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F Alexis Apr 2013
Hush.

Cease your noise.

Fall silent, all you who gather here
To lay down the suffocating burdens
That rest so unforgivingly
Upon your weary souls.

Your lamenting shall bring you
No greater harm,
Nor any relief,
While you are here.
Your cries will go unheard,
For we have either heard them before,
Or we cannot hear them over our own.

Your tears will be free to fall
But none shall amount
To any great difference.
If you must cry,
Water the earth with your expression,
And return to her
What she once gave you.
Do not let your tears
Of loss,
Be a loss themselves.

We are here together
To break free
From all that binds us,
All that holds us back,
Holds us still,
Holds us captive;
All that has broken us,
Beaten us,
Forgotten us,
Used us,
Taken advantage of us,
Looks down upon us
With the kind of sneer
That could only come
With deriving great pleasure
From causing great pain;
All that has brought us anger,
Sadness,
Incredulity;
All that has taken from us
The light by which we once
Tread our own paths,
And as it grew dimmer,
Our paths,
Winding,
Weaving,
Twirling,
Crossing
But never so that we met,
Became one.

And we are here
To let go of all
Of these things,
Because of which
We have harbored
Unspoken rage,
Unshed tears,
Confessions that were
Never made,
Or perhaps,
Never should have been.

We are here to release
The binding ties
Which in love,
Would bring us together
But in their hateful existence,
Have driven us all apart.

I stand before you with a match.
This match,
A rather unremarkable
Piece of timber,
Was tucked snugly with its
Equally unremarkable
Brethren
Into a pouch.
Thrown among a heap
Of the same,
With no consideration
That it might have
Been better off
Remaining a part of the tree
From which it came.
It was one tiny part
Of that tree,
But what of the possibilities,
That it might have been
Something great?

It might have been a branch
Upon which an eagle
Built its nest.
Or, even more incredibly,
A twig that helped compose
Her nest,
And for however long,
Supported the incubator
That would bring her legacy
To life.
It might have been a part
Of a ******'s dam,
A vital part of an ecosystem,
And whose absence could mean
Life or death
For so many others.
Or it may simply have become
Compost
When the tree had died,
Become a part of the soil
Which would support
Future generations
Of every lifeform imaginable.

But now...

Now, we will never know.
This little match,
So very typical,
With its plain composition
And tiny red cap,
Will fulfill a typical purpose,
Today.

I strike this match
And say to you,
The flame that it will create
Will be the new flame
For your personal path.

It represents illumination,
A casting out
Of the darkness you were in,
A reawakening of all that
Might have been lost,
But can now be saved,
Or that has been lost,
But now makes room
For something better.

It is a rekindling
Of the joy that life once
Brought you,
And the magnification
Of that joy
Which it will still yet bring.

It is a revitalization of the good in you,
The light which you shed
On so many unappreciative lives;
A light which
You still have the chance
To shed
On those who truly need it most.

And it is a reminder to you...

...to not be a match.

Do not let them throw you in
With the rest,
Assort you as though you
Are common!
Do not let them pull you
From everything great
That you might yet achieve,
Just so that they may
Assign you a typical purpose!
Do not let them light you once,
Use you,
And then cast you aside,
Having already taken,
In that one small flame,
Everything that you had to give.

And now,
I light this match,
Upon the branches
You have laid here.
The branches that
Have broken off of
Your tree of life,
And now can be no more.

For everything that you have lost,
There is a branch for it.
Remember, now,
That what once was alive,
And has now been separated,
What is now dead,
Can no longer
Serve a purpose.

So I tell you,
Pull from your heart,
Your mind,
And your soul,
What has had the undeserving
Privilege of plaguing you.
Extract it,
Remove it,
Cast it into the fire.
Set it ablaze,
And while it burns,
Abosrb the warmth
From these flames,
Which remind you of
Who you are,
What you are worth,
And the warmth
With which you will
Illuminate
The darkest,
Coldest places
Where you, yourself,
Have returned from.


Cast them!


Cast them now!


Push aside the weakness -
That is not who you are!
Summon every fiber and cell
Of your newfound strength
And let all of it go!


And now,
It is done.


Now,
They are ashes,
To be blown away
In the same wind
Which dried your tears
These many years,
And will do so
For years to come.

