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1970 Odysseus visits cousin Patsy in New York City she introduces him to her best friend Lauren’s older less attractive more reclusive sister Tanya Mulhaney extremely wealthy family father founded corporation manufactures pinball machines which years later develop to video games then casino empire he favors and spoils Tanya but dies suddenly her envious sisters and mother gang up on Tanya is pale skinny flat-chested copious brown bush Odysseus sits in bathtub with Tanya and he probes in a way they hits it off maybe no boy has ever touched her in that way her complexion is so fragile slightest fluster prompts pink blotches on her cheeks neck chest back he admires her book smarts he’s attracted to her refined strangeness he thinks her bush and flat-chest are **** she laughs shyly offers to take him around the world he accepts Odysseus tells his parents Mom goes crazy yells into telephone what are you a ******? you father and i work like fools to send you to the best schools so you can make something of yourself you’re going to throw everything away to be a ***? i tell you we’ll disown you you won’t have a home to come back to do you hear me? we’ll disown you! she sobs how can you just walk out after all we have done for you? you ******* kid! Odysseus takes leave of absence from art school he and Tanya take Iberia jet 12 hour flight with stopover in Iceland to Belgium Tanya sinks into one of her moods swallows several pills to help her rest sitting on other side of Odysseus is curly haired skinny talkative musician claims he has jammed with Miles Davis and other jazz greats Odysseus says yeah right and i’ve shown with Johns and Twombly where exactly are you heading in Europe? musician answers he is a scientologist on his way to visit L. Ron Hubbard in England Odysseus does not know what Dianetics are and wants explanation he asks many questions and musician talks for hours they enjoy each other’s rapport as jet descends in Brussels they exchange home addresses in the States 9 months later when Odysseus returns to America a friend notices scribbled address while skimming through his travel journals Odys! how did you get Chick Corea’s address? do you know him? do you realize how brilliant he is? he’s a keyboard virtuoso! Odysseus questions Chick Corea? who’s Chick Corea? he looks at journal page then says oh that guy i sat next to him on the jet to Europe so he really is a famous musician huh? wow!

in October 1970 Brussels is damp chilly Tanya wears hip-hugger jeans black turtle-neck top North Face shell she huddles her arms around her chest smokes cigarettes looks through hotel room window out into gray overcast sky speaks in defeatist voice i didn’t bring clothes for this weather she picks at her plate in hotel restaurant glumly vacillates later in bed after refusing *** decides they leave tomorrow fly to Canary Islands for several weeks to get tan before traveling through Morocco during winter months Canary Islands are laden with Swedish tourists including bikini clad young girls many not wearing tops Odysseus is thinking about how to swing some of that Swedish free love once Tanya gets drunk succumbs to Odysseus’s ****** overtures it is good  one day while returning to hotel from beach 2 Spanish police stop and question Tanya and Odysseus police order to see their passports then command them into squad car police bark in Spanish rifle through their daypacks point a finger Odysseus can smell alcohol on their breaths Tanya and Odysseus are terrified police drive off main road to remote location abandoned ruins no one is around police order them to step out police drive off laughing Tanya’s complexion is crimson she sobs they could have murdered us no one would know who we are or where to find us we’re lost where are we? Odysseus looks around replies don’t worry we’ll be all right i watched where the driver was going we’ll retrace their trail

they fly to Tangier travel south by train Tanya is irritable insisting Odysseus carry her backpack Casablanca is ***** 3 men peer from sunglasses act suspicious wear tattered trench coats Tanya and Odysseus snack at cafe which provides hookahs for smoking hashish Odysseus scores several grams Tanya laughs suggests they rent car drive south travel to sandy beaches of Diabet for 6 weeks in the morning she paces around French hotel room with cigarette in one hand ashtray in other like she is sultry 1940’s Hollywood actress she stays in room and devours Penguin Classics Tolstoy Stendhal Proust Huysmans Zola turns out Tanya is sexually frigid she buys Odysseus anything he wants but does not put out they take train Marrakech it is sun drenched with blue skies mountains in distance Odysseus wants to go out explore get ***** with the natives he visits Medina daily witnessing many bizarre scenes he does not understand a woman squatting over an egg a man with no legs dragging himself through marketplace holding up cigarette butts in his hand he meets a professor who is out of work because king of Morocco has closed the universities due to teachers’ strike professor explains woman squatting over egg is fortuneteller and man dragging himself has been offered crutches many times yet makes more money playing off pity of tourists cigarette butts are for sale the professor invites Odysseus to visit Berbers in mountains Odysseus persuades Tanya she reluctantly agrees the 3 travel by bus in first-class front row seats vehicle filled with lively families chickens pig bus driver has assistant who lugs people onto bus or shoves them out door at a midpoint bus stops in little town everyone exits bus then men women children urinate in street local venders sell trinkets snacks Odysseus buys nibbles shish-kabob that later professor informs is roasted cat and dog they reenter bus wait suddenly butchered lamb flank is flung onto Odysseus’s lap a man climbs aboard bus stairs then grabs large carcass and heedlessly walks to back seat Odysseus wipes blood and slime off his jeans Tanya demurely giggles bus climbs mountains arrives at small Berber village professor leads them along narrow winding street of shanty huts sheltering merchants open kitchens professor tastes from various steaming iron kettles finally decides on one they are directed to rickety roof where they sit wait a boy comes up with plastic bowl filled with water and small box of Tide following professor they wash their hands then minutes later proprietor brings up simmering *** of couscous serves it with scratched raw plastic bowls no eating utensils they eat with their fingers Tanya seems bothered declines to partake she withdraws into silence after meal she becomes irritable complains of headache says she needs to return to Marrakech she remains standoffish on bus all the way to French hotel

after Marrakech they take boat trip to Italy while onboard Odysseus meets Italian Count who has an eye for him Odysseus wears Jim Morrison beat-up leather jeans Bruce Lee t-shirt scraggly whiskers Count wears thin manicured beard tiny red Speedo swim trunks Tanya grins amused Count offers Odysseus and Tanya to be guests at his villa in Milan city flourishes with stylish clothes loud lively restaurants classical sculptures covered in car pollution following several weeks of aristocratic wining and dining amazing 11 course elegant soiree Odysseus botches compliance with Count’s desires they are asked to leave Tanya laughs hysterically they board train to Germany based on Tanya’s tour book they find historic hotel with wind rattling windows coin operated hot water bath in Munich Tanya stays in room Odysseus goes to dance club meets brown-hared pale skinned German girl neither speak the other’s language he pays for hourly rated room they play German girl in animated gesturing warns him as he is going down on her but he does not understand until several days later scratching beard finds ***** seeks A-200 lice treatment German version leather pants disposed Tanya knows but says nothing she buys Volkswagen they drive through Black Forest Tanya wants to visit King Ludwig’s castles Odysseus does the driving mostly they listen to the Who’s “Who’s Next” and Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” he follows Tanya’s instructions not knowing who King Ludwig was eventually he learns Ludwig was colorful character built extravagant Disney like castles and friends Richard Wagner Bavaria is cold gray brown deep forest green scenic Swiss Alps visible in southern view they drive from Neuschwanstein to Linderhof to Herrenchiemsee then Freiburg lodge in bed and breakfasts Tanya grows restless by all the driving decides to ditch car along road in northern France as Odysseus unscrews car license by road side several cars stop French people concerned they need help Tanya is anxious hoping for clean get away from abandoning vehicle they board train to Paris Tanya speaks a little French in spring of 1971 they are backpacking in search of hotel on Left Bank it rains all morning sky is overcast Tanya reads “Pride and Prejudice” Odysseus draws in sketchbook at sidewalk café sitting next to them are older Parisian couple man detects they are Americans he turns to them expresses in English his contempt why can’t you Americans learn from France’s lessons in Vietnam? Tanya and Odysseus don’t look up they feel like dumb ugly Americans within days they leave Paris

cross English Channel by boat they find temporary apartment in Earl’s Court in London it is overcast almost every day within a month they move to larger place in Chelsea with backyard with run down English garden Odysseus weeds garden plants tomatoes lettuce carrots radishes flowers Tanya stays in her room smokes reads at night they go out to ethnic restaurants one night they visit Indian restaurant a very proper English woman sitting at next table orders exotic fruit for dessert Odysseus asks waiter what kind of fruit waiter answers mango Odysseus has never seen or tasted mango English woman delicately eats the fruit with fork and knife Odysseus orders mango for dessert he attempts to imitate how English lady proceeded fruit slips around on plate finally out of frustration he picks it up in his hands bites into it he is aroused by how luscious mango is sniffing with nose scraping fruit’s skin with front teeth then ******* the seed Tanya makes a face suddenly the seed slides from his grasp shoots across table Tanya’s cheeks neck turn scarlet voice raises stop it Odys! you’re disgusting! are you intentionally trying to embarrass me? why are you doing this? he replies i’m not doing anything to you i’m enjoying the most delicious fruit i’ve ever tasted who cares what it looks like? later she laughs about incident offers to buy more mangos promises to take him shopping at Harrods tomorrow he goes along with their arrangement until it all seems like pretty background scenery to an empty intimacy missing all his friends back at art school he writes about his loneliness he feels trapped in Tanya’s web several times he sneaks English girls into his room when Tanya jealously confronts him he admits he has had enough and wants to go back to Hartford she suggests at the least they fly to Bermuda for several weeks to get tan before returning he declines on June 30 1971 Odysseus returns to Hartford and Tanya moves to San Francisco on July 3 Jim Morrison overdoses in Paris
There Is Slavery in Mauritania
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)

There are black slaves in Mauritania
Indentured Patel Slaves in India
Black Slaves in Mali
Black Slaves in Nigeria
Black Slaves in Niger
White Slaves in Russia
Muslim slaves in Senegal
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

Today, December 2013
There are black slaves in Mauritania
serving the white Berbers
Toiling from morning to late evening
working under desert sun like soulless beasts
with no single pay, with no human dignity
there are black slaves in Mauritania.

