd, just watch ya back because terrorists are coming on your back

ground control to major jupiter


and now here is Lemmy from motor head


i party and i love my life and i know my music was loud ya know

but loud is great and it shows me one thing that i love life

i dream of life and i dreamt of of being dead

I know a lot of us are scared of being dead

everyone lives forever anyway through reincarnation

you can come back to life as a cat or dog or bird

you can come back to life as a magpie or a man who played for the magpies

you see we get down and party party and party on

this is the time for the man to say, let’s party from Lemmy

the motrohead singer who is so cool

he is the singer who breaks no rules

we are on jupiter trying to stop terrorism in outer space and on earth

we need to get rid rid of Ronnie Biggs and Ted Bundy and many many many more

Ahhhhhhhh!   Ahhhhhhhh!, let’s party let’s [arty

as we het together and say, stop the terrorists we certainly say


and now it’s Glenn Frey’s turn

the heat is on, it’s on the street

the heat is on burning everyone we ,meet

the heat is on, we will party right

every day and every night

you see now we have the action and we will keep the flood lights on

because if the heat still is with us, we need the water from the flood to cool us down

the heat is on oh yeah

oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah

we are caught up in the action we are looking up to you

oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah

hotlel califorina is sang so great

and the heat is on every day and night

oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah oh yeah

caught up in the action i am looking up ro you


you see Bon Scott wants this to be a way that music can calm the savage beast from within

and everyone says to each other howdy, and i say to my recent deceased in music glenn frey and

Daeid Bowie and Lemmy, and i want to show how cool these musical artists were when they

brought their music to help save the world and now musci can save the universe and now here

is john Lennon

i know that there is no heaven, nirvana is the key

there is no hell below us, above us is the parties we have up here

there is no god up here, i wish their were

but i am sure that there is peace up here, let’s bring this peace to earth

imagine all the people dead or alive

you see people say we are dreamers

but we are not the only one

i hope one day you will join us, and the universe will be as 1

there will be space ships taking us anywhere we like

i don’t care how long it takes my friends


and the world will be as one


and now the party is on, and we are attempting to save the universe with music
Brycical Aug 2013
but that could be said of anywhere.
However, some places
seem to have hypnotic hips and easy eyes
with a mischevious, seductive scarab grin.
Like magic, it pulls me in.
Here, labels like good or bad are trite,  
there is only this magnetic whirling
energy culling myself and others inside
simply because we picked up the phone and showed up.

But now it's our responsibility to find balance
amidst serene listless apathy on the beach
and party hardy into the midnight arty energy scene jack & coke down the rabbit hole we go.

Some Bedouins say Dahab means "time  goes,"
which has me convinced Moses and his folks weren't lost
in terms of location but lost when it relates to time,
trying to find a middle path
between excess and sloth
in this south Sinai town.


Yes, not two but three schools of thought,
forming a triangle in this hypnotizing spiral;
two points of excess and one of balance!
All three balance each other,
and it's hell trying to stay in the center of this eye
of this metaphorical storm of enlightenment.
Naturally, gravitational forces pull some to the
gray matter island headspace of echoed sins
and carnivorous lascivious pandemonium.  
Not everyone will find what they seek on the warm beaches here,
or the raving, bubble foam dance parties in strobe light nights.
That's just the way it is;
there's not enough room for everyone in the center.

And this is where we learn to accept ones place,
because only then can we move on to another plane,
on another beach with more to learn and some to teach.
Alvira Perdita Mar 2014
Glasses are the international sign for nerd
But also for genius, and if we're to be honest
It all makes sense, the two go hand in hand
Those who read generally have a wider knowledge

But I've been brought up with the thought
That everyone has the same level of intelligence
And I like that idea, because we're all different
And we're all good at different things

Some people are arty, and others are businessy
And I think the world is perfect the way it is
Because everyone is the same, in their own way
With, or without glasses.
Ramblings.
S E L Jan 2014
Brimming with black steeds, green bowls overflow with walls of raining lava in ****** mode
Pinning down paradise beneath your brown thumb, see it wriggle away in mockery of your arty drivel
Only you can thrash on, as magically as a thought which pops in rude bursts
- - - then away it flies


