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Neville Johnson Aug 2018
I’m on my way to San Antone
Gonna cowboy up
There’s a filly there I need to see
Sure enough, we’ll build a fire
Take in the Alamo
Then we’ll dance at The Wagon Wheel
The best *****-tonk I know
I’ll be on my best behave
The whole weekend through
I met her through Cowboy Date
The internet is cool
This solo buckaroo
Don’t intend to be single for long
This is our fourth rendezvous
I’m not usually wrong
I got a new Stetson hat
Took my spurs off
There’s a spring in my gait
I look like George Strait
In my fresh-pressed cowboy shirt
I even got some cologne on
Now, that’s a first
I could go on and on
I told my Mom she’s the one
I’ll tell my gal tonight
We’ll ride off into the sunset together
Assuming everything goes all right
donia kashkooli Jun 2016
no one knew how i felt except
for all the dusty back roads
in their dreary isolation and brokenness.
i spent countless hours standing outside
the entrance of the buckaroo tavern
with stephanie when i was 3 years old
because daddy was too *******
wasted to drive home. the heat waves
from that broken down neon sign
during the frosty seattle winter of 2001
felt like a security blanket at times
if i pretended hard enough,
i felt like there was something in
the big bad world that actually cared for me.

-*z. vega
Rob Sandman May 2016
Playin' games.
=============
Jay Text Sandman aka Skitz Text

Set the timer click click now the clock is tick tockin'.
I came to play the game. Like a KNIK KNAK knockin'.
Your rhyme flow is slow you know like PLAYDOUGH.
I gobble up fine rhymes like a HUNGRY HIPPO.
Like SUBBUTEO I kick it.
Shruggin' off your challenge like BUCKAROO kickin'..
..up ****. I sunk your BATTLESHIP.
You played out your game of CHARADES. That's it.
I dig deep in me rhyme dictionary.
You scrawl on the the wall like palsy PICTIONARY.
Not strugglin'. I'm jugglin' the rhymes in me head.
Slam dunk. KERPLUNK. Nuff said.
No, never. No way. Who am I kiddin'?
You know I got the rhymes. And I got the rhythm.
I confess. Like a game of CHESS.
Checkmate. No debate. Not a pretty pawn missin'. *  

It’s the end of the games like RIP,
I Multikill MC’s like COD,
Keep your mind on your MINECRAFT can’t catch me,
Cause Skitz is EC's Artillery,
droppin bombs watch the FALLOUT or you’re Dogmeat
FAR CRY from the old days of CRT
So your attempt is DOOMed best clear the room,
SWAT’s get Swatted Mic shotgun BOOM!,
Blast backdraft will destroy your CIV,
No cheat codes PAC em up MAN time to give,
RESPEC- to the PORTAL gun hangin’ on me hip,
You’ve got HALF a LIFE left faster than NO CLIP
But I said no cheatin’ Hackers get Hacked up,
No Multiplayer,cause you’ve no backup,
I’m glorying in the games we play,
Checkmate VS XBOX  pass to Jay.


Chorus
Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic and it's Jay to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

When I flex it's hectic. Like SCALEXTRIC.
Switch lanes to PERFECTION.
I've a MONOPOLY in this game.
Don't pass go. Go straight to jail.
You fall like DOMINOES. I leap like a salmon.
Tisk tisk. Big RISK. Now I have BACKGAMMON.
Stamina. A steady hand OPERATION.
Ace up me sleeve and I'm just playin' PATIENCE.
Got me POKERface on.
Read 'em and weep as the game plays on.
I got a dead mans hand but I animate the mic.
BULLDOGS charge. You know I'll reach the other side.
Back to me den.
Repeat after me like SIMON SAYS.
RED ROVER, RED ROVER. I call Jay over.
You think it's over ?
No my friend. *  

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic Schizophrenic to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

This Steam Machine is heatin' up a treat
So don’t be TEKKEN the ****,just feel the beat,
This KOMBAT’s MORTAL to enemies,
But it’s a full HEALTH PACK to Fans of E.C.,
So OverClock your CPU,
get your Soundcard Jumpin like chimps in SIM ZOO,
drop DICE on ICE from here to Timbuktoo,
STREET FIGHTER’s and Writers BIOSHOCKin' you


Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic Schizophrenic to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

I SPY with my little eye.
Somethin' beginnin' with J. I let fly.
As your JENGA tower wobbles.
I smile. You drop tiles. Dropped your poxy box of SCRABBLE.
Look out. That could spell disaster.
Triple word score as the rhymes rip past ya. Blast ya.
Quick out the trap like The Flash playin' SNAP.
Check the lyrical master. *
As the Dungeon Dragon spreads his wings-lets fly
playin' the game the pied piper pies,
catch you rats in me MOUSETRAP its a snap,
"cause I wrote the rhymes that broke the bulls back"
I'm the KING OF THE HILL I got ya QUICKSCOPIN'
in THE SHADOWS OF MORDOR prayin' and hopin'
for a hero like MARIO to bust you loose,
Jay's SNAKE'n' up the LADDER time to twist the noose


Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic E.C. to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.  

