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Skip Ramsey Nov 2014
The new building a a few days of the new
I was curious to see what my autoincorrect keyboard would suggest... :)
Its one line because if I went down a space it stopped suggesting.
fraudelle Sep 2019
I have thousand copies of your smile
I draw them as portrait
I composed them as song
I wrote them as poem

Realizing...
I'm not the one who draw your smile
I can't predict your expected rhymes
I never made your bliss
Not even once,
They are all just lines
letter, words, notes,

But anyways, I kinda need em
... Im back
mrmonst3r Dec 2014
I am not afraid
To live,
To die.
But to stagnate
Is
To pull my heartstrings
From
Its hard casing.
Abandoned,
In a world that
No longer understands.
There is nothing
Left,
Only a love that doesn't
Touch us.
Spewed from my soul.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
yesterday was such a bad day for writing...
but only today, did i figure it out...
drinking and listening
to political commentary videos?

bad idea...

        you either drink, self-DJ...
        bug the bopping along on a windowsill
sitting on one of your folded legs,
massaging your **** with your heel...
or you listen to, hell...
as Sartre put it, namely other people...

thank god writing has an in-built
censorship bot included -
  which is more effective than for those
people who make videos...
   hardly any click-bait,
   a censorship that is by sly invitation,
and after having joined
Facebook, when it started in its university
innocence?
   and then seeing adverts pop up?

hell... Facebook is one company...
on the other side of the extreme are
the supermarket chains, German,
Lidl and Aldi...

   this is how advertisement works -
(a) you employ it,
  when either your company is failing
or
   (b) when it's branching out...
growing, on the positive note...

i can actually understand (b) -
a healthy advertisement mode -
but (a)? sick to the core.

     so... yesterday was a bad day for writing,
i've heard too much...
   too much commentary,
i succumbed to a quasi writer's bloc larynx
numbing...
   although i still haven't said anything
within the confines of my outer-urban
"prison cell"...

       hell, have a garden...
sometimes a kestrel swoops and sits on
the fence... the glorious crane...
and come mid-autumn,
   a squadron of migrating Canadian geese...

too much talk, which is always bad
for poetry, however prosaic,
and, anti-schooling in recognizable insertions
of autosuggestion "demands"
for, metaphors and the like...

            too much blah blah...
       worries about censorship...
that got me...
    
   only a few days i doxed myself -
       i already gave the information
to henry westons cider company...
              
em... i used to collect swords?
the first sword i ever bought was a hussar's
lance sword, roughly 1.5m long...
          might as well fetch it from
the attic, and hang in on my wall,
just in case an angry mob comes to my house...

vanity... ha ha...
   no... i already have genuine problems
with my neighbor...
  the problem will bug me for some time...
how can he tell me,
what i can and can't do on my property,
within the confines of sensibility?!
  i howled in the night once,
like a wolf...
    but did he bother to listen to the sound
foxes make at night?
      wolves are nothing by comparison...
you really have to hear
a fox at night...
   to get the picture...

       as the saying goes:
   it's always the darkest under the street lamp...
if i'm having problems with
my "neighbor"...
why do i need to worry about
someone on the other side of the world?

hell... Americans can have their guns...
i have a stash of about a dozen swords...
my favorite?
   a replica...
  bought in Camden Town...
                of a Russian shashka...
b'ah! kitchen knives are for the kitchen...
but there's someone pesky at
your door...
     i guess i'll simply have to bring
the shashka out...
   sharpen it,
    hang it on my wall among the art work...
and?

                                            wait.
Thus yours truly resigns himself
June first two thousand and twenty three
to imagine being gifted with untold riches
courtesy  female named Jean E.

This ***** (caricatured familiarly
epitomized, demonized, characterized...
countless Chaplinesque productions,
Dickensian tales,
oil paintings from artistic
hands of great masters,
and other anonymous
exquisite craftsman, et cetera)
remembers practically nothing
of nine month stay in utero
birth, childhood nor early adulthood
my amorphous gauzy,
hazy fractal memories
solely comprise fractured,
fragmented and splintered collection
of miserable memories
character wry zing living
hellacious hand to mouth
hard scrapple existence.

Past wispy vestiges of wretchedness
present woebegone existence, which seems
a worse fate than death
overpowering urge to survive
summoning up one
barely audible l'chaim utterance
against depredations rustling
grim reaper found nothing
but defeat daily dismal
grinding away of last shreds
repurposed driven life fending off real
and imagined threats sought salvation
vividly encased within
preserved imagination,
an existence awash
with trappings of southern comfort
provided by Jim Beam.

Yours truly dug deep
with bony introspective strength
in tandem with fantasy notions knocking
around in figurative
heady noggin like cranial carapace
to muster every ounce
of strength escaping
chronic confrontation
endless streak of bleakness
cursed with brutish, nasty
nefarious fate as a measly

looking human varmint,
this grimy, grungy, rangy,
et cetera looking besotted being
clung with all might
within mine five foot ten inch
and one hundred
and fifty plus pound body
to transcend twerking terrestrial travesty
tweeting and tweaking
fickle finger of fate against favor.