In a silent harbour of study, all the imperfections of my breathing that the mirror glances back at me
I try hard not to swallow failure wholemeal, in the course of a day  - - -  I choke so many times
And angel wings brush by in shy embrace, but I shove its clemency flat on its face


And in vehement denial of anything beautiful - - -  it is not present, save through you
I can submerge so easily, if only to succumb to the silence and the peace
The muted bubbling around my head and throbbing against my ears and pressing on my arms
So comforting


Instead, there’s too regular clicking to the detriment of supple joints
And licking of lips and silent brooding in steeped corners
Any effort to siphon the stillness in the air is severed by intrusions


And the lake beckons me - - - my broken feet follow
Fah Sep 2013
[9/28/13 6:07:47 AM] Saeng Graham: on earth does not mean , they were born from the same time realm
[9/28/13 6:08:02 AM] Saeng Graham: this puts them in perspective
[9/28/13 6:08:07 AM] Saeng Graham: well - for example
[9/28/13 6:08:15 AM] Saeng Graham: my twin akemi whom you heard sing
[9/28/13 6:08:22 AM] Saeng Graham: well she's actually my younger twin sister
[9/28/13 6:08:24 AM] Saeng Graham: fire
[9/28/13 6:08:32 AM] Saeng Graham: but because we both are from 2 years apart ,
[9/28/13 6:08:45 AM] Saeng Graham: and are bOTH gemini
[9/28/13 6:08:47 AM] Saeng Graham: there's a counter balance
[9/28/13 6:08:51 AM] Saeng Graham: -
[9/28/13 6:09:07 AM] Saeng Graham: i THINK
[9/28/13 6:09:07 AM] Saeng Graham: so i think -
[9/28/13 6:09:09 AM] Saeng Graham: maybe
[9/28/13 6:09:12 AM] Saeng Graham: thata
[9/28/13 6:09:24 AM] Saeng Graham: you are my counterbalance - imaginary friend from your childhood
[9/28/13 6:09:42 AM] Saeng Graham: and you are mine - kinda like doing pulling each other up throughout time and space
[9/28/13 6:09:52 AM] Saeng Graham: ''''''''''''
[9/28/13 6:09:55 AM] Saeng Graham: so.
[9/28/13 6:10:08 AM] Saeng Graham: now we've defined that YOUR act form is VERY MUCH NOW IN THE '3D' WORLD
[9/28/13 6:10:17 AM] Saeng Graham: OR AT LEAST
[9/28/13 6:10:22 AM] Saeng Graham: your essence - is possible in that form
[9/28/13 6:10:25 AM] Saeng Graham: weellllllll
[9/28/13 6:10:29 AM] Saeng Graham: then anything is possible
[9/28/13 6:10:34 AM] Saeng Graham: SO IF YOU ARE STILL HERE
[9/28/13 6:10:37 AM] Saeng Graham: AT THIS POINT
[9/28/13 6:10:39 AM] Saeng Graham: I'VE GOT A PARROT ON MY SHOULDER
[9/28/13 6:10:44 AM] Saeng Graham: AN EYE PATCH ON MY EYE
[9/28/13 6:10:49 AM] Saeng Graham: AND I'M ABOUT TO ROCK YOUR ***** ****** WORLD
[9/28/13 6:10:54 AM] Saeng Graham: jokes -
[9/28/13 6:10:59 AM] Saeng Graham: it's double at.....jazz hands -
[9/28/13 6:11:13 AM] Saeng Graham: shot of moonshine
[9/28/13 6:11:17 AM] Saeng Graham: **** of spicy morning zoot
[9/28/13 6:11:22 AM] Saeng Graham: and some roiboosh tea,
[9/28/13 6:11:27 AM] Saeng Graham: a little bit of wine
[9/28/13 6:11:37 AM] Saeng Graham: some smutted rasberrys and age old pistachios
[9/28/13 6:11:38 AM] Saeng Graham: which hum
[9/28/13 6:13:03 AM] Saeng Graham: frightful actually , how ******* scary bryce is.. like....i wouldn't like to have my 'revenge' concocted by him...dark kind guy....nice...but dark....arty kinda dark...so you know it's the kind of super smart kinda dark......but then super emotion kinda dark too....they aren't that hard to spot....
[9/28/13 6:13:11 AM] Saeng Graham: but the bryce i'm talking about
[9/28/13 6:13:17 AM] Saeng Graham: - yeah he's all over the place
[9/28/13 6:13:20 AM] Saeng Graham: always with the bee's
[9/28/13 6:13:22 AM] Saeng Graham: and stuff
Bryce , Harlon..
tipping hats to poetry masters - from Western Realms...Naga's