Let us all go slowly and slowly to fight
In the Islamic city of Nouakchott
To demolish evil monuments of slavery
With our entire human mighty let us fight
With our blood, sweat and soul
Fight slavery the human vice in Mauritania
Free them all black slaves to freedom
Black moor, black Africans, Afro-Mauritanians
From the shackles of slavery to white Berbers,
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

There are women in slavery in Nouakchott
Herding camels and goats, donkeys and mules
Black women ***** in the field alongside animals
Enslaved women ***** in the field as children look
Black women ***** in the field as goats and sheep watch
Black women of Mauritania are in deep tribulation
All their pregnancies a protégé of white ****
No child of love, wedlock or out of romance
There are black slaves in Mauritania

There are a million black slaves in Mauritania
Some know of their fate some know not
Their doom of chattel slavery
Where man is sold away like a wooden spoon
Away to a willing buyer a slave is sold
Away to a fellow slave master man is donated
As a wedding gift or a birthday token
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

When a white Berber king dies
The journey before him is long and arduous
The journey to heaven is long indeed
He can’t go alone he needs a hand
Two live slaves are buried along with him
The slave master the white Berber
To provide hand and service to the master off to heaven
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

In the city of Nouakchott Muslim enslave Moslem
Against the holy law of Mohammed,
As long as they are black Africans and moors
Islam is neither fortress nor succor for them
Against the racist urge for enslavement
White Berbers the rich of Nouakchott
Enslave Black Muslim and half Black Muslim
There are black slaves in Mauritania.

It is true god of Christians and Allah of Moslem
Owe apology to enslaved black humanity
God and Allah should apologize to Africanity
God said, Jews can **** a non Jewish slaves is no sin
Albeit, killing a Jewish slave is sin
Jews only to be slaves for seven years
That, slaves venerate your masters
That, non-Jewish slaves are in life slavery
Their sire slaves of the master
Jewish slaves give birth to children
Non-Jewish slaves give birth to slaves
Allah said, Muslim can enslave all non Muslims
O! Africa! There are black slaves in Mauritania.

Liberated slaves of Mauritania go back
In the sand dunes and dents of slavery
Teach your folks both master and slaves
The fruit of freedom from religious utopia
Tell the slaves to ignore the Quran and the Bible
For these are none other than handmaids of slavery
Stupid bliss, blind faith, O! Archaic pusillanimity
there is black slaves in Mauritania.

Let the slaves read and teach others to read
Fanon Omar the son of Algeria
Walter Rodney son of Guyana
Aime Cesaire son of the north
Ousmane of Senegal the wood of Islam
Amilcar Cabral the verdant cape
Malcolm X and Paul Freire, pedagogy of slavery
Marcus Garvey and The black souls of W Dubois
There are black slaves in Mauritania

For me and my house I stand for freedom
For me and my house I stand for human dignity
For me and my house I stand for diversity in humanity
For me and my house I will never enslave a fellow human being
For me and my house I better serve Marxism down to my infinity
Other than flirting with christo-islamic glorification of slavery
Slaves in Mauritania have tyranny of numbers over the Berbers
Stand up and fight the few slave drivers in Mauritania
There are black slaves in Mauritania.
judy smith Sep 2016
Paris has traditionally been the city where inter­national designers – from Australia and England to Beirut and Japan – opt to unveil their collections. However, Karen Ruimy, who is behind the Kalmar label, chose the runways of Milan Fashion Week for her debut showcase in September.

The Morocco-born, London- based designer hosted an intimate al fresco event in a private palazzo to launch her holiday line of fine cotton and silk jumpsuits, breezy kaftans, long skirts, playsuits and off-the-shoulder tops in tropical prints.

Ruimy had a career in finance before moving into the arts – she owns a museum of photography in Marrakech – and has become increasingly involved in fashion and beauty, thanks to her personal interest in holistic therapies.

These are clothes, she explains, that marry luxury and wellness, and are the things she would wear when she wants quality time by herself. The fact that they are made in Italy, convinced her that Milan was the right place for her debut – where she showed alongside the likes of Gucci, Prada, Verscae and Marni.

On fashion calendars, Milan has conventionally been the place where the runways confirm the trends and themes hinted at ­earlier, in New York and London. However, this season, the Italian designers did not speak with one voice, making Milan Fashion Week all the more refreshing for it.

Often, there might be an era or style of design that dominates the runways during a particular season, but for spring/summer 2017 in Milan, there was a standout showing of techno sportswear and techno fabrics employed in updated classics such as coats and box-pleat skirts, or with references to north African and Native American themes.

The Italian designers sent looks that would appeal to everyone, from the haute bohemian and athletic woman, to the cool sophisticate and the art crowd, as well as – as in the case of Moschino – to the iPhone generation.

Only three seasons ago, Gucci’s creative director Alessandro Michele was lauded for his complicated maximalist styling. Yet in Milan, Gucci channelled a dreamlike vibe with Victoriana, denim, athletic apparel and oversized accessories, thrown together in delightful chaos, making it difficult to predict the direction Michele is taking Gucci in.

Currently he seems to be in a holding pattern, hovering at once over 1940s Hollywood glamour, 1970s flared pantsuits, and ruffled party dresses from the 1980s, in a cacophony of ­colours and fabrics.

The feeling of joyous madness continued at Dolce & Gabbana, where street dancers emerged from the audience to start the party in the designers’ tropical-themed show. The clothes used some of their familiar tropes, such as military jackets, corseted black-lace dresses miniskirts. New, however, were the baggy tapering trousers redolent of jodhpurs, and the lavish and detailed embellishment the designers used to sell their story.

Wanderlust dominated the moodboards at Roberto Cavalli – rich patterns, embroidery and patchworks inspired by Native Americans – and Etro with its ­tribal themes on kaftans, duster coats and Berber-style capes.

Giorgio Armani, Agnona Tod’s, Bottega Veneta and Salvatore Ferragamo – with its stylish twisted leather dresses and crisp athletic sportswear designed by newcomer Fulvio Rigoni – all answered the call of women who want stylish but undemanding clothes.

Marni would appeal to the art world for its graceful, pioneering ideas. The label’s finely pleated dresses displayed a life of their own, and its micro-printed dresses were gathered, folded and distorted to walk the line between stylish and quirky.

In contrast, the sportswear at MaxMara and Donatella Versace targeted the dynamic generation of athletic women, with sleek leggings, belted jackets, power suits and anoraks. Versace has made it clear that she thinks this is the only way forward. She may be right, but there’s always room for the myriad styles displayed at Milan Fashion Week in all our wardrobes.

It was feathers with everything at Prada. Silk pyjamas, boldly coloured and mixed checks, cardigans and wrap skirts with Velcro fasteners show Miuccia Prada reinventing the classics. Most glamorous was the series of evening dresses and pyjamas with jewelled embroidery and feathers, worn with kitten heels that married sporty straps with heaps of crystals. Prada’s must-have bag of the season is a bold clutch with a long strap fastener, that comes in a multitude of geometric and daisy patterns.

Versace

Over the past three seasons, Donatella Versace has been carving out a new image for her brand – a shift from the luxe glam of red carpets and superyachts, although the inhabitants of that world will be sure to buy into the new Versace vibe. Donatella’s girls are both glamorous and empowered. The sporty look is tough, urban and energetic, judging by the billowing ultra-thin high-tech nylon parkas and blousons, stirrup trousers and dresses (the shapes of which are manipulated by drawstrings). Dresses, skirts and tops are spliced at angles and studded together. Swishy pleated dresses and silky slit skirts gave energy when in movement, and were as soft as the look got.

Bottega Veneta

Model Gigi Hadid and veteran actress Lauren Hutton walked arm in arm down the Bottega Veneta runway, illustrating the breadth of the Italian maison in Tomas Maier’s hands. This was a double celebration of the Bottega’s 50th ­anniversary and Maier’s 15th as its creative director. Menswear and womenswear were combined, and the focus was on easy, elegant clothes in luxurious materials, such as ostrich, crocodile and lamb skin for coats; easy knits and cotton dresses worn with antique-style silver jewellery; and wedge heels. Fifteen handbag styles debuted along with 15 from the archive.