Incinerated,
They are swept away -
The broken hearts,
The lost and forgotten dreams,
The stolen opportunities,
The harsh and unforgiving words,
The hopeless, sleepless nights,
The sunrises which brought no new promise
But reminded you of everything
That could go wrong -
They are gone!


They are nothing now!


But you,
In their absence,

You...


...are everything.
Simon Oct 2019
What’s happened! A voice remarked. Why are my puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland? Another voice spoke up, sounding distant. That’s what I’d like to know! Then more followed. Sounding like a choir of different voices were in effect. Except none of the voices sounded cheery in their perfect chorus on cue. A shriek followed. A wasteland full of shrieks rumbled the ground. Ejecting lots of dust. Blinding visibility across a wide landscape! A landscape full of sand. Governing a deadly waste scouring a dryness accumulating pieces of voices not to far off from one another. Dust from the shrieks rumbling the ground, finally clear. Settling a glimpse at what has been shrieking with such volumes of obscure reasoning. Puzzle…PIECES! Huh? Who said that…? The voice asked, completely taken off guard. What instrument are we trying to provide here? Not sure I’m exactly wondering what your trying to offer by the term (instrument)? Having instruments aren’t folly you know. Another voice interrupting the other voices conversing nonsense. You guys do realize non of what your saying is making any practical sense? Like…at ALL! Huh? One voice replied. Another joining in. Well if your so clever…why don’t you entertain us with how things should really be voiced? Gladly! The more logical voice commented. The voice acting snobbish made a sound. Showcasing it didn’t like being told what it knew and what it didn’t know. The dust has settled. The two voices conversing said on cue. Your point…? No logic, until you display your horizons onto the landscape which shows what we are. One voice replied confused. Logic? Another responded. Horizons? Then on cue again. Landscape??!! The logical voice continued. Just looking around the landscape, which introduces the horizon of who, what, and where you are. Making the logical assessment that, well…everything…is what should have been since the very beginning. Panting for just a single moment. Without claim or focus…the end! The two conversing voices completely dumbfounded, sighed very harshly! Finally deciding to take the more logical one’s words more seriously. Other voices following on cue. Which made all voices look down toward there surroundings. The logical one smiled brightly! AHHH! Another shriek came. O…JEEESSSUUUSSS!!! More shrieks accumulated the wasteland. Prompting more dust to rumble. Popping all over the horizon’s visibility again! So, what did we learn about this very confusing, obscuring display? Well…easy! A voice said from no where. That it was a display of nurturing. Huh…? Really? The one sounding like the narrator drawn in by the voices interest. Ya, well… They stopped to rethink what they just offered in response. Your hesitating. The narrator’s voice sounding suspicious. Ya, well… Not sure how to express what I saw. Still remaining suspicious, the narrator continued. Anda…what is it…you exactly…saw…? The voice from no where exploded all built up energy in one gigantic spurt! There was puzzle pieces scattered in a wasteland! They had no identity to speak of. Pieces deconstructed in a sand covered landscape full of dry essence. And…and… They stopped mid-thought to catch their breath! The narrator didn’t speak a word. The dust was symbolizing ones missing grasp at not figuring out they were all apart of the same form. The same essence. Drying out claims too full of themselves through partial reasoning on potential agreements never going anywhere. Mmmmm…mhm…mmmmm… The narrator seemingly amused by this information. No identity, means no way of connecting to one another. Never to make sense of the premise one could offer. Puzzle pieces stuck in the sands of dry essence. A rut too involved to be just any coincidence. The dry essence covering up each puzzle piece. Muffling there voices forever. They tried to reach out. Trying to make sense of (what could have been). Rather then how to assort their differences into one claim. Working together wasn’t this identities strongpoint. Pieces were arguing too much. Until one seemed to be the most offering of the bunch. Thou…thou… Go on. The narrator said. No one listened to them. Following in the footsteps of one foolish puzzle piece after the other. Until there was nothing to be left, but silence. The voice from no where shrieked towards the narrator’s glaring tension toward the speaker. Laughing in disgust toward the potential risk one poses when reaching out toward its other component pieces.