I tapped atavistic survival skills
summoning willpower
to stay alive drinking butter bear
heavy cross of dirt poor poverty
borne no matter
a hard-core skeptic at heart,
this cynic plaintively
called divine intervention
to help this human piece
of flotsam and jetsam

to cope living like a doleful
junkyard dog essentially
abandoned, ignored, cancelled
and shunned vagrant
frequently raged against
Deus ex machina manacled movement
found figurative amidst
literal unlovely bones
slim pickens with demons
that tormented psyche

while traipsing along litter strewn
condemned boulevard of broken dreams,
torn and well-worn shoe
kicked discarded items
weather beaten hands reflexively bent
to retrieve accouterments
comprising colorful jagged shard,
previously housed cheap fermented liquor
nothing but crud filled
remnant of dog gone
boozehounds’ favorite drink.

Although never drawn
to drown sorrows
by turning to the bottle,
cigarettes nor drugs
(a respect for thyself existed),
an automatic reflex caught
eye-catching attention
comprising anonymous drunkard’s signature
lost memento and wireless device entity
constituted a dullish metallic object,
which turned out to be a heavily damaged
slender MOTORAZR (long obsolete) phone.

Out of foolish embarrassment
qua natural instinct,
i raddled then rubbed
remnant once containing
amber liquid of the gods’
irrational explanation in mockery
against cosmic consciousness, my mouth
jabber walk key talky like
into mobile phone these chapped,
course and cracked fingers
slid across unbroken surface
of antiquated bottle in tandem
with parched lips uttering
cockamamie pretend plea, a crackle, snap
and pop delivered a lifelike being whose
corporeal essence resembled a goddess.

The mp3 player issued magically
syncopated beats indicative per favorite
saved playlist tunes former owner
of electronic contraption
without a shadow of doubt,
this vision and auditory music definitely
brought sobered Punch
to this Judy schuss schlepper.

I clapped these nearly deaf ears, thence
rubbed mine-gnarled hands
across myopic eyes.

These twin ****** motions
executed just to dismiss
stray chance of experiencing hallucination
a maiden suddenly appeared
in plain view,
which disbelief found me
pretending to conduct
make believe conversation
via encrusted cell phone
while speaking a matter of fact tone of voice.

She (in a hypnotic, lilting,
melodic and sing song tone)
responded with casual chit chat
genie hill (Alladin like)
everyday, general friendly conversation
eventually ensued fraught
with apprehension and self
consciousness) before purpose
of her presence
became clear, an intuitive
understanding took place
akin to acute telepathic Sikh sixth sense.

Immediate difficulty arose
to think of one wish
to abet grievous humiliation
and immersion in miserable
penury, which might be abrogated
once and for all
with immediacy by simple syllabic voicing
for a pile of crisply minted money, yet
rather than blurt out immediate offering
for untold material commodities
and resplendent riches,
i surprised myself and
communicated a desire
for female friendship.

A gamesome, genteel, gentle gal who would
surrender herself for cries
and whispers seemed
more important than any pile of wealth aware
cha self-actualization about
my utter decrepitude
appeared as immediate
deterrent toward attaining
a bona fide sincere relationship, an ordinary
and reasonable ambition appeared as lofty goal.

Self absorbed in rambling
longing of body, mind
and heart, I quickly became oblivious
to imaged or real corporeal presence
who spurred outpouring
tears of joy per this
ostracized and unwanted vermin eyes
while loosening the tongue in an effort
to picture the escape
from pernicious malady
crushing breathing room
of abominable existence.

Lips shut tight also
prevented the woebegone loss
what appeared as some
divine trickster who conjured
such a muse out of thin air
upon winding down
this unrehearsed recitation,
a painstaking effort
got made to open the eyelids very slowly.

Lo and behold, when manifestation
in actual dolled up guise
of a gorgeous gal stood still as a statue,
and remained rapt
with attention provenance
and provenance found pleasure
in my prattle, and promise
got uttered by lovely lass
to remain a permanent
die-hard companion
no matter many considered
this paperback writer wannabe
nothing but wretched
pestilence of the earth.

This groveling gremlin
of a human felt like a beast alongside
one beautiful babe, who came across
as genuinely modest and passionate
to promulgate profound sharing of body,
mind and spirit triage, where homelessness
and pennilessness mattered not a whit
to this literally spellbinding goddess,
who seemed to materialize out the heavens
in the likeness sans Betsy Ross.

The question how
and where did this muse
render herself to appear
out of thin air puzzled,
and quizzed curiosity
assessed and gleaned no matter
not one word uttered,
thus necessity for conversation
seemed superfluous for we both
seemed able to converse
by autosuggestion of this,
that or the other query.

I (by the way) seemed
to be more intrigued
in this angelic spirit
come to life viz comedy of errors
that punctuated anonymous
life with angst king lear
riddled tragedy suddenly took
a most pleasant unexpectedly
found that all’s well
that ends well with this leery king
from southeastern Pennsylvania
possesses great expectations
by dickens no matter the field
of whet dreams populated
with slim (shady) T. Boone Pickens.

— The End —