Fendi

Silvia Venturini’s new Kan handbag was a star turn at Milan. The stud-lock bag dotted with candy-coloured studs, rosette embroidery and floral ribbons couldn’t help but charm every woman in the audience. It was the perfect joyful accessory for Karl Lagerfeld’s feminine vintage romp through the wardrobe of Marie Antoinette, with sugary colours, bows, big apron skirts and crisp white embroidery juxtaposed with sporty footballer-stripe tops – effectively updating a historical look.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Boubkar Chelh Sep 2015
Welcom my new year (2965-2015) by boubkar chelh

Welcome my new year

This is your celebration

The remembrance of your triumph

Let’s enjoy this moment together

To burn candles

To sing

To discuss the victory of chichonk

It’s time to say goodbye to 2964

Full of misery and scars

Welcome my new year

To live this occasion alone

I sent invitations to my neighbors, but they didn’t join the party

They told me, you are only a bony body drifted by the waves of history

No one cares of your story

Welcome my new year

Come to revive our past memories

Which lost in centuries of wars

Intolerance

In my country

Where the injustice spread

Where my forefathers killed under the hourses’shoes

The wheel of time registered all my sacrifices

I am official along time ago. Still creeping on my wounded knees

Toward schools and administrations,

I realized that they aren’t satisfied to use my name

Welcome my new year

To be witness, to have knowledge of my status

I am a ball of hatred inside the souls of my neighbors

I can smell it from their breath

I can see it in the white teeth of laughing hyenas

I become only an ornate writings on posters

My issue is waiting for my democratic turn

Because the world is busy with other issues

Welcome my new year

This is our chance

Hand in hand for change

And demand this new world to give support
About the political issue of Tamazight language (berber)
2D World Apr 2018
I'm ready to shoot, hand me the pistol *** I'm ****** all the time
These issues are deeper than an Adam's apple so take a bite of Adam's apple, that was the world's first crime
I hid myself so much my sanity was the only thing the seeker couldn't find
I made contract for my life but the liability waiver was never signed
I'm lost in these thoughts undoubtedly trapped in my own mind
Just waiting for the stars and planets to become aligned
Since things naturally don't go right although a stitch in time saves nine
But its all like Amanda on drugs, that life's the only thing she couldn't Byne
I'm brain dead to reality you could call that a cerebral ******
I'm trying to bend the facts but I just keep saying "insert girder"
I tried to dance life away so I took lessons from Tina at Bob's Burger
But I still seem to be invisible in plain sight like telling you what the hell is a Berber
I'm just rambling out words to hide the old love in my eyes
Since I was stuck in the past searching for an ex-her-size
And if you looked into my eyes two months ago I could tell you I loved to despise
A relationship til I caught an angel with no lies or disguise
I always wondered what life would be like if both my grandfathers never died
I met one at his funeral and the other had a demolition dirby crash because the other guy didn't read the driver's hand guide
I'd give a lot to see them and what they were like they'd be the ones I confide
The feelings of my past pain and agony, let then know how I was trapped in the rough seas with high tide
I often believed my eyes drip dropped because every drop eye dripped was a waterfall of mental issues
If you thought Squidward was bad when he sang boys who cry then I'm gonna four ply for these eyes no other tissues
I used to take happiness for granted well at least that was my excuse
To stay in the darkness of my shadows because I couldn't even reach silver with my super sonic level of abuse
Corruption is nothing but a stain on my shirt and memory lane is just about an aisle down from my rebirth
I didn't think I could make it this far after being imprisoned behind the suicidal bars and my lack of self worth
I wasn't too fond of my father so I adopted father time and it was mother's nature to act like my mother earth
But sometimes I think this life being born was but a broken condomn that couldn't break the return the slab curse
Its been a while since I've had a depressing memory but thank GOD its still that way
I'm still trying to walk on my ten toes so I could tip toe through the Garden of Eden when its my time and day
But sin weighs me down and I live off of these unhealthy murderous thoughts and sometimes forget to pray
Good thing I'm still in my youth pushing it to the limit like Corbin Bleu would say
I have at least eight more lines left so let's keep the heat running at a ten
Watch what light enters your eyes because my fire could damage your retina and shatter your lens
Leaving you with distorted images like capturing Kodak, black and white pictures will be the new trend
If your not laughing yet take a sip of this aqueous humor, my boujee friend Mercedes thought her last name was Benz
There's little to go so try to read in between the lines of this mental battle
You're stuck playing with babies but I'm trying to hang with the snakes that rattle
This conversation is from me to you never look for a farmer who'll treat you like cattle
And if didn't you know I was the narrator, main character and second person so has your mind been dismantled?
#LetTheMindFlow #PutPenToPaper
J Arturo Nov 2013
it's been a while since I wrote "a day in the life" or even
those little diatribes about the girls I like
but tonight the keys on my keyboard feel shorter, somehow
more eager to go down
and I'm tired
but it's good to write.

I'll start with monday I guess because that's when today started
I don't know how I keep this up and survive, but
I'm pretty sure I've been sleeping three nights a week for
months now.
it's like... haha... a year after polyphasing I need to make up for lost time.
Monday was Dana's parents ("parental") anniversary, it says in
the pink striped box, on the week view, of my calendar
I don't remember getting up but I started the clock at 10am sharp with
"remove sets and 5 easy steps from current"
no, never mind, I remember it now
(I checked my texts)
Damian invited me to breakfast, Tuneup, I said 8:45
he said he'd be there earlier. I got there at 8:30, before him
and sat in the back room. read the cached news items on my iPad. ate
a breakfast burrito with bacon, smothered, green
because I didn't want him to see me eating, again,
a burrito with the chili inside.
but he sat in the other room with… someone I can't remember
(I heard them, grabbed my coffee and switched seats)
he had kids, though. so we talked about kids. and they talked about kids
I don't really care about describing work any more.

Dana's mad at me, now, definitely– if it's 10am on Monday
It may have started last night… I don't know. She's mad because I work all day
and she has off
not that I know what we'd do to celebrate.
I went to Northern New Mexico College… impressed Sandy... Sandy something.
Impressed Damian by impressing Sandy, and as we drive back from Española
I realize that he's somehow grown into a larger part of my life than I thought would happen
and I'm almost wondering now if
when we leave from here
Dana will be enough to fill it.

It had snowed over the weekend, the mountains above Santa Fe were red with blood and the
valley spread out beneath us was white like… "white people", and it was (I think, should have been)
dark by the time I got home.

Dana had cleaned everything… and she never cleans everything, but she was so mad
and I was mad. hell. I was mad. because I don't want to be this person either
I mean, of course I do
can we ever be anyone, but who we want to be?
but more than this person I wanted to be somebody who suffers, and suffers for something good
and I knew that I could righteously suffer for this trip and for Damian and not have to suffer
for whatever person I might be afraid of becoming.

So when I told her I was going to work all night, she was even more upset and then we were
leaving for her christmas party but I realized that I have no interest in Starbucks or
the people she works with and she had no interest in me right then so I told her I would stay and
I guess at least she only texted me three or four times furiously.

and I… worked. I could tell you how. but I don't care.
and she came home. mad.
but Jones and Katy came over later, it was my idea
and I tried to install my new electronic sensor gadget while they three
sat on the bed and read poetry
(Katy and Jones had broken up earlier that day)

and after they left… at maybe three, Dana was being nicer to me
and I held her some, and we made out, but I
worked
but maybe, this time, it was a little more ok.

I went to breakfast, again
went to Patricia's, felt sad.
Came home, again. drove Dana to work, again.
Checked Ryan's mail box to see if I'd missed our delivery.
spent an hour and a half on Skype with Jeff, Connor listened...
I want to say admiringly

and then we took more adderall and started writing code and things got
a little fadey for a few hours, but I was ok because I am always ok and Connor
is really good at this, really– I mean. Connor is really good. and I want him to be happy.
and to try and tell him this I bought him burgers at five star (in Devargas, where we saw Todd)
and offered to give him my car.
we dropped off Katy's phone at Connor's house and came back here, took more drugs and tried to write but
it's getting over our heads now, and I'm feeling soft and strange
but soon Dana is off work and she seems, even, happy now
as we drive to Ben Sobol's birthday, where I gave him a book
and allowed myself to entertain, for a few minutes, the thought that Ryan might come to Lima. but we had to
come home

because I know I might be tired by now, know I was once before.

and tomorrow there is so much to do.

but sleep wouldn't come and I started writing my thoughts out, about instagram and privacy
and, to Damian, about whether compiling .less was worth it in the long run
and, thinking, who will argue with me like this when santa fe is done?
and then Dana and I had *** and now is the part where I sleep so hard it hurts but I keep thinking and it feels nice instead.
and so it's four am now, and I write.

and write. caught up on time.

still trying to catch my breath, from the ***– I've had a whole pack of cigarettes today, haha, maybe I'm
suffering myself to death
but mostly it doesn't even hurt, I just can't breathe, and my heart races to break free of my chest
(to go where it will be better kept).

so I wrote this because I looked down at my feet on the berber carpet lit by the rope light under our bed and I was afraid
that I might never again know what it was like to look down at something like that,
soft, orange, warm. home.
and with Dana, falling asleep to my left.


we leave for lima two weeks from today.
I told Ryan last night that it's because it's too easy here, because everything's been done
but it's a cruel thing to say… I think… when no one has it easy here, nobody has what they want
in fact it seems like almost everyone, not just here, spends most of life trying to get this
while we see our satisfaction only as an imperative to throw it away.
but.
hey. I guess I said I'd
like to die a poet
and now it's looking that way.

and I guess the reason I keep standing outside, the reason I texted Rachel from Danny's porch is that I've always
left every place with a plan to come back to
all those Rachel's fire escapes.
but I've never yet looked back, and certainly never gone home.
so the question, as I see it now is:
am I always going forward because I've always been running away?
or is it just impossible to go back to where you came?

because I am happy here. and this, for the first time, does not feel like an escape
so I'm scared it will turn out like one anyway.
From almost a year ago today
Harsh unyielding sunset, buries me against the page.
I won't be lazing on a couch, left to rot and waste away.
Wormy plush Berber carpet soft against the afternoon.
Debts are pile high and the company picnic is this June.

