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John F McCullagh Nov 2011
Ascot - Race Course 1910-20 by daib0


King Edward the Seventh,
was dead.
With him, hope died also, tis said.
At Ascot later that year
his mistresses, I hear,
all favored blacks over reds.
Black hats with black feathers
they wore
in mourning for Bertie, they swore.
Black dresses, of course
for their dear love, now lost,
who, often, had honored their beds.

King Edward the Seventh,
was dead.
With him, hope died also, tis said.
In uncertain blue twilight
Dark shadows were spawned
as the glow from the
lamp lights had fled
Kaiser Wilhelm now free
of restraint from
  his Uncle Bertie
with reckless abandon
chose war.
The Long period of peace on the European continent ( 1871-1914) was coming to an end. An end hastened by the death of England's King Edward VII, the man who was the uncle of Europe.  As Sir Edward Grey famously said at the time ( 8/1914) :"The lamps are going out all over Europe. We shall not see them lit again in our time". I have tried to echo his sentiment in the second stanza.
MARK RIORDAN Jun 2017
IT IS A SUNNY DAY IN ENGLAND
THE QUEEN IS AT THE RACES
ROYAL ASCOT HER MAJESTY OWNS
THE HORSES RUN THERE PACES


HER MAJESTY IS IN GREEN
WHAT A BEAUTIFUL SUMMER COLOUR
THE RACE GOERS ENJOY THE DAY
KATE SAVES JUST ANOTHER


IT IS A WONDERFUL DAY
ON THE GLOBAL RACING CALENDAR
HER MAJESTY AND THE ROYAL FAMILY
LOVE ROYAL ASCOT NO WONDER
I AM ALWAYS SO HAPPY WHEN I COMPOSE A POEM ABOUT HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN I ALWAYS LOOK AT THE LETTER AND PICTURE HER MAJESTY SENT ME. NOT MANY AUTHORS CAN SAY THEY HAVE RECEIVED A LETTER AND CARD FROM HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN.
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
only today i came across what interested Heidegger
after writing being and time, a selection
of essays, revealing that he came to be interested
in language - not knowing this, by mere study
of the introduction some things became apparent -
being quiet democratic in my reading it's a shame
i don't have the academic leisurely pace of becoming
a Heidegger specialist - it's the almost damnable
pulling-apart having to cite many influences and not
focusing on one, but since i don't have academic
leisure, the summary in the introduction
by jeffrey powell (editor) of the book heidegger
and language
will just have to do: apropos this
being an antidote to those bemoaning that we only
write about reading books, carefully choreographic
our lives for mints and espressos and ammoniac
(inhalants in a boxing ring nearing a knock-out) -
hide pretty bird, hide, hide pretty pretty bird
first your song inside a cage, then the cage inside
the heart, and thus the song with the cage,
silenced inside the cage, raging mad inside the heart.
well, the antidote is that i already have some ideas,
and reading the essays contained in this book would
put me off what i was intending to write about,
so, in summary, read the major work, then read introductions
of critical books from those studying the subject,
invent an original approach from that, and elsewhere.
before i venture into the whole affair of having to
reread certain passages from the introduction as to
guide me in this Bermuda Delta i what to do a little
sidewinder interlude:
in chemistry there are two major bonds (for the purpose
of what i'm intending, let us just assume that
we're only talking about π and σ bonds) -
and while psychology dehumanises man to strict
theories without clear proofs to a universal standard,
i want to do what will come later regarding Heidegger's
take on language, for me there's no clear philosophical
vocabulary to be used - i'm not into orthodoxy and
rigidity which says

                piquant sun strokes against
                the bargains of spring's last
                hope for a kept bazaar
                to bloom to then deflower
                petals from trees fall to earth
                like glasses, the tree stands
                as a reflection of shattered glass
                the petals remain the tree intact
                worn at the Royal Ascot
                or in a woman's hair.

obviously something like this is a poem - what i mean,
however, concerning what's identifiable as philosophy is
to me the following:  
                                        blah = monotone x algebraic
                                                    for­ non-differential
                                                    purposes, just filling up
                                                    the page

            blah blah blah blah blah blah subjectivity blah blah blah blah blah blah essentially blah blah blah blah blah blah in-itself blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah thing-external v. thing-internalised blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah metaphysics blah etc.
                      
                          and so on and so forth, a fixation on using a certain vocabulary to be equivalent or justification to be "apparently" talking philosophy... yet still no gain from the words of grammatical categorisation... for me? too many propositions, the basis of what the academic environment deems to be "pure" verbiage, or none (akin Wittgenstein) - that famous quote about a lion and having tea on Tuesday... or as Buddha would say: said so to shatter thus the fear of ketamine thoughtlessness;

but that's beside the point, i want to return to
how any chemist might treat psychology as a science,
keep it up to date, given that psychology likes
to shove its nose in everyday activities for a strict
expression of equivalent rubric that mathematics already
possesses and shoves into a child's brain to make
the child become accustomed to symbol encoding;
so π and σ bonds, let's say between two carbons atoms...
but in psychology we don't have the luxury of
many alternative examples...
me and language: to write in terms of optics,
to encode images rather than sounds,
language as optometry rather than a hearing-aid...
so what "elements" do we have in psychology,
essentially what defines consciousness, its sub-plot
and its unfamiliar territory - the using the dusty
Freudian units, we know the concept of the superman
(superman was a bad bad boy) from Nietzsche
evolved into the super mm hmm, and we know
there are two other units, mm hmm and the id /
it or that? it is for me, that is for scalpel for the analyst,
the prober, unlucky for the person who took to
objectifying himself, but better than being objectified -
still, remember i'm working with language in terms
of optics rather than phonetics - enough organic chemistry
diagrams and you will see that the bonding between
mm hmm, the super mm hmm and the gemini id
(one the patient, the second the analyst) trapped inside
an electron cloud of bio-electric processes is rigid and
stable due to the opposite of π and σ,
i chose the optic route using the bonds δ and ψ -
symbolically δ is the mathematical term for sum -
summation, the total of - currently i have no clue about
the significance of ψ just yet, but ψ is a symbol of
psychology like caduceus is the symbol of medicine;
a brief expansion on the natures of the bonds,
quack-science δ bonds being all alike meaning uniform
meaning holding every aspect uniformly, meaning
that a δ bond is of the same nature between mm hmm
and super mm hmm in a petri dish within the
solvent of the conscious sub-plot, likewise other variations
δ bonds are uniform bonds, i.e. ensuring one detail
is related to the other, and so to others.
ψ bonds, not much expansion here as promising detail,
asthma the highest research of breath, and all
major theoretical squeezing through the Suez -
depending on the measure of breaths, we can depend
on the internal things - but never so much Pamplona encierro
cleaning-up to do theorising an affirmative sound
like mm hmm, or other affirmative synonyms -
if it were can *****, it would be mince rather than
a clean dissection - mince meat, should mm hmm be
not an *****, let alone a body. so many attachments
to mm hmm these days, it should be attached to zoological
studies than activities of breathing: theory as a cage,
one after the over, eventually not even cages but
the caged animal turning into matryoshka doll -
Kant doesn't venture into the dynamic of his thing-in-itself
represented by the matryoshka as ad continuum -
maybe he does, but to me here merely pinpoints it,
coins the phrase noumenon and ensures the thing
is opened, god or nothing is put in it, the thing is
closed, locked and the key to unlocking it is thrown
away and never found (i'll mention a short process of
his argument some other time, most notably his
three impossibilities concerning proving the existence
of god: ontological, physico-theological and cosmological).
yes, i know, when reading these ****** books
i have to paint the arguments, i need to simplify
them, a poet reading a philosophy has to paint
the words - the best poetic technique applicable to
understanding philosophical books is imagery,
not as a technique of for the purpose of writing my own,
but as a way to paint what was written by some boffin -
precursor to understanding the three impossibilities
of proof, i find it strange that such proof is necessary,
what would you do with it? prove it once on
paper, or in your head, show it to everyone and then
slowly everyone is able, then the so called "man in
the sky" - it seems strange that scientific positivism
of the Enlightenment supposed such a proof, the proof
is more implausible than the existence - Bertrand...
just smoke your pipe and sit in the easy-chair talking
******* with Wittgenstein... more on that later.
i promised quotes from the above mentioned book
(heidegger and language)...

           das wort kommt zur sprache,
             das seyn bring sich zum wort.


working from phenomenology, to later reject it,
thus precipitating the school of deconstruction-ism,
and with Heidegger we do get to atomic elements
from words, from compounds, thank god there are
no sub-atomic ventures with language, quiet impossible
to de-construct language beyond this point,
let's face it, if you go as far as:
'as preparatory for raising the question of being...
language is one of three constituent moments in
the analysis of the being of the da in dasein (being there)'
furthered by equal atom bombardment replacing
the un-compounded sein (verb, be) with seyn (conjunction /
noun, being) - this is modern physics to my understanding,
i'm not particularly interested what he's saying,
i'm interested in painting what he's saying -
i'll spare you the details of what philosophical systematisation
is actually involved in: restricted vocabulary -
a certain limit is allowed, rigid meanings are involved,
rigidity of drilling in of non-deviation, philosophical
systems are not dishonest in that they are consistent with
a limited vocabulary - i will spare you the torture of
seeing one ball being juggled - the shrapnel of the English
language makes it even more distracting to understand,
as with the above, another e.g.?
'every saying of beyng is held in words and meanings
which are understandable in the view of everyday
references of beings, and are exclusively thought in
that view, but which as expressions of beyng,
are misunderstood...' of course i could be cherry picking
Heidegger like a Jehovah's witness cherry picking
the bible, but i'm not interested in what he's saying,
merely painting you the picture, to scale then:

books                      -              celestial objects
chapters                 -               cycles of celestial objects
paragraphs            -               prime features of
                                                 celestial objects
                                                 (e.g. Jupiter's red eye,
                                                  Saturn's ring,
                                                  Earth's oceans
                                                  and continents)
sentences                 -              
words                       -
syllables                   -
letters                        -             atoms / elements  
                                           ah, it was going oh so well,
i think i started too big, and went into too small,
which made visualising sentences and words and syllables
hard to compare what could fit between
Australia and and atoms of RuXe - by chance ruxe is
an actual word, no as stated ruthenium and xenon,
although that too, ruxir (ruxo, ruxin, ruxido) in Galician
meaning to roar.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
i masturbated when i turned eight, "*******" without *****, hence i know it was all and is muscular; marquis de sade's novella ****** also helped to develop a rare psychology: bypassing adolescent urges / stimuli; i did that teaching to jack the ripper off to say the least when sharing a bath.*

and what last thought
do you take into sleep,
that you should be a fool
to see it all as a freudian
self-projection necessity
for interpretation:
the madam with an ascot
worthy hat ready to cancan
into another man's dirge
of libido?
Mateuš Conrad May 2020
an entire day of abstaining from "syringe",
whoever said it was:
the perfect dis-satisfaction -
supposedly it passes as quick as someone
puffing on crack...
                well...
                      the first cigarette...
when "quitting"... after years of 20 a day...
and this quitting: because no cheap
ciagarettes on the horizon from moldova...
or bulgaria...

    the first hit... feels like electricity...
i can feel it from my head...
right down to my toes...
          in my heels...
the tingling at first... then it all subsides...
into a sensation of a thrown stone
into the stomach:
like a nun jumping a bungee...
i feel like a teenager... who first sipped
alcohol...
the carousel of intoxication -
yet: so contained...
        there's the thrill and an
insurmountable number of adjectives
to the sensation:
face like a sponge head like blitzkrieg
theatre...
         i'm "quitting"...
well... 10 years exposed to the numbing...
perfect the ritual:
i guess i must...
    how long will it last... long enough:
to base the drinking on what becomes
the cigarette: on the peripheries:
and closure...

must i take any more revelation drugs...
apart from what's taxed and legal...
a solipsistic cigarette and some
gomme syrope: putting ms. amber
into the refrigerator...
              
i can feel the horde the tsunami from
a fat head through
a whirlwind dropped into my stomach...
and then the magic toes: tingling...
of course: i'm "quitting"...
quitting as much as...
mellow lou reed contra iggy pop
when bowie was with him in berlin...

"quitting"... the initial hit is over...
the first impressions...
the formality is thrilling...
then comes the diffusion:
the informality of fractions and percentages...
from the brain... the nerves...
perhaps the heart...
and the last place to look into:
the liver...

         and other... soft-tissue glue parts...
and the ritual:
a packet of benson & hedges...
wrapped up with about 10 rubber bands...
it has been waiting for me
for the entire day...
and now that the night is here...
a day when an apple tree was planted
along with a cherry tree...

the garden is looking more and more
presentable for sale...
but before the sale: it must be enjoyed...
i never thought that...
a cigarette: after... this short prospect
of abstinance...
is almost like the first...
but when coupled with the whiskey...
hell... i can't remember the last
time i drank and it felt like...
i was a teenager: under-age drinking
in one of those ****** clubs that
high-school girls go to find boys
with cars... out of school without
a-levels...
and boys go... to find... ms. ambers...
and jazzy gits of mr. fuzzy mr. funny...
the bavarian brothers: the weisers...

please! please! more...
these days of "quitting"...
             because what could be fun
about an absolute cold-turkey...
when you have a stash of...
  600 cigarettes... and... if the math is
about right...
and since the free movement of
people is a rapunzel dream off-the-cuff...

