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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2018
.the English pronounce the Cornish town's name as: nookie... the **** is it, a Green Day album name, or a Limp Bizkit song? perhaps i'm too French in my pronunciation... quail... eggs... quay... qua-a... if i were Welsh i'd write you the name like so... newyddquaa... but no... but no, has to be nookie... like buggering a ******* chimp... quail eggs... see how language becomes mutated? nothing is apparently, certainly, stable... always the permutation of a flux... i must have ingested a little of the French concept of: je ne sais quoi when learning English... come one... nouveaucarrière: new quarry... nouveauquai... nookie?! seriously?! Q, Q... Quail eggs... quay... new... quay... maybe the usage of hyphenating words into compounds needs to be revised in the english sprechen... ******* mutation... nookie... ****** ******, + a ******* wookie, walking carpet ride worth the name Chew-a-Buck-back-up! i'd settle for: new-key... some sort of variant of a maritime honing device for locating ships sending distress signals during storms... but... no... but hey... it's authentically Welsh territory... Cornwall is, after all... a pre modern extension of Wales... nookie this: shotgun my *** while is spew rhetoric concerning the health benefits of applying feces instead of ****** cream for the benefits of: no one.

over 20 years spent living on these isles,
and i never made the connection -
Welsh nationalism could only work
if you included Cornwall -
   given that Cornish is very much:
a southern dialect of Çymru -

    i guess... i'm not sure...
    let's put it to the etymological filter...
beginning with primary words:

black
           du   (Cornish)
      du   (Çymru)

    red
       rudh (Cornish)
      coch (Çymru)

    white
          gwydn (Cornish)
gwyn (Çymru)
      
        i guess that's how etymology works,
a shared origins story...
etymology is best
  examined with primary words,
basic nouns / adjectives...

that was the adjective test...
now for the noun test:

sun
          howl (Cornish)
  haul (Çymru)
      
  moon
   loor (Cornish)
    lloer (Çymru)...

    sky
               ebron (Cornish)
   awyr (Çymru) -
   ah...
      now we see what becomes from
etymological deviation...
the sky has to have more
inherent connotations
of a religiosity as the resting place
of sort...

i'm sure that sea, earth, water,
and fire, are very much akin
or mountain...
but i could be wrong...

sea
    mor (Cornish)
  môr (Çymru)
        
earth
    dor (Cornish)
   ddaear (Çymru)

   water
         dowr (Cornish)
      *dŵr
(Çymru)

fire
          tan (Cornish)
    tân (Çymru)

mountain
   menedh (Cornish)
         mynydd (Çymru) -

ah... well then...
that explains the separatist movement
of Cornwall akin
to the Spanish Basque or
the Catalonia...

  white cross on a black flag...
they're ******* Welsh down
in Cornwall!
   i was eating a Welsh pasty
all along!
           oh... i see...
  
  that's why they're separatists
down there...
but there's one word that's
crucial in all of this,
given the emblem is
on the Welsh flag...

  dragon...
**** me!
       there's an etymological source
for the word in English...
and, it comes from?
Cornish!

   draig (Çymru)
  dragon... in ******* Cornish!
**** me...

what's... snake?
   serpont (Cornish)
    neidr (Çymru)...

   there are similarities though...
blatant ones...
which explains the separatist
sentiment of the Cornish people...
they are like
the Hindu corp
of the Urdu speaking Welsh...
high Welsh and low Welsh...

nice to know...
thank god i didn't make the brash
etymological decision to
find the long lost cousins
of a shared source
akin to "abstract" words,
like...

        gallos-power-gallu...

****!

          g­od?
       DUW | WUD

well... god is a universal word,
and it matches...
  duw is god in Cornish,
and in Çymru...
   as it is also Allah on Malta...
funny as the fact that Malta
and it's Knights Hospitaller
cross of St. John of
                                 1567.

20 ******* years on these isles -
and only now i realize
why the Cornish are separatists...
they're Welsh...
   in disguise,
under the guise of a tourist
hot spot that's "nookie":
                       i.e. Newquay...

come to think of it...
    even though i'm living in England...
i interacted more with
the Welsh, the Irish and the Scots...
than i have with the English...
    i'm starting to think that...
if i don't make my way to
Yorkshire...
  or Newcastle...
then i lived in a country...
where the supposed countrymen
of said name... never existed!
ha!

well, in english you'd never really know
that Cornwall was once part of Wales,
given that Wales, isn't in the name
Cornwall: but that's in English...

in Polonaise?
        well... Wales / Walia (that double-u
  or rather, the double-v,
   since... erm: ωμέγα?)
         ergo?
      Cornwall / Kornwalia...
      probably the most beautiful part of
England you can begin to imagine...

aside...
   the current debate over "the pond" in
h'america... tuition fees, student debt...
as much as the h'americans love to gloat
and boast this that and the other...

i'm looking at myself...
    i went to university, studied chemistry,
and history...
   3rd year? 12 hours per week in
the laboratories...
three tiers of chemistry:
a.  physical - i hated physical chemistry,
it's so un-chemical...
   too much physics / mathematical
*******, so obviously i was weak at it...
b. inorganic chemistry...
    something that mingles with
   geology / metallurgy...
   eh... so so... it was o.k. and finally
c. organic chemistry...
   my strongest route, my faustian dream...
and so much like cooking,
so much so that... well: heston blumenthal...
maybe that's why i love cooking
so much, since it reminds me of
organic chemistry...
   anyways, i digress...
      back when i studied...
  and labour was in power with their:
education, education, education mantra?
that's what was still great
                  about britain...
the last stand as it were,
   ****, i still remember tha handing over
of hong kong...
    fee, per year? 1,250 quid...
                      that's it...
student loan, 3,000 quid per year...
   i actually did manage to live
             on the 3,000 with enough money
spare to do weekend away trips to paris,
stockholm, barcelona etc. - and god:
how i loved to travel alone,
bumping into strangers in hostels...
and the best part?
    i don't have to repay my loan until
i earn over 15,000 quid per year...
and since i'm not earning that...
                  the loan will be annuled after
30 years...
   mind you... a really **** year to go
to university and become a british citizen...
since... in scotland... e.u. citizens didn't
pay tuition fees!
      hence the massive surge of the polans
circa 2005...
                                 so: america, **** yeah!

but on a night like this,
esp. in the evening prior to the night itself,
there's that surge in electricity in the air...
you're walking to the supermarket
and the most mediocre magic happens...
sonny rollins' blues in your ears
you pass a street lamp and it gets switched
on by the grid...

                   it's only special because
your're listening to jazz and when you listen
to jazz and promenade...
you might as well be as content as if
walking a yorkshire terrier...
    
   while on the way back, instead of your
usual beer... you buy yourself...
a rowntrees ice lolly...
    and you eat that... smirking, feeling
                                                 like a badass.

p.s. the best thing i received from
the university wasn't even the degree...
a chance to play squash, mountain climbing
(glen coe was a beau)...
         a t-shirt...
since, once i left: a self-teaching discipline.
anastasiad Jan 2017
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L B Nov 2016
Not the lone glory of an orange
basking in Depression’s dusk—
its fluted bowl of purple glass

Nor the fall ways of amber
Leaves burned by roadside
curling smoke’s sun-lit sash

Not tree-lined streets
rabid leaves’ raspy voices
whirling giddy in the wind—

...in none of these

But in the moments I filled with fixing
a lamp shade
painting this place
to a stern perfection

...I thought of you
ordering the tyranny of me
the glass of me
the concrete conscience
I must be right!  Mustn’t I?