Puzzle pieces will never learn if each piece doesn’t know how to direct oneself, before connecting with the bigger, more established form. Which is rendered to a mere silhouette full of details invoking a nothingness claim.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
all the ******* leave the party early, attired
in cackles, even though stilettos say otherwise,
they laugh and squeamish assort
a waiting line for a mongol tribe:
open all hours minus the sunday,
when jesus' ***** was dried;
got to love a mother of a culprit readied
for sacrifice and prayer lasting 2000 years.
in between the party?
a man walked idly musing his relevance,
he popped a few balloons with his cigarette,
his life flashed before his eye,
notably an error, pornographic photos
flashed before his eyes, not as bad as Gucci and
gob anna in twisted anorexia... **** actresses take
the catwalk... we all revolve around liking curves...
plus **** in ***, plus **** in ****, plus **** in mouth,
a holy trinity through and through;
there was no offensive image shown,
there was no offensive foghorn sound made,
but she's too eager to censor communication,
says f**k... hush... oompa loompa augustus needs the loo
to **** out the roman empire...
what entertains children breeds a fear for adults...
what entertains adults makes children divvy...
say piston and phallus in a rhyming symbiosis
of tact... welcome you, welcome i;
what doesn't entertain children does entertain adults?
the reality of a mistaken fact that childhood passed?
and of those who's childhood was orphanage?
the free distribution of wealth... or a free distribution of justice
be seriously taken along with vitamins?
burp... are we shining with sun and vitamin c?
perhaps we wished to have netted brown skin
in a spider web of self-producing vitamin d of kenyan origin?
ah i see, sneezes from cayenne peppering.
preservationman Jan 2016
There are some voices unable to create sounds
Struggles with boundaries under the term bound
Lessons to be learned
Honor and dignity with an assurance of earned
Respect being in control
It’s the true personality as a whole
Yet shade colors don’t want to assort
But is the assort that wants to abort
This is not what everyone was taught
We were created to fellowship and mingle as one
It’s not own accord and being done
Noticed I said fellowship
There’s the theory being the tip
Prejudice is just a word
But have you ears become someone else’s heard
No matter what people say nor think
The whole idea of prejudice just stinks
We were put on this Earth for a reason
It’s not changeable with any season
It’s individual thinking comprising with a negative treason
Personality is simply the make-up of who the person is truly is
It’s content of character
This is what that should truly matter
Not being just a dramatic experience
It should be one being comfortable with making a difference
Imagine two shads of color being babies whom doesn’t know what racism really is
There’s the example that we all should live by
At least give a chance in effort and just try
We must know togetherness for your self
You can’t rely from someone else
Separation centered on groups
But heritage shades was established from various roots
It’s time to acquaint a different tune even if it involves a flute
We should talk and learn how to get along
The term is encouragement and enhance where we all belong
Accept for who the person is
Not your own understanding when you want to begin
Racism should not be a word of hate
But coming together in relate
Move from racism before it’s too late
Look beyond the calendar but make it a date.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
. genocide, or contraception? jobs... the export of jobs? technological advancements... it's not genocide... but it is a variant of contraception, isn't it? it's slow: slow implies: non-existent in the journalistic wortsprechen... which implies: covert, & metaphor... but we are talking about a contraception variant... it's not genocide... it's... well... the basic economic utility of you, = nul. automation is... sniff sniff... smell it? well yeah... poetry got no soul... just some bogus depressive antics for what doesn't even register as: tabloid.... fringe encounters of the tabloid kynd... but we are talking about a slow genocide, economic migration is war: in slo motion without brutes und goons... it's condoms: for... why wouldn't we?!