600 cigarettes... if i get it right...
move from 2 per ritual of going to bed...
into 1... that's... either a year
with missing 56 days somewhere...
no rolling tobacco though...
look m'ah! no bongs no syringes!
look p'ah! no snorting bleeding nose...
no... plum bruises from...

as long as there's an inhibition period...
a period of: i wish i could send
a postcard from... Basildon, Essex...
to... someone obliterated by a craze-maze
of lights... like... whatever...

i just heard stories...
                  about the effects of other drugs...
but... it's not like they come back...
with straitjackets to rekindle old flames
of "crossing the threshold" within
the confines of tobacco and alcohol...
moderately: well: not to quote the ideal
units consumed...
     i'm pretty sure i read some pickwick papers
today and... dickens "forgot" some...
conjunction words...
unless of course: his style...
                    -open            
                          to question-
                        esp. adjectives that...
or is it... nouns that act like this that and the other:
as if verbs...
            
    roughly half an hour... the full extent of
a cigarette...
the very first is probably the same
as the "very first" when you're "quitting"...
from circa 20 per day...
to 2-a-day...
                      "quitting" and first getting
hooked...
           the whiskers and fire fathers
                                   of the apache
              are a balancing act that follows...
oh sure... i'll quit smoking...
when the ritual is over...
i have left the casual smoker behind...
somewhere... over coffee...
over the tradition of that cigarette after
a meal: the digestifs smoke-up...
i left these smokers behind...
the nervous smokers...
the waiting at a bus-stop smokers...
the after *** smokers...

          the day is coming to an end...
i'm going to enjoy some music...
drink a little... i'll start calling this smoking
cigarette pattern... what? what else?!
my tobacco ramadam!
chances are... i'll still be unable
to appreciate roxy music...
   and the english dandy...
                       the music is here...
the little bit of *****... and the "pipe"!
here comes my face...
here comes the zoo...
            
             but i'm quitting... "quitting"...
the wolf of wall st. -
                      drug addict... that all depends
on how you treat tobacco...
the cigarette... abstaining for a day...
after a "hiatus" from healthy breathing...
viruses and car zinc and lead exhausts...
cow farts...
                  
    a terrible way to treat tobacco...
i find... is the casual... informal way...
a bit like... internet access...
whoever grew up with it being stationary...
like... a telephone... or a phonebox...
it was never carried:
always a returned to:
like a swizz safety-deposit box
in a bank... that could...
bypass tax regulations and subpoenas...

the good old days...
saturdays the park... the high street...
the car park... climbing to the top
and spitting phlegm bombs at people...
peter ******* richardson...
and kieran o'mahoney...
samuel richards...
         a ****** among the irish...
in england...
then again: richardson...
eh...
                                   ascot?
      i.e. a shcoot?!
                    the break between my first
ritual cigarette...
         and my closing affair for the night...
whether i drink less or not...
in the middle of the night
i wake up on the floor...
         i sleep on the floor for about
an hour... two demons want to ****
in my bed... then i'm thrown back into
the bed of cushions and mattress...
  only yesterday i killed someone in my dream...
and i was... like the zodiac killer...
anonymous...
i heard hook & sinker teases of:
the crime scene read like a crime thriller...
to appease the ego...

two days running thrown out of bed...
this is a terribly composed...
it is... "quarantine" poetics...
i'm "quitting" smoking...
                   i'm making tobacco...
i'm giving tobacco ritual rites...
                   no lazy tobacco smoking...
end of the day... ms. amber in hand...
maxing out on 2!
the next two? the next day...
              the same packet of cigarettes...
2 inside with a lighter...
wrapped up using about 10 rubber bands...
a like-for-like replica of
pin-heads "tattoo geography"...

       yes... because... someone's nearing
the snorting olympics?!
           if all you were given...
was tobacco and alcohol...
             the first one... oh! mein! gott!
it feels like being a teenager... once more...
and experiencing the alcohol carousel
for the very first time...
tobacco? that came later...
after the alcohol... after the ****...
the **** came in age 21...
the tobacco came in... age 21.09...
whatever that implies...

                      it's nice... though...
absitance... you wait for the entire day...
by the of it... some variant of... tourette's kicks
in... it's all very nice asking for
cupcakes and bagels...
scones and daffodils:
or... suicide by: lily-of-the-valley...
i.e. room filled with them...
and no ventilation...
talk about... no hanging... projects...
of Seneca cutting wrists in a bath...
just... getting drunk...
and being allowed to fall asleep
in a vacuous room filled with
lily-of-the-valley bouquets...

             we can talk about suicide... no?
when... it's... beautiful? no? ha!
how was the hemlock... prescribed?
as a drink?
             i... it's almost irritating that...
i will not write anything more sensible
after i take the 2 cigarette to the grave of sleep...
no matter...
i wasn't hoping to invest in much:
today gave me enough.
Deranged rocks, spread in albeit magnetic threads
rattle the sky's mirror with impatience.
Lay her feet on the ground, the young girl did.
The touch of her soft, dampened scarf
kindled the metamorphic calm.

My veritas found its unwanted shrine--
The dreadful peace that let it dine,
upon the well-being of its host nest its swine.
The ****** amalgam in her eyes
led its produce down her wavy brown vines.
They hid her cheeks, and brought down traited drops
of long-withheld tangy crust
towards the lavender ascot.

She grabbed onto her feet,
warm and wrapped with white cotton and wool heat...
she caressed the ornamental fabric,
swerved her fingers along its threaded magic.
Their lacy innocence familiarized her and made her smile,
whence the memory of her veritas triggered in her mouth's isle.

She lay her hopeful eyes on the silver-nitrate clad scarf,
covering the now-calming rocks' quaff.
Of my reflection her face saw only loss,
for her recognition seemed forever trapped in virtuality,
in moss.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
for all i care to remember...
        looking into the mirror was more or less...
something akin to:
"squirting"... **** me! SQUINTING...
      well... the contortion of the eyes...
"worrying" about a double-chin...
and of course... enough stealth acne
to make me... the bride of beelzebub
how i'd joke to myself...
         beelzebub sat on my face and *******
a tonne of... dead maggots...

           i never knew i was athletic standing
before a mirror...
i probably know that i am less athletic now...
but... looking into mirror made
sense... once...
   this russian girl...
    in st. petersburg...
   we were in "love"...
       and there was this great aventurine bed...
and... a closet with two mirrors...
and... we'd be at it...
i was looking into the mirror...
and she was looking into the mirror...
it was like: the opposite of *** on l.s.d. -
because it was like...
beyond the missionary -
the "******" of the mirror...
   as in ***... it leaves you wanting
to ******* to the *******...
because... hell...
without a mirror...
could you capture the face moaning
contorting like an experiment out
of the gehenna harem?

     for all the *** toys sold...
all those exceses of... woman's lingerie...
outfits... nurses...
   blah blah... it really takes a mirror
to spice things up...
this dead-eyed mirror canvas...
the dire-dead-necessary...
    tooth-fairy: ref. the red dragon...
i needed to see that she needed to see
that i was ******* her... and that she...
was being ******...

           mirror mirror on the wall...
**** the fair and the fairest and the fairies...
i have come to understand that mirrors...
work best...
when... not stressed to exemplify...
a concern for beauty...
   or... something that is worn...
clothes look... terribly important in a mirror...
esp. by someone wearing them
when allowed to be digested / investigated
by a mirror...

but... a mirror during ***?
when you're not performing inverted missionary...
doggy... and she's lying with clenched ****-cheeks...
i was in love once...
which also implies:
i ****** like a race-champ pony!
the mirror always helps...
i wouldn't know: whether s&m leather
and straps would... and whips...
made much of a difference...
when... the mirror... the ghost ******...
the: satan you could get away with...
if you didn't utter a comprehensive word...
but ensure a strict rigidity to...
onomatopoeias and syllables...
and... exfoliating nouns...

        upon memory being summoned...
i'm getting a bigger hard-on thinking
about all the encounters i've had with the police...
there's always at least two memorable
encounters...
getting poisoned in a nightclub...
getting on the bus...
getting off the bus... dropping like a pancake
onto the cement...
     being roused... asked by the police officer
whether i was o.k.:
making a slurred and lengthy apology...
giving my address...
and being... taken in a police van... in a cage
for a sinner... like a taxi...
back home...

    losing my virginity to a pair of handcuffs...
for ******* in an alleyway...
getting screamed at...
one officer cuffed me...
the female officer had a pen and pad ready...
in an alleyway where it was discussed:
and who's alleyway is it?
i'm too drunk already...
if i walked into a pub on friday come
10pm i'd be asked to buy a pint
in order to use their toilet...

         it's one sort of luck... gambling...
betting on a horse...
but another... being hand-cuffed...
  and then... having the hand-cuffs...
taken away...
              as this dialogue happened in the...
"invisible" shadow of the alley...
i can't exactly imagine what the onlookers
saw...
           a teasing of authority...
drinking a beer on a bench outside
a pub on a friday night...
which is... basically... taking away
the revenue... of being sardine packed...
and pyramid schemed... for failure...
but my... what a glorious night...

so i asked: and where am i... permitted...
and blah blah...
that ******* mirror... and that aventurine bed...
the same thrill during ***...
like... the thrill of stepping into a brothel...
without a need to ***...
the 9 of them: all nazgul attired in scrutiny...
before "the pick"...

   *** toys... can i please get a mirror in here?!
it has to become a standard for a healthy
sexed up relationship...
    a mirror can overpower any...
frivolity of during-***: attire...
  the imitation ******...
a mirror is... just that...
                 *** with: in third person narrative...
but... smirk-giggle:
you catching her eyes getting ******...
and she catching your eyes: ******* her...

so tame tame... unlike reading...
  the tame blushes of marquis the sade...
never to mention... this philosophical adventure
of ******... which it really is...
impeccable... trouble with: thought put into
practice...
                yes... that horrid... Fritzl case...
but unlike the idealist scenario...
the mother was notably pushed away from
the grandiosity of the sin...
and it was done... in public... with...
a purview of... shaking established social norms!
it wasn't... a rabbit-hole of horror...

              which is why i'm glad i do not
have children of my own...
   i once spent an afternoon with...
my... grand-aunts son... my uncle...
don't ask...
         and i looked like him and thought...
well... i have most certainly had more
fun with cats and dogs...
i was a complete mute...
i didn't feel like cuddling this piece
of cubism... it looked human and even
contorted like one...
perhaps if it was mine...
i could have... somehow...
            "relegated my inhibitions"?
                 n'est ce pas?
         to have children and begin with...
that ******* of differentiating vowels from
consonants... and then... building consonants...
what... 5 vowels... 21 consonants...
5 x 21 = 105 variations...
       prefix: ab, ac, ad, af, ag...
                     eb, ec, ed, ef, eg...
                           IF only! oof!
                 the suffix - ba, ca, da, fa, go...
                                 bat cat dad fat god...
and then... the 21 x 21 consonant variables...
squared to the power of 5...
because... chinese is... frankly...
so simple...

   - it's summer and...
            since i would otherwise... require ink...
to write... and the paper would somehow
be always readily available...
no need for ink...
the summer months are terrible...
for no requirement of ink...
what is ink?  ink is...
                         i need october...
i need november... december... january...
february... half of march...
i need to borrow ink from the night!
i can't scribble in these arab / kenyan months...
these sun-seeker months
of idle by the dream-pool... load of...
overtly-talked... less thought...
therefore... no need to scribble...

    i need the night for my ink...
                           "punctuation marks are in
the constellations": oh yes... honey sweet...
what's it called? cliche? we've all been there...
i too would sacrifice Hector before the altar
of Achilles if i were Priam...
                   only because: he was called Hector...
and the other was Achilles...
and i was called Priam...
       in such times... what were...
the trully... common-place names...
of stunt-men and extras?
   i'd like to know the equivalent of a john smith
from ancient greece...
what would one call: him?
            
        perhaps: i tend to think about *** when
i... most probably had a dream...
jerking off is a bit like...
checking one's blood pressure...
or as a diabetic might... ***** his index
to check the sugar levels...
i write about "***" when i've had a dream...
the dream...

i was talking to a man about cars...
notably... cars from...
america and germany...
circa the years... 1920s through to...
                the 1970s...
          and... then... the talk of... a motorcycle...
a specific motorcycle...
   a triump street cup...
                 a BMW R18... but not quiet...
whatever it was...
                    for the love of a double-decker
bus and a pair of legs...
                which is not...
to have emotionally invested
in *** was something a much younger
version of me would have done...
i thank the prostitutes of curing me of this...
debilitating disease / dream...
              which, i, prescribed... myself...
so no... i hardly think...
there were any... mummy or daddy issues...
i would skip several scenarios:
as much as i love riding a double-decker
bus... i abhor... taking a taxi...
       even if it requires me to walk...
2 miles... i'd rather walk:
for the love of legs and... voodoo dolls hanging
like corks... bend the knee: they might say...
bullet to the knee-cap... if you ask me...
again...

     perhaps i wasn't born english...
but... after... 26 years among them...
                          it "sort of" grows on you...

- man can perform a thousand:
dodo project genocides in one sitting:
on the throne of thrones...
before jumping under a baptism:
fully attired in the ganjes pyjamas
in one sitting: on the throne of thrones...
to "squat" while *******...
*******... *******...
"scented candles" of taking a shower...

i write about *** every time i have a dream...
it's to succumb to the lesser...
escapade of me...
i can stomach subjectivity...
but having to stomach idealism...
is another matter: altogether...
i would like to worship the men who
have had their fill...
and settled for the swan blockade
of the widower romance...
the widow swan...
the black widow: a ******* spider...

none of it... i ****** good i ******
well... come the prime of the age 21...
she was a gamer side-kick bedded...
she prescribed me...
                        Bulgakov...
              reading a ****** to a prussian...
or reading a ****** to a RUŚ: example: ditto...
                  i have heard of how
love supposedly closed and opened borders...
we are so antithesis "different"...
we aren't... some western "communist"
zoo study:
the people who say and then...
lucky us paupers...
who have to "loot" the infrastructure
of the vacating ****-tunnels...
because... someone has to ****-off...
their tongue and... gerbil fidgety!

albino chimpanzee and...
boxer gorilla fed on...
the promise of bulk... with nothing
but... the promise of fruits of your
labour... and nothing relating
to protein... or fat... of complex sugars
known as bread... none of that!
still: that fudge-packing bulk of
gorilla bicep protein: amass!