The religion of our lives
Driving through Sundays with Polkas blaring
feeding the ducks
and a roast at noon
Waffles and TV later
Lassie and You Asked For It
Wiping my mouth on a Sunday sleeve

I asked for it, alright

He came and went
to the smell of Ice Blue Aqua Velva

He came and went larger than life and first on the scene
to hurricanes, fires, muggings, and races
and of course—THE SHOP!
in an amazing array of uniforms and vehicles
Ambulances, wreckers, pickups, and police cars

He was terrifying! Wonderful!

We would love at a pained distance

His cabinet in the cellar was always locked
But now, just suppose—

if a kid were to haul on its handles...
supposedly—the sheet metal would heave and roar
with the thunder of him!

And those late nights
those harsh ****** lights
lidded hundred watt cones
in the spotlight of THERE
where I wasn’t
in the odor of oils too noxious to dare
beyond the girlish shadows—

he cleaned his guns

I waited and watched where everything seemed
to be
What...?
It seems—he just pushed her against a wall!
I step from girlhood
with my two-cents worth
and it seems I will not be Queen for a Day!

I take my vows!
I swear I will not scrape wax
from the corner of the kitchen floor with a knife!

I have waited.  I have watched
the routines of his mornings
He’s brushing his teeth; he’s combing his hair
he’s tying his shoes while he chats with the cat
I can tell you the creak of the stairs
and the sound of his footsteps rounding the house

...the routine of his return at supper
the routine of anger
My routine of being late—
and as good as dead
squeezing behind—
HIS CHAIR
Praying he wouldn’t notice the mud
Praying for the epiphany of his good mood
when the TV and me--

wouldn’t be blamed for the downfall of the nation
We were not Polish, but my Dad's French-Canadian family lived in a Polish community.  Thus, the fused culture and all the happy, Sunday Polka music.

Lassie, You Asked For It, and Queen For a Day were popular TV programs of the 1950s.
anastasiad Dec 2016
Part One particular: How The Soccer Warm Operates.

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The baseball regularly have fallen a long way due to the fact 1918, once they were invented using a many other named Jervis by Luton as an easy way associated with bets within the link between soccer meets. A few men and women paid for cents hoping of receiving the ? jackpot.

The particular basketball swimming pools is actually a sort of pari-mutuel betting just like the sweepstakes. Every one of the cash secured through each one of the bets members lies inside of a "pool". Your organisers, and various other other individuals, bring their reveal what is actually quit will be contributed similarly between the winning trades. In most cases, fewer than 30% of your complete swimming pool will be delivered to your winning punters. Compared with your wager put that has a ******, your go back on pools playing outlays will never become effectively decided upfront considering that the final amount involving individuals will be not known, in addition there might be several winners with the exact same appropriate winning predict. In these cases the bonanza is actually contributed.

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Harry J Baxter Feb 2013
My Uncle Dec
was really a ***** old man
and I loved him for it
Overweight, but you'd better believe
he ate whatever the hell he wanted
bad liver bad kidneys
but he really loved drinking
almost as much as he loved the horse racing
putting pennies on the ponies
and it didn't matter if he won
he just liked going to the ******'s
a lover of beautiful women
but a loving faithful husband
He died in the shower
and I was sad at first
but I realized he loved his life
Perig3e Jan 2011
If I saw your handwriting
would I know
whether you were taught
cursive by nuns
or a teacher
on the public's payroll?
Does your hand calligraphically flow,
from a favorite Mount Blanc pen,
or do you print
using a ******'s pencil
made by the millions
by Chinamen?
All rights reserved by the author
René Mutumé Mar 2014
I smoked. There was a good hand in the sky. It looked like a peach draped over tatty buildings. Hemisphere broken open at the end of a fist, and then at the end of an arrow shattering the pieces of night surrounding it, as the moon clouds shot, devouring it.

I flicked my cigarette down on the floor of the fly over instead of flicking it into the avalanche of cars below. Who knows what something as miniscule as a flying tab **** might make a person think. It would not be a fly. It would be a tab ****. It would be something that distracted a driver on the motorway, which they traced back to my finger flicking it.

It would be rude and imprecise, a car loses control and then flips over for a second, then paints the carriageway with ten multiples of itself flying and screaming. The driver flys inside the car. And I continued to cross the fly over. Outside the bookies at 10pm there is a dog looking up at me, his head tilts like he is asking me something, as he starts to follow me, leash dragging.

"Oi! Oi! Where the **** are you going?" A mouth from the ****** says, "Oh me, just down here." I reply, "I was talkin to the ******* dog you ******* mug." The gentleman added. The small white staffy was still looking up at me. Well, one of us is going to have to answer him, his tail said. "Oh ******* then." The mouth says changing back again into the building. "I guess we're going down there then." Schrödinger says, or 'Schrö', as he allows me to call him.

I light another cigarette as more arrows are fired from the sky, more like wet arrows now. "Well you'll need to pick up my leash mate; I don't want to look like a ******." Shrö says, "Ah sorry dude," I say picking it up as we continue to walk.

"Most of the people who talk to me are a little mad." The small staffy says. But why am I called Schrödinger? The staffy asks me. Ah come on, you don't get it? Well I do apologise but I am not that sharp on my quantum theory philosophy, and I am also a dog. Oh yes, I concede to him in my flat.  "Do you mind opening the door to your balcony pilgrim?" He asks me next.

"Sorry sir?" I ask him, "Well it either goes on your floor or I do it outside." He says. I open the door as he asks, and then lean against the frame as he takes a ****, and I watch him. He scrapes his hind legs on the concrete as if forgetting that it is concrete and not soil. You remind me a lot of love, I mention to him, smoking.

“You know what pilgrim? I think I prefer the name Otto Gross.” The staffy says looking up at the mixing night and I hatch open a new can pouring some into his bowl on the balcony. Cheers love. He says. He puts his two front paws on the meter high wall where my balcony overlooks a junk yard, and begins to speak.

“There is my lover! As screamed across sense and filled with conjoined gait, of my eye and hand, I am jealous of the city she walks in, by me, as I am half departed, myself, near a fox that gathers in ball, by me and is a better *****, than me, here, so I learn, from vermin, how to hide, how to fight, and how to re-appear. How to have humour, like theirs, and there unplanned joy-“

Woah “*******”, I’m spewing, a poet dog! A pile of dosh in the equilibrium! I rush back into my flat and grab a pencil and paper, shake a bit, take a sip, keep on listening, then nearly fall **** forwards returning to the balcony scribbling. And there’s a ****** dog talking.