:)

loves you guys x
Alin Dec 2014
He was a thief
and he did it ‘all the time’
that stealing
he used to call
enlightening
for the others in loss
so they spiritually grow

he was not only a thief
but also a liar
–towards himself-
what’s worse?

always another
chic - trendy -
authentic - to go -
oriental -  family
fast – arty -
road - five-star
four-calendar  
cheap an deli
and so many
with branded words
dictionaries fall futile to describe
types of restaurants where
he ate from
without a check
a humble gift from my guru
for my accomplishments
he said –
his guru to whom he in percentages fed back
otherwise he would be for good dead
more dead than the dead
because it is beyond the scope
of this story but just know that
he already was dead -
my delicious soul food
he cunningly said.

he was not only a thief and a liar
but also stupid
what’s worse?

blinded by his tall victory
planning the future only
a robot army
that shall **** humanity
for he could be the only one on earth
the one who was made of human wanted that!
unable to comprehend
with his victorious- photoshopped head
always looking forward
as if more ahead
than anyone ahead
far  far beyond clouds of
oil stick slime and dirt
so that the
impure material would
fill his brainless head
for a temporary while
oh my that pretty skull
implanted with sunny hair and glowing starry eye
had all the luxurious capacity of space
a palace for the richest he says
I live in
on the last floor of the highest building
ever made on the planet
always busy baptizing
with cosmetics
branded as pure mountain water and Angelica White herb
he switches off his room size TV and looks down affectionately
(where in reality he overlooks) and self adoringly shakes in triumph
‘I see all humanity
they bug and harvest their own Ignis Fatuus
No I need no TV
this is my true warranty
I am the preacher
I am reborn’.

He was not only a thief and a liar and stupid
but also ignorant
what’s worse?

as he continued to praise his ‘what could have been’s
he forgot the ‘what is’
having numbed the essence he
was unable to feel the growing green grass
under his foot soles

nature as compassionate as always
tries to nurture his lost soul
even for him,
by building a shelter
where he could also grow a brain
in meditation
long term
may/could/would he also have then
a true home
built on the mountain of truth

Oh the nature so pure, beautiful  and naive
continued to plan hand in hand
with a hard-working bumblebee
so he could learn to be free
without  depending on a guru
or on casual vampiric activity

so
what nature does?

she builds a home for him
even adds a pretty angel in
that could be an ever after
sweetheart for him.

he was not only a thief and a liar and stupid and ignorant
but also blind
what’s worse?

so blind that
upon seeing the angel
(his twin of opposite nature)
he did not recognize her
and one night he broke in his own house
plundered everything that has been gifted for him
and dropped the key  as always but
this time inside
where she lived
in the hearts of the hearts
on top of the mountains of truth
on a clearing
beyond the clouds of love
where their house was built

and as usual he escaped
far far away
until he consumed
all that he had
politely ****** and laughed
******* his fantasies in the lands beyond the oily custard
custard distilled by seedless smoke clouds  made of evil he knew so well
until he was left with one
white flower with living roots

Who are you !
What are you !
he whined and cried in terror and fear
hearing his own true voice for the first time
after ages and after ******* generations’ gifts

here is the flower’s reply:

I am you
so
be me
plant me
so
you can see
break the blasphemy
and
if you can
become
you again
and grow
truthfully
you will
reach to
where
she leaves
lifetimes long
lifetimes after
when
she sees
you or of you
she will recognize
you
as she truly will kiss
by her kiss
you shall at once
be blessed
freed
convert
to a prince
of her
dreams
and
always
remember
to keep
her
dream alive
as
she
is
made
of
love
otherwise
you
and all
of you
shall
eternally
die.