well... it's not exactly genocide...
given that it's slow
implies something, natural
and coincidental
to allocate an justifiable
association with it...

you know what happened
when the iron works
were undermined in Poland,
people were displaced,
i could have worked
a job in a metal work factory
like my maternal & paternal
grandfathers,
like my father...
  eh, **** it,
economic migrant:
     which is an alias
of what isn't exactly a cold
war: with hot egos
lodged into red buttons
and fidgety nuclear warheads
itching for that:
firework display!

everything economic is
a testament of sloth:
in decay...
    a media attention broom
of bored egotistical
ambitions facets:
the virility of
the other, sided argument:

that whole
"just" economic migrants...

war is a variant
of economics,
why are those migrating
for economic reasons,
not given what
is given to:
the immediacy of
the violent squabble?

delay, sure,
      and that is all,
it will ever be...
            you think i like
speaking this tongue?
you think i like
having to parody
the citizen?
  you think this tongue
is all that will ever
be: like a circus virus,
like nothing more than
a parasite?

the english in me
is a parasite...
i am: succumbed to its
presence,
for a "polite society"
rubric...
        i die:
i want this slithering
slob of an "invitation"
to be begone from me...

i, host,
   see nothing but
the mortal transcience of
a suited use for this...
string of words...

it has infested me
with a presence that
ignobles me...
no brown intact or
a pale hue of a skin's
colour:
   this... grits my
very fundamental
posit of verb: i think...

i am more bothered
by ethics
and not by etiquette...
the english don't
know that!
they're yet to discover
en masse,
the application
of diacritical marks...

   zee: Ęգλíш...

have you ever watched
the stew of rot
and abandonment
become: porous...
as in:
over time, time is
both the economics
of war,
and war biding:
                to & fro...

          if only: "just" an economic
migrant...
which is why i stashed
a dozen swords in my attic...

so? just war...
     you move: i move...
    
  i will only baptiße my soul
upon the altar of death
in being able to:
unlearn this parasitic
entity of the familially
cordial exchange of / for:
   having an inclination
  for a deviating purpose;

but of said things,
i am already too late to govern
a frictive foot
for a standing
    of attention and
convinced basin's depth
inclusive...

     how could have this looked
like... in a cosmopolitan
environment,
whereby a simpleton's
bilingualism would not
be curated as a schizophrenia...

                in a cosmopolitan
environment...
   of, say, Switz origins...
this could have been:
a hindering hybrid of
    stagnant cues...
for:
       no labour in the waiting:
for a bogus
      variant of a gem...

yet i find myself
stunned...
by such phrasing as...
home-grown terrorist...
some jihadi....

   and here, i am,
speaking the tongue
of the parasite,
this... acquired, tongue...
and i dare not speak
this tongue beyond
the necessary public...
and yet, there are those,
as foregin as i,
who forge a whip-for-will
in demands
that: outstrip the farce
of casual conversation...

no matter...
  however much
this nausea for the people
who would understand
ja, tym, gadam...

              gadanina:
gadać:

                  ­ yet still...
i die, this tongue
becomes tomb...
        borrowed,
acquired...
              something...
­        worth: an impasse's
worth of a conundrum's
worth of justification...

let's just say:
i became tired
of snoops,
of the natives asking
the question:
where are you from...

if only i acquired
the diacritical differentiation
of a foreigner,
and were not
forever justified in:
suspect...

                by speaking:
closely the native
narrative...

         a man to inherit
the assort of labour
to plough a field,
given but two left hands
for the smugness
of a work ethic's worth
of invest.

   this tongue dies with
me,
      oh i hope for a death,
that opens up
a horizon for
erasure,
      of my current
utility of:
                       said, tongue.
High tides on a hideout
Scuffling high and low  
Sought shelter off sea
At a downward cradle resort
In high land island assort
Cuddled in grip n grasp
To enjoy the balm and calm

Back waters beckoned me
To the wedlock o’ bed lock
Of islands’ land n liquid
I peddled my winding way
The beat about the boat afloat
Swayed away fair and far
The wiling willing precincts
Untidy tide untied my ties