   - as ever... the murk: before the deep-water...
the... inverted demigods
of h. p. lovecraft...
because... cthulhu is... "somehow"...
not the ******* son of Poseidon?

acid-quasi-monkey asks...
   placid-didgeridoo...
                a constipated: not funny...
attempts! at solving a crossword!
-frankenstein-myrhh:
                        ******* dangling...
                                    (-) - Fatima...
is this... "Syria" yet?
  concerning the second coming...
concerning...
Syrian civil war... something...
*******... miraculous...
has happened...
or was about to happen...
and that it didn't happen...
better that it did:
but since it... didn't...
best we cover it up...
                corpse bride:
               Khadija **** Khuwaylid...
if ever: Stephen Vizinczey...
was a (prophet) Muhammad...
in praise of older women...

    ...a Fatima... fleeing the Syrian
civil war... because... Ramses II
was... telling apart the 7 good years
from... the 7 ******* years...

tell you what... it's no fun...
when you've been given the need
to bend the knee before the altar
of phantom power...
if i were 16 and she was 14...
if i was 18 and she was 16...
if i was 60! and she was... 20!
would it matter?
               if i was jerking off aged 8...
you want to know...
what... the last prize is...
the last... difference between...
"consent" of two adult adult...
with their *******-riddle
of a theatre of ***?
     you want to know?
the thought of ******* someone...
under-age...
no! no barbie! no ken!
the theatre of thought...
of ******* someone... underage...
who is... displaying...
teasing ***... in that primodial seance
of grief to ward of mother from
the ******...
and father from the parentage of
school!

               you ever want to see...
what... a kick in the jaw looks like...
omnipresent onlooker...
of some... unpardonable crime...
that it has to be ***-related...
              i wish i performed some
unpardonable crime on a *******...
i guess a kiss is a kiss is an unpardonable
crime against a *******...
i need this heart to shelter itself
in stone! i need: a heart!
of hard-earned: rock!
               with each sentence:
i find it impossible to not....growl!
to howl! to spew a bickering of...
wolves... of hyenas...
a wake of crows!
            
              i want toi write an echo!
hye! anoooooooooooooooooooooooooo!
i want to hear...
the microscope itching
of a marrow...
of maggots working toward
a closure of expressing: scotch fudge!
i want! maggot marrow!
i want! the lost sounds of...
what the fox already minded...
in...                       χαoς! ρει(γ)νς!
yes... the gamma is a surd...
                 in this... english... equation...

last time i checked:
the cognitive theatre of the forbidden...
****** "lax"...
it's enough to tease the affair with
mere thought...
to have... people "bothered"
that one thinks... such "things"!
while the girl... prime... aged... 14...
teases you with...
exfoliations of...
                      script and... censure...
like a skirt...
but of course...
you're the dodo-project genocidal maniac
about to sport a new: cushioning
extreme...
of an ******* like...
you're minding teasing...
a high-blood pressure!

          can i allow myself a giggle?
a crown of: a dozen demons laughing
as relevant: to the 12 strong cohort of...
cognitive lapses of reason?
          
  ******* before a mirror is my...
my memory and my last concern for...
"adventure"...
a ****** ******* a russian girl so freely...
she fed off of us as...
     spinning a willow to confine itself to:
those rhubarbs in... "retro"...
no... i'm pretty sure... "they"...
the western communists would have minded
it coming across as...
  rhubarb... dreads... stiff 12" drizzle /
drool bits of a tight-knit white sporting ***!
my... oh... wait...
not exactly 16... so... no...

my... what?!
    this has to become one of those...
most... "unspectacularbly": "a least"
in what's to be digested... "fogiven"...
when... there's that teasing-**** of a per-se
readied for her rite of horror to be
met with ******* the...
upper... echelons...
to the queue! to the loiter!
to the...                cue: no dry martini equipped...
sort of... joke as... a variation
of... escapism: to excuse...
fixations... of social hierarchy...

    i am hardly a misogynist...
            it's almost... fake...
how feminists point out... death-pull...
the misogynists...
clinging to philanthropists... i suppose...
it's like...
"someone" forgot...
to... mention...
the benevolent in misanthrophy...
the happily allied to the ivory tower...
whether you're a man or a woman...
or a man pretending to be a woman...
or a woman pretending to be a man...

who is... the misanthrope?
            the solipsist...
the atheist: should you be god?
the altruist... the... fiddly-bit... extreme...
the... autist?
         who is... your... claim for...
******-****** ruleZ the world?
mother of all perfected children...
a bit like jerking off to...
those gravure beijing models...

ava lauren? she is... an aged looking
*******... closure: madame...
she earned it...
her skin is like leather...
you dare to: wear it...
   but... oops: the ubermensch...
these chinese "brides" are not...
photoshopped...
they're genetically edited...
it was apparent that china
didn't have a soul...
in its summa summarum...
or in its christ redeemer...
when... india has its rich
polytheism... pedagogy:
shiva the antithesis of vishnu:
the thesis...

    i can feel... at least!
i can feel abbreviated with the raj master...
sport...
sending a few "*******" to beijing!
let's hear a story...
no... i'm fuming mad:
i'm dying! to hear that coin-flip
of a tail: of bending the... fuckning knee:
capping... as one might!

there's a <100million of "me"...
there's... a >1billion of "them"...

   while:
            i ****** off to...
          genetically edited creatures...
the western world can hide
behind its setting sun: metaphor...
photo-editing... while...
the hot-**** beijing is...
gene-editing...
west-world 1972 bronze age:
"staging a coup"..

             yeah: gurran-gu-dag...
the arabs and their bangladeshi...
queen-bee sorted...
           elizabeth II...
royal ascot...
  i.e. lamborghinis raced on knightbridge...
because: arab playboys are to be...
minded...

write long... to ensure...
people read short... little chance
of censor-loved-up-pseudo-i.q.-heroes!
100 years later: you become a pseudo-Proust /
a Joyce... but... that also implies:
you're stiff up at the neck...
in death and sand... and worms...
in a grave! so? no turkish kebab:
no malmuk / no janissary resurrection!
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2017
basic arithmetic in terms of punctuation, otherwise? simply the arithmetic of punctuation: what does (,) equal? what does (.) equal? what does (:) equal? what does (-) equal? what does (;) equal? come on, quick! quick! give me a number!

to *think
, is to not narrate,
                               much of what is regarded as
   "thinking", simply becomes as art
of narration
       that is sofa-bound, i.e. so comfortable
that it feels it has no inclination
toward the use of hands as ever
being idle, it simply replaces
  hands with a tongue...
                    hence: idle speech,
                hence political speech;
so if the "devil" has work for idle hands,
then "god" has work for the idle zunge
                                       (tongue)...
but most people don't think,
   because their thinkling is solely about
narrating,
                  their day-to-day...
               and i appreciate this custom,
in the cognitive realm...
         i really do...
              how many jokes ushered into
the void of one's silence, neither whisphers,
nor hummings, nor whistling...
        wiser still, essentially unchanged...
but heidegger's aphorism no. 285
   really bothers me...
            the reader looking into the narrator
given the existentialist inverted commas
   (iberian inverted questioning
   ¿   ?          that's the first step toward
   an iberian existentialism)
                        said the third person,
    with third party sources, the middle man,
the second person, and then the reader
  of the writer's original testimony?
   if northern existentialism (french / german...
  the english were too reactionary, and
too easily bored by the continental drift)
       encompasses the tool that's "      "
   then the iberian tool has to be the inverted
question mark, i.e.       ¿   ?,
sitting comfortably? no? how about a wheelchair...
let me just break your legs and your spine.
       but aphorism 285: "worldview",
     "grounding", "configuring"...
       i don't understand this allocation of ambiguity,
and an italic stress on da-sein / da-sein...
   aren't all the three descriptive elements /
   adjectives the purposive sentiments for
                   originating the concept of dasein?
i had to counter with an iberian existential tool...
   after all i said, 'he said', "we said"...
                                  it's a third party medium
of supposed ambiguity...
         if there's a santa claus (satan's clause),
then there's pontius pilate's clause,
  found in the existential tool of     double-ditto "     "
  or as the english like to say: inverted commas;
   or the ritual: of washing your hands clean
   from passing the judgement...
   they're citation marks to be honest, come on,
let's be pompous, they donned 19th top-hats
     at ascot's horse races! who's fooling who?
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2020
all this en masse... gravity toward...
"sanity" and sobriety...

well... it's the nicety of giving /
stating compliments...

if only there was less
fertile ground:
to make one's arguments for...

if the united kingdom
was more akin to... iceland...

             i drink...
  and that gives me hope
in my original venture:
h'america signed a plot
line division:
to abhor the liquid...

for it brought nothing but ill...
constipated abolitionists...
whiskey frankenstein's
monster's fire: bad... mantra...

in that:
the perverted persuasion
tactic of the... limited sober...
sane... the... cream / rather not:
the creep of the crop...
and this is... somehow...
the **** worthy of harvesting?

one ghost... limping...
dead loitering limb...
a foot... for that crazed
ballerina...
then a jargon of a hand
missing... ghost reading
of braille...
             as one does:
when one's elbow
arrives on the scene...
with... robert downey jr.
and tommy lee jones...

then again... ask...
what is... homogeneity...
to the... russians...
                    sweep-stake
the concept of mongol and orc...
somehow: the old east...
is the new south...
you have an imploded "problem"...
you allow it...
all the circus rights of a democratic
load and loot and allowance...

those... whitey...
masochistic chant-lords...
are no good to begin: governing:
anew...

i hear one more ref. to 1984...
i swear to god...
i'll start the **** book burning
fiasco...
              that's all that's ever recited
these days...
it's not the monolith of the bible
recitation...
it's 1984...
it's not even: homage to catalonia...
it's not even...
the stranger by albert camus...
it's this... fixation on:
this was necessarily true...
it had to be necessarily true:
since... we ensured that it be...
necessarily true!

         brave new world
and 1984: sometimes known as...
the works of prophet isaiah...
and malachi...
or some bogus first choice answers...

it's not like charles dickens...
the pickwick papers are to be cited...
no... ray bradbury's
          fahrenheit 451...
     or "we" by yevgeny zamyatin...
is no... one...
to cite... from...
the master and margarita...
mikhail bulgakov -
then again... again... again...
       he, of our own...
that was always right...
and we... of his own...
dumb enough... to have...
         walked... into his...
prediction... and... gloated at it...
when... walking into it...
**** y'ay: brovado!

          it's one scrutiny to...
blind time with all the omnipresence
of open space...
that there is a future:
you'll forgive me: there isn't one...
it's all... kiss and kick
a donkey with a whipping:
blind... then... fish one out...
for the royal ascot...
with an imaginary carrot...
the stick doesn't mind...
whether it be imaginary:
or detailed...

                  but as long as someone...
somewhere...
    is reading an alternative...
not some... thought-fulfilling gravity
of consorts and bitter bitten knees
with more than mere...
masochism of kneeling on pebbles...
there's the... kneeling...
and the exposed calf... and biting riddles
of... the demon with a name akin
to belzeebub! the one associated
with minding mosquitos!

     sayz who?

that these... people... are well verse...
they cite 1984 by george orwell...
like they might cite the *******
quran...
         because: hey presto!
something is real!
they adore... the past...
catching up to the present...
and the present being
devoid of a future...
who aren't the people...
already drunk from...
something in the past...
   coming true?!

      of fruit:
the U.B.D. the B.B.D.
and the S.B.D.
  i love those acronyms as much as i love...
that... affair with the acronym of...
the idea of USA... prior to...
   the louisiana purchase...
                     that little affair of
anglo-dutch proto-germanicus...
maine... new england...
all that fuzzy jazz and... smog...
and lost clue... for: dreamland of
lingering horror...

  so said the sober and "sane" people...
that sanity of the blah of the herd...
well... yeah...
h'america and probihition...
one of those... moon-milking
nation of narratives...
              how science-fiction was
always to eclipse the science itself.
Anais Vionet Apr 2022
It’s hard to imagine almost three months of unencumbered fun. My Grandmère says it’s my first summer as an “adult.” Is it funny that I don’t yet see myself as an adult?

Her “frosh-end” gift to me is a summer of anything I want (chaperoned, of course, to counterbalance the nefarious strategic significance of our femaleness) with her secretarial minions coordinating tickets, booking travel, airfare and hotels. ***, we have SO much planned.

There’ll be travel, plisse bikini-covers, gas-station sunglasses, marathon-beach-walks, bright-dense-tangerine sunsets, Yamazaki flavored snow-cones, moonlight swangin, ***-positivity and righteous gratitude to my Grandmère for all this.

And there won’t be any deterministic nonlinear systems analysis or multicellular biology quizzes.

Leong isn’t going back to Macau (China) over summer break so I’m stealing her. She’s spending her entire summer with me. In June, my parents are off, for the rest of the summer, to Poland with “Doctors without borders,” so we become untethered. Of course, all of our plans are covid or WWIII dependent and thus subject to cancellation without prior notice.

In May, I’m going to show Leong life in America, well, Georgia anyway. I’ll introduce her to my old high school crew, show her life on the lake, and teach her how to play frisbee golf and of course, how to waterski. We’re going to Braves games, to see Bonnie Raitt, Barenaked Ladies, and Indigo Girls concerts - and that’s just May.

In June, when my folks leave for Poland, Lisa, Anna, and Sunny will join us for the rest of the summer. First, we’re off to Dublin, Ireland for a few days where we’ll see Duran Duran in concert. Then we’ll go to London and shop for day three of the Royal Ascot.

Day three, at Ascot, is “Ladies Day,” when they parade those hats “My Fair Lady” made famous. We’ll table in the Windsor Enclosure (the “cheap seats”) where you don’t have to wear a silly hat (Americans don’t DO that, do we?) and the dress code is slightly more relaxed. Don’t fret though, the royal family will carriage right by us (an unobstructed 30 feet away) at 2PM sharp and we’ll enjoy champagne, strawberries and 5-star cuisine as horses run for their lives.

In January, all we could talk about were Florida beaches - but that’s not the situation now - the Florida atmosphere just seems too straight-white toxic. So we’re staying euro-side and will drop to Saint-Tropez until we go see Olivia Rodrigo, in Paris, on June 22nd.