“I trit-trot across roads with my last owner, winning jobs only within tasks of cemetery light, inside and on, the wall; so curled so, as I sleep outside, so sojourned within, grey dusk, car rivers- I spit! Not so far as giants can, just a piece of spittle, just shadow puppets dancing, just marionettes laughing-”
Schrödinger sang on my balcony beginning to howl, making the lid of the box open.

“To ******* the rain. To share within it, its fire, its knowable drench, of skin like hymn, that is so far penetrating, and mingled past flesh, opened and quakeless to the onslaught of lightening swans! The quickening fury, of several slow days, and lives, devouring the metronome of salutes, upon heart buildings coming down like tetrahedrons drawn by many hands, of dusk filth opening to the arrays of data goods and gods, and produced from the pockets of gibbous mooned skies, and I whisper to the tsunami: mood unhung, bellowing away from the dog fights, and unpainted streets, I seem: To be praying...”

Monday may come soon I doubted, watching the staffy speak.

“Planets growing teeth, in the stars and the junk-yarded iris, succour comes, and so do the sad journeying flies, flying in the mouth of many gales, as extremities to the planet’s engine, affordable, losses, condensed in- and danced solarlessly -in, dances of mortuary, and wedding sung precipice, the edge of a gale, happy to blow my face, away, just gust gust gust! And yes. I do pray a little, and past holocaust of saccharine tune, our shame is forgotten in the simple, rhythms, of a cup- a hand, a castle flock of gulls, landing in water.”

A dog wags its tail because it has just shat, his owner gone, bag ready below ****, I feel streets clean with loving owners hostile to the madness, of the furious dozen dozen flies- lobotomised drool, ready and alive enough, to laugh, and if you are knifeless, maybe a lil knackered, from work - - we might haul up: eternity, my love, and have a lil more, humour! In our sheets and face and sky, an take a **** holiday, right where you are stood or sat, walking, or resting.

And there are no gods, but the ones that let you see them creasing their soft cheeks and aging beside you, together, letting time die, parapets soak in the weather, and say: ‘hey’, here are my bones, there has been a lot of twisting done, but all they need, is yours.
Cecil Miller Feb 2016
You wouldn't welsh on a bet with your ******,
And you wouldn't go to bed with the mob.
You wouldn't mess with a street gang ****,
No matter if he's crab, or slob.

You wouldn't backstab a man on death row,
Cause you know he just might **** ya.
If you've got the gumption.
You wouldn't have it long,
If you cross Evil Nurse Sheila.

You shouldn't be like the fool who tried
To play games with her heart.
She left him a crushed, empty man.
Well, he was doomed from the start.

Sheila isn't a ******,
And you'd better not let her hear
You snickering about her at the social club.
You might not have time to fear.

Sheila's makes the headlines
Each time she tries to settle down.
She plans to live a carefree life,
But soon she has to leave town.

Everything she does
Is warped, but in the name of love.
Except when she hates your guts,
When it's Sheila you've run afoul of.

If you've never heard her story.
You'd best take this advise.
If you cross her path just keep walking,
You best not look back twice.

Evil Nurse Sheila's got a heart of stone
That looks like a heart of gold.
If you are responsible for it's tarnish,
There's no hope to which you can hold.

Sheila takes no prisoners.
She don't take any guff.
If she thinks to give you a warning,
You'd better not call her bluff.

You wouldn't want to rouse her wrath,
Because her fury won't be tamed.
She's restless, bold and beautiful.
She cannot be contained.

It seems things have been quiet.
She's been off the grid some time.
If she thinks that you might suspect her,
You may be her next crime.
Sheila Carter was a soap opera villianess played by Kimberlin Beown on the sister soaps The Young and the Restless and The Bold and the Beautiful.
I am extremely pleased that my favorite soap actress, Kimberlin Brown, liked this poem after I shared this link to her facebook page.

fans know Sheila has been featured in the Bold and Beautiful episodes a lot in the last couple of months.
Mike Hauser Mar 2013
It was late into the night
When Bert Ernie and I
Were traveling across the plans of Nebraska

Much to my surprise
Bert looks me straight in the eyes
And says Mike, I gotta question to ask ya

With Big Bird wrapped up in the trunk
You'd think that he'd already thunk
About this night long before it already happened

When we took Oscar the Grouches can lid
And whacked Big Bird smack dab in the head
Then tied him up tight while he was napping

We rolled him out to curb
Believe me it looked quite absurd
Ernie grunting with Bert complaining as feathers went flying

But as would be our fate
Able to make our planed escape
When Count Von Count took time out to do some feather counting

So this is now where we are
Bert, Ernie, Me, and Big Bird in the trunk of our car
Not really knowing where it is we are heading

Our thinking went only as far
As nabbing Big Bird and the get away car
Putting Ernie in charge wasn't such a good idea is what I am betting

Ernie says he's figured it all out
Bert says we need this, but still has his doubts
Cause Bert owes back pay alimony and Ernie his ******

We head to Ernie's planed drop off spot
And of course it's swarming with cops
While our inside man " The Monster " gave us up for Cookies

They let Big Bird out of the trunk
Who proceeded to slap us punch drunk
Then straight to the judge to pay for this hideous crime

I can't think of any worse fate
I now know this was a fatal mistake
The sentence...
Banished to Sesame Street for life, now that is hard time
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
why do i have to be a dog for my cats?
the male one is teasing my
neighbour's dog...
the dog starts barking,
doesn't stop...
so i start barking...
a dismembered word
rough with a range of
neared onomatopoeias...
i hate barking, it never sounds
like a dog... more like a
dinosaur... Ra! (a name for a roar),
a tongue's trill at the ******'s in-between...
i hate barking...
or like at the chemists, an old man and me,
i had the seat, asked if he wanted it,
he said no,
we were both waiting for a prescription...
'well, if you're not taking it
i'll stand with you in show of solidarity'
my arms folded like a pigeon or a crow
strutting... well, if he ain't going to sit
i'm not going to sit either....
there you go, solidarity, **** Wałensa...
mushy mushy overgrown moustache nozzle...
brr brr... do the motorboat of oral ***
like you're expressing shrivelling watching
the northern lights! yep, got you...
selfie taken... now make a pose for
Lactose Falls of the waterfalls from your
eyeing *******... yep... that's a happy couple...
take two! no, you ******* go off and wait
in the tourists' queue
like the other 100 ******* did politely.
W Taylor Nov 2012
I once wondered what the Devil reads before he goes to sleep in Prada sheets
I found he wears white but feeds the least hungry

Go ahead and eat he told me, it’s food for thought food for death
I can’t catch my breath or brain they brought me here

One dance with the Devil done by 12 I feel so lucky
My bet with Judas just jarred the line call the ******

He stabbed the Devil’s back too but this time for a quid
We left to ***** and loot like teens with stolen credit cards

Maxed out and blacked out murderers with no trust
****, I must be Satan’s rebellious son.