Sea saw swing sang a song
Amidst tunes of windy wand
As though to unwind my mind
***** of breeze doused me to brim
Frills and spills lulled into thrill
Oh! What a symphony of scenery
The treat lasted from dawn to dusk
Waves waved off my retreat not to risk
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
you don't get to lecture me over tears!
you celt you english, you don't get to that,
unless you want a punch in the face!
you... you get to say the anti-collective
pronoun! you get to say i belong to a they...
your fickle kind that march into the graveyard
and be: at best forgotten...
you don't tell me what, you don't tell me
what i need, you don't tell me what should have
with you, i'll gladly reply: certainly not children,
who'd want to infect that wretched womb
of ill...
     i'll go on chasing my "dream" that's a horror
until i'm dead and rot, so i might make
it all the more ******...
as you saying: a quest for an epitaph.
   but i will not hear you talk this crap!
go back to your Thai haven! *******... move!
and see why incorporated whives employ
the Indonesian tactic of covering their faces
because of their felt need to express shame!
i have honour in my country of birth,
what does the west have? more **** to sell...
that's about it.. i have too many things to utilise
to ensure i was living, worthwhise...
   death does not assort such privileges...
     it eats them...
                    ******* vermin architects,
look at them suctter into the depths,
an octopus might have wrirtten it,
given someone cried and kissed the finger that
rubbed the eye better,
and how tears aren't salty to begin with...
    you can really wipe off the tears in your
eye and later lick them off your fingers...
and then write something autocractic to compensate...
simply because you are a man of feeling...
  the west wasn't going to enter tha art-form
of dialectics anyway... it was always going
to stance itself as: model-perfect / model--prefect,
it wasn't going to entertain the art!
           toward the depths unseen...
                         paying your taxes under axis
power... what is democracy now? if not a disease?
all it took was sipping on my tears
to define what actually is...
          when an old granny congratulates me
for having received a pension: then i'll be happy..
           i must be upkeeping the need for
***** if i'm lagging behind imitating hong kong...
           there middle men, these con-,
i really don't know what to do with them,
they're just "there", the can't simply disappear...
you can't rub it better with them,
you can't even bleach them to eventually spot them...
but then i do have a love affair
   with pirates more so than i have with peasants....
don't know, perhaps it breeds the capacity
to breed narratives...
    oh no, not writing anything that might sell..
i feel restaurants to be the most lonely places
in the world...
just as much: when melville...
                  that could begin and end with:
once upon a time...
           mammoths... that could do...
                                                in ol' estonia...
reading homer and figuring mermaids isn't
that much crass as what modern narratives provide...
   that said and thus saying:
fiction is stranger than the truth....
                  does that fact actually exist?
  i should reiterate: does that "fact" actuall exist?
it did, it did back when there was a then
so reitereate: so it was.
   now? now?! ha ha ha!
                         you want now to be important?
now is important?
            what the **** is happening now?
if you're not Syrian what else could matter if not
Syria?
               i mean language as an object
rather than a per se subject....
                       what could i possibly fiddle with?
i'm not going to equate this medium to imply
i might play the violin...
      all i said was that i drank my tears
   from the fountain that was my index finger
wiping them from my eye...
   and that after i lodged a stone into my chest
that was to be a heart, and moved on,
careless of what might be considered art...
            that once there was love: but somehow
it fizzled out, like opening a bottle of carbonate water
and watching it choke, waiting for the last
bubble to evaporate;
dare i dream? that's hardly a question?
   dare i plagiarise? sure, esp. when there is no
basis to create an originality for the basis of movie
or theatre... by then i forget it's a plagiarism
of any worth, and i write: like i might ****** 30 people.
David Betten Oct 2016
TLACAELEL [to audience as spectators]
            Hear ye! Of these five games, his majesty
            The emperor has won the first two rounds,
            And Hungry Prince has crowned the third and fourth.
            Who takes this final set will clinch the match.

HUNGRY PRINCE [aside to Motecuhzoma]
            Motecuhzoma, why not call it quits,
            While thus we tilt in equilibrium,
            So time may be arrested in his stride,
            And nothing will be proven to your loss.

MOTECUHZOMA
            Oh yes, well, well you should prevaricate,
            Since you recoil, and your horoscope
            Is but a bunk, evasive, spurious sham.

HUNGRY PRINCE
            We used to sport like willful brothers once.
            This pointless schism scathes me to the core.

MOTECUHZOMA
            Play on! Your grace, equip him for the serve.

PRIEST OF TLALOC
            Behold this little token of a ball-
            Through this ordeal, symbolic of the sun
            When- swallowed nightly by the earth’s dark mouth-
            He spars with demons of the underworld,
            To birth anew at dawn. So does this sphere,
            Across the blood-bathed flagstones of this court.
            Regard it so. The gods assort you both.
            To one: bask in divine approval’s nod,
            The other: dark ignominy. Engage!

                He throws the ball to HUNGRY PRINCE. MOTECUHZOMA          and HUNGRY PRINCE leave the stage separately.

TLACAELEL
            A solid serve.

PRIEST OF TLALOC          A capital return.

TLACAELEL
            These salt-and-pepper gents belie their age.
            Look how they swoop, like eagles ******-beaked.

PRIEST OF TLALOC
            Our monarch springs, a glistening dynamo.

TLACAELEL
            And his contender sheds years as he runs.
            Tell me, your eminence,
            What are your sentiments on Hungry Prince?