As you can see, it’s a lot - and I can’t wait!
I hope you have big plans - make big plans - life's too short!
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge:
Minion: someone obeying the orders of a powerful boss
Nefarious: "evil" or "flagrantly wicked"

Slang:
Frosh = freshman
Swangin = dancing
NDevlin Aug 2012
I

I am Ann, Anna, Annastasia
confined, confounded in her own fantasia

roll over doggie under my car
oh i'm sorry, i meant it
she told me, when she told me
i had to obey
a rubber stamp and electric nodes
shock, convulse and make me sway
oh make the voices go away!

II

Smashy smashy Annie
throw mummy's good flower pots
over the wall into the yard
weee it'll be so much fun
come out and play Annie!

III

You naughty girl, stand in the corner and
think about what you've done
what did I tell you about listening to your mother?
bad girl, strike yourself
iron out the creases in your fingers

but mummy, they told me , I had no choice

IV

Tut-tut Anastasia
what did i tell you about listening to your father?
trickle tears down your face
remind yourself you are a disgrace
with little grasp of good taste

You sickening little troglodite,
shower yourself cold in the dark

V

One would be so wisest of oneself, Anastasia
thereby present yourself as loyalty
pray hildegarde you navigate yourself correctly
i suspect your remuneration would be pitiful
exentuate those dentalized Ts and Ds
and for Julius' sake
mind your Ps and Qs

VI

Cease, desist, Anna
Regard yourself from your heart's eye,
be nice, be humble
lest you want to cry, *****!


VII

I can't I can't
someone help me
she's pulling my hair, ouch!

'Stop squealling for attention!'
her friends sneer,
'Better off talking to yourself Ann!'

VIII

I can't help my impulses, they meticulously
humiliate my ego and my sanity
with crude, latent vulgarity
thrown off course with profanity


'oh clumsy me,' pipped Ann,
I'm a clumsy, heavy strumpet,
I'm a couplet short of a sonnet!'

IX

hush hush hush
the booming voice chides,
'Still, Anastasia, soothe your spirit.
be calm, and play some poker
by your uncle's fireplace
you'll be a good girl,
if you hit your brother.'

X

oh cry cry all for Ann
lost for words at her chamber pan
licking the bowl clean
as her mummy told her
sweet, if not
then she would scold her.

XI

'Annie Annie, long of face
won the Ascot horses race.'

'Heaven forefend Anastasia, straighten up and shoulders back!
you'll get rickets so far gone, you please no man but the crickets!'

'****** off those others Anna and listen to me,
forget about you mummy, daddy and any, all authority.'

'Stupid Ann, drown yourself in turpentine
and stub your nose like the common swine.'

'Now remember Anna dear, no cherry trifle
until you've  boxed your sister's shins.'

'Leave me, please, I'm begging, bereave me!
leave me, please, I'm praying, release me!'

XII

Poor Ann whose been afflicted
by personality, conflicted
of her own thoughts, convicted
a most grievous war of minds
betray her deepest common senses
violate her fidelity by bathing in slop and pig feed
degenerate her innocence through foul revolt and tantrums
lest she cannot restore herself from her inner sanctum

XIII

Setting hard concussions, Anna threw a hammer at her temple,
in all hopes to knock it down.
Running low on cortisol
she burst her fleshy, brunette crown
letting all the fluid spew upon her
agonisingly, she writhed in settling timely
for a brutal death is less sinister
than eternity in sanity
Part I, Lines 7-8: Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT) Commonly used as treatment on patients with mental disorders.

Part XIII, line 3: Cortisol, low levels of this neurochemical cause severe depression.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
when they said their **** against Marcus Aurelius
then they said a thing about Commodus -
and then i watched  the blueish woad:
as said the heart have earned the fork in road
or the forevermore for the upcoming usurpation -
     blunt grey admittedly:
all jotted a count for,
                the 5 good Caesars -
          O my home, that's Scootland -
        a land i neared to: but never had -
          when no noun be an Ascot toward a verb of nearing
a had helter-skelter off a saddle - later said: a bed.
             oh Scotland:
such that via venture into Hardian
a tongue could be spoken less!
   spoken less and thought of more!
and you could say aye to a yee - toy a princess
toward a girth of a robin's beak bullying a sunrise
into a cry... as parallel toward a mamma mia or
akin to fudge and marshmallow chuckling chastity
chewed for that "necessary" calorie arithmetic!
or runny gooey choc: then i be then i be the one for
hunting fat carps in a lake rather than
the kingly rivers of no return -
                 or how it was all right back then:
are you man enough to be staged?!
oh but when the void is but a yawn - what then?
what care to say profound things?
               honestly: none, whatsoever.
then you turn and say perfumed things,
rather than profundi necro - via
de profundis: or the profound contra of
                      dead profundity -
resurgence of the Oscar Wilde cosmopolitan.
          as some said, merely: piglet,
     but then some say: rightly prozac pink -
blue to ******, and white as salt, as sugar,
         as *******, as Colombian death-opera.
           the dead are profound,
agreeably they are, bound to be found,
        they're a little bit obvious,
      X always marks the spotty acne bound parishioner
readied for liturgy -  and isn't that a cherishable act?
  pay the proper price of pray...
                       still, the adaptation of Macbeth
with typescript Shakespeare agonising ****** tongue
  sho' sho' short and all the better for it - was:
and if ever there was a home for me,
if ever,
           it was neither England nor Poland...
it was somehow Scotland, somehow too the remote
Scandi Faroes Islands, a very much moochie *******
stance on Verstappen (v-necked sh'tappen 'appen) -
               i still think of woad as blue,
and Commodus as one of the five righteous
emperors who did good...
     yet counter is not unrepresented - surely
not kindred of Caligula - woad is still synonymous
with blue in patch-fazed sloppy when it was indeed
tempered with intentional tartan of purring purple;
did i say something profound? obviously not...
did i was anything at all? obviously i did...
did i say more than the wind rummaging a tree
to see autumnal revisionism in lost colour
stemming from green? i d' see indeed!
    an epitaph as more than my trinity name
and by date more of residing worth to
gain breath and so forthcoming take to losing it?
if not as failed individuals didn't we practice
the clarity of procreation for dietary existentialism
being necessarily practice, in light of the need
of not having failed? then too no motherly motto
strand of thought to listen to: or a gym membership
not being joined: as much in need
of criticism, as so in need of actual members -
       for the laconic treatment of words
and the high-notion of advert -
           from " " capsules of the 20th century,
through to the shortly lived ~, or question of
ambiguity,
            into the ***** of what's necessarily there:
           of a question, that's a ~question,
that's a "question", that's actually a -question-
           or how prefixation became exaggerated:
or how every single blonde-**** reader
started to behave like an english teacher
and did the herr salute toward getting excited when
punctuating their own punctuation was a
bit: overshadowed - kindly put: underused.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
i told you, the most volatile substance,
auto-combustion:
let's see:
the (ν / v'eh point) - touch on elocution,
almost δ'eh                   point -
but then the oddity: thievery -
hence coupling θ                and            φ,
well                     s                and             z (hardly an ß)
might also make a hush sh sh sound
for the eyes to spot with a şiş kebab being served
(kebaab if you're talking africān - prolonged
on dentistry's dire inspection) -
no diacritics and many eccentricities -
many accents, and a bowler hat at the
royal Ascot - peacock feathers to a flutter
ooh! firewood for the comedy scene -
the / d or v? veering point or the deepened
point? thyme - now that's a solitary τ (tau),
well, many more examples! ha!
thighs and thievery - theta cheese -
thrombosis - that - now that's definitely armed
with δ - thermometer - thick -
in-between scotch fudge - thinking -
throw - viably also famished - invariably
also alphabetically accounted for as: thrice -
and phosphorescent - pucker up now dear,
no point calling jane austen right now,
it's too late: better watch the jane austen book club,
now that's a great romance movie -
serious though, ah, there you have it,
though rather thought - another eccentricity
to curse periodic examples to rule:
vogue in that though - feta cheese in that latter -
no one dared to say: i vote, deer fur i am -
imagine that said in Chelsea or Camden -
you'd never get rid of those crack ******* junkies
following you to Waterloo shouting:
'we've found Napoleon! we've found Napoleon!
Napoleon! Napoleon!'
Marshal Gebbie Nov 2012
(With gratitude to two lovely Polynesian ladies)*

Wondrous, in the light of dawn
Two ladies came with curtains drawn,
To sponge my back and smelly ***
With warming suds, so overcome
With gratitude, was I, to feel so clean
And freshly cared for, in between
Clean sheets and laundered, buttoned gown
Amidst their chatter, cast around,
Their laughter and efficient way
To start, so well,  this budding day.

Patient Marshalg
Ascot Orthopaedics
Auckland
17 November 2012
Marshal Gebbie Nov 2012
Six thousand miles of difference
Determined by mans’ hand,
Of greed and power sought by him
Against his fellow man.
Six thousand miles of difference
Exacted by a thought,
That life should be a harmony
Or life should be as nought.


A still and utter peacefulness
Pervading in the air
Normalities great splendour here,
In order everywhere.
A dog barks in the evening light
As neighbours mow the lawn
And the distant hum of traffic
From yon motorway, forlorn.


Shattered buildings teeter
To the concrete debris strewn,
Through war torn streets of battle
Where hot shrapnel sears the noon.
Where blood pools in the broken glass
And fear is in the air,
And the shriek of rockets plummeting
Cause a heartbeat to despair.


Leafy streets of sanctity
Where people mix at will,
Chimney smoke which spirals
In atmosphere tranquil.
Couples saunter, arm in arm
Children laugh and play
The normal, here, is everywhere
Upon this peaceful day.


Decapitated corpses wash
In blood, red surge of sea,
An encounter in the wrong place
Means a sudden death for me.
The skies are filled with torment,
The people quake with fear
As they cringe and flee, directionless,
To frantically keep clear.


Six thousand miles of distance
Determines where we stand,
In battles hell and maelstrom
Or walk free in this fair land?
In Syria’s catastrophe
Where men do **** at will,
Or walk in serene safety
On this lands’ grassy hill



Six thousand miles of difference
Determined by your hand
With greed and power sought by man
Against his Makers’ plan.
Six thousand miles of difference
Exacted by a thought…
-That life shall be a harmony
Or life shall be a nought.


Marshalg
Ascot Hospital
Auckland
19 November 2012

© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
there stood the queen
in her dressing gown
upon her face she wore
a very long frown

for she had lost
her diamond and ruby crown
she hoped it would be found
before sundown

she called Scotland Yard
to search every locale
as without her crown
she'd be an unadorned gal

inspector Jones arrived
in his ex-army jeep
telling the queen
that he'd catch the thieving creep

he thoroughly combed
every inch of England
he even looked under
the white Dover sands

a lady in central Manchester
gave him an address
saying that a felon in Soho
had the crown of queen Bess

high and low in the streets
of Soho he did look
to find this most
cunning and stealthiest of crooks

by a measure of luck
he found him sitting on a park bench
he was talking to
a criminal associate named Roger Dench

the inspector seized the felon
and cuffed his hands
saying pilfering won't be tolerated
in any part of England

at Scotland he grilled
him for information
about the queen's crown
which he pinch without hesitation

some three days later
he fronted an Old Bailey judge
who sentenced him
to sixteen years of jail drudge

overjoyed was the queen
to have her crown back
she could now wear it
to The Ascot Race Track

the inspector was knighted
by good queen Bess
as he was a fine man
at the detection profess
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i gather, all philosophy is written on the anti-cross, or a sickbed... and all maxims on the deathbed - in between there's nothing but vain distractions that have no basis for a consensus of surprise - they are merely therapies of manual labours, shadow-caste by weakness to invoke a sense of belonging to this world akin to a labourer of pure action - reduced to the same pure action: as one might showcase faking one's own death.