Now reigning in the fire I bring the flames higher
Than they’ve ever been but my back wont be stabbed like his.
BJFWords May 2017
Margaret Murray, the one with the glasses.
The psychic, the mystic, her tarot card classes.
Told Sheila her mangoes​ were ready to eat.
Told Mary her cousin'd be back on his feet.

Beverley Spence was a sceptic, tough cookie.
In seeing her fortune snapped up by the ******.
Decided to tell her her ulcer would heal.
It's better than sharing with friends what was real.

Patty was eager to hear from her mother.
Jessie bereft at the loss of her brother.
Beatrice needed the skills of a healer.
For Margaret saw death and she would not reveal her -

True destiny seen in the cards at the clubby.
Preventing a scene with her hard drinking hubby.

£20 fortunes, no refunds, no worries.
There's no better tarot than Margaret Murray's.
Clubby is a social club in Scotland
****** is bookmaker.
Samuel Feb 2012
It's as easy as life, this
chronic rebuttal and no
matter how right you are
you're always wrong placing
bets with your own ******

It's as easy as life, but
who's to say life is easy?
certainly not those who have left
and gone on to bigger things; they'd
like to believe in all this in retrospect
but things should be simpler.

It's as easy
as easy as life


guessing is not easy.
Butch Decatoria Nov 2016
The morning ***
Before head
back to work
This Jay Oh Bee
B is for Business / Bull Dooky

"It's just Bid ness"

No Justice
The menial  
Minimum wage / Slave to NEED
Gotta have purchase
Gotta buy to eat
Nothing comes for free

Except / accept

That moment
The whole world fears...
DEATH.
We sware to
Vanity
A Slave  - yes Sam, I am
I tell you this,
what I saw, we done-did seen...

White Grey hound buses
Parking in our Plaza
Spilling out the Orient,
          Snapping pictures with Samsungs
While I did smoke
An Ultralight One-Hundred
          I got the sense,
That they were surveying the area
Pointing forefingers painting
Tree
Miming
Expansion
GPS  e s p
Architects of
Pleased with themselves
The language of enigma
Listen
To their chatter
            chinking
Foreigners they used to be

Historical predictions now

What landscapes will look like
When remodeled
(...misguided projectiles....)

A bigger Little Korea Town

Over run...

It's the feeling
That must be panic
It's the feeling
Of being surrounded
By enemy foe
By animal control
Their tranqs. Nets & leashes,
Stunners at the ready...

Pzzt and sshhzzz....
Static mind games
Phones smarter than us,
Of course

We all FaceTime with touch screens
I'm no different,
Press Menu, the date and time
                       It's only 5 minutes 'til...
Light another ***
Before I get started ...

Here, my J.o.b. Is being...
The only employee "who a-speak a-only
English"
"Only a-one language"
Hehehe *** emoji!

Less than zilch.
Became
Like a spy spying secretly
Inside his own
Country / nation / tribe
Of the people, all
men are creating
Our own inequalities...

Done-did see, oh say so

We'll get - done got toked
Peace pipes, petrol
and the joke goes
"There's this bus, and them opportunists...
Blueprints, dispensaries,
The Imminent war..."

(Even the church has history
With puffs
            Of black and white
Rising
             Smoke / gag reflexes /
The Coughing it up)

Chang Cha-Ching!
Money.

Smoke brakes over
Gets back
To the factory
Line
Chain Gang am/way

Cracking whips on backs of us
Of those who still worship
The lamb...  Yes I am
To Uncle Sam :
In the way, another obstacle


In the way of progress
Prehistoric pedestrian painted in the landscape
Sooner pushing
Out of the way

For supermarket boulevard malls
Catering from cowering from defeat
Mean streaks
Bomb shells
Mad money and a piece
       "Glocks, 45colts, semi automatics
        *******' Guns
For the **** storm hustle...!"


Every conversation started
Shaft all up in your grill
Every question an appeal
Digging
For information is power
Axing who you be?

I works at the grocers
In the ****** area part of town
Across the ways from the dispensary
(**** Chung winks at chuck wagons)

Says I gets discounts
With my marijuana card,
Prescription coupon
******


A regular
Opportunist.

Yelp! Hollah!

we Gots what you really need
       It's only business
Don't take it personal
Minions of E.T

But Still... there is no justice....

We Prey on the Lambs
And tell ourselves to
Doubt slowly
             "Just you wait / they'll see...
Dawn will break"
Ever
Clear of smoke, no doubt

The open minds, eyes,
Done did and able to see...
The invasion
Gots
Intellectual property

Karma will be a *****
On dinosaur bones
In the crude that burns the sky
And the smoke
Breaking
Our bad /

bubble...

FIN.life.
Choke.
Claire Bircher Dec 2010
Three children, clean and roundly fed,
**** time scraping frost from the ******’s window.
Inside betting slips are torn in half.

Neglect isn't always obvious.
D I A Mar 2015
Stress sneaked up on me
Like a ninja out of the blues
Like a saxophone player
Weaving an intricate melody
To my internal noir monologue
Like a tax collector striking at night
Or a deadly case of the Creditors flu
Like a group of cut-throat dames
Like fog in the rain
Like a secretary named Velema.
Stress sneaked up on me
When the detective came a-knocking.

He wanted his cigarette back.

I told him I didn't have it
Then the ****** walked in
Quick-finger Teddy
Butcher Saint Merry
Leg-breaker Lenny
Mobster Ricco
Snake Bently
And Marcini of the incredibly gifted hands
Too.
Lead makes a different sound when fired
Glass shatters into tinkling tear drops
Like the heavens weeping.
Plaster breaks.

Stress sneaked up on  me
Like a kiss goodbye...
It's all
Smoke through the city...
Hard-boiled or Scrambled. A touch of Noir.
Nix W Jun 2020
Lookie lookie lookie
Somethings written in my ******
It’s distaste for you will surely
Turn you into one real sookie
So don’t you lookie lookie lookie
In my private truthful ******
Cos I ain’t about to say no sorries
All because you want to nosey
And now your eyes have gone all sookie
All because you read my ******!
Doodling words in my book I made up this silly song.
Mike Hauser Apr 2016
Tom Thumb got caught peeping
Now his life is on the run
Little Bo Peep lost her sheep
On a gambling junket she was on

Little Miss Muffet is having to tuff it
Out these days in jail
Selling ecstasy to undercover police
And now can't pay her bail

Little Jack Horner took him a corner
Of the Mafia drug trade
Once you are hooked on the **** that he cooks
There's no way of escape

You think that's bad you ain't seen nothing yet
That even comes this close
Since  Mother Goose started hitting the juice
And ended up down on skid row

Humpty Dumpty's more than broke
But not from any fall
He couldn't pay his ******
And his legs were first to go

Baa Baa Black Sheep  
Where forced to sell their wool
To pay for all the damages
While they were in school