The pages are vellum paper covered in ancient Egyptian script.
I've loved you methodically ever since we met inside that crypt.
The dregs brings me solemn hope that one day we'll breakthrough.
Works calling in on Sunday for some overtime that's overdue.

Its a 5 past 4 the glass lays arrhythmic, shattered at my feet.
We found each other down beside the casket of the diseased.
Heartfelt words never came out of a mouth that were so pure.
How could you take me for interesting, in life I'm just a bore.

Down. I've already ruined the letter meant from me to you.
Life is not a fairy tale to broker marriage for us two.
Bloodletting's an aphrodisiac to keep me at the brink.
Why'd I write this silly thing when I spilled my drink.
um. written with a friend. This poem is her fault.
Lazhar Bouazzi Mar 2017
I
He was intoxicated
by the scent of coffee
dancing in the morning
to his mother’s humming.
II
Then a blacksmith - his father -
taught him how to hammer
form out of chaos
in the muddle of force
and a sweaty anvil.
III
Now if he wished to see
the sunness of the sun
and the greenness of the tree
he would summon the image
of Fatma - an Arab maiden
who was once Berber,
to come write on his face
with her soothing finger:
“Salam, my anguished lover.”
IV
When green-eyed Fatma comes
the wreaths of coffee
Would come with her,
writing in the air;
and all the songs of history
would come marching too,
in battle array,
like an army dressed
in civilian clothing
for a dance in Rio.
V
Fatma’s hair –
a still cascade
of light goldness,
a tide of watery fire,
a flight motionless
of a millon birds who
sing in tongues
and laugh
to the stone unlettered
of his fidgety cenotaph.

© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN
Lazhar Bouazzi Aug 2016
I
He was intoxicated
by the scent of the coffee
dancing in the morning
to his mother’s humming.
II
Then a blacksmith - his father -
taught him how to hammer
form out of chaos
in the muddle of force
and a sweaty anvil.
III
Now if he wished to see
the sunness of Sun
and the greenness of Tree
he would summon the specter
of an Arab maiden - Fatma -
who was once Berber
to come write on his face
with her soothing finger:
“Salam, my anguished lover.”
IV
When green-eyed Fatma comes
the wreaths of coffee
Would come with her
writing in the air;
and all the songs of history
would come marching too,
in battle array,
like an army dressed
in civilian clothes
for a dance in Rio.
V
Fatma’s hair –
a still cascade
of thin goldeness,
a tide of watery fire,
a flight motionless  
of a million birds who
speak in tongues
and laugh
to the stone unlettered
of his fidgety cenotaph .

© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, August 27, 2016
Terry Collett Feb 2012
The Mediterranean Sea
caught the moonlight

as you wandered the beach
with Mame

she grabbed your hand
and kissed your cheek

isn’t it out of this world?
she said stopping

and looking into your eyes
and breathing out

her peppermint breath
you smelt the sea salt

felt the slight breeze
coming across the sea

wouldn’t you rather be
with one of the other guys

than be here with me?
you said

gazing at her fuzzy hair
her light blue eyes

oh **** the other guys
it’s you I like

she said
brushing a hand

through your hair
pulling you in closer

to her small tight *******
don’t you like me?

she asked
I thought you fancied me

the way you kept staring at me
on the coach and in Tangiers

you heard the Berber drums
and voices from the camp base

coming on the wind
and wondered if the others

would guess she’d taken you
down the beach

for something romantic
or tumble in the sands

with all lips and hands
well?

she asked
standing there

in her flowered
two piece bathing cloth

sure I do
you muttered

sensing her hand
reaching down

your jeans
seeking an *******

a sign of interest
do you ever think

of those ancients
who may once

have stood
where we now stand?

you said
how they too

may have stood
beneath a sky

and stars
and moon like us?

she stood back and stared
and uttered coldly

no I haven’t
and couldn’t give a cuss

and off she went
up the beach

to the base camp
on smooth sands

and rough tufts of grass
and oh how she knew

to wiggle
her small tight ***.
Shannon Mar 2015
I wait for the crashing fight.
for the tire screech,
the door slam-
for the lava words
that roll magnificent red from my tongue
and slowly drip ashen black onto the wooden floor between us.
I wait for the broken flute,
tiny bubbles, tiny dreams-
all absorbed by Berber Carpet
and mailbox stuffed
with molehills of mountains.
I wait for the heaving pressures
that blow things upwards,
that blow things inwards.
That makes canyons
and mushrooms
I wait for the fury that turns my eyes
cast with doubt, cast with coal dust.
my lungs puffed with indignation-
so little room to breathe
that I am high from venom.
I wait for the disgust to
wrap around me like a Sunday School wrap-skirt
colorful and gay,
and dropped to the floor without
consideration.
I wait for the hate to be early.
with hope already so foolishly spent on each other,
with faith so carelessly blown away
riding in invisible
paper airplanes-
such are the kisses sent across busy roads.
Waste, waste all these desires of the mundane
when lust drives
outside forces divide,
heat and sinner unite us
and I wait,
I do.

I wait for it to pass.
So as to get to the stuff a day beyond the splintered wood
past the love,
past the lush.
past the lace on my forehead.
I wait for it all to past so as to get myself wholly to you.
For it is not the very last of days
I wait to spend with you,
It is the very all of days I wait to spend with you.


Sahn 3/16/15
you shared your time with me, and i am as always, ever grateful.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
they really shouldn't have stressed their point
on education:
      i got educated... and so what?
i would have been happy working my way
up from in a supermarket -
         or any other faint job resembling robotics -
it's harder to get higher education
and start from the tomb-rock-bottom -
too much Disney got fused with your nerves -
and imagination isn't that powerful coupled
with consciousness to make yourself hallucinate
debilitating experiences - it's not that powerful,
however much those who think so argue the point -
i once said: i want to write poetry like Wordsworth -
not really, i want to write poetry like the Boss:
yep, Springsteen - i want to write the lyrics
that Bon Jovi and George Harrison wrote:
that's what should be potatoes (i.e. arable) in poetry:
the inability: the vouchsafed last:
                                                     a void attired to
a crowd: the conductor and the massed-up orchestra -
the magi wand: the larynx and the last breathed chord.
but in reality getting mail from U.C.L.
makes me think only one thing:
hey! i dropped out halfway through the semester!
i didn't go through the second periodic,
i wet mad, but you took my money anyway,
can i have those 3 thousand quids back?
no? well... that's my donation to your sporty-sports
gagging for money... ever hear Oxfam was a
country named in Africa... you're not donating
to starving infants... you're donating
to keep bureaucrats in their jobs -
all post-colonial nations invented charity organisations:
take the money, you have no honour,
or rap left in you -
all post-colonial nations invented charity organisations:
money is the easy way out:
namesake gambling or playing the lottery -
their shark-like-leeches: they prey on hopeless
old women - once again with the
Berber pirates: old age is a curse, rather than an
achievement: we'll never outlive the Galapagos
turtles: they're born with wrinkles and an
expectation to live beyond 100 years...
no, i don't feel anything having been achieved
with me receiving the Portico magazine from U.C.L.,
they shouldn't have hanged that carrot in my face
given my father is a roofer and a former
metal worker - they sniffed me out via their class
warfare jealousy - they sniffed out that i was
an avid reader and beyond comprehensively literate,
that ****** them off... i continued on my road
to demise, wishing it was truly a ding-****
resemblance of Sonny Clark... i shame the fates
invoking the furies that it wasn't the similar case
of lessened concerns - and death, or Samael -
like antoine de aaint-exupéry's little prince
in similar caste to understand: once more,
death the most curious of children -
for it is said: when born with weakness once
easily accepts it, and focuses on the beauty
beyond - but when weakness is forced upon you
without genetic explanation, as a crime:
one takes to kindred involvement with the cancerous
child, who, in his weakness, sought beyond
the immediate: the aesthetic at being so little
time to find so little beneath the potential:
as life firstly peppered with drink, woman and song,
to be later salted with drink (alcoholism), woman
(celibacy at best, or ****** and general abandonment),
and song: rain drools on the parapets like
angry gods, or friendly dogs.
and you think the winner of the english x-factor
2015 got a record contract? have you seen her lately?
they make the people already broken doubly broke...
elevation of ******* i think...
                  the karaoke tribunal and sentencing -
they are worse off than they were before,
    like me, being fed the lie of getting education,
becoming an educated chemist,
    not catching the fisherman's tackle of money
and suiting myself to the robot clause of entertaining
those that pay for waiters, doormen and shelf-stacking creeps,
  i should be there, not here, not writing these
poems: i should be there.
               i'm not even born to entertain,
   hence my precursor to meddle in shelved toothpaste.
          my best gambit joke?
           i've got nothing to lose -
unless it's a library of books and compact disks...
   beyond that... talk of honour and *****
  is pretty much tied to kingpins and stilettos -
        and life... well... i like the way it sounds:
  and lastly god: well, i don't blame the Utopian
fetishist on all the grief... i just like to turn people
into simple coordinates of pointing my finger:
                    nits                          nits
      and an old lady knitting a scarf to catch
                       a forgotten wind from the north:
that hushed the Eskimo into yawning -
             from breath a sculpture in the Arctic:
                                    an electron cloud,
  rigid dogmatic orbits elsewhere, and for some other fools;
            as i was once.
I came across an old house,
In the tumult of the Marrakesh Medina,
Cluttered with a frenzied pace
And mutterings of Berber foreign to the Western ear.