PRIEST OF TLALOC
            Though not a brilliant statesman, he remains
            The most perceptive prophet of the earth,
            With whom the gods must share their captain’s logs,
            His auspices so rarely miss their mark.

TLACAELEL
            You’d buy his soothsaying?

PRIEST OF TLALOC                           I'd say I would.

TLACAELEL
            That’s to the heart of this imbroglio.

PRIEST OF TLALOC
            What is the real dispute, then, of this duel?

TLACAELEL
            You’d know their true contention?

PRIEST OF TLALOC                                     Tell me.

TLACAELEL                                                                 So . . .
From my play in verse, thefloralwar.com
Francisco DH Jan 2013
This is to my followers and the likers
Y'all are the ones who keep me going
keep me moving
Keep me glowing

Y'all are the ones who leave me hopeful
Leave me laughing
Leave me boastful

Y'all are the ones who make me smile
make me chuckle
Make my time worth while

So Thanks, Thank you all
For giving me support
For giving me likes
If I met y'all I  Would assort
with y'all

So thanks again
my followers and likers
Once again thanks y'all :) y'all make me feel a whole lot better. If y'all were all here beside me I would hang with y'all like all the time.
High tides on a hideout
Scuffling high and low  
Sought shelter off sea
At a downward cradle resort
In high land island assort
Cuddled in grip n grasp
To enjoy the balm and calm

Back waters beckoned me
To the wedlock o’ bed lock
Of islands’ land n liquid
I peddled my winding way
The beat about the boat afloat
Swayed away fair and far
The wiling willing precincts
Untidy tide untied my ties

Sea saw swing sang a song
Amidst tunes of windy wand
As though to unwind my mind
***** of breeze doused me to brim
Frills and spills lulled into thrill
Oh! What a symphony of scenery
The treat lasted from dawn to dusk
Waves waved off my retreat not to risk
High tides on a hideout
Scuffling high and low  
Sought shelter off sea
At a downward cradle resort
In high land island assort
Cuddled in grip n grasp
To enjoy the balm and calm

Back waters beckoned me
To the wedlock o’ bed lock
Of islands’ land n liquid
I peddled my winding way
The beat about the boat afloat
Swayed away fair and far
The wiling willing precincts
Untidy tide untied my ties

Sea saw swing sang a song
Amidst tunes of windy wand
As though to unwind my mind
***** of breeze doused me to brim
Frills and spills lulled into thrill
Oh! What a symphony of scenery
The treat lasted from dawn to dusk
Waves waved off my retreat not to risk
smallwitchbabe Jan 2015
The opaque fog of midsummer night,
I only linger long enough for your sigh
and then I carry away,
maybe a moment before you can.

Where did the time go for a hundred indecisions?
Eyes, unfocused on the bleary screens
of this modern vision,

connecting the distance with the rapid movement
of mechanical, well-oiled fingers
to sculpt the exact nuance of our meaning,
but it’s all so limiting.

It’s easier to muse instead
with the warmth of this muddy coffee -
(two more teaspoons of sugar, please)
a new dance to save my sanity.

Your presence a catalyst for a reason,
to figure out,
to assort and craft,
a draft for the next silent move -
my method so stealthy,
soaking in the obscuring smog
of a fading city.

Should I disturb you?

Like a distrustful feline,
defamed by an infant’s desire,
you are compelled to defy instinct,
but you’re here.

I want to shred it all – in pulsing, hot rage
tear apart your elementary concepts
or Platonic ideas,
skewed visions of the future,
split the illusion of victory –
into shards of glass.

But I cannot connect in any other way.
High tides on a hideout
Scuffling high and low  
Sought shelter off sea
At a downward cradle resort
In high land island assort
Cuddled in grip n grasp
To enjoy the balm and calm

Back waters beckoned me
To the wedlock o’ bed lock
Of islands’ land n liquid
I peddled my winding way
The beat about the boat afloat
Swayed away fair and far
The wiling willing precincts
Untidy tide untied my ties

Sea saw swing sang a song
Amidst tunes of windy wand
As though to unwind my mind
***** of breeze doused me to brim
Frills and spills lulled into thrill
Oh! What a symphony of scenery
The treat lasted from dawn to dusk
Waves waved off my retreat not to risk
Ashlyn Rimsky Feb 2020
i live in a constant state
of ignoring deadlines
and instead taking my due dates
with poetry

every excursion leaves me thinking
what a day, what a night
what a thought, what a line
what a moment.