Jack pushed Jill down the hill
When he caught her cheating with Little Boy Blue
Now he's paying her doctor bills
Which has left Jack blue too

You think that's bad you ain't seen nothing yet
That even comes this close
Since Mother Goose started hitting the juice
And ended up down on skid row
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2016
if you spot any spelling mistakes, it's due to the html.*

first match, kick-off 12.30, woke at eleven, door-knock
hangover, whole body, not the amateurish headache
off the binge on a friday disco, sun shining, god almighty
sun shining - eyes like a vampire's,
itch upon itch from the sunlight,
                                          turn it off! turn it off! turn it off!
placed the 5 quid bets on three forms,
spotted all the metaphysical ****** addicts
of anger in the ******'s  shop, felt odd watching them
addicted to the futility of the monetary system.
went back home, overcast came and my eyes were
very much pleased, took to drinking
the best bet odds i could ever get,
8-9 of a bottle of whiskey, started reading
articles about david bowie, and realised,
artist? maybe. entertainer? predictably yes.
the comparison? entertainers attract critics,
artists don't - entertainers attract idol worshippers
centre stage, cult gimmicks, artists pulverise
those heathens with fear, remorse, repulsion,
a one-man show attracts one-man passers-by;
where art flows freely criticism does not follow,
where are flows freely criticism does not follow,
why would it? giving the majority of people
treat art in a debasing way, keeping it a pastime,
a hobby, a way to unwind, a way to test their "creativity,"
to be less boring than the average paper-pusher
pencil-sharpener suit... look, you chose the ease life,
deal with it! i don't want your creative crap in my mailbox;
the last thing i want is a person with roughly 20 poems
to their name, and that lovely phraseology of:
i love languge... i'm sure you do, esp. telling me to be
conscious of metaphors and other techniques,
and a vocabulary so rigid that i'd get more fancy from
the range of onomatopoeias not noted from the animal
kingdom... go on... write the adequate lion's roar.
Francie Lynch Feb 2018
Billy's gone to meet his ******;
The odds aren't in his favor.
The Omniscient will ask the questions:
Where's the money, Billy.
The pennies from the multitudes
That built your mansions,
Clothed and fed you,
Lavished yours in comfort and light,
While my children around the world
Died from hunger, disease and war.
Open the ledgers, Billy.
This is your final accounting
.
The Omniscient already knows where the money goes.
Tom Shields Aug 2020
Striped to the nines
these cats carry pig stickers
animal kingdom death comes quicker
shoeshine, no sunshine, grease ain’t slicker
chalked out in lines
lead bellies line mines
outlaws make laws, break jaws
drop jaws, buy cars, bank rob
live like all-stars, a full-time job
all-grime, an all-crime job
a romantic era of terror
splashy ink does injustice
while they sidle Fords with Thompsons
every John a Dillinger, every Romeo a Clyde
everybody comes to terms with hunger and iron
everybody comes to town either starry or steely eyed
they leave or stay forever, never rich enough to justify why these are the streets they had to die on
it ain’t pretty
black eyed beauties and black tied beaus
lies as easy as blood when the liquor flows
guns and love and money, everybody knows
it’s all business, question contracts and the details get gritty
you can get in clean
but you have to get your hands ***** in this city.


A blues musician blew through the nightclubs with his sound
the rhythm of struggle, poetry and soul come alive
one with his voice, his guitar, singing of how he strived
to make it to the bright lights, he thought it was a miracle he survived
songs of Southland and heartache, the sounds of a segregated culture thriving above ground
what scratch he could collect
he would make if he had to play until he broke his guitar’s neck
wise enough to only accept cash up front, no checks
he was not ashamed of a spotlight
a bluesman can’t be afraid
he tore down the house six nights
and on Sunday he prayed
when he heard his music on the radio, riffs and lyrics ripped and splayed
the mournful soul, howling moon, woeful pontifications and rhythms all butchered onto a premier
a darker, sadder set of eyes than he had ever seen fell back on him from his own rearview mirror
outside of a studio, champagne bottles broken on his back for white rock and roll
at some hour when the sun was too far to imagine rising
he found himself peering over the edge of a darkness in his soul
and the liberating relief was frightening, he wanted to force it to feel surprising
a brown neck and a half ago he traded his first guitar, offered to sign it, too
pawnbroker bought it off him for a bill or two, said “Why, who are you?”
He swapped for a pistol under-the-counter and the bullets
bought a couple bottles of liquid encouragement to help him think it through
he drove out to the record label where the thief was lauded on the air
sitting is his car with his last guitar, barrel scratching his head, parting his hair
he was half-awake, about to leave when he saw four people walking out of there
a quick release, trigger, clutch and gas, the conspirators who stole his soul collapsed,
he drove into town to sell it back one piece at a time just as fast.


Putty in palms
men melt in her gaze
Medusa couldn’t ****** a man as easily
Penny flies with fancy and never stays
she was the high school sweetheart, girl next door,
to the star quarterback, to the class president, who fought viciously over her
who were sidetracked brawling while she was romanced by promises of city life
which swept her off the suburban sidewalk, and deposited her in a diner
where a man would come to blows over her, promising to make her his wife
she led men to collide with one another, they called her the Lucky Penny
she loved the attention, flirtatious eye-batting and men being reduced to fools
it was nothing shy of flattery, her chest felt empty without superficial value
and what is a better showing of what you’re worth than what someone else is willing to do to someone else to keep you?
She never really cared beyond the surface for any of them at all,
until, of course, she was ensnared herself by becoming a moll
Penny would only go steady with someone as beautiful as she was,
this invited trouble to her diner, because
a pretty-boy gangster oversaw collections in the area, just as handsome, just as clean
every bit as petty as Penny, twice as angry, twice as spiteful, and twice as mean
he carried a switchblade knife, a jackboot blade, he would love an excuse to cut ribbons out of skin
he had the sharps in spades, sharp wits, looks, angles, and cuts, when they met Penny was already done in
pretty boy promised her the moon, gave her a pad, he made sure she stayed living in the lap of luxury as long as it was his lap, and she’d never step out of line after the first time he got mad
she was number three in a marriage, in over her head and scared for her life
Penny, the apple of every man’s eye, a prisoner, mistress, and second to a mafia wife.

Ruthless killers aren’t these snarling giants
they’re scrawny, little, barbed wire, white men
capable of extreme and unconscionable acts of violence
you never see them until it’s too late for status quo, still water silence
deeper though, you never know, a gun is just bamboo, a ball and black powder, light it
your next-door neighbor could be the next news-maker, a headline teenager
used to be you’d never know somebody got shot if they popped 911 on your personal pager
the world isn’t spinning any faster, but these gray matters will age ya,
I say, going postal isn’t even a clever turn of phrase yeah?