Kant said of poets: bothersome flies -
here to steal the cupcakes of my pondering:
zwischen die volkern erzielt wird
a mondus vivendi - in vivo or in vitro?
alter: mondus quasi vivendi -
and all that talk about sabotage (canto xix)?
his own poetry - even the sarcasm, but
especially the sarcasm shines through pristine
as if Hannibal Lecter talking about Alabama:
i gawt dem tousand doughlars tough mak 'em...
        awl over the plaice -
            got to give Ezra the cheek for demonic
slapping to shove that one, up their pristine
temple of ahoy ****! still, the variation is there:
usury and simony - talk of,
       Thomas the Cartesian -
Peter Simon the Usurer - the rock that gave
way to 1000% a.e.r. of maggot - interests rates
and what they said about her:
         piece of meat for the film, *****,
second rate: ***** slapped to Disney - and aren't
women natural sadists? i guess the Cesarean section
was a move in the wrong direction:
*****, pain! *****, pain!                well...
          if i was ever to be bothered, i'd be bothered now:
they're saying you need your genitals stretched
like Armstrong winning the 8th tour de france -
but f.g.m. is bad, bad bad bad -
hey, i was the one who said: get an abortion,
i didn't love you in the same way i ****** you...
you'd think she wouldn't think she was a murderer
akin with me, until the **** ***** turned into
a yanking diaper wearing blob -
                  i love how precursor physics akin to
post-physics (metaphysics) is entombed with pepper
ante: so sneeze into the benzene ring and get
either para- or ortho- physics out -
but she was russian orthodox, which is worse
than roman catholic: no feeling of guilt -
just the relativity factor: forget female rights:
let's just **** the ****** for giving her freedom -
yeah... and i just graduated and couldn't find
a job in chemistry, was working as a roofer:
she has two apartments in St. Petersburg and a mansion
in Siberia... and she sums it up as: i have no money.
blah ha ha ha ha; and i have an aunt in Warsaw
who sends me monthly stipends to drink myself to
death while i write the alternative to Proust.
  he really gave it to them in Ohio: i really gave it
back to London, imagine being published in the town
of your birth, simply because the western notion
of a book: is actually a brick, or a rubber door-stop -
unless you're famous? forget it... seriously,
they really have destroyed poetry with the idea that
autobiographies will **** poetry off...
question is: if you lived an interesting life...
why would you write a book? why would you?
i'm sure you'd continue making life interesting,
Don Juan wrote a book, Faust was like: bartender!
next round! and what's with these ghost writers?
that's like taking the concept of narration
and inventing a fourth dimension -
            our literary tastes and ambitions... are actually
ruled by dyslexics - people who not only can't
write... but who primarily can't punctuate...
now... if this is a healthy society (that we live in)...
then i guess Iraq is an improvement after toppling
Saddam... bra-*******-vo.
                         if i were the west i'd shut up
for one generation, and stop this political fetish of
foreign policy - but, as you guessed it... it won't work...
           just today, a program: 15 years after -
truth, lies, and conspiracies - well... if Guy Fawkes
did blow up parliament, we wouldn't be having
bonfire night celebrations, we'd be having debates...
but since Guy Fawkes plot was a failure:
ola anonymous! ola whoever...
                  and that massive tower in Dubai?
it was an architectural coup - let's freshen things up,
let's keep the competitive streak coming -
who's ******* overshadows all other erections
(egoism)? point is... i don't even care,
         there's no point playing hide (deny) & seek
(doubt) with these people... there's no point!
         i'm not seeking the ultimate noun -
    or how you perpetrate grammatical cleansing:
you basically strip words of meaning,
   and drop them, face-down, into their respective
grammatical category, and the job's done:
no grander meaning, no ulterior purpose,
    no alternative suggestion;
        or rereading Nietzsche - you either recite
something by the author, or you cite the authority
behind your own investigation - the former is
sycophantic stagnation, the latter a narrative continuance:
                furthermore? continual nuance.
    that's how rhyme will remain until i find
the original intention of poetry's need for rhyme to
   be anything but what it currently is: unappealing -
it's like poets want to write something that can be
classified as poetry... which obviously leads to
  the controversy of: but it's so ****** unappealing!
  hence the revision of rhyming to and from couplets -
   i only came across an interest in philosophy aged 21...
  any sooner and i'd fall for reciting dogmas and
upholding the arguments of others...
                   but i only came across this subject through
a collision with strife: or the lost care to strive
   in order to suspect a need for social ascension into
  the heights of respectable society of: horse racing
at Ascot, champagne and caviar: and airs: oh may i,
   oh you do indeed, sir.
                            and in each and every one of us:
   the brute: the comedian.
       what Nietzsche did to emphasise with italics,
  i'm doing it with the colon - for it is said that the colon
economises emphasis without Niccolò de' Niccoli
                           (ò) - i.e. Nichole - née coal -
in French: cut short; which means? have you ever seen
a new form of literary monopoly emerge
that wasn't ecclesiastical? i have... the diacritical markings
on standard Latin letters - they're not taught:
merely accepted -                   suspension of illiteracy
             hibernating in ages of education:
on purpose dangling - the stick a metre from your
head, the carrot a Don Quixote fata morgana -
  truly: a mirage.                SKY: believe in better.
all those guys in advertisement know their philosophy -
once i met a guy who once worked in advertisement
and was shocked when i summed up Sartre as:
                                                                         voyeurism.
  but there's a new monopoly on literacy in town,
it's obviously more refined than the old way of
telling secrets -
                            it's refined in the sense that i too would
have doubted whether that's haiku in ensō or enso'h -
dried up laughter, or the desert of once heard
laughter: lo'h 'n' behold a stammer for an earthquake -
so soon? yep, that much sooner.
                           looking at it, it's all Copernican
east north south west with some encoding, or all of them:
   up there, on the international space station
you get a hard-on thinking about nautical mathematics.
   i get him though, Nietzsche the Preacher -
              although i limited my experiences in order
to never agree with his observations that precipitated from
his experiences - none of them could have come
from *a priori
musings - what with his menage trois -
   again: ménagé (à) trois - or faux pas, i.e. fau(x) pa(s) -
                   as Xerxes said: war!     (alias Łar -
     warsaw - or?   Łarsała - siała baba mak, nie wiedziała
jak - chłop powiedział: a to było tak... a sea-saw)
  while  some dwarf Polish Duck, a.k.a. politician added:
     V'AR!         -             while in this
  retreat in France - Taizé - i served out lunch and dinner
for the congregation, working with this German
  who preferred spiritual duty than army conscription
service; a memorable quote by him though:
   vey d dn't oonderstaand my good En'glish arr-cent:
   plus the Schwarzenegger for comparative literature.
Marshal Gebbie Sep 2014
Greetings David,

I am employed by Fletchers Construction to be the Plant Coordinator at the Wellconnected Waterview Twin tunnel project underway beneath Sandringham in Auckland.
My wife is a hardworking Senior Nurse @ Ascot hospital in Greenlane.

For sanity, about six years ago, my wife and I bought a lifestyle block butting on to Egmont National Park @ 1250’ elevation. We built a beautiful alpine lodge, cut tracks down the heavily wooded escarpments, built bridges across two streams, reticulated roof water between tanks to a boulder built fishpond then to a shallow, stone rimmed lake which empties down an escarpment to the stream.
We have planted hundreds of trees and shrubs on this property, rhododendrons of beautiful form and colour, magnolias, a forest of silver birch, oaks, tulip trees and acers.
The property is a wonder of swooping hills and dips which, from it’s elevation, looks out over the grey Tasman sea toward Tasmania. Egmont looms in it’s white, pristine splendour over our left shoulder and the close, dark Puhakai range rears abruptly, spectacularly, betwixt the volcano and us.

Growth here is slow because of the climate, the 300 inches of annual rainfall, the short summers and the depleted volcanic ash soil.
I am 70 years old, my darling wife considerably younger….we both want to see our plantings grow to significance within our lifetime…
Thus my request for access to your wonderful fish fertilizer.

Respectfully
M.
ryn Feb 2018
Dressed in titillating shades
and the allure of today...
Bent back...
Dragging
the tattered tassels
of yesterday’s folly.

Sporting a mask
adorned with
the most lavish
of paints albeit a husk
that once sang proud,
the colours
of his anthem.

His smile incites
the reciprocation
from those around...
Yet it’s all but
plastic.

An ascot of the finest silk.
Soft and extravagant yet...
Tied too close to skin -
a noose around the neck
that wears him instead.

He is a ghost.
A hapless man
dressed in the present,
looks to the future
but wades through
the murks
of the past.


Have you seen him lately?

.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
and you know what was, or rather,
what is the most "fun" aspect
of being being mis-diagnosed
as a schizophrenic...
   oh... 12 years ago?
  no one could have told me
i'd be riding a ******* carousel
of the remnants of my ego
into this sort of... "reality check"
prognosis...
   i always sat there in the psychiatric
office,
replying to what books
i was reading...
    making as much of
my ****** courtesy,
thinking... not much...
       inter-sectional feminism?
intra-sectional feminism?
ooh... someone has a fetish
       for Latin prefixes, don' 'eye?
when chemistry became a hard
science but also a quasi-science
of: well... we've done our bit
for the worth of shampoo...
*** yer *** on the benzene ring
unravelling...
   meta! y' sir!
  para! y' sir!
           ortho! y' sir!
  find us... trans!
   y'... you what?!
                                    find us trans!
imagine my astute astoundment,
say... 6 years ago...
being asked: what is reality?
the ontology of ever is,
that is, and every is, that isn't,
and every is that is in-itself?
do i ******* look like god?
well... here are your answers...
   trans-gender "women"
moved in all-female prisons?
arm the female prisoners
with strap-on ******...
         what?!
               it almost seemed like
a waste of time, back then...
   but, now, i guess...
everyone is as... "confused" as i was
back "then"...
to no apparent then
with what is worth a... now...
yeah... i always need a reality check...
like... reality is anything
worth checking, rather than checking-out
off...
         and i understand the gimmick
pundits...
      problem with me:
i have an unnatural will to live,
and a knack at playing
the patient, & happy,
& non-talkative happy camper
of... a... chief bromden...
whatever the hell i said so many
years ago...
  well... **** on me...
what does it matter, now?
- but clearly i never assembled
the grand puzzle of, "reality"
to what has been perfected
to a dysfunction...
seemingly: to begin with...
  most of them?
gen-X single mother households...
me? classical learning:
my mother is my worst enemy...
classical Oedipus-complex...
which means:
   i do not possess the audacity
to... trans...
             sure, i tickled
my fancies with cross-dressing...
had the ***** to walk into
a Butlins ****-fest of a night
out...
   lost my wallet...
but now?!
      chemistry, thank god,
is still a rigid toy of words...
  like... what's north, south,
east or west in Copernican terms?
answer... flat earth...
oh yeah... because that round earth
GPS really helped those
*** tourists in Australia...
drive their ******* car into a lake...
but chemistry is a cul de sac...
unless...
  you translate all that theory
******* back into a fetish for words...
esp. Latin prefix jargon...
physics? covered...
by science fiction...
and the atom bomb... no problem...
spoc' 'as 'is 'ne covered...
no worries...
   ah... but biology?
      there's a realism behind it?
sure... psychiatric realism...
       at times you start to wonder:
why does a psychiatrist
even get a chance to speak...
before a philosopher might employ
the cuddle and a pillow of sedatives?
yeah... so much of cultural darwinism...
has made... reality...
                 in-and-of-itself...
either...
             stealth synthetic beef stakes
and...
    ****** trannies...
   in prisons...
where female prisoners
are not armed with strap-on
******...
           no... no reality here...
n'ah 'um...
                   nada...
         zilch, squid... nuffin'...
no... ****** taqiyya...
                   we all wish to be homophobes...
only...
       going to a gay bar the previous
night... ended up snogging
a south american...
next day?
            went to a birthday party...
the south american
made an inquiry with my gay
cousin...
so i was at the party,
he was at the party...
       i came to the party...
was investigated by the feminist
police about being homophobic...
spotted the south american...
had an intolerable pain in my gut...
apologized to my cousin
hosting the party...
and...                            left...
the gay i could take...
  i was just getting my hots for him
had i enough drinks in me...
but a ******* homophobia
investigation, by a woman...
no...
i rather eat rar herring on beach
in... ******* Southend...
sitting on the pebbles...
wanting to count the number
of grooves of hemorrhoid about
to blush: blue....
yeah... reality...
everyone has a sedative
for that...
it's only that some of us...
do not think... being over-excited
by its speculative nature
of a theoretical physicist
            is all that important!
- so, what do i see?
directionless, and a-chemical...
just by looking at the attachment
groups to a benzene ring...
        but you know...
chemistry is a stable science...
      it couldn't be attacked,
it could only be exploited,
verbally, borrowing from Latin...
  physics is still instact,
although: science fiction,
unless you drop the Oppenheimer
quote...
                 or... talk via
a mobile phone...
                 but?
      not even the fault of Marxism...
although: i should wish that to be,
no?
          cultural darwinism...
     looking too long up
the **** of a monkey...
             and so...
                  in the meantime:
i did enjoy some of ted berrigan
poems...
                 unless of course
i have succumbed to a filter,
where i'm strapped to a pit
of rats that are about to gnaw at me,
and i will never hear
the sort of conversations
backstage at the BAFTAS
         or prior to the Ascot races...
at whatever tier i'm at...
having just picked up...
  a lászló krasznahorkai
   (like the name of the psychiatrist,
dr. szasz... yes: that implies no
SaS or ZaZ... but SHaSH...
  well... unless he wasn't
Magyar to begin with...
     but a geerman! ßaß)....
satantango...
          edition?
        the first english edition,
tuskar rock book
2012...
  oh hell, the book is older than as me...
first appeared in 1985...
but yeah... started reading it...
       to peer into what...
an anti-paragraph novel looks like...
and i thought that people only read
poetry for a light-heartedness...
turns out...
there is a hyper-statement of
prose-claustrophobia...
namely? the anti-paragraph...
then i read something from
the blog of alex preston...
writing in 2014 to his younger self
in 2009 having just secured
a faber & faber publishing deal...

              and all i could think of was...
the merovingian...
who? lambert wilson...
in the film... 5 to 7...
  about an aspiring writer...
                  hey baby hey...
hey second from now here on in:
boo!

                     alex preston
doing the analysis, back in 2014...
http://alexhmpreston.com/a-letter-to-a-young-writer/...
average: x25,000
          accurate figure x11,000...
one baby in hand,
another baby in tow...

the very sensible man...
            and why would anyone
crouch over a screen,
   find enough propensity
to earn a living from... being-bait
of one's on clicking rhythm?

sure... all poetry is but the horror
of an extension of one's
"inability" to shed off adolescence...
either the *******
claustrophobia of prose,
or the anti-paragraph
myopia of some Magyar...

           let's just call this
the medium of the infantile minds...
and call... the serious writer's
medium,
the medium of the book critic,
who finally exclaims:
and of the 20 books on my reading
list for the newspaper...
for the weekend magazine
review section... ?
i probably finished... 1.

pendulum... pendulum!
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2019
ich würde, vielmehr: schreiben
etwas deutsche:
graswurzel, das ja!
the ******* need more you
ponce of a mongrel saxon!
better deutscheland grammar?
we had our "solistice"
time-out... welcome tomorrow...
no point leaving
a workaholic out for no
apparent reason: best bet?
"look busy"... ******* furlong's
worth of "short"...

jump that! y'ah ******* dwarf
bridge-gap brigade!
der hobbitenvolk ar kommen!
der hobbitenvolk ar kommen!
nicht die kirschemäntel... aber!
noch die "unerwartet":
zeppelinpumpernickelhoppla!
- why am i bound to the scotch
nationalists? oh... i lived among them
for over three years...
the celtic remants...
perhaps edinburgh would be
the new dublin...

christmas... it's such a german "ting"
like... that irish celtic tad woz
zee timez... C'U... C'U... no...
no L8ER...

but i managed! everything i served on
the plate and placed on a table...
the oven-cooked tatties...
the parsley snippets...
the carrots... the garlic...
the peppers... the red onions...

what the **** am i celebrating,
now? i'm pretty sure, that,
whatever it was... will fizzle out
come post-christmas hangover of a tomorrow...

and a buckling-load-of-****-of-europe...
the same islander "english" mentality...
euro-trash continent...
this... belly-button of the world
english mentality...
you wouldn't suspect it among
the welsh, the irish, the scotch...

perhaps the united kingdom can become...
the next yugoslavia under charles the III...
does he keep his name?
does he? London is long gone...
just as Danzig was long gone...
when Venice wrote the blueprints...
an ancient folklore of a city state...