‘What? Becoming a flower! That’s the worst’ he replied
and dropped his only living copy of the key.
spoken poetry: https://soundcloud.com/dnalumuland/thethief
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
when the time comes, a drunk will speak
more sanity than a sane person is
capable of, then we'll be ripe to talk about insanity,
and incapable of "treating" it.

it's not really about the beard,
well, it sorta is...
i grew mine so i could fiddle with it...
which puts me in a position
where i say: violinist, in the classic fm
philharmonic!
i'm thankful that i was able to grow a beard,
no, not to look "trendy",
****! i was about to ditto in the word cool...
you never realise how much vogue
and indeed: fashion, gets invested in
when we're not talking about clothes
but about a person's vocabulary...
yep, so i'm 30 and have a beard:
or let's just say, ****** hair had the same texture
as ***** hair...
the gods are laughing,
how to discover exist, become so self-conscious
that you're able to tell a joke,
and then laugh back...
       that's why philosopher have beard,
you can just see it in them,
wait a minute: **** consistancy hairs
are growing on my chin!
  mortal have that poker hand ready
and waiting for the existence of gods,
   a Frankenstein momentum...
it's funny... so we just keep on enjoying ***...
   and the reason why i wasn't distraught
about the Fritzel case? i read
marquis de sade's *******
novella...
that doesn't mean i don't think about
       being a spec, a second in Hades' lava lamp
reincarnation flow... like we, really are:
recycled goods...
          laughing about it gives us armour...
reincarnation is so Hindi, i'm
about sport a bindi (that red dot on the forehead,
that macedonian wish we were **** with an
empire, shindig setting sun)...
you're the one talking to me in braille...
i'm  a half-wit trying to compensate the conversation
with an observation:
modern life looks like a revival, or an attempted
revival of the art of dialectics...
humanity is really trying to revive dialectics,
or as the platonic dialogues seem to suggest:
find the right enough of people...
find enough people to agree with you,
there's absolutely no mention of disagreement
in the platonic dialgues...
well... they're really monologues...
back to square 1...
                      it's hard to envision a dialogue
between people, it's even harder to stage
a dialogue, given that we'd have to
take to the art, or quasi-geometry...
and have to constatly fake it happening,
by faking it i mean acting as we really
cannot disregard our apathetic communion
toward the mere act of talking...
    dialectics is an art form... and it's begging to be
revived... but it seems to be failing in
an attempt to revive it...
                        everyone is just shouting
over each other, exchanging insults...
  joking... apparently comedy is trying to slow
things down, comedy is a pseudo-art-form
that's more arty than art itself, it's fartsy...
   who could have thought a **** (**** in polish means
luck) would ever make people laugh...
  we're all in the slaughterhouse askin idol guillotine
to: lay to rest, make ammends,
                say something, something profound,
if not prophetic.
              i just see a chat show host grappling
with an interviewee about how to engasge with
a dialectical art,
   we do live in very artistic times,
people call it minimalism,
they draw a square and you're expected to say
it's profound... because the art of dialectics
doesn't exactly agree to taking offence...
   it means retracting from the fictive monologue
of writing books...
it's a biblophobe movement...
        we're talking retraction,
we are saying: marriage doesn't do it for us anymore...
i'm trapped, in this world, and i have a stash
of 2000+ years of memory that i'm asked to
revise / improve on...
     you expect any different, from what i'm doing now?
people are in want of dialectics,
  they are bored of group therapy yoga....
and they're tired of being treated like
canned laughter... or an audience
with prompt cards they later don at political
rallies...
  like: when to laugh, followed by a t.v. editor
telling some minion: prompt the verb laugh
at an audience at a big brother show...
   i'm drunk, but i'm not stupid,
actually, being drunk and writing this makes
me ulta-conscious... i wouldn't say
intelligent... i think of myself as a sieve
most of the time... but you know, life, life gets
in the way and you sometimes a few
stupid mistakes, that you are thankful for.
i can't remember the last time i used
a dictionary... or a thesaurus...
       and i opened the fridge door about 100
times before i opened the front door...
and walked to the shop
where the cashier knows my name...
i'm like Bilbo Baggins who decided to stay
at home and said: ******* adventure!
i'm staying home and reading J. Joyce.
   we can't find dialectics, no more than we
can ask for a socrates real, by reading plato.
but it's nice that plato suggested that
philosophy could be theatre, i.e. staged,
made into a dialogue...
     just when we were bound and keen to
our sophistry, to our rhetoric,
and felt no emotional content could be bound
by mere talking...
     dialectics is a shade hanging over modernity,
i can't read a sun-dial with it hanging
over us... why art is so ritually minimalistic,
because this one art-form is missing...
no one is going to approach dialectics
is there isn't a real case for expressing empathy
and merely rooting it in: a need for comedy.
that halo-of-an-oasis is going to dry up...
(yes, written while under the medical care
of a headache... that **** is just lodged in my ****
and is teasing me... come out you little
cupcake, i'll flush you down the toilet, pronto!
or as the poles say it properly:
gówno przez ciebie gada / ****'s talking
through you... oh gladness, the oven bound parasite
booked for 37 degrees of the body's high-end
of temp.) -
but it's being staged as we speak,
   an art form, deviating from up-start and on the ready, go!
art of rhetoric...
               modernity is equipped with competent
talkers... persuasive and gnat-like annoying
with their provocations...
  what's missing is dialectics...
  how one side can question and become almost
mermaid... dragging someone into nodding
if not clapping approval...
      we can all agree that some people do talk
with the art opf rhetoric being almost
self-taught... ******...
                     dialectics is so much stranger...
it's an art of speaking that has become
      like a dusty moth infested ******
of a 80 year old nun...
                     she bakes great cookies though,
let her off.
               it's not that we're even having
these discussions, we're slobbering a chance of having
one with lies, shouting and "in your face"
dynamics... it's not even that we can
imitate plato enthralled by socrates, constantly
agreeing, going: aha, yup (nod nod nod,
******* pigeons)...
                    we positioned ourselves for the basis
of having to express hostility...
       because to have reached such a freedom
as we have, that we dare to call it: esteemed,
or highly regarded as in need of improvement,
or redefining.
  we seem to be unable to say why we
can't resurrect dialectics...
           all the talk-shows on a late friday night
will not answer that question...
     i'll spot the Halley's moment though...
a comet known as Hailey (hey! bruce lee)...
        when artists return to less abstract concerns,
we have all the science we'd need...
   can the arts stop contemplating new york
traffic grids, and ******* stops
and we return to celebrating the human form?
   it will really be something to see
dialectics... i.e. with one person so persuasive
that the other person doesn't argue...
    and i mean that as a concept anti despotism
without a massive throng of people doing
a political mantra chant of sheep, herd, approval.
it's like that question about consenting to ***,
that part of you that says: can i actually
think this?
Michael Edwards Jan 2019
The art of complexity
eclipsed by simplicity.