Sunup in the city, Chicago typewriters were dogearing a page in history
like firecrackers going off just before dawn, you could see them from a sky penthouse
the locations of every execution, it wasn’t a mystery
a plan went off without a hitch, an overtaking in the criminal industry
you can say it, business is booming
body-bags went out by the half dozen to a dozen spots, by noon sirens were still zooming
out of precincts, hearses and coroners, ambulances and firetrucks, police too
it wasn’t a warzone, it was a crime scene, every block everywhere, put tape around the whole county
you could bring every citizen in as a witness, they’d probably all have a statement, it was anarchy,
an entire organization was weeded out and killed, with efficient brutality, and get this, no payment offered up for a revenge bounty
nobody retaliated, they were emasculated, eviscerated, devastated and decapitated, nobody knew who held the keys to the city, but we knew to revere the new monarchy
and for months there was humidity so thick it made me sweat through my collar, an air of anxiety
terror is what you don’t know, can’t understand, aren’t able to feel, hear, or even see…


So, I’ll put a bomb in the mail, watch his face turn pale, stand outside the window
make his wife a widow, I’m not settling for the ironic justice he doled out
my life wasn’t nothing, but now it’s always something, ever since I sold my route
a job in this town is a weapon in the wrong hands, if you work for good folks, you’ll be met with injust demands
I delivered payroll for a law firm, took an armored van and stuck to plans
making sure paralegals and secretaries and partners see their paychecks, private sector, shotgun overhead on the rack, nine-millimeter on my side, and rifle in the back
same three to a car, I always drive, if you’re gonna hit us in broad daylight, it’s gotta be on Monday when we’re fully loaded, as we cross this bridge and you better promise we all stay alive
I get my cut, a quarter million, a Judas’ fee to guarantee the financial security of my family and we’ll be packing live rounds if you think of double crossing me, for our own safety
that day hits, we come across the bridge to a traffic stop
I was sweating bullets, my partner rolled down the window to talk to the cop
an accident ahead, then a sudden, deafening pop
now I feel the adrenaline flood, my face is covered with my friend’s blood
I’m kicking at the door, a ricochet bites my ear, I think my head is gone
but even if I’m dead I’m still running for dear life, I’m going on
I hear screaming, automatic gunfire, he’s shooting, taking them out with him,
he’s dying, I’m ripping my uniform off and ducking out, half-blind, the lights get dim
it’s days later, I’m contemplating the darkest things I’ve ever thought, outside a ***** cop’s residence
I’ve barely eaten, I’ve barely thought of anything except tracking this heist crew down, and now I’m showing hesitance
I’ve followed them since that day, I know this is it, they’re all inside, four bad men got rich and two good men died
one coward allowed it to happen, I’m gripping my sidearm, they won’t strip me of my pride, I don’t need any evidence
He kicks the door in, gun drawn on four men, their families just outside, seconds tick away, sweat drips, feet sway, chairs slide and casings clatter, he serves up an equalizer on a platter, that day it’s not a blue matter, it’s a blood splatter, eight dead, four thieves and three collateral, with a lone gunman at the heart of it all.

Fisticuffs always calls up a type of fighter, former priors
agents looking at delinquency like juvenile homes are boxing regency
adopt a son, own a slave, train him to fight for his home and do it all legally
coattail riding, meal ticket punching, a prizefighter raised from adolescence
to do one thing as soon as he enters a ring, turn lights out, win a money bout, leave opponent with no recollections
a colored boxer, killing competition in a record winning Olympic position
never shies away from trouble he tucks his chin and takes it double
always looking on the uppercuts, combinations break safes, open faces and break up guts
a contender for a spot, he’s dreamt of this, he’d give everything he has now away for this shot
it’s a chance at a chance, the only one he’s got
he loves his foster father and his foster mother and it feels like they’ve worked to give him a lot
sitting front row in reserved seats, while ten rounds pass,
his brain rattles in his skull, while they eat popcorn and sit on their ***
hands trembling in his gloves, slumped in the corner, cut the swelling eyes to let him see
he is dying ninety seconds at a time, how long can he last?
His masters don’t stand unless he falls, their love is slavery
these gloves that keep his hands in fists are new cuffs, they contain him, set him free!
He spits blood on the mouthguard, leaves his teeth on the mat, presses off on his knuckles and clears the ten count with the referee
eyes like a monster, he finally snapped, and wore the leather out
he proved his love was stronger than anyone and anything,
by beating his opponent into a fatal coma, in twelve rounds, blood pooled at silent spectator’s feet, as he continued to swing
it was an undercard they never forgot when he went back to prison and left it all in the ring.

Terror is what you don’t know, can’t understand, aren’t able to feel, hear, or even see
and for months I dreamt of what I saw that day with no lucidity
I was locked down in the tragic relivings of a marred, scarred up, firebomb charred memory
they look for the truth in their ink, why does that burden fall on me?
All I am is all I could ever be!
Dogged, **** tired, I put a cigarette out on my arm to see if I’m awake sometimes
sometimes I do it to see if I’m alive, after bearing witness to fresh hell, in some crimes
investigative journalism, my life’s work, it’s all dirt
digging for one breathtaking coffin, until my lungs hurt
it’s misery in a city of misgivings on loop for eternity
they know no one can stomach the bottom; even the bottom falls out
and the bowels and the guts spit up their disgust, the bile discussed their vile supremacy in doubt
but the duty still lands in my lap and I carry it readily if wearily
a good deed is unheard of, which is why the death of all factions
all fractions of crime, all at one time, all one action done on a dime, is killing me
I know there’s something more behind it all, that kind of slaughter would take an army
where does it begin, who’s covering up, lying and playing pretend, where does one thread stop when another one ends?
Am I standing in a web or a noose?
Am I cutting through a conspiracy or am I cutting myself loose?
I feel as if I’m suspended by my own suspicion!
I am lost and I’ve been more directly involved, more focused on a mission!
There are laughs in the walls of motels where I stay,
when I take my pills and check out for the night they giggle “Have a nice day!”
I’m sure of nothing, why do I know there must be foul play!
The streetsweepers must have an agenda, they must profit in some way
but they don’t come out of the woodwork to claim any coercion or pay
any heroics or fame, if any figurehead stood behind them, that person stands at bay
while I wait with bated breath, knowing one thing of murderers who achieve a getaway
that they either are assured of success enough to retire, or to attempt a grander feat of death…

Once an aging prima donna fell upon a spotlight
with all the natural talent of the charismatic, valorous and gallant, a comet in the starlight
she could sing and act and dance and grant wishes with magic if directed so
so, she was a child when she graced stages with her presence every night
crushing the pressure of performances that sink politicians by the sheer size
she could captivate and entertain, dazzle, razzle, sizzle, and shock a crowd
ahead of her time and curb and curtain, her cast and calling, producers she seemed to hypnotize
evoking the ire of every other actress, singer, dancer and magic woman living loud
she burst with color onto silver screens and took the world that was hers by any means, the masses she could mesmerize
even in black in white they fell in love with the gaze of her baby blue eyes
and the only thing to slow or stop this comet’s meteoric rise
was time, she was too old for the parts they wanted every woman for,
tapdancing and vaudeville, lounge singing and musicals, from the ivory tower to the first floor,
an aging prima donna, who would never want to play a bit role or a fill a hole well, she was a goner
she wanted to trailblaze, turn these old ways into new days
and she only needed new opportunities, a chance to shine in her advanced age
for the elderly actress desired to perfect an archetype in drama, beginning with one screenplay page
she wrote herself a major part, around the central cast, so the young talent could shine in the brighter lights, while she would create a legacy to outlast
and they look for her today in her films and wonder what changed to make it so,
that the energetic and happy woman lost all her glow, to go and wither into shadows where she would play the crone and cantankerous, conniving, lonely gypsy or old widow.