******* just interrupted something...
no... it wasn't the Royal Ascot...
the horses, ran, ran and buckled...
broke some legs and not being able
to fall asleep standing: were put down...
the greengrocers of betting had their harvest...

we'll still have the top hats,
the champagne "socialism"... the CLASS...
oh you have to remember the CLASS / CASTE
pseudo-hindu "oops"...
england will still be...
what scotland and wales could be...
the less timid bits and pieces of...
what could probably hang in the air
as the new yugoslavia...

"problem" being... it's an island...
it's unlike iceland...
and it's quiet unlike new zealand or...
or... japan...
it's... when...
alt vati pommerschen...
flüsterte in der kinderwagen
auf sachsen, und sagte...

the ******* think you're going?
******* yew-tree quasi-nomad
of germania? you're an imitation
hebrew... or you're...
you're not a: bayerischverwandtschaft?

as yes, christmas only makes sense
now... drinking from the amber spring
of the baltic...
some scotch runes in: mash-up...
easy, easy...

i can use this, acquired, language...
but i know the ******* will have their Ascot...
die sächsischweg...
ants-in-their-pants...
and now "they" think they're settled...
post-colonial imperialism bound
to a nationalist revival...
so much for having no nostalgia...
akin to...

the battle of Tannenberg 1410 -
the date 680 by St. Wilfrid...
such a date... a northern crusade against
the last pagans of europe:
the lithuanians... **** me, i don't need
to paint... the lithuanians and the other
baltic folk... whatever the hell became of
the prussians: who weren't exactly treated
as germans by the teutonic collective...

oh i'll sing the carol songs...
i'll sing the crusader songs... hey! pronto!
i'll sing that... baby jesus doesn't really do it for me...
i'll go and visit Catalonia where
the name Jesus is diffused...
ends up a hey-zeus construct...
a H'ezeus etc.... and the party is over...

but i could celebrate christmas...
if it was in german...
i don't know why... perhaps it's riddling
a masochism remains with teasing
the whole: "wunderbar"?

better still... when europe is cited...
there's that black-hole europe...
there's that... cindarella of europe...
that "missing link"...
between what the balkans served up
in the 1990s... the collapse of the soviety union...
how the 2008 economic crash didn't really
affect this region...
von unter die eisenvorhang...

island people: shire folk...
hobbits... you know the sort...
very idiosyncratic...
one minute a russophobe...
next minute... exotica of the siberian ooh!
aah! i have lived on these isles for...
it's not worth stating:
a better part of my life...
but i have lived... among...
the scots, the irish...
i teased the welsh...
and in London? the tower of babel came...
come to think of it...
the english have sort of reacted like
vermin... you rarely see them...
perhaps in oxford...
of ****... pakistani **** gang there too...

my bet is... elizabeth is "dying":
no she's not... seen that ***** on roller-skates?
seen her pre-house-of-windsor
Saxe-Coburg and Gotha teeth,
chin... and... what the hell and other have
they almost made... insufferable
in it being: signatured? the teeth,
the chin... the eyes!

saxons... jews of the germans...
nomads of the north...
it's not like they ever moved with
a hope for adventure...
when a saxon moves...
he moves with a sense of investment...
he brings his reproductive tools with him...
no wonder there was a feud between
the germans and the "germans": the saxons...
this is... what could not possibly be...
the basic interpretation of england...
past the "chernobyl" of the norman invasion...
how celtic became saxon became
french... became... a ******* cocktail
cosmopolitan...
but the welsh still retained their:
Cymru...
there you go...
white cross on a black canvas...
pirates!
Wales and Cornwall...
dip into a ditto-esque whatever...

the remains of the saxons when the global
cocktail decided to send a postcard from
'ere minding the cockney shlang as:
the proper way to speak... Estonian...
eh?!

bewildered germans speaking...
i don't even know what i am speaking:
it's not much of an achievement if you're
speaking english...
you're bound to suffer from a variant of
flu or fluke or slang...
it's not exactly regarded as:
high esteem latin... or hebrew...

pauper Poland: "where i'm from"...
thank god it's omitted...
never in discussions...
by western "proletariats"...
cheap beer in Prague while... Warsaw?
sowwy... not enough bi-lingual
tour-guides and trout ******* mothers
from the caravan of Zappa...

and we will beg to differ...
i don't come from a people who would
celebrate being conquered by ancient rome
had to matter...
yet somehow i write in Latin encoding...
imagine if... Latin encoding was lost
akin to cuneiform...
but it wasn't...
i did, i truly did...
miss the glagolitic transition via
greek into cyrilic...

invader kin: these slavs these indo-europeans...
it ***** up the narrative of the origin seekers...
these modern, "protestant":
afro-europeans of the YEST...
i say: part of the gesticulation of jesting...

among the saxons who disavow their germanic
heritage... thinking they could somehow
replicate the polish-lithuanian commonwealth...
last time i heard...
just because the scotch speak english...
but keep their: wee part of the equation...
the welsh still speak their welsh...
pen dal i fyny uchel draig...

what's the difference betwen...
the medieval Lithuanian...
and the modern Welsh?
what doesn't allow this "union" to sink
into a second Yugoslavia?
h'american influences?
the... "commonwealth"?
at what point sharing a tongue is a plus...
when anyone can start reciting a Bruce Lee
film: kung fu action packed:
chop sui?

augusta III sasa and
marii józefy habsburżanki...
the house of ßaß...
saxons... again: the hebrew of the germanic people...
the nomads of the confederation...
they always... need... to... move!
and if you find them not moving...
they settle for pyramids...
and i mean: pyramids without Giza
reliefs of archeological "findings"...

but there's a massive gap...
between europe... that "bit" in the middle...
and russia...
russophobia is quiet funny...
i'd still prefer to speak german when
celebrating christmas...
after all... i did make a fickenumbringen
when it came to that alcoholic cake...
nein nein...
nicht ein königskuchen noch ein
stollen! keks... kegs...
a rumtopf!

oh i don't mind the natives...
who are the natives?
where the **** is alice?
parasites leeches... sächsischumgangssprache:
wo / wann sesshaft...
are the natives the welsh with their
retainer tongue kept intact like...
the scotch? the ire hell and fire 'reesh!
who does it take...
to speak to the natives of these isles?

just wondering...
because the saxons that remained...
and the saxons that left...
have a ******* in las vegas...
glory be to man to be the man
on the moon...
and all that...

i spent this christmas and...
i didn't buy anyone anything...
i just undermined myself...
when in england...
feel at home, during christmas...
talk some german,
some german outside of a saxon
influence of being the jew-german...
moving from place to place...
****: ja ja... ich "versammeln"...
nomadin / se-my'tine... deutsche "mischling"...

please excuse the saxons...
they are a... frivolous bunch of...
hobbit seeking elven folk...
the chinese crusade and medicinal ivory powder...
apparently: those ****-*****-base-*******-stinkers
will grow! they have size 11 feet and are...
5ft6 tall... walking on chicken nuggets then...
or stilts... or... that chinese harem of:
tied feet and toe "heels"...

oh i'm very much in england...
i can just soak myself in wild...
belligerent humour...
i've dropped any sense of irony...
it's ridicule on steroids...
but as long as there's an element of being
self-deprecating?

poland is the cindarella of europe:
hungary is worthwhile the better return of
being an: examplar reminder...
of how to deviate from socio-political norms...

black hole piece of europe...
then again: in between russia and the west...
there's some variation of an "interlude"...
which is neither west, nor east, nor central...

ensure you keep a **** in the orchestra...
so foul that it would make
a cat jump running...
giggling... turning on nazareth's
hair of a dog... being reminded:
there's a cow bell in it being towed...
and what choir spectacular didn't ever use
a castrato?

- because if i wanted to retain...
rhyme and a formality of this tongue...
how would i ever feel comfortable...
nothing of the spectacular...
the everyday myopia magic:
how umbrellas became mushrooms
in the fog grey forest of the urban
amnesia...
because i too tend to forget a Mozart...
when i find myself...
falling asleep to the sound of falling
rain on a tin roof...
violin begone! cello begone!
give me rain on a tin roof!

i'll be your Muhammad counting
the number of bones in a body...
truly and vividly so...
i can forget Mozart...
when i fall asleep...
while it's raining and...
the monotone gives me bliss...
the same note: on repeat...
on repeat.. on repeat...
nonetheless: it's still to be regarded
as a polyphony!
Sam Temple Apr 2014
free-fall speed fails to capture
conscious creation as a universal tool
neon tracers flash into oblivion
time archetype shifting as humanity’s truth
blurs lines of reason
and Neil Donald sits idle –

Go-re-ra grows in poison oceans  
and constitutional rights are being applied to sheep
in suits
rooted fruitcakes
stuck in last year’s Autumn ascot
and a 1927 spending frenzy –

three times before we killed 30,000 brown people
and for what
glory of a flag
misinterpretation of destiny
and god on the side of white industrialists –

sun wrinkles start to distinguish my eyes
from youthful indifference
to a Clint Eastwood style stare
looking for the one that needs killin’
in order to save this here town –

no entity exists as I read the pages of corporate personhood law
erosion trails cut deep into my cheeks
a landscape destroyed by reality and acceptance
there is still time to buy a small piece of land
and do my Tim Leary impression –
Anais Vionet Jun 30
In a phalanx of four: Peter, Lisa, Dave, and I, descended a waterfall of marble stairs - pilgrims to another time - as if we’d punched through a wormhole.

It’s a five-star bash at the palace of Versailles - a grand ball - and the air itself seemed to vibrate with a feverish energy. As we bottomed the stairs, something whisked by in the air - was it the ghost of beheaded Louis the 16th?

Naah, it was a multicolored, donkey-headed, Cirque du Soleil creature. They swung everywhere, like gravity defying bugs on silken tethers, ring-swings and thin, web ropes. They flew, tumbled, unicycled, breathed fire and were shot out of cannons like fodder - all against a prismatic sunset backdrop.

A surprisingly chill Parisian wind clawed at our costumes of silk and broadcloth finery. The sun, a bright pink and yellow crack, low on the horizon, cast long, dramatic shadows on the flourish of chaos, as people arrived.

As night asserted itself, light became a living entity, blooming and dissolving in a mesmerizing multicolor-laser ballet that bathed the milling, costumed throng in fluorescent kaleidoscopes of kool-aid colors.

The day before, we had final costume fittings, earlier on the day, we had our hair and makeup done by artists who specialized in 17th/18th century styles (like we’d have known the difference).

From the salon, we were valeted, from Paris, directly to a ‘theme studio,’ setup in the Grand Trianon (the small, side palace where Napoleon lived in the summer) where, for €250 each, we got 10 glam shots on an elaborate, fantasy set.

Then we were escorted to the ‘Extravagant’ (a VIP area next to the stage) - passing through the envious glares of queued, lesser mortals.
‘Ahh, Privilege’, I thought, smiling brightly and waving royally - ‘just like Marie Antoinette used to do it.’ (before being angrily beheaded).

In the heart of the masquerade, tables fairly groaned under a buffet to shame the Roman emperors. There were open bars where rivers of martinis, champagnes and chocolates, the very essences of the celebration, flowed freely.

Elaborately constructed, elevated stages of polished aluminum pulsed music and life. LED light-panels painted fleeting hieroglyphs on the crowd, teasing the edges of perception and bands performed their own sonic wave-magic, swamping the crowd along in currents of booming, euphoric, Frenchcore club-music.

Dance, dance, dance, rest. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a more delightfully fragrant crush of humanity.
Our gilded, white clothed table was an island where we could retreat for cooling refreshment. I have two important words for you 'watermelon martinis’ - you’ll thank me later.

Versailles decadent past was alive that night. It was a young crowd, in general, so, of course, G was there, with Molly, K and Ice - but we were, like, ‘no thank you very much’. In several areas, costumes became fairytale slithers, as partiers became increasingly uninhibited.

After about four hours we caught the ‘exclusive’ light show (Hollywood bathed in unclothed decadence) before moving, weary limbed as zombies, toward the whispered promise of breakfast.

About 45 limousine-minutes later, waiting tourists and a crowd of locals outside a posh Paris restaurant hushed as we passed, colorfully costumed, like ghosts of an indulgent, hedonistic past - to our reserved table.
“Quatre, café et croque monsieur, s'il te plaît,” I told the waiter (four coffees & breakfast sandwiches, please).

I’ll admit to being a bit jaded. I’ve been to more than several ‘Parisian Haute-Couture Extravaganzas” but Lisa seemed genuinely impressed and I think the boys (Peter and David) had fun too. I was lavished with kudos as if I’d thrown the thing.

The atmosphere had been pure romance - in an upscale, Disney, mass produced sense and while it was, perhaps - like last summer's trip to the Ascot races - something not to be missed, it was also a one-time fling - something to look back on - when we’re 40 or whatever.
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge: Kudos praise given for an achievement

slang
G was there, with Molly, K and Ice = the club drugs Ecstasy, MDMA, Ketamine and ****.
There in the road lay a free-minded crustacean.
Turned out to be no more than a wayward piece of insulation.

.
.
.

“Please allow me to introduce myself; I’m a man of wealth and taste”
Turned out to be no more than a man cleaning up basic waste

.
.
.

Good morning fool…
I said to myself.
Reaching for the uniform on the bottom shelf.
Spent a few minutes putting it on,
Insuring the curtains weren’t fully drawn.
Stood a minute posing before the glass…
A man bellow presented himself as a colossal ***
So I dropped a loogie just over the edge
Poor aim left it hanging from my window’s ledge
                              
                            ­  .
                              .
                             ­ .

The streets were swarmed with the innocently vain,
Looking for regal alleyways to make a social gain.
Marching through the “Slickers” campus,
Watching the bobbing of books holding tidbits on the hippocampus.
.
A new year comes.
The freshman student runs.
Princeton ushers in a new breed;
Teaching that blue is the only blood to bleed.