what if i use this or that rhyme?
i find it sublime, i have lost track
of time, but found me in spaces
carved out between lines
the moments between thought
of whats next in my mind
what word would be one of a sort?
i assort them -

they advance. i am weak,
they assemble. these words a worthy match for me
win me over - i rage no war
just wave my flag, surrender once more
we have done this before, a repeat, i am familiar
i know better, but i am a word *****.
self control is out the door
and i let him walk. i hope he runs far away
so my words and i can stew a bit longer.
i don't want it to end. i am tired of talking in numbers.
i am tired of making sense. i just want to play.
lets have a word day. or two, or three, or five.
i can multiply words if you give me the chance
professor, accept my submittance. my poems provide
no wrong answers. no prompt, sit and listen.
maybe its your turn.
i can't stop writing, and i am a little concerned.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
.               ha ha... one word...
wpajać...
a word that implies
indocrination...
   ****...
who am i to
govern a labour
of loan words...
     pajac: clown...
acute c: short
and sweet,
no need to extend the matter
into a caron of
an "added"
                hidden H or Z...
naše kamienice,
  waše ulice
...
(our tenements,
your streets)
the slogan,
before the jews were
robbed
prior to the
            holocaust...
world war II:
apparently,
the only people that
suffered, were, the jews...
let's just roll the time back,
and allow the right sort
of collatarel
to reply,
       to revert back...
wait,
   wait,
         just wait a little...
currently? i wondered...
when poland played austria
was i watching a home game
or an away game?
was it a warsaw crowd,
or a vienna crowd?
       sowiecki gałgan
(soviet idiot) -
sorry "lads",
this is were i turn all
deadpool om du...
                  i lost a limb
and a woman, to either some
arab sheikh, or some
h'american oligarch...
                      take you pick...
then again:
i was never going to be
made limbo with **** propaganda...
  oops or oh?
big ******* difference...
like: oh is more of a surprise
surrounding a mistake...
oops? more intentional...
last time i heard...
it was infantile
of me to read a bit of
sienkiewič...
    by the fire & the sword...
like...
i was reading something
akin to a harlequinn
novel and ****...
       history,
made into a novel...
next thing i know,
reading the current journalistic
diarrhoea...
   listening to the death of the winged
hussars
by
krzesimir dębski
i'm pedro retardo the third...
because i have an elephant's
capacity to sort and assort
the faculty of memory...
  good for me, great for jazz...
i'm not part of the :western leftist"
amnesia get-together...
i have, a, past,
acquiring the english zunge
doesn't change anything...
if there's anything that it does
change...
    i'm hardly going to be part of it...

i'm awake,
it's currently 20 minutes to 3am,
some of the birds associated
with the english summer have
migrated back,
and they're squirting out
mating calls...
             i was given one opportunity
to have a freesome,
i declined...
i figured...
3 prostitutes...
   5 hours...
   **** it...
faking a death of a loved one
on my, then,
student loan bank
account overdraft limit...
   eh...
               i just started to think
about Broadmoor...
how, i'd figure out being
an artist,
  and sit out...
an ontological / zoological
upkeep,
sedated... yet somehow with
enough greens peas to
write something fathomable...
and... it would all end,
in 1930s Disneyland...

          where l.s.d. was off-limits,
and you could *******
an ego into the vacous entity
of **** of thought...
by simply watching the *******
cartoons! in black & white!

before ******-doo!
and the marvel universe...
before ******* batman,
and all that:
superhero but not superpowers
schtick!            ****!
like i wanna be faking it,
but then matthew mcconaughey
is 5'6" on the oscar altar
of public ****-talking,
and i'm watching him in
all these rom-coms and he's like:
giant me *****!
12" **** to boot!
  watch me oil up an alpha seal
before clapping its way into
a harem!
what's the difference
between a ****** and a dwarf?
don't know...
  but his middle name is,
and his full looks like:
middgy
  'matthew mcconaughey' darf...

i didn't plagiariße...
i just borrowed...
****...
from...
   shoe00head
mingling with darth-drool...
and the whole:
now that my dad's dead:
i get to milk the cow
sort of...
    "reiterating" the nostalgia.

people wanted funny!
until the jokes had to become
so complex,
as to compete with
20th century fwench absurd
literature...
and something resembling
german philosophy,
of the 20th century...
   **** me, strap-on with Locke...
you'll go far...
as far as 2001...
years later?
don't ask me...
i said very little,
                      and just watched.