In a new era, a new form, the prizefighter came back, weathered the case
five to ten
years off the prime of his career
militant Islamic conversion in the joint, scowl permanently on his face
disowned his adopted home, disemboweled his circle to scorch earth for some personal space
and worked harder to prove he deserved to earn the boxing commission’s good grace
got his boots back on, never out of shape, kept them laced
older and slower, but stronger than ever, a lifestyle change is a new pace
he met a new agent, a man with his true interests at heart, cross it and hope
he’s representing the same faith, referral by a cellmate, representing the same race
he’s educated and well-dressed, his lawyers got lawyers who all send money upriver
so why would he ever sell a fighter downstream? He’s all about one color, one power
the power is cash and the color is green! He’s selling prizefighting like a butcher sells liver
looking at his prime killer like he’s working by the hour, like the man has never been here
he’s lost speed, gained mass, sore in the bones from time’s past and passed in the joint, he’s one night away from an official anoint-
meant, appointment with the king, a racial salesman who takes advantage of the divide to provide a talking point with his melanin
when he doesn’t care, he doesn’t even see people before him as more than cattle or less than human
and with every victory he’s seeing clear, the field he’s standing in is tall grass
he’s struggling to see the path he walked in on, but he’s got to keep burning through the gas
promotion, fight, rounds of blood and sweat, hand held high, interview gab, it’s not over yet
locker room politics, agents and deals, brands and lawyers and contracts, contacts, pagers and producers, politicians and televisions and business meals
he’s got a clear role on only one side of things, that’s why he lets the bird out of the cage because money talks and sometimes ******* sings
but when it comes down to trimming the fat, he earns his living in training and between the ropes in how he lives and how he wins when he swings
and he goes out with a record of sixty fights with eight losses and no contest, one of the most controversial champs to duke it out in those rings.

That they either are assured of success enough to retire, or to attempt a grander feat of death
I swear to ******* God I’m being followed ever since I left the last spot, it’s like the city knows I’ve been holding my breath
it started choking me, hands wrapped around my neck, I’m cut off from my office I can’t even cash a field check, I left my kids in the separation, this story is it, I don’t have nothing left
I’m chasing lights where there’s only flickering projectors, looking for the big picture at the point of origin
it’s never going to reveal itself to me, I hear the voices of professors trampling my voice again
the streets don’t just open up and take every killer, thief and ****** back, every assault charge and corrupt landlord, cop, lawyer and councilman
all the big fish swam away after the attack, like rats on a sinking barge, it’s their word full stop, against the everyman
but if the system breaks down at the point of their cogs, the people who do their ***** work, and witnesses all suddenly outnumber them with righteous indignation, armed and willing to catch a case then…
Who’s going to be left to clean up after that?
Three days, five days, eight, fully awake with the full realization, a health hazard with walls where I sat
the story of the century in my lap, I looked like warm crap, like something the buildings and streets formed teeth to chew up in their maw and back out they spat
figures not even the bones of this old gal would like the flavor of an emissary to the truth
I rattled my fist to the ceiling on the ninth day, kicked a rat of my mattress, pulled the story off my typewriter, and muttered “Let’s see how they like that!”
for the first time I saw daylight, I saw a kid standing outside waiting to rob me, hand in his pocket, he cocked a hammer and told me to drop it,
I stood frozen, sure everything was true if they were waiting to stop it going through the presses, I was ready to die when an old man came by, chased him off with a cane and yelled “Stop it!”
this boy dropped two rocks he clicked together to make a gun noise in his coat and ran, I was stunned and I just studied the face and thanked God for the old man
I interviewed him, a source for my civilian militia, and next week I was in a real bed in my apartment when they ran the issue.

Many months ago, something crazy happened, our family had a tight net over the whole city then it snapped and
lieutenants, enforcers, soldiers all turned on each other on the orders of opposing captains
we turned to our cops, sergeants and detectives, turns out their own were capped before then
cops were ******* with corruption and a lone gunman who hit their families and crossfire killed three kids, four men, rich thieves died poor men,
every single lawyer and city politician at that time was locked up with all eyes on the boxing commission and a homicide spree tied to a ******’ blues musician
it was like all the focus left and they let clowns just step in, meanwhile we were undermined by our own kind, greedy backstabbers and
they cost us the whole operation, cannibal rats, growing fat off our own hind end
in the confusion every two-bit hood and crook, every able-bodied gun and ******, every veteran and rookie, all the way from the bottom to the Consigliere got took,
I found the underboss hanging on to evidence that shut the Don out of the state from a firebombed butcher’s shop in the back by a meat hook, bullet riddled legs limp and falling off, a dozen dead thugs by a card game in the back, plates with cold steak and scrambled eggs
papers ran facts on the carnage, questioned the anarchy, only one washout journalist tried to explain
he must have racked his brain, put himself through so much pain,
in a blind spot there was just another crime, on a scale that looked insane
he said good people were out there, outnumbering the bad
that no matter the hard times, those breed helping hands from survivors who know what they’re like, because they see you having the same day they’ve had
his words were in print, but I felt them reaching out and the fingertips fell short of the grasp
he was a man drowning in senseless slaughter, coming up for air and that was what he saw in a gasp
I know they need hope, but they don’t know it like I do, it’s the environment that breeds the opportunity, otherwise we would never get away with what we do
people don’t make the city clean
you know what I mean
there’s a system, they operate it, a monolithic, twisted, broken glass jaw of a weaker species that spits spiteful and sick ****, it’s full of hatred, eyes red, bureaucrats that ******* cats to see them land on their backs, it only speaks the language of violent acts so it only understands you if you attack, everything in the string-pullers is the least of actual humanity, it’s forsaken because they are the most of what a person lacks, and we answer to their highest calling it’s brass tacks, it’s a blood tax, it’s a wish come true light the candle at both ends and wait until there’s no more wax,
the city isn’t *****, it was built by us, it wasn’t perfect when we got here, but we **** sure broke her trust, you either live the life you want or you die how you must.
write
please read and enjoy
Mike Hauser Sep 2018
Tom Thumb got caught peeping
Now his life is on the run
Little Bo Peep lost her sheep
On a gambling junket she was on

Little Miss Muffet is having to tuff it
Out these days in jail
Selling ecstasy to undercover police
And now can't pay her bail