                                                         ­   .
                                                            ­.
                                                            .

­As I stumble towards the school,
Can’t help but feel I’ve been made to feel the fool.
Snickers jab at my waning pride.
Preppy children always seem so snide.
Overhear a remark mocking my attire,
Said by an ascot wearing boy filled with mire.
Left the path for ivy coated building.
An hour later, the day’s dwindling.

                                                     ­                                 .
                              ­                                                        .
       ­                                                                 ­              .


A teacher stands at the front of a classroom.
A man at the back sweeps with his broom.
The professor,
Proceeds with his lecture.
Spreading misconceptions on malformed events.
The man at the back cleans the covers on the vents.
There, a question is put toward the crowd.
The janitor in the back answers aloud.

                              .
                         ­     .
                              .

I shouldn’t have opened my ******* mouth!
Who cares if bigotry’s still relevant in the south?
People glare in mocking jest.
Blankness sits on the faces of the rest.
I’m only here to pick up the trash,
A job I use to make some extra cash.
They all have money for a proper education.
There’s no time for me, and my financial situation.

.
.
;
April Seventh, 1928

Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting.
Luster searched the rough, amongst the grass, doing his own bidding.
"Here Caddie," a man shouted before he hit.
Images came back and I entered a fit.
Weeping and wailing I stood, a 33 year old male.
Soon to be reminded of being hooked on a nail.

My sister Caddy treated me well, though mother won't agree.
She thinks I'm pampered by the girl sneaking down a nearby tree.
Caddy ruined the family name.
Or so mother says, but I don't think she's to blame.
The girl lost her scent.
The Compson name is on the descent.
Caddy held me. She smelled like trees.
And not the kind that make one sneeze.

Maury was supposed to be my title.
My uncle's indiscretions made its worth idle.
So i was given something new to be called.
As Uncle Maury's and Mrs. Patterson's relationship stalled.

Miss Quentin picked up after her mother.
Looking absentmindedly for a wayward lover.
She sat next to a man with a red ascot on a swing after supper.
Luster wandered up and picked up something rubber.

...

I have no sense of how things occur.
My illness makes things easy to obscure.
The ticking of a broken watch beats on.
I, for ignoring such nonsense, have been deemed wrong.
Colliding events of different times.
Blurring together dateless lines.
Lewis Bosworth Oct 2016
down the up subway
#a small female wearing a fedora
a little boy dressed proudly
#in an ASPCA sign
an NYU journalism major
#who promises Halloween candy
if I answer 8 true-false questions
a man in an ascot leads a purebred
#red-haired dog on a leash,
fresh from his limousine
a noontime walk under a blue
#cloudless sky
the annual harvest in the square
#and a prêt-à-manger lunch
with a ginger beer and brownie
burqas are commonplace,
#cell phones are not
cabs whizz by on a narrow roadway,
#some are empty
the architecture is protective,
#it exists to mask
a man looks down from his loft
#and smiles

© Lewis Bosworth, 10/2016
Alex McQuate Jan 2018
Ellekari Larsson is haunting my radio tonight,

My lungs burn once again,
As the smoke enters and leaves my body,
Floating lazilly upward to form a blanket of roiling grey.

I looked at my bookshelf today,
And realized with a start,
That I had a shelf of momentos,
Of those who were long gone.

A folded flag,
A well worn tie,
A photo of a man and boy both laughing,
A teddy bear and a cross made out of a straw,
All snapshots to help me remember.

Times that were better,
Even some that were worst,
But important all the same,
For aren't the most important lessons those that hurt, even if just a little?

A charcoal rubbing of an inscription,
A Tom Clancy novel with a dog-eared page about halfway through,
It hurts to look at these momentos sometimes,
But it feels like a betrayal to look away.

The piano and cello amble slowly along,
Like pall bearers shouldering a weight upon their shoulders,
Both physical and emotional.

A copper disc embossed with hands held together in prayer,
An antique Mr.Goodbar tin,
Containing an ascot and a box of matches.

The song slowly comes to an end and I can finally look away,
Take a drag from the cigarette,
Nearly burnt down to the filter,
As I get lost in my thoughts again.
Closer-The Tiny
Anais Vionet Jun 2022
The other day Lisa, Anna and I overheard a nonversation that took me back in time to high school. We were at Ascot for day three (ladies' day), to see the fashion, the silly hats, the horse races (called stakes & cups) and maybe even gawk at some famous people.

Anna, Lisa and I were sitting at our table in the Windsor Enclosure - a flat area right by the racetrack. The other five girls in our clique (Leong, Sunny, Kim, Bili, and Sophy) had stepped away to be ready for the royals arrival at 2pm sharp.  

Everyone was well dressed, men in waistcoat and tie, and we women in formal daywear. The table closest to us was populated with another squad of college age teens. We tend to be garrulous but that other mixed coterie (16 guys and girls) weren’t friendly at all. They were insular and sharp eyed - they projected an air of smirking pride - a bunch of edinas.

Suddenly this one girl at the next table just comes-at another girl verbally. There seemed nothing the target girl could do except hold her head up, put on her best debate-smile and weather it out.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been exposed to it, but the exclusionary voice of the rich, consists of acrid, inactively-terse asides delivered with casual, drive-by cruelty. The most insufferable rich think (know) that they’re better than you - like you know you’re better than a cabbage or a dog and they are merciless, their hearts are made of hard, black-card plastic.

When used on pretenders, interlopers or social mountain climbers - the cold and mesmerizing bluntness can have a deep psychological effect. The response is usually passive intimidation but it can also induce violence.

This attitude (I think of it as “the voice”), is learned by example, and mastered early. I heard an eight year old girl turn it on a sales clerk once. Her mom apologized and reined in the little princess - but where do you think she learned it from?  

Anna looked at me, her eyebrows drawn down in alarm, Lisa said “Wowzer.” I just shook my head and shrugged - it wasn’t our business, we certainly didn’t know those knobs or what kicked it off - but we noted who the mean girl was - Anna even took her pic. They were Cree-P.

Our little group was soon reunited. We briefly gossiped about our rude, socially-obsessed neighbors but the incident was soon forgotten. Our champagne and strawberries arrived moments before Princess Anne and her daughter, Zara Tindall, rode by (20 feet away) in the Lead Carriage.

Now THERE are some REAL, world-class snobs. I hate that whole-*** upper-class attitude. That’s one reason to choose Yale over Harvard - fewer snobs.
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Garrulous: excessively talkative and friendly

Slang:
Nonversation = a worthless conversation
edina = Every Day I Need Attention / rich snobs
Cree-P = creepy

Song: Count your blessings by Nas & Damian “Jr. Gong” Marley
Zach Dec 2019
Beneath the sun in shining Veneto,
Wondering freely alongside warm radiant houses,
Clinging vines embrace the structures,
Pastel streets developing,
Town life unfolds slowly,
Strolling as you wonder,
How did you ever forget this?

There's love in shining Veneto,
Love around every corner,
Love propped up by every barstool,
Love flies by on every cycle,
Enough love to make you a fool.
Love in every face that passes,
Love on the street,
A chance for bliss,
In those you meet.

I'll learn the language you'll soon see,
Then you'll finally be with me.
Away from what I know,
We'll take our time,
To watch our vineyard grow.
A new love will mature so pure and true,
My answer to life was always you.

Take my hand,
Lead me to where things don't hurt any more,
A small touch of kindness travels a long way,
Bypassing cynicism and misery,
A new love anchored and here to stay.

As our feelings build,
The vineyard grows in sync,
Soon to be sipping on lovers wine,
Together as one,
You saved me.
I felt what could be,
Now it's all that I see,
Please let me stay here forever.

It's easy to be happy here,
All we need is each other.
A warm soft embrace,
Closer than ever,
Rushed with radiant bliss and flooded with emotion,
Please don't let go,
Even though I know we can't stay here forever.

Darkness arrives,
All that can touch us is the moonlight,
Shining down on a new love that pulses in sync,
The Italian who saved me from the brink.
Now together as one,
Sleep tight,
We'll stay here as long as we can.

Only welcome these feelings,
When this time you know it's for real,
Numbing solace,
Cured with an injection of warmth,
Only found in such an embrace,
A closeness that leads to a special place,
Where life flows differently,
The present path you tread sways gently,
Leading to a softer future,
Where reality aligns with dreams,
Becoming how it was always meant to be.

We fell in love,
Under the sun in shining Veneto,
Soon to be left cold,
Empty and searching.

Zach Ascot
A poem I wrote expressing my dream of Italian bliss.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
can you conceive of an in-built: a priori "gender" gratification "ontologies": i.e. the male ontology, the pre-deconstructive focus of a willing change? well... what's the canvas like these days in academia? i still hold a door open for a woman, among, the, "plebs"... i'm a pleb too... woo hoo! so now i have to conceive of the gentle trickle of an ex-built: a posteriori "gender" counter-justification "ontologies": i.e. the... she-man ontology, the post-/ pro-deconstructive focus of unwilling change to the reminiscent continuum of circumstances... oh... you know me, academics just love, love verbiage... this is just one exempli gratia... it does mean something per se... but, hush... on the privy? it can mean, whatever you want it to mean... once upon a time: a man used to find gratification in gender "stereotypes"... there really was a gratification process subconsciously working its way into moulding a man... now? eh... the sort of tom waits' elongated eh from glitter & dust live: live circus... that one... this is a great kandinsky-esque verbiage collage... academics will probably focus on the isolated meanings of words, mumbo-jumbo them back together in a pale replica of voodoo brainstorming and: ici, voilà, alors... à savoir, voilà, c'est-à-dire... which makes heidegger's pedantic schemes... well... da-sein counter... there is such an indefinite article... reducing words to conjunctions borrowed from AND... then applying the article category... da-sein: there-being... there's being... that's really an indefinite article of... sein: being, very ******* ambigious... i have to curse... i'm writing an oath... if "offended" you probably say worse things in satan's synagogue of ****** *******... where you should be speaking vowels and syllables and onomatopoeias rather than full sentences... no one is a saint... here! i'm giving you something on a platter... i'm not using hiedegger's temporal mentality of: across the seven seas, the seven mountains the seven rivers motto for hope... here we are... here, now: hier, jetzt... you figure it out... so am i! oh sure, now we know there's (an) existence to be had, lived, experienced, closed... it's almost a cosmic joke that finds its genesis in: voilà! while the exodus is much more painful... since we're not exactly looking at a magician, or a gymnast... we're looking at... a science school-teacher... we're looking at... a clerk, a street-cleaner, a bus driver... oh sure, sure... voilà! the insurgent immediacy of the awe-insirping rush... then again... perhaps Heidegger implies... the sort of validation of voilà! via da-sein of... the sercret affair of: mundane job, but a kick-*** hobby? hier has no potential beside the collective awe-numbing: oops"?", while da-? there? well there is a vector, a linear framework of ABC (0, 0, 0) confined to an end of: (1, 1, 1)... da-sein is a look into a future, it's not the hier- voilà! -sein fatalist approach of inspection... it's a look into the future... i'll always read philosophy in polish, look at german words, and reply in english... that's how my bilingualism works... two firm pillars... and several loose cannons... i hear one academic speak, i tune into bbc radio 4... i swap my tongue for 9 itchy fingers... mostly index, middle, ring of either arm... sometimes the pinky, sometimes the thumb... ballet of the fingers... and always regarding imitation amphetamines... how can you keep a tornado in your head, without your ego spewing out shrapnel... cohesive sentence structures, narratives? that's long gone... it comes, it goes: just as the whiskey flows... for all its worth: i can vow a true statement with reiteration... once upon a time there did exist a stereotypical a gender-defining ontological-gratification, and exclusivity stratum - of the only two tiers in existence... most men probably miss this gender-defining gratification of... pseudo-malaise... it felt comfortable performing banal res-extensa-theatre tidbits... the simplest of things (acts, etc.) always brought out the most selfless joys... the grand replacement of the Muses and the Furies... ex-pec-ta-tions... morose social norms... and we as men complied... now? how about a song... matta... chaos reigns... how's that? if i was in this game: which i am not a part of... who wouldn't be tired?! to have courted the general splendour of the ramped-up polar opposite ballett via mediocre instances of ****** differences... now? this... fiend... this figment of everyone's seemingly sleeping faculty of imagination... of recurring dreams... of nights without dreams... i am a foreigner and having made the utmost utility of this language... i cannot speak for it, with the sort of biological stigmata of an english caste system...  very much apparent come the Royal Ascot... as i also not a foster parent, or some ultimate-******* example of a surrogate mother... oh believe me... i bring redemption for prostitutes... i've paid a tenner extra for 110quid an hour to show you the hydra in my gob... redemption is all prostitutes deserve... there's a tier above them... surrogate mothers... a bit different, ******* a harem of a single ******... quiet another to be a surrogate mother for two homosexuals... that's another level! prostituting your ****** for an hour? em... prostituting your womb for nine months?! there is no "relatively" speaking here, it's not a rhetorical question... this comes when the women disgrace prostitutes, calling all pundits: slavers... girl likes to ****, and she ***** in the most face-to-face fashion... but i'm pretty sure, that same girl, doesn't rent out her womb for nine months so Jim & Joe can have a ****-up of a toddler's worth of a leather napkin... to wipe off the otherwise apparent ***** from them gobbing down a perfect baked alaskan lolly! but you'd have to visit Amsterdam for that sort of perspective... away from England and that perverse Carry On! *** humour that states: we're all nuns! under the omnipresent scrutiny... and then... 1960s shameless ****... that's what i learned about the English... two-faced nymphomaniacs... or whatever decree... why didn't Henry VIII decide on a harem... or polygamy? i don't like the way the English concern themselves with ***... using terms like: joke, naughty... all things crass... infantile... i hate it... it actually creates a brimming spectacle of boiling water in my head and heart... pretending to be this puritanical could only take a hypocrite to craft a performance act... seems the english have only one form of escapism... ***... which would explain why they need to dress it with as much innocence as possible... which in turn translates into unfathomable depravity... perhaps not in the en masse sense... but at least a few thousand seances... akin to those *** acts... that would require a ******, a dajjal... to be looking... for the man to get an *******... or the woman to be aroused... the third party principle... otherwise? within the confines of the "so-called" privacy? dry cookie crumble - meet limp ****.