Yet, this old house, which was anything but a
grain in the midst of the chilly hustle,
Possessed my curiosity as only mud was the floor,
Drifting to decay
As the wind howled through its door.

There, an impoverished family dwelt,
In a space so dismal and rude,
And though gnawing sadness they felt
They had not a morsel of food.

The children, dressed in tatters and rags,
Cried to their poor mother for bread
Of which she held none.
Cupping their faces with looks of despair,
She said "Do not cry, or my soul will not spare"

Well then, let the wealthy and merry
See such a scene!
That in an old house in the depths of a medina,
They may know miseries are declared.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
my neighbour is having a solitary moment
with a wee bonfire in the backyard...
don't ask me... i watched his father trim the grass
a few hours ago...
maybe he's burning that...
or... whatever the reason... it's in the corner
of my eye... and the flame is big...
and small enough... that.. if warranted...
would make a great... theatre of soliloquy...
i'm yet to see a shadow enlarged
and gesticulating that it's talking...
with a raised arm... the other arm playing
the gratified ballerina when the applause comes...
hand entombing the heart...
      i'm yet to see a skull hamlet & co.
             "moment"...
                       so that's my neighbour...
i'm perched on a windowsill sitting on a folded
leg...
           and trying to crackle my throat
like a perched crow...
                the jay bird is of the same family...
        it's a crackle... i'm pretty sure the bird becomes
its new: "revised" distinct when bound to flight...
it's very hard to find...
boredom and existential exhaustion as...
synonyms... however back you look down the
entymological route...
   i couldn't have scribble: if only...
     i couldn't have scribbled this out of...
borne from a compliment to make "boredom":
a necessity...

          perhaps i am... existentially exhausted...
wouldn't you be?
if i were drinking some kalimotxo...
               or 20 beers... there would be an incremental
effect being felt...
which is what makes drinking a fun:
a social... something to borrow from:
"celebration": disinhibition?
                           only because of this one series
drama: sharp object... which made...
led zeppelin somehow "cool" again...
   in the evening... which didn't make it to...
the: the best of - led zeppelin double **** album...
either...
           so my neighbour is having a bonfire...
and there's nothing eerie about the silence...
esp. when there's a humming...
a fire is talking... but it's not the sort of fire
most associated with pine needles...
pine cones... and ancient oak...
           so he's doing that... i'm smiling... perched...
and drinking ms. know-it-all *****...
and... that's the problem with *****:
you have to wait for it... then again:
merely waiting is not a desirable affair...
and preoccupying myself with: "something else"
for a span of 20 minutes...
       waiting for a k.o. instead getting to play
the fiddle of grand itch-maestro with...
a if it isn't a cat nicknamed by schrodinger...
then all bets are on Pavlov...
                   but it's such a tiresome debacle...
had i made a video and had it... (x, y, x) of traction...
yadda-yadda...
          all the drama: soap-opera i could have
enjoyed... an imaginary street...
with imaginary squabbles...
        but none of the very translate-worthy
orientations of minor frictions...
         the bonfire is dying off...
the fire hasn't been fed dry pine needles...
or pine cones... or merchant oak retelling the story
of marco polo and... to the fire with me:
none of this... mahagonny sheen:
i fancy... a rough stone turned into a marble-esque
sheen?
                         it might just serve
a wooden hammer... to tell the difference between...
well... my initial presumption...
should lady justice be coupled with a gorgon?
lady justice and medussa?
  iustitia (who holds a sword and scales)
& prudentia (who holds a mirror and a snake)...

perhaps if Iustitia is blind-folded...
prudence can have her mouth stitched up?

but i'm still waiting for the ***** to kick in...
and so much for "fun" trying to find oneself:
with all the readily available knowledge and...
not... not: plagiarizing...
     or "jumping ship"...

   there truly isn't some sort of worthy compenation...
the served platter: the swedish table of...
all the foods presented... and you come
and stab at the nibbles... in a congregation of
those: given the advent of eating where:
no heart or its content is of a debate-worthiness...

beside the ancient roman glutton...
and... the well trained oesophagus...
          and regurgitation... and what was once
the celebrated icon: the snake...
would sooner or later have to be replaced
with a tapeworm...

    the serpent has had its day... and marble...
time... for the lesser creature... then again: perhaps not...

in "celebrating a drink of *****":
well... so much for... hunting a mammoth...
or... sitting beside a bonfire and...
telling stories or: dancing ****-naked
and dancing...

         i see no circus(es): beside the heaps and
heaps of bread: a character "assassination"
in writing...
sooner i'll catch a glimpse of a ballet choreographer
pirouette...
than know the difference between:
spinning an uncooked egg...
an egg soft-boiled and an egg: hard-boiled...

a racing track... equivalent to...
being hypnotized by... a spinning vinyl...
because... yore! that beacon of yawn rummaging
in the background of ambience...
and refrigerator drizzle of:
when falling rain became infused with...
electricity...

- alt. to "say" shish-kebab (let's be swabian...
and... "forget" the hyphen...)
like a toothless dog...
indeed... sometimes the tip of the tongue
teases the palet(t)e... hard or soft...
but sometimes the tongue-tip teases the top
frontal incissors: teeth...

where is the concept of the: rhapsodic...
the rattle-R... the quick... imitation
juggling of the tongue against the palete...
where the breath that involves
the uvula to swing like:
"for whom the bell tolls"?

                   do you see anyone taming
a ******* coch draig... anywhere?
this? this being "this"... "vicinity" of da-sein?
there-being: there's (there is)...
          on the moon... the alpaca trail...
in el dorado... in how the zulu tribe announced
a pristine: sod it...
          if only bulls were used instead
of horses: all that grit and armour...
notably of the cataphract...
                       if only bulls were used...
but: who's here to "rewrite" history
of that already, past... and inevitable?

the terrible has... already happened...
               í hiechyd ac tragwyddoldeb!
                          to health and eternity!
chiral: no...
     cheaper: no...
              i will find the "hark"...
   chosen... no no no...
                    similar (soft) to kid...
hybrid esque...
                 that "h" is not a surd...
verbatin 'e hie'....

                Olav! Dmitri!
Igor! meine hoonds!
                  ч - cheap... ah... roaming
in and around Midlothian...
                    loch ness! no prefix to suit up
a tux into... comes as a "surprise"
with the suffix: a loch...
                       х: hardly... k, s or c... or z...
xenophone: yuppy... aye aye...

              trag-wyd-dol-deb!
  zee velsh: sometimes the added same,
consonant... nurse! scalpel...
makes way for perfecting the syllable
incision... like so... trag-wyd-dol-deb!

   the lights have been dimmed on the tablet...
the battery life's longevity: expoinential explosion...
it takes so much little electric conversion
to feed the sap of sound...
that it takes to create blinking
and not blinking: murmur:
picadilly circus phantasmagoria of u.v. -

you can be crowned king deaf...
fall asleep with the radio... when the lights
are dimmed...
       no sooner me: no sooner you...
but... i'd much prefer the sound
of a fox at night...
than teeth gnashing... frothing: idly hungry...

all and no science: "or"...
all and no politics... "or" all of politics and all
of science... and most probably:
when the priest would wear a gown...
and the vatican remained neutral...
      
       etc. etc.              beside the vote:
or: woe... or woo...
        and such is the suffix association
with:      -man...
                    that there's some sexually
pervasive: attachment of either:
wooed by woe...
or... or...           to be woed by a woo...
  the beta gang would be singing:
bigmouth strikes again in a placebo
rendition...
                 because when you want to pirate
the original: it better sound just
a little bit more than then most...
    effeminate male available...
a morrisey will do jack ****...
you have to go full-tilt hindu and back
into transgender with
                                  a brian molko...

or at least that's how i concern myself
when managing to sit through
a production of tchaikovsky's ballet...
   beside the feet: what am i looking at?
spandex... the bulge?
     like it might be some covert name
for a battle, crisp on a piece of paper:
before the puff of a battle of crisps goes: pop!
in between the fudge of marrow
and the shrapnel of bone...
              here... i find my throne...
in a memory that's at best:
an amnesia...

             and somehow lodged in:
the... would-be... renting bums of dreams...
the squaters... the dream circuit...
when... in 1973... england drew 1 - 1
with poland...
                when being... just 7 years old
from 1966... an epitome for a very befitting
ending...
a closure... like any other...
             grandp'ah once said... once said...
and great-grandp'ah once said... once said...
sure as **** the logbow men of the 100 year war
weren't english... last time i heard
that churchill "mishandled" his V...
the original V voz viz zee velsh...
             index and ******* at
the fwench knights... since... if caught...
they'd cut 'em off!