Little Jack Horner took him a corner
Of the Mafia drug trade
Once you are hooked on the **** that he cooks
There's no way of escape

You think that's bad you ain't seen nothing yet
That even comes this close
Since  Mother Goose started hitting the juice
And ended up down on skid row

Humpty Dumpty's more than broke
But not from any fall
He couldn't pay his ******
And his legs were first to go

Baa Baa Black Sheep  
Where forced to sell their wool
To pay for all the damages
While they were in school

Jack pushed Jill down the hill
When he caught her cheating with Little Boy Blue
Now he's paying her doctor bills
Which has left Jack blue too

You think that's bad you ain't seen nothing yet
That even comes this close
Since Mother Goose started hitting the juice
And ended up down on skid
nick armbrister May 2018
Cut and Dried. Bit and Stitched
Oh he still loves her. They married and were in love, still are, have kids and what they had. I won't say they had what all married couples had cos they didn't. She died, leaving him the widow.
Think of that fact, imagine it was you. How would you cope? What would you do?
Oh, he did things. He drank for a year, had dark ultimate sin thoughts, PTSD shell shock. Yes, it was a war and he suffered a defeat. It was his wife, lost in this world. Then he started writing a story, one he must finish. Or all is lost except memories.

Then something remarkable happened. Not his loss by his suicide. He met another, twin mirror image. What are the ******* chances of that? No ****** would dare take that bet. None.
She lost her boyfriend, a victim in the same war of stolen souls. His lady will understand, for she has been involved in a war and an equally forlorn a battle. I am shocked and try to understand. I wish him well and say remember her, do the book.
Me, alone.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2018
only a ******* Paddy McCormic
could make my use of English
be deemed incohrent, not having read
any James Joyce or Beckett...
so what's the point
of asking for the German
behemoths...
while he's still stuck
playing computer games,
unable to confront his father...
and luckily she's thai,
and not a thai-boy
with liquorice rather than silicon
bulging fake cow sacks...
sure... he'll play the ace,
live till his eighty...
meanwhile i'll thank for my
cameo appearance,
rob my mother
to pay for Swiss euthanasia...
after I cremate her...
blink once more with
a dream of van Gogh...
pretend "it" never happened...
and then start twisting
swan necks,
while gladly *******
the Puerto Ricans ******
in Amsterdam...
heart as a rock,
only an avalanche woke
this... hardly a saint,
far-fetched for a nun,
and certainly
   not a priestly ******...
erroneous gang ****
sheep herding...
once or twice, a flute up
my ***... listening to jethro tull...
a.k.a. Jeffrey the Hillbilly;
if a ******* Israeli
can be trigger-happy...
i'll be pagan-tongued...
  **** it, play your little acronym
game of the urban well informed...
and then your...
kindergarten auf...
               dei N-und-F "bösewörter."
why do i hate the celt with
an anglo-saxon equivalent passion?
guess some of this
anglophone zungebenutzen
rubbed off on me...
                   hybrid tattoo..
mongrel soul...
            hence my retreat into
a skyline of zeppelins.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2021
i think, which is synonymous with...
the plethora of feelings
most associated with doubt:
that there are as many thoughts
as there are doubts:
which stress the atomised creature:
this qua se:
     etc.
              the internet ended up
being a... ******* terrible idea...
for the worth of a postman...
the "world" trudged on...
ploughing the fields while anchoring
in the dead...
time was history of Neptune...
   space a self-contained "self"...
                the decrepit insurgence
of a gush of air teased with
avatar ice-sprinkle... bombast
after every bombast of the most
choicest effort of wording achieved
nil - or there-about(s)...
we were so solemnly sworn into an "oath"...
loitering there was this miracle drag
of a drug... upon sedation little
things exploded without q.
or -west borne... the migrating harangue...
sleepy whittle england of
those on a suffix leash of -ish...
like a teasing of....
making amends to (a) prior
scrutiny...
the internet was a terrible idea
it's also  terrible idea to...
listen to BBC radio 3...
all the tax payers' "communism" of worthwhile
redistribution tail end of chimera work
marvels...
no adverts... or... rather...
very little of 'em to mind...
but then again:
there aren't enough hours...
to have to listen to... what the radio kept
while the t.v. medium "forgot"...
via too much interruption of
being almost telepathic:
  the insomnia per se
coupled with the u.v. charged libido
overt-stimulus of completing
a hard-on...
of the last, at Ypres and near
to the heart of Ilford... the nerve to...
buy a ***** mag from a "******"
of jazzy stash...
prior to the internet there was
this glamorous itching:
a momentary lapse in hierarchy demands...
etc. etc. ehyeh asher...
       the world was enough: involving...
it wasn't so... bogus  entrapping
fickle...
i could have understood fake:
but fickle... and fake... simulated
at the speeds of simultaneous?

si-mul-ten-ous...
   sim-ul-ten-us...
like simulation of "ten" is upon...
"us"...
    to archive the 29th century is to
archive the "concept" / therefore use
of paper...
      my paper this paper...
a tree a breeding of  feeding
of all that's leftover and in the eyes
of all: however quick the Ronin
involvement... there's this stretch of
imagination that comes across an:
impasse... alternatively prescribed
as: quo, status...

one cigarette, two cigarette: fold...
a crow with but one wing managed
to scoop up the entire leafage of:
this autumn, this crispness...
this drunken...
         death-fetish sickly sweet
addition of decay: prospect...
prospect of revised invigoration:
via the drying of blood...
my new... quench-thirst scrutiny...
how these implosions happen and
"happen"...

and it's not like i'm missing
viral elements
to **** enough happy
to later produce drone strikes
of the hammer happily
every after children for
a sikh g.p. to "look after":
but... what i am stressing is...
this particular end of misery...
it ends with me...
it ends here...
it ends now...

           i don't need this worth
of an inheritance tax...
this clingy "necessary"... additional
bulls-eye blank stake at
a viper's bite...
a (wo)man by the name of:
sarah everard...
             was never reported missing...
was ever to be found...
the world is b.f.g. and by now
i presume there's a special assortment
of a hell for the deeds in reverse...

a wasting of a womb...
but thank **** and all the critters &
grasshoppers
this is a heavily arrived at sigh of...
well, yes... "potential"...
who would have guessed that...
***** was her way to tabloid a "go"...

the internet was a terrible idea
as ideas go it
was ******* pink pretty of me to
think of having "bypassed the editorial critique"
while only having attained a
Pavlov's sick'em tactic:
succinctly less exploited:
  beside this... hard boiled egg:
with a runny yoke... sort of... moi...

that she is... a pretty "Colette" of a sarah everard;
morbid torso tossing:
invigoration prone asp... bite & nibble...
numbing... like the loss-of-a-trill-R
in both French und Hen-gleash...
blister... button...
               agitating a burning of butter...
for signature that's
additionally:
           a statement of refining dough
used in poach:
     alias with the addition of -ing.

— The End —