.bitter.. or simply... determined?

that's why i like prostitutes,
            it leaves me with
a blank canvas' worth of a narrative...
no cuddly bits-and-bomps...
   just straight talk:
- i get regular STD checks...
- good to know, really good to know.

unlike that age-old scenario
that my father warned me about:
- a girlfriend of mine
tried to trojan horse
   a baby into my lap,
and it was never my own...

   funny that...
i had that happen to me once...
mind you,
i do come from a horrid background...
both the mother of my father
and the father of my father
shoved him into the arms
of their parents...

                 salty... ouch...
*******...
   and i'm his breed...
                       oh, and that interlude
"picnic" of 30 minutes...
when you have just entertained
20cl of ms. amber,
and there's still a bottle's worth
of a sinking ship?
that half-drunk / half-sober
interlude...
                    yeah... those are nice...

ideally in love...
it's night-time,
people are asleep...
    i have to caution myself
from bursting out with laughter
reading some of these poetic...
ahem... group therapy sessions...
i know i loved,
and what i loved,
and i am certain i know
what i ******...
                    because:
it being ******,
replied with the adequate
reciprocation answer...

             the more i listen to incels
the more i'm like...
   this... this is the only "problem",
dating?
              i once took to a speed
dating event at edinburgh
university...
              it went...
as it was supposed to go...
    big L on the forehead,
started digging cognitive
trenches...
      
               the ultimate sign of respect
you have for someone?
eating food with them...
that's my starting line of inquiry...
everything else is just
pretending to tame
******* politics...

                      tell that to
latex lucy... for once in my life
i became an old man in
a young man's body...
               heart started speeding...
the unattainable became all
the more: real...
                  
      thank god that i'm not much
to look life,
so i went among the sort
of women where
upon giving them an ******,
there would be an expression
of anguish, and surprise...

         kanalrattebeißen...
but at least not an english politician's
take on the wriggly **** pit
of a maggot...
          when "god" played
bonsai with rats,
as man played bonsai with trees
and tigers to create cats...
came along the mice...

           latex lucy: everything that's
wrong but somehow right
with this world...
                i stopped myself from
****-**** when i "feigned"
    breeze-'ed...
             oh i'm pretty sure
she's the sort,
the mandible sort of beauty...
     but, clearly...
   i was expecting the typical
******* chub and good humour
akin to that puerto rican in
amsterdam...

              born half a monster,
died... eh... somewhere between:
the polacks never receiving either
german reparations...
  (which the jews received)...
or soviet reparations for
Chernobyll...
       the women were told to drink
iodine, if pregnant...
lovely year, that year 1986
when i was a month shy from
birth...

                but now...
                       if they shut me up on
wattpad... back in 2015...
over a comment which ended:
o.k., great, have a great life;

             well?
     surprises surprises...
leaving one ***** colony,
then finding another ***** colony.
trust? nil.
           hope? nil.
                    faith? nil.
         the chance to encounter
plenty of kleindiktatoren?
   what, whittle hitlers?
          all the time:
all, in, the, name, of, "democracy".
god...
if i'm not going to ****
a latex demigod deity...
i might as well write something
in deutsche:

    as the proverb suggests:
if you don't have what you'd like,
well... like what's readily given.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
it happens all the time, that feeling of reading a saturday newspaper supplement; had i mentioned that i find the journalistic medium of writing, the most obnoxious? the most tiresome, the most wearisome, the most, how should i say: *******? i don't which i detest more, the politicians, or the journalists... i never seem to ever pick the "right" choice... it's the politicians with their lies, but it's also the journalists with their social-media "attention" to detail that bugs me... who are these people, who are they?

and it only comes in the shape of an article
you're never too old. or are you?
who are these cardinals, bishops and monks
of the "writing" class fooling?
      i ****** well hope there's an inquisition
coming...
   i'm just tired of a culture that only celebrates
but *one
form of torture / execution...
crosses have become so unimaginative that
they had to become necklaces...
              yawn...
                     but these (cliche) bourgeoise opinions
are worse than torture...
         women: bare legs, provocative dancing,
zara, bouncy hair, selfies, macron age-gap bf,
getting drunk, hats (ascot esp.),
                    sheepskin car coats,
             slogan t-shirts;
men: hassling d.j.s, messy hair,
              trainers,
                                ear­rings,
     earphones, live gigs, the "mate",
                           flirting, visible *******...
who, are, these, people?
      i don't begin to think that a rebellion against
the bourgeoisie came from this sort
of laziness, this sort of "attention to detail",
but then again, hyacinth bucket could
annoy anyone with a stern armour of metal...
who are these people?
              i've just been watching clouds at night
with the hazel coated sheen of the moon
scuttering the intruding mountains of
quicksilver sheen cauliflower...
listening to some trafficking moral debate
while in amsterdam everyone partied...
and thinking: you know, i might have seen
my psychiatrist for free, a world renowned
(can't remember her name) -
    but i found that seeing a ******* to be
much more effective...
slave? was she a slave to me?
  frankly, more like a psychiatrist...
         after all, i'm no quasimodo in posture...
and yet the biggest idiot in our company would
get a ****, and i: supposedly the type
that got off on conversation...
   seems i was never dumb enough for a casual
****** encounter...
      pity? what pity, what self-wallowing
could i ever be up to? it's the perfectly sighted
comic affair...
               it's no conspiracy that the feminists
have become so undesirable they imported
a load of north african ****...
            what?!
            that's not the case, who else would ****
'em if not the ***** replacement machines
of nigra flesh? someone has to,
                   overwise everyone goes ballistic!
i already have to ladies by my side,
ms. amber, a scotch fiery red head,
  and sophia, a dark maiden from rhodes,
with curly hair...
                      and it's not so much what they
do with my nether regions, as what they do
with my ego... that other phallus...
                    it always aims at a north korean
army march... prompt, intact,
  with nicely ironed shirts, trousers and
other aspects of the uniform...
          then again, it was never a case of limp
when drunk and with the transcendental
experience passing the madonna-***** complex
with a *******...
     always that glorified one-dimensional
experience of corpus (ad) dare corpus...
            i have no qualms, no inhibitions,
you'd be surprised at the notion of un-inhibiting
certain receptors of quickened gratification,
walking into a room with about 12 of them,
staring at you like they might just circumcise you
with their lips, and eat your liver while
selling your kidneys on the blackmarket...
  and yes, i like my latin,
but latin as the cliche reminds us: is not dead...
latin is not dead, it's simply derived from
the vulgate,
     lingua latina est vivus, in plebei, ergo
   est non mort
; and that's the usual ****-it you
apply to reviving the origins of:
               still writing in a latin alphabet!
         if latin was dead, i'd be writing in runic!
dead my ***... ever seen a baboon with
haemorrhoids try to sit still?
           had about four ****-cheeks on him,
****** decided to hang upside-down from
a tree... and no, two weeks in kenya were not great,
i don't know how those whiteys did it,
i spent most of the time in a shade,
  4 hours in an air conditioned room,
          3 hours prior to falling asleep on the balcony,
and probably drank my bodyweight of liquids...
so yes, i have a "moral" conundrum regarding
prostitution, esp. after visiting amsterdam...
**** me, beats sessions with a psychiatrist...
my mental illness? christianity,
  and how i found it hard to mantra mea culpa
+ quia propitius ero iniquitatibus eorum et
       peccatorum illorum iam non memorabo
...
which is a staggering combination
  of... "symptoms".
Lewis Bosworth Jun 2018
down the up subway
#a small female wearing a fedora

a little boy dressed proudly
#in an ASPCA sign

an NYU journalism major
#who promises Halloween candy
if I answer 8 true-false questions

a man in an ascot leads a purebred
#red-haired dog on a leash,
fresh from his limousine

a noontime walk under a blue
#cloudless sky

the annual harvest in the square
#and a prêt-à-manger lunch
with a ginger beer and brownie

burqas are commonplace,
#cell phones are not

cabs whizz by on a narrow roadway,
#some are empty

the architecture is protective,
#it exists to mask

a man looks down from his loft
#and smiles

© Lewis Bosworth, 10/2016
Zach Apr 2019
Tonight I’m in no mood for dancing,
The man in the office,
You know the one,
He’s got a nice tie,
He tells you who you’re gonna be,
In the name of education.
He sat me down,
Looked me in the eye and told me,
There’s nothing here for you,
Sorry son,
You’ve gotta go join a rock n’roll band.
Well that’s what I heard anyway.

Let me tell you this,
Circles don’t fit squares.
Ram a circle into a square if you dare,
You’ll have to make that square so large,
That it takes my soul with it,
Only then might you get me,
But it’ll never be a perfect fit,
Just smothered and suffocated.

The internal beast of truth,
Will never tolerate perceived normality,
It’s only instinct is to rebel,
Insanity is preferable,
Instability a comfort,
There is no reasoning,
Drown in your own angry rebellion,
Sink to the bottom with a smile.

Did you know they can forget us?
Tell us who’s worth it,
Who to listen to,
Who to respect,
Without a window into their being,
Instead you’re told who they are,
And what they represent.
Did you know you could be forgotten?
There’s no loyalty out here,
Your legacy in the hands of others,
Your worth in the balance of an agenda,
So what are you gonna do about it?
Fade into history?
Become a distant memory?
What you’ve gotta do,
Is represent something so loud and true,
That when the herd comes to trample and step down on you,
Those who connect to your cause,
Have no choice but to step up.

Come on and get heard,
We’re not finished here yet,
Come on make the message louder,
I want to hear it,
Louder,
Let me listen,
We gotta get heard,
We gotta get this message out there somehow,
Maybe we’ve gotta take it straight to the people,
Let them hear it,
Louder,
Give them a chance for change,
Pleasure the beast of truth,
Aggravate normality,
Destroy perceptions,
Let’s go!

Now come on,
Why don’t you tell me,
Tell me how it’s gonna be,
Come on,
Just tell me.
Tell me what I’m gonna like,
Who I’m gonna be,
Where I’m gonna go,
Just tell me.
I’m standing here,
Why don’t you just tell me,
Tell me how it’s gonna be.
Tell me how to dress,
How to laugh,
How to love,
Why don’t you just come on over here and tell me,
Tell me how it’s gonna be,
I’m still waiting,
I’m still sinking.

Zach Ascot
Zach Jun 2019
Dark skies provide tonight’s slumber,
As your body rests,
Your mind turns over,
Meeting with those long forgotten and suppressed.
Welcome to where your regrets live,
It’s always raining here.
A dark-haired angel,
In a white lace dress,
Stands to face you.

Where are you headed?
A wedding or bright funeral?
Her eyes cold and crystal blue,
You know who I am,
The girl who believed in you.
Her hair slowly filtering the rain,
Trickling down wavy weathered locks,
Turning white lace to grey.

She holds my arm,
Her damp grasp soaking my sleeve,
I proclaimed the prophecy,
One day you will be a great success,
And the whole world will know your name,
She smiles,
But don’t forget who said it first.

I’m so sorry I’ve failed you,
I’ve been trying so hard,
She pauses,
Slowly raising her arm,
To rest a hand on my cheek,
Slowly caressing,
With a cold but loving touch,
A distant stare,
Fading out,
As if she was never there.

Return to your life,
Lingering in regret of the past,
Rest easy,
Soon to be forgotten,
Tonight should treat you better.

Returning to the centre of a large desolate courtyard,
Grey brick parameters tower overhead,
Dark cobbles collecting pools of water,
The lights are dim,
The rain is loud,
You’re not alone.

There she stands,
White soaked dress and dripping hair,
I loved you.
We promised each other everything,
But parted as strangers,
I vowed to make you happy forever more,
And ease your existence,
Yet here you stand,
Drenched by the rain,
Are you here for answers,
Or wishing things were the same?

Holding my hands,
She leans back,
Weightless,
Smiling as rain slowly cascades down her cheeks,
A flash of warmth,
A break from the weather,
Forcefully showing what could be,
Vivid beautiful moments,
Shared in everlasting bliss,
Bright and radiant,
Colour and closeness,
Now interrupted by dreary skies,
And large oppressive walls,
Closing in,
She pauses,
Holds my cheek with a distant stare,
And slowly fades away.

If only we had ignored our surroundings,
And listened to our hearts,
They always knew better.
I need to rest.

Rain lashing down,
The grey landscape set,
There she stands,
Alone,
Central,
Waiting for you.

I can’t feel anything here apart from regret.
The rain cannot hurt me whilst my mind is on fire,
You always told me I’d make you happy,
That I was all you needed,
The rain bounces from the cold hard stones,
This storm never subsides.

Navigating your conscious existence,
With endless questions,
The reality is painful,
The fantasy beautiful,
There are no solutions.
Dreams that lead to nowhere,
A cruel trick of the mind,
A false flicker of hope,
Reminding you of what’s passed.
One day I will prove you right I promise,
Then maybe you can stay a little while longer.

As time moves on,
We separate further,
Connected through dreams,
Have you been searching for me too?
Two perfect fits,
Collided at slight angles,
Never to become one.
There is no answer,
I can’t fix this.
Slowly she reaches her arm towards my face,
Staring lovingly,
Please wait,
Don’t go.
I need you.
You always leave.
Her whole body begins to fade,
Slipping away to pale tints of grey,
Just stay!

Perhaps this story,
Our story,
Was never meant to move forwards,
But only to repeat for eternity,
The only woman who understood my soul,
Now gone,
Never to progress.

Now alone in the shrinking courtyard,
The rain never ceases,
Lower your head in defeat,
Feel the rain brush down your skin,
Soaked through,
Getting cold now.
Will see you again tomorrow.

Zach Ascot
This is a poem I wrote based around the reoccurring dreams I had about the girl who changed my life.

— The End —