                 V-salute! salute!
                           the blitzkireg overture...
         compound! no spaces in between: no hyphens!
der blitzkriegouvertüre...
        
   "together" come "together:... the disenfranchised
speculation of... what it was like...
to borrow from the first sequence
of the 20th century...

       and pass it into... what was it like...
acid neon: blonde... the culprit of bringing
the "congregation"
   past-participle: a romania a yugoslavia...
and a poland... nerve-riddled lithuania
and whittle estonia: etc.

      that grand boag bear o' ruzzia...
             wit' its ever persistent euro-fetish...
windows! windows! we need to see!
kandinsky translated into wind!

       on this democratic canvas...
           on this democratic canvas...
einz! zwei! drei!
     raz! dwa! trzy!
                   hey presto:
               on this demokratischleinwand!
meine stimme...
   meine: boo!
              meine: ghulrückzug!
               ich: bin zu sein gehört... ja?!
  
          this grand idea of a(n) european family:
get together...
   under the banner of: der VierteReich...
                the penned scribbles of
could always replace the boom-boom-'ombs...
and the brit-thai... would sit it out:
gob-smacked into shackles
and halos and angelic wings found
in the replica bargain of dry twigs...

the english sovereignty found among...
romanian root and fruit pickers...
              and if i too weren't lazy enough...
i'd have managed to find an atom-bomb...
glued my shadow to a wall...
and started a macaques' dance of freedom
from the magpie's cackle...
#metoo!

                   the cure and depeche mode made
it under the iron curtain...
the smiths? sorry... but i'm twice as likely
to appreciate them...

     the bass rummaging from fleetwood mac's
the chain...
and the bass rummaging from
pulp's wickerman...
            
                              canys y Çymraeg!
r. s. thomas...
                 that... battle of the season...
who is to know... beside auld lang syne:
whether the scots 'ave some gaelic in 'em...
except for the orthography: the diacritical & dialect
of somewhere akin to Glasgow...

  - that "unnecessary" war within the confines
of: the proud and selected: "empirical" and by invitation:
the trope... the welsh are...
are a silenced minority... and all that would
require "us" to confine "us" to "do"...
would be...
to stop thinking of england...
as a nation...
and... australia... or h'america...
as... a diaspora...

              clearly: "they" want to be at best:
and at worst: the distinct: genesis:
valkyrie first raiders...
in that non-essential war:
if the 1st world war wasn't...
seigl pandering lizzy...
sweden wuz neutralz...

                      woz she'iz notz?
            a pwetty pwetty: cobweb riddled face
like that of chris cornell...
               glue eyed but a background all
lacking in dimension for the sort
of immediacy of a curtain! cobain...
     yes: this is me... ******* on and dancing
on a grave:
last time i chequered my patience...
i found... the al fresco museum in a graveyard...
and the 3rd party artist working
on the marble... by gesture of wind and rain
and sun...

             how: exhausted by...
you cannot write an opera in italian...
to later translate it into german...
nor... clarity! sha! shtil!
                you can't... translate syllables:
like so... from... a japanese haiku...
into a... at best... a hiatus! a european sorting
factory of minor minded details...
of: adventure when licking a seal
on an envelope or...
a footnote that becomes a peacock
and a post-stamp when... detailing the affairs
of a piece of paper being governed by:
grieving having paired with it...
the metsphor / metaphysical aid of wings...

flake me: sire...
     boxing champ burroughs and all those
lost narratives that will never make it:
market a slow attention-span;
that's already available...

                          the muse my muse...
past the bob dylan and dylan thomas...
the priest and a cardiff...
        if only cardiff could boast akin
to how edinburgh can boast about
the old town and the royal mile...
and arthur's seat... and the craggs...

and... what women want...
mereditch brooks would never become
the next: the next to what next
of a... alanis morissette...
              never becoming... or being...
but all of that: for a continued cultural presence
of being in the recital rubric?
thank god for that...

quiet frankly? the la's": there she goes...
a little bit... a "little bit" irrelevant...
when you listen to the whole album...

the trouble with falling in love...
      is the trouble of: falling out of "love"
with one's mother...
                pursuit of the details
of a foetus... and all those details
of an unread book that staged its "fright"
on a bookshelf for circa close to a century...

             welcome party! or not so welcome!
i'd love to hear more about
welsh nationalism... since: on topic...
the scots have forgotten gaelic...
because of glasgow and being: oh so all
so-over pristine & perfect...
at least the welsh! oh god...
the welsh! on these isles!

hyphen! enter!
cymeradwyaeth

               cym-era-dwy-aeth
                      cym-erad-wyaeth

applause!­ and i'm trying: so trying...
to live for a liszt and lady gaga
as a summary of the jealous eyes
thst gave birth to bitter-tears...
yeah... fame...
and the cosmopolitan web of c.c.t.v.
"fame"...
the one already arrived at...
and the one pampered... with glitches
                               of editorial staff...

gu an cuimreach!
   - the escapade of keeping strict rigour / rubric
of being fed by adverts...
to have a buying impetus...
but not... the selling / haggling impetus...
from the cheap-*** moors and
the myriad of marrakesh:
   the berber: a latin for: hard-time:
quitting-time blues of...
            there are people still involved with
the a, z, via x q and... no readily available:
ph and th...
         because they were never...
the sort of brits... about to celebrate...
being conquered by ancient rome...
and ancient rome bulimia...
somewhere "circa": the baltic sea...

               - there's a "need" to be "coincidental":
pristine the developed mandibles
and the surname akin to singh...
        or... khan...
                   double that... for whatever reason...
and call it: Wales...
and then... the english-speaking conundrum:
"conundrum"...
and at best... nostalgia for 1990s
h'americana cultural export of:
fwends...

                    then: at best...
Wales is... Silesia... but at worst...
                    Ruthenia... and / or... Galicia...
that now Masovia is...
and how the Prussians were once
the fabled lot of the germanic left-over pieces
of a people: "******" by the standard
of teutons... or... what part of the glorification
of ancient rome...
oh, right... the parts not making
the germans the antagonists...
the "paraphrase" of the unexplored...

                    that only the english...
were to be so proud of...
a much later "digest" of... to have a "comfort"
within the confines...
last time i checked... there was pride in being
graffiti riddled as the afghanistan of
the ancient period...

             the unique history of island-dwelling
folk...
that they are... and i... can write
in their lingo: as... being devoid...
of... root...
              what is the great wall of china...
when what's already available...
given the la manche...
                                                       ­                 is...      
is not...
                 such a most pristine choice
of gentleman... and all!
and all! and all were tio be advocates!
and vote bound to stress!
king and country and the pickwick society
of: loitering gimps for worth of letters!

half a face divulging shadow...
half of which encompasses a play:
a ghost riddled... humanoid loiter
of exaspersation... and none... which,
would be most available...
to loiter... for the apple of Judas and
tht clinging... #30 pieces of silver...

thus wed: las vegas english...
      loitering actors' spew:
awound an Ilfowd 'n' Bawking 'n'
Dagenham... yo popsickle
'ipe and joy-c-c / jewc...
or whatsemfwench callz: sauz...
via dat: zu-not-my-*******-zoo.. ju...
plonkers & sons. (available)
jue: not juice 'ough...
******* kite-fliers!

            talks a cokckey slang like
a cherry... and that's...
the last left-over before mr. bangladesh
    before: quckie does one speakin'
"smart" did anyone any 'ood...

'oved up a 'arry 'n' the 'etter 'alf
of the... non-essential...
sounding "smart"
in cockeny: to be made export:
"loading essentials"...
is... hardly... the right sort of
***** avenue of:
escape from cwawddyff:
you... poke you poke my eyez
out... you... better start sounding
cockney shmartz...
eh: ja: herr?!

       **** it... whatever...
elt'z and etc. this bogus party back to...
and so call itz...
a limboz partez!
Qualyxian Quest Jun 2023
Probably it doesn't make sense
But I still pray
At times
Even when I can't believe in God

I like Albert Camus
My favorite French atheist
Unde Malum?
North Africa. Berber Mother.

Me at JMU
Lonely as the rain
Her boyfriends studlier than I
Might place Life of Pi

The Shinkansen is impressive
Chesterton aggressive
I tend toward confessive
Like Augustine. But still shy.