LOSER BLOCK...
so i did two things my mother asked
me...
  filled out her disability application form...
cysts on her spine,
arthritis,
       injections into her spine and wrist,
hi replacement...
no, no chernobyll never happened...
walking with a cane,
aged in her early 50s...
  wrote a lovely rubric...
dug a hole,
planted a xeres cherry tree in the garden....
and then... relaxed...
        started to spot worthwhile
pedantic observations in a language:
which i "somehow" don't own,
or have claim to (by french psychology
third year student exchange programmes),
since i'm not native...
and drank... oh ****...
drank enough ms amber
to put a ******* rhino to sleep...
and?
              listened to some movie
soundtracks, avoided jazz
and punk...
              i never allowed myself
to brag about ***,
i had a chance for a *******...
declined...
     n'ah...
                 i had enough brains
to only bellow in a clarity of a transaction...
if i didn't pay for ***,
as a man,
i'd be paying for someone else...
i already know how unprotected ***
looks like...
oddly enough...
my my... aren't the prostitutes
overtly sensitive when it comes
to labouring under a scrutiny of
responsibility?
      ******* + a ******...
  that's why i don't understand the motives
of Jackie the serial Reply Guy
manifesto...
           an hour...
that's all it takes...
  but being tangled,
     faked,
    being dragged into nuance...
just schlichtlügen?
       you know... i'd rather chew on a *******
bay leaf...
   in all honesty...
i like playing responsible,
when i'm expected to play responsible...
i'll pay an extra 10 quid
on the 10 quid entry fee,
and the 110 quid per hour
if i'm going to proove
that h.i.v. is not transmitted
******...
no, not her playing cotton-candy...
me eating the oyster...
     that's ******* hilarious...
i had to visit a *******...
to clear my conscience
of, having, once upon a time,
a relationship,
that lasted roughly 6 months...
with a russian, western,
free woman of the world...
i actually had to visit a *******
to clear my conscience...
and then say:
whatever the **** i liked!
amazing...
           and then i cut off
any unfathomable desire to persist
my allowance of "using" prostitutes
to clear my conscience...
akin to the last time,
i "blamed" myself for not trimming
my *****...
which i made into an excuse for
her not touching my genitals,
which i later translated as
succumbing to merely kissing her...
with that sort of mouth,
that i kissed...
i probably ****** off a hundred
*****...
   and felt: m'eh about it...
but getting those words out of her
mouth,
was, by far, anything that
a faked onomatopoeia of "marriage"
would ever allow...
oh the german are ****** with us...
we still own Marienburg...

last time i heard:
before having a historically minded
memory hole was
deemed "infantile"
by the neu-communists in western
europe...
that, citadel?
   it wasn't constructed from red bricks...
ghostly grey / white bricks...
what?
        Marienburg...
now... the suspect opinion...
is the expansion of Islam akin
to the black plague...
resembled akin...
for the sole reason that...
us, Polacks,
experienced the same fate of
the "arabs"...
how we entertained the flow
of the crusades?

  wow! revelation!
discovering h'america in a can of
sardines!
or Einstien: in an acronym...
akin to mine...
M(atthew) C(onrad)...
   eh... like i'd tell you anything more
beyond the first letter of
my surname E(
              **** it)
                                     (schlert)

then again...
   why do people dox?
       99% of such interactions
ever end with said people,
sharing a meal,
or a drink,
or hand-jobs while taking
a shower together...
so...
                 i'll still leave this canvas
with an unrepentant fetish
for the german language...
english? complete...
now i have to further my interests
into the buffer-zone
of origins.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
felines...

   near sleep,

they really don't like
you,

        touching their,

                legs...

curled paws is
a bit like uncleched
fists for them...

a meow is hardly a
yawn,
to market a heed
of honesty....

       the last resort before:
the bowing.

and i've come to appreciate
a cat....
lost before n
giving a yawn,
   and....
whatever you might
call an... interlude.

the little people
politics assort for
        a concern in....
minding...
                  politics...
that qusi-
fun-fair and quest
for loo...
  
         in the demise of
the rubicon...

        of said so much:
such little said.

— The End —