Artistic skills are augmented
when perspective becomes instinctive.
the young egoist licks a blunt blade in the wall
until his tongue bleeds, to feel, yes to feel, feel anything
in these fettid depths where splinters of light
find themselves lost in the subterranean gloom
of his bedroom
where on occasion when it presents itself
listens to grotesques, yes listens with an ear
a plain nasty and unfeeling ear
yet it listens without any phoney, putrid arty language
he hears old irregular clocks
feels the smells under the ground
drinks unquenchable angers
citing their antique tonal ability
to create magic words out of rain and mist
then screaming his voice starts oozing and undulating
creeping through these slow subterranean pampas
compressing and expanding themselves never and at once
he believes it is an unsafe place of frighteningly sincere dangers
then thinks is danger a place, licks the blunt blade in the wall
for even in this desperation
it makes him happy when his tongue bleeds
he tries to perfect conventionally generous impulses
the spit of dreams, his dreams as he dons his mask
his mask of foolscap to write a poem
then encounters angel-devils and demons
who he has the power to deceive
and thinks to himself as he licks
the blunt blade in the wall
finish it, finish it
then realizes it's unfinishable
Star Gazer Sep 2016
I held my breath just right
trying to figure out if I'm alive
until everything faded, just darkness
because your words
will only ever remain the harshest
and I'm forever reminded of you...
how you made me skip school
because I could tolerate dodgeballs
and projectile rocks...
...After all they are merely skin deep bruises
And the hatred produces
nothing but swelled bones and broken muscles
till everything was a struggle
But they are merely skin deep bruises...
It was not the dodgeballs that sent me crying
it was not the rock hurling that sent me home early
it was the poisonous ravenous tongue
that slithered on lies like it was at a skateboard rink
trying to drink the life and soul out of anything alive.
So you sent your fake condolences, your pity parties
made something 'arty' pretending that you were a friend
yet a fiend coated in a cloak of condescension
you've mentioned death by my ears enticing my every step
hoping that I fall to wreck and fail to ever stand tall, *****,
to be a pawn in your hands, your master plan
just holding back the tears as my palms push away
all your damaging words pretending that they never hurt.
I spent years and years rephrasing, repeating, remembering
'talk to the hand because the man isn't listening'
but the tears glisten in my eye sockets and though I
can convince myself I wasn't listening, I guess
I couldn't convince myself just enough...