               Thank you, Ry.
Jena T May 2020
Sprawling hills interspersed with trees
Ah it felt like home
Like driving down a barren road
Cities aren't for me
Don't get me wrong
I like the hustle and faces I see
But I'll take the quiet land
No matter the nation it is,
I call the country home
From the cliffs of Gibralter
To the ruins of Gobekli Tepe,
And back round to the massive Red Wood trees,
I'll roam
Down to the burning sands of Berber lands,
I'll stay in the country
Leave the cities to the people
And listen to the trees.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2022
well, the day ended in a spectacular fashion...
no, not really...
my bus home was pulling up
while i was aiming to get on it,
some colt was ahead of me, we slightly bumped
shoulders... he began with with kissing
his teeth like a black girl in high school...
i just turned around and showed him the *******...
that shut him up... i didn't hear a peep-squeak
or anything...

you, sorted, mate? i wasn't going to give him
the cryptic three finger salute of: read between
the lines... i really wasn't in the mood for a conversation...
a simple ******* sufficed...
the girls at the bus stop giggled... well yeah...
seriously... i'm not in the mood...

i was going a shift at Fulham today and we had
a cardiac arrest during the match,
the whole event was broken up...
CPR was given in the stadium and then later in
the ambulance...
we had riot police and we had police on horseback...
previous creatures... i always loved how
dogs interact with larger mammals, esp. horses...

i had two girls run up to me... sisters...
i've bruised my finger... my nail is bleeding...
run along to the toilet...
wash it up... get some tissue, wrap it round...
put pressure on it... walked up to the public toilet
and waited for them to come out...
you're alright? great... on your way...

that's what i really love about working...
i can write about... easiest subject matter on the planet...
esp. when you're shepherding people
to a major event like a football match...
good afternoon... smile, giggle... have all the appearances
of a welcoming person in a high-viz...
sunglasses on, sunglasses off...

X party... i spent most of the time with her today,
as if we were on a first date...
she taught me some Arabic...
she's supposed to give me a cookbook since...
well Egyptian cooking is unlike Moroccan cooking
and Moroccan cooking is unlike Persian
cooking... the Egyptians use a lot of rice...
but they have the sour notes... not the Berber sweet-hearts...
of apricots...

i love working as much as i think that
this "rhymes": arbeit macht frei...
                              weird, isn't it?
hello! good afternoon! enjoy the match...
i told said X... look at it... the Thames...
it's a river that always appears as if it's not flowing...
sure... the winds were coming to 80mph...
so it looked like the river was flowing...
it wasn't... the Thames always looks like a *******
pond... even though there's a TIDE-IN
& a TIDE-OUT...

what the **** did we cover? pretty much everything...
oh... yeah, i was into horse-riding...
terrible on the *******... but at a gallops' pace...
cycling in heavy traffic comes close...
favourite birds... i said mine were crows...
birds of death? well... i owe myself a mythology
to the crow...
which is not journalism which is not history...
it's... myth! it's archetypical building...
that's Huginn... & that's Muninn...

       the proverb read: lies have short legs...
lies don't walk on stilts...
Gemma... that ******* infatuation for the past two days...
premonition came...
only last night i was putting out cigarettes on my
left hand's knuckles... enjoying the pain...
from the burns... today i was smearing some
antiseptic cream on the wound...
one of the coworkers asked me... what happened?
i said don't worry...
why would i lie about getting those burns
from making pizza... even though i was making pizza?

this was bound to come up...
one ***** talking **** talking about another girl...
using a man as her... phalanx shield...
i'm getting the *******...
yeah, i drink, prior to the day i'm working...
but i don't drink on the job...
but then... doesn't all cologne utilise alcohol,
so it lasts longer, so it's more potent?
me, drinking on the job?

oh, because all the other girls had to start calling
her all the slurs...
**** this and that...
i just called her a serpent, a snake...
i told them all... wait... don't react with so much
immediacy, i'm cool, i know i have just been
slandered... i'm in bed with this female version
of the worst of the worst...
i'm the male version of the worst of the worst...
if she's apparent this psychotic mental case...
guess what... i am too...
but i don't keep in so ******* publically open...
i back down... listen to some pop music...
backstreet boys...

premonition though, eh?
i was loved up for about 3 days...
day 4 i was putting out cigarettes on my knuckles so the
******* roller-coaster in my stomach could
****** off... riding a bicycle and doing
stomach crunches didn't help...
what helped? being told that lies were being
told about me...
the amount of detail i put toward personal
hygiene...

what a beautiful sunset overlooking the Thames...
once the crowd was leaving...
two boys addressed me... waved... have a good night...
i extended my hand... did a pseudo-wave
by folding my fingers into a fist... you too mate...
then... **** me...
a Greek guy... who was selling hot-dogs in the stadium...
first shift, last shift...
too messy apparently...

    by definition: if Greek... historically pederasts were rife...
well, it was a nice compliment:
i like you beard... some serious ****** tension,
some "chin wagging" / conversation,
he touched me, i touched him,
you look like a Greek orthodox priest...
wow.... just... wow...

once the spectators were leaving
i was having a head-spin...
              the sunset over the Thames was beautiful,
but this, right now?
too many ******* people...
we only interacted for about 2 minutes...
i sometimes wish i was gay...
esp. today...
with the women available...
i wish i was gay.... I WISH I WAS
HOMOSEXUAL... why?! it would imply i'd get
more "traffic"...

oh esp. if they're Greek hot dog stall providers
and they come up to you
telling you... your beard...
i like your beard... you look like an orthodox
Greek priest!
                              like, what the ****?!
oh, **** me, i'm going to own that...
right then and there and all the more simple!

the way he touched me... a comforting touch
of the arm... i was seriously surprised that he was walking up
to me...
oh... hello....
well thank god i had that premonition concerning
being slandered... i smell of alcohol?
no chance of my drinking on the job...
fasting? smelling too much of cologne?
sure...

there are two single mothers...
their boys are best pals... i'm not about to **** it up...
let it go... i said: let it go...
wait for her to make a second mistake...
even though i didn't have sniffer dogs on my ***
this shift.... i was asked by supervisors to sniff
my ***... like they sniffed my ***...
i spoke some French and i spoke some
Latvian... sveiki draugs! etc.

i love work...
you get to meet so many people! i love it!
ich liebe diese!
ich liebe arbeit!
you been away from it long enough...
i ought to have joined the army...
well... if i haven't joined the army by
now... this is going to be my next, new,
cohort... today i watched how 10 stewards
were turned down from their shifts
for simply turning up late...

i even said... *****-slap to the face...
i even slapped myself... seeing them walk-away
from the shift... oh well...

i was so loved up for almost 4 days...
thank god, or whoever i sobered up with
putting ciagarretes out on my knuckles...
            i enjoy pain... i really enjoy pain...
like i told this one ***** that slandered me...
oh... but you don't know who you're dealing with...
do you? she can riddle me with her
******* sop story all she wants...

           i have a sop story of my own...
to hell with getting tattoos...
i'm out here to get scars...
  how's that?!

          each of my left hand's knuckles have
already been exposed to cigarette **** burns...
why? i enjoy... the pain...
pain is the ultimate signature of reality!
Kate Copeland Aug 2019
On Spring street where one
sees the dunes
from the kitchen windows  
her first place in a long time
small, old, life stories
with new bathroom fittings
took time to prettify
yellow wardrobe, blue settee
and she remembers sitting
on the Berber rug looking
around, thinking
renting out is nice.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2017
i remember this: once upon in amsterdam,
i was travelling through europe
and spent two days there -
ended up in a hostel, shared a room
with two germans and one egyptian...
the egyptian had a bottle of ***** handy
and very much kept to himself,
i thought, **** me, what a Berber!
the first day i spent it with the germans...
deutsche deutsche spreschen
         fraud-   ger?
                           we had a meal talked
a bit, they ate the brownies,
                   i drank the beer...
       they smoked some,
            i drank some more...
        it was all well and dandy until
we got back to the hostel,
   the two germans bought some mushrooms
and sat in a completely dark room
with the television room,
           watching family guy giggling
like virgins at a ***** word...
at this point i met eyes with the egyptian
and we almost had a telepathic conversation:
what a taste...
             how about taking mushrooms
in the desert, or in a forest?
                     so next day we shared
each other's company,
                  he smoked, i drank,
but then he inclined for an opinion,
he said listen to this, and gave me a pair
of headphones...
          prior to this he said: take a drag,
which i did...
                  never in my life did marijuana
become MDMA... i was litter Li ****,
mouth agape, eyes closed,
                     as if high on some ****** -
the song? le trio joubran's masar...
    expression contorted into a silent ******...
we left the cafe with me laughing
in the street and me calling him brother...
to which he said: but i'm not your brother...
to which i replied: but you are man,
like me, aren't you?
           maybe it was just a lesson in history,
feeling uncomfortable around germans
or maybe it was watching wasting a batch
of mushrooms stuck to a television set...
whatever it...
                    you only get the transcendental
moments, high on so little, tipsy,
   opening your eyes while closing your
mouth and looking at a girl transfixed by
seeing something quiet impossible,
  and then saluting her with a V in hand
and her saluting back with a V of the same
hand... as if walking through a mirror
while riding a chimera.
                   then again, what a ****** story...

but at least now i know where that expression:
we're not laughing, we're crying comes from...

exhibit a.

     (

                       )

     (

                  the reclining buddha of,
                zee vat po of bangkok...

     the eyes "cry" while the lips glee -

exhibit b.