You tore at me till there was nothing to tear at,
you prayed and preyed that I bit the dust,
hoping that there was nothing of me left,
and so...
I held my breath just right
trying to figure out if I'm alive...
because in that brief moment the only way to escape
was to remind you that 'there's nothing left,
you can't **** me today, or tomorrow,
because I have been nothing but dead'.

I held my breath just right
trying to figure out if I'm alive...
Turns out I did survive
And as I finish up this write,
I'd like to remind you
that you are all beautiful,
that you can survive
in the ways that I have
because the gentle touch of a rain
never cleanses the wounds
nor numbs the aching pain,
it merely reminds you
that there's another sunny day.
Daisy Jul 2014
Fig.1.  It was 5 days - 4 days? - but I can't forget it.
           (By a road, brown buildings in the back, the filter is green - you    
            said you didn't know why. Half-smiles.)

Fig.2. Do you remember that you sent me this? Twice.
           (Same place, I kiss your cheek, you pull a sad face, a man walks by  
            in the background.)

Fig.3. God, that stupid headband.
           (Repeat again. Faces pressed, I smile big, you smile up, my hand is
            on your shoulder.)

Fig.4.  You said "The dots make it look arty." but that wasn't why I kept it.
           (Art gallery, two shots.)
           (At the bottom it says - I know that I will miss you.)
           (Nowhere it says - I will keep this because you will forgot to.)
Olivia Kent Dec 2014
She lives in the green room.
Where the curt air's laying thick.
Walls like apple crumble.
Cracking to the resonance of the latest passing train.
A box of tricks and secrets held,
within her PC brain.
Halo of electric light.
It's aura, hanging on the arty ceiling,
like a sulky angel would.
She's killing time for company.
She mutters to her ego,
awaiting it's response.
It's response is somehow null and void.
The lady's confidence destroyed.
Hit round the head with all sorts of capers.
Her failings lashed together with cigarette papers.
No pun intended, surely no joke.
Rather bizarre considering the lady doesn't smoke.
(C)LIVVI
Olivia Kent Aug 2013
Shrouded in black,

Dear heart departs,

As writing soul  flies,

Engraved deep epitaph ,tablets of ancient stone,

Memorial stones morose, sombre in grey with fur of yellow lichen,

Pavements, flagstones,inscribed with memories dear,

Glimpsed in morning, mourning sun, alone,

Words eroded after many years bathing, soaked with maiden angels' tears,



Dried out again with sunshine's kiss,

These words they state,

May we not forget  past soul,



Lyrical words lift a song from sad heart,

Screams emotional rescue at times,



Letters of love filled with devotion,

Causes sweet release of emotions,

Words pasted on pages,

Imagination creation,

Words trap interest at first glance, Love in words,  

At first sight, perchance,

****** them catch them,

Keep them close  in your heart every day,

Fill up life, with words unfurled,

Words in technicolour,

Clouded in blue,

Use of profanity,

Well that's nothing new!

Orated in Shakespeare's play, sung in aria,

Opera adorns ears,

Words used in crosswords or cross words,

Word Play!

Child educated in fine art,

Writing divine,

Such worthy art in need, indeed!

Mouthful of words all arty and farty...bouncy, total joy!