  )

                    (

  )

            the crescent moon of the eyes
     matched with a terse lips -

                        such simple graphics to explain
the phrase: laughing when actually crying;
but then again, not exactly,
   exhibit b. looks to me as an expression
of a pensive, meditative mind.

      ah! but there is another word the germans
admire other than the word kurva
         (yes, that ought to be chiselled with
  a W, but an english speaker would confuse
that with a Ł, and it's not the old'e V for U) -
  the germans love the effort of the trill and
the ledge behind it, as if falling off -
        ßrać!
                    to ****...
   no, not to take a ****, but in the process
of *******... ****'s going one place and one
place alone... down the toilet
    but since i've used the ß (which is strange
given that it has no lowercase orthography)
          there is no ledge after the r-,
          the ledge is ß the cascade is -rać...
which also means that the ß is hardly
a sharp / acute S... but a prolonged S...
             a sharp / acute S is actually polish (ś);
some words just have an appeal
   far more reaching than a toned down
******...
              
                 i actually think i managed to perfect
writing to the ease of wiping your own aß -
which is also another word for ace,
   yes,
               it's far more productive to
study orthography than metaphysics -
  
  but one thing bugs me...

    this alt. right movement...
              it would have been completely agreeable
to me, had it not descended into
   the one lesson that should have been learned
after the right disintegrated and disappeared
for a while...
                         the "jewish question"...
         you don't know a jew from a yew tree
unless you live next to one,
  and take note that: not all are rich,
              not all are powerful,
        to me a jew is like any other average
joe at the bottom line...
              i rejected the greek "judaism"
(christianity) because
to me, the church should have...
      kinda kept a lid on the emergence
of the nag hammadi library,
             esp. the gospel of st. thomas...
with this in the open, i find the vatican
library empty, i can romanticise it containing
any secrets if the gospel of st. thomas
reveals "christ" as nothing more than
a freak for playing chinese whispers -
p'shh p'shh squishy squishy... past it on...
   esp. when opening the sunday
newspaper and reading an article
about how children are being taught
gender neutrality and trans-
   this that and the other...
which to me, also originates in the gospel
of st. thomas, who's currently:
wrecking havoc in the supposed
              "reconstruction" of christianity...

sorry... but i'm living... in a, ******* madhouse!
   and there was only one option
from there: play along...
         if the rest are losing it,
pretend that you're looking for something.
renseksderf Jun 2022
tragic queen Elyssa, foundress
of Carthage. Her brother, Pygmalion
slew her husband, the chief priest
Acharbas and in the uproar fled
with Tyrian nobles, bearing gold 
on a fleet of Phoenician ships.

Then on Mauritanian coastline
she bought some land to build 
a new city-state, from the vantage
of Byrsa on which her citadel stands
'circumfenced' by strips of ox-hide
strung along the perimeter of the hill

The Berber chieftain rather stingily
offered as much land as an ox-hide
could cover and later on sought her 
hand in marriage as the city grew
in wealth and regional importance
but she threw herself into flames

of a priestly funeral pyre to Tanit,
in self-immolation for the dead
god of vegetation, Adonis-Eshmun;
Dido, as she was known, hence was
elevated to goddess and patroness
of that great Punic realm of Carthage
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2019
how can the heart be some primitive source
of the stated: item(s)?

     as much as the heart can be assured
to fathoming the bleak basics
of feelings...

   the mind is all but
the ivory tower, unshakeable,
standard brocker for any furthered
speech...

                       the mind is no punching-bag,
the heart?
   always the punching-bag...
  "suddenly" it's allowed to express
the heart, to cling to the subjective,
myopia of expressing
the encoded use of language
via the written form...
   less: blah-blah...
                   and more:
something less available in the scribble
format...

i don't know where this anti-primitive
anti-subjectivity,
anti-emotion, anti-heart
rhetoric comes from...
oh, wait, i know...
allegiance, trust...
something made familiar...

            the cold anglo-saxon
doesn't appreciate this,
it's not that he doesn't know it,
he just doesn't believe in
any existentialism outside
the realm of
encouraging solipsism...

  what?!
hands, tied, pontius pilate
pose...

emotions: bad...
but... that's coming from the sort
of people
who have thoughts that
are more spaghetti, labyrinth-esque
than the ones
associated with seeking out
the existence of the genome sequence...

thought: overrated...
feeling: over-expressed
without a necessary context...
there's nothing bad
about feeling an honest
heart,
than thinking inside
the confines of a dishonest
mind...
        and there's the pollo-corazón
    estofado (chicken-heart stew):
saddle the donkey, i'll bring
the horse and saddle
with a wine-dunk-spare...
  pensando-mitad-desesperado-(h)ombre...

you know what "thinking"
does to you in the southern part
of europe?
   a ******* rotten plum
for a heart...
          why is "thinking"
so underrated,
and "feeling" so overrated?
  ah... the blah-blah instrument
of the chosen sharpened sprech
of the tongue and the spear...
Goths?
  i heard they made it as far
as making it into
the Berber territory of
north africa...

besides the crusades...
there is a concept of jihad
in christianity...
   the reqoncuista of Iberia...
you fight a fight to
reconquer of the lost
till & toll...
        or the northern crusades
instigated
by the tuetonic knights...
****, i better remember such
events than waste my time
being inked in tattoos...

   my psyche is tattooed...
which leaves the brazen tattoo
of a dragon on my shoulder-blade
missing, "lost"...

the ills of feeling,
the basic architecture...
coming from people...
who's thinking,
would never arrive at a Copernican
discovery...
        feeling: bad...
oh, i'm pretty sure the heart
can be allocated some variant
of eloquence...
       and not all thinking is good...
not all thinking can shut the heart
up...
  feeling is hardly the primitive
variant
of the compressions of
the mind...
                    see...
but at least the heart didn't ask
for a freedom of speech
to translate the already given
freedom of thought...
sometimes you just want
someone to shut up
prior to telling them:
you shut up, or i punch you...

learn to eat your heart,
or at least silence your mind...
because i've reached a stage where:
talk is becoming really
expensive...
              i will never understand
how... speaking freely
overtook the observation
done by Kierkegaard...
   how... speech became more
important than thinking...
    the more automated spew
of the heart's "voice"
comes prior...
to the mind's silence relieving
a man from thought,
and engaging him in speaking...
   'ablar pequeño
                   toto minúsculo...
        
i want to feel all the emotions
in my heart, my heart is never silent...
even if i "think" my heart is silent,
it's still speaking,
  lucky you: i filter through it,
and keep some of its wordings
cut-off...
        my mind?
       well... i can tell a difference
between a conscious effort
to succumb to and express a thought...
and what has to recline
on the recycling heap
for a worth of dreaming...
     maybe that's why i dream
to little...
        i'm ensuring my consciousness
is akin to pork...
    hardly anything goes "missing",
almost everything is eaten,
even schnitzel fried pork cartilage
of the ears...

yeah... but the comment section...
of "thought" concerns?
they do not come from a kosher source...
i hate being bloated with
opinions i will make dialectics
out of...
          it's like:
being turkey-fed crap...
           become anglo-sax:
feel less,
never learn to temper your heart
with a silent mind...
just translate
your heart into the degraded
manifest of the waggling tongue...
the mind readily translates itself
into the waggling tongue...
       i feel, therefore i dig a trench
of silence...
   i "think", therefore i waggle
and blow helium's worth of balloons
to blah-blah-blah...

no... i think i'll stick to this
non-intrusive medium of entrenching
myself in phonetic encoding...
**** the cheap talk...
i have itchy tips on each of
my fingers attached to every word
in this spew, and also, with the last
punctuation mark                     .
Qualyxian Quest Dec 2022
I can't really stop writing
But I have tried. I have tried.
Mr. Markson spoke troubling truths
George W. Lied

St. Augustine was from Africa
His mother was Berber
Why did God create flies?
Spider-Man deserver

Jefferson Davis
Is Miles Morales's father
I have 3 sons
She has two daughters

Baltimore, like Chicago
One Dark Knight
Thank you kindly, James
I still see 2 green lights

           I still fight
Qualyxian Quest Aug 2020
Camus believed life is meaningless
And yet we must have meaning

His mother was a Berber
Algeria he's leaning

Went to France on my honeymoon
Saw Chartres and Notre Dame

Hey Lady! Pretty Lady.
Please look kindly on

Our struggles here below
Absurd the life of l'homme.

    We seek, We seek for home.
Babatunde Raimi Apr 2020
Should I credit the Romans
Believing we are opposite the Mediterranean
After the tribe of Berber
Somewhere around Tunisia
Then “Suna’ed” us Africa

Oh the land of fruit and corn!
How blessed thou art
The cradle of human civilization
Someday we shall ask the Phonecians
How two words: "friqi" and "pharika
Combined to make Africa

As they all jostled to take credit
Driven by the zest to unlearn, learn and relearn
“Na dem oh!” The Greeks, they chose “Aphrikē”
Because we are free from cold and horror
A summation of fify-four beautiful countries
So my dear, Africa ain’t no country
It’s a beautifully endowed continent

Theories can be rationalized
So, I beg to defer, “No be only Africus”
How can a Yemeni invade our continent?
And also get the bragging rights
I refuse to accept “Africa” is a Yemenite invader
“Hapana Sio kweli”

Whether from the explorers, westwards
Or the traders from India
Whoever conjured the name “Mother Africa”
Surely deserves some accolades
Your next vacation, destination Africa
Come my friend, come
You’ll be glad you did

Though rich, yet under-developed
Slowly but surely we have progressed
This, grossly under-reported by your media
We are a continent blessed with “All”
Don’t die until you experience our hospitality
Maybe, just maybe, together we can take a walk

— The End —