Phraseology,plays intense on a mind, a poet at play,

Livvi Kent 28/04/2013
Poetry is art

Poetry is what we know
to be arty
Where we go to be arty
What we need to be arty
How we feed to be arty
Poetry is the food of life!
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
there are always two ways of saying things,
one way of saying things is
to read them once, file them in the unconscious
cabinet and ~wait for the results
working their ways in your thought
appropriating the said things -
i found i can only reread / skim-read only
one book in my library - because i spent
a glorious summer reading it,
in a communist apartment block,
and i never sought to invest in creating grime
post-rap given there was no English
suburbia to work against -
one book, out of a hundred i could ever
reread in leisure while taking a ****,
now that's an achievement to be honest,
i dare you to find two books of such calibre -
**** the prayer mat in the mosque -
and repeat, re re repeat -
and **** arching over your shadow in
the confession booth -
so that's one way of reading: read it once,
discard it, become an artist-journalist:
because there's always tomorrow -
**** acronym a.s.a.p. - ah, tautology of close
proximity - or so it might appear to be so -
and the boys juggling barbarism with
cut off testicles, one's spherical, the other's
oval - and ****** had only one...
the other way of saying things? a fishnet -
a safety-net - you can reread the already read
things and don't mind rereading -
to be honest, true art is of the former kind,
you read it, engage with it only once
and then leave it aside... brush it under the carpet...
the differential adjective association of nouns
is hidden within art and culture -
                arty will not do, farts won't do either,
but that's what is appears to be:
     culture likes to be associated with numbers
and revving inputs -
                                art's here a second,
and gone the next -
                                   culture is what keeps
the busy parents ticking and timing slow-mo -
the Jezebel of all yesterdays! it has to be pop -
hardly a minded canary song trickle in
modern-day aliens coming from the Amazon
without caveman theories...
yep, ****-naked all along throughout the Enlightenment -
they call it a plateau and ha ha,
the Europeans call it an insult and an anthropological
omission that would make Neil Armstrong
take up a bicycle and race the necessary need
to involve chemists in more than just shampoo and
toothpaste.. given the adverts...
                                           cos when **** goes dope,
you got to dope 'em, universally.
                  Belgium and the waffle -
duo - waffle - or blah blah, i.e. unnecessary talk,
usually political - can you imagine talking so much
in order to simply say: you must be joking,
no we won't, are you mad?, it was all supposed to be giggles.
i can't.
there are two ways of saying things:
a. if you reread me, you're kinda stupid,
    meaning you have the same repetitive dream
    over a 20 year period....
    i don't reread what i write,
    art isn't about rereading, if the message
    doesn't plummet into the unconscious you'll succumb
    to the second way of saying things, i.e.
b. for entertainment purposes,
    meaning repetition is the crucible, the pivot,
    a bit like dictates in the school system...
    we're actually taught repetitiveness -
    we are taught repetitiveness in order to pass
    an erosion of memory exams, like a toothache -
    we are taught to memorise *******
    in order to be later investments in Alzheimer's -
    no personal memory = no person of
   suggested personality acquisition -
   the English don't like verbiage -
                  but how can you even claim intellect
without motivational thinking that verbiage
is disguised as, huh?
paradoxically the stress on individuals -
the west never endangers itself with individuals
in established systems... sure, i should have
dropped-out of university and became the rottweiler
billy the kid -
                            i should have... but i wanted
to see the end results...
                  so b.
                            or the unnecessary need to repeat
art - as in art ought never succumb to the age of
mechanical reproduction (Benjamin) -
once ought to do it, like losing your virginity -
or the first time you swam 25 metres of a swimming bool,
or rode a bike... to exclude all sense of nostalgia
or eavesdropping on bogus maxims three generations
from now... the idea that words do not translate
into words: when one artistic output doesn't inspire
anything but practical activity, given art being
pure and therefore impractical activity -
but don't blame the artist for succumbing to such a fate,
it's not a fury - it just means the people the artist
encountered became insurmountably obstacle prone
representative: where a mother could have been,
a jealous murdering ***** stood,
where a man of suitable physical endurance could
have been, a semi-******* stood.
stick to point (a.), never fall for the trap of point (b.),
art is required more as a very elitist vector factory,
than H. Ford could think the wheel represented,
e.g.? well, examples always give adequate summaries
to arguments: Bloodhound Gang's the bad touch...
no, nothing in particular, i preferred the omission
that's akin to argument (a.) rather than argument (b.),
the pink floyd spoof with the lyrics:
        all in all, you're just another **** with no *****.
point made - *Right turn Clyde.

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