What ya think ?              
Me rhymes kink, bend and fold like TWISTER.
A wicked rhythm like DOUBLE DUTCH. Skip, skip.
Like EVEL KNIEVEL. Flywheel spinnin'.
Rev it up. Dump the clutch.        
See me grinnin'. Knockin' down the pin and..
SPIROGRAPH lines in me rhyme. I'm spinnin..
..out of control. You can't cope with me GYROSCOPE.
I bring you back to the beginnin'.*

Not mentionin' names. We're playin' games.
Energetic and poetic E.C. to blame.
Set the mic aflame. We burn it up now.
Set the timer click, click.
Jay came up with this idea and tried to mention as many games we played as kids as he could fit in,when  he invited me onto the track I went more down the PC/Console game route,
let us know how many we missed!.
(Published in Miami Herald on May 26, 2014 Brigitte Jacobs Arnold
Obituary Guest Book View Sign ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI. Services will be held at 7:00 pm and a viewing from 12:00 pm to 8:00pm at Maspons Funeral Home located at 3500 SW 8th Street, Miami Florida 33135 Wednesday May 28th.)


Don’t ask me why but
I went online this afternoon.
Read the Miami-Herald obituaries.
And not just the Biggies:
Maya Angelou at 86 and
A one hundred year old Herb Jeffries.
Of course we knew Maya,
Her caged bird singing
Softly in our souls,
But may not be aware of Herb Jeffries.
A former singer in the Ellington band,
Herb was known as the Bronze Buckaroo,
In a series of all-black 1930s Westerns--
His nickname evoking
His racial identity,
Quite muddled, flexible.

Although both sad passages to be sure,
It was neither Maya nor Herb
Triggering my tender tears.
But the obituary of:
ARNOLD, BRIGITTE JACOBS, 78, MIAMI,
Known as Oma, Mutti and Mama.
Well, not exactly the Brigitte obit,
My tears for her long-lived mother,
Brigitte’s mother, durable & abiding,
Still breathing at 97:
Hildegard Wolle.
Reading Brigitte’s bio—
German born, Berlin student,
Singer-fashionista &
Proud, naturalized
American citizen—
I can’t stop thinking about Hildegard.
As if the woman didn’t already
Have more than her share of trouble
On this planet nearly a century,
Having already lost her
Grandson Roland, and now,
Her daughter.
Something wacky is going on here.
Some long-distance life lesson
Being applied here.
Poor Hildegard: ungifted with Alzheimer’s,
Suffers crystal distant memories,
Some really bad karma
Stored up in past lives.
Londis Carpenter Jul 2011
In a derby and suit, riding tall in the saddle,
A stranger paraded one day.
He rode through the street of a town in Nebraska,
Astride a magnificent Bay.

Though stately and proud he was oddly attired,
Where cowboys and outlaws abide.
And the gun that he wore, of an uncommon bore,
Hung uncomfortably high on his side

The attention he drew from the unseemly crew
Of misfits (an unsavory lot)
Was cause to give rise to a keen viewer's eyes
Trouble might be more likely than not.

Thugs are known to have fun by the threat of a gun
To a stranger perceived as a dude.
They often get rough and hostile and tuff;
By their nature they're rowdy and rude.

So it weren't no surprise when there came an up-rise
Of cat-calls and whistles that day.
While others just smiled, some were getting quite riled,
As the stranger dismounted the Bay.

He seemed not to care, ignored every dare,
As he entered a bar called "The Shed."
He called for a brew, then changed it to two;
Said,"Take one over there to Big Fred."

Now everyone knew that Big Fred was the worst
of hooligans staying in town.
In Sidney, Nebraska there weren't any faster
When it came to shooting men down.

The bar keeper trembled and shook as he ambled,
Across the floor toting the beer.
The mug was half empty when he finally reached Fred,
Who now gazed at the dude with a sneer.

The bar room grew still and the tension seemed loud.
You could feel with a god-awful dread
That a message was meant in the beer that was sent
By the strangely dressed dude To Big Fred.

"So it's you," uttered Fred. "Thought by now you'd be bound,
To a Deadwood strike, off mining gold.
I had thought you'd forget memories I now regret;
I hoped that trail would finally grow cold."

"It's the Masterson code and the gambler's creed
To even all scores with a rat."
And by those word every Sidney buckaroo knew
That the stranger who spoke them was Bat.

Fred reached for his iron with a lightning fast draw
That never quite cleared the leather
And no one even saw Bat Masterson's draw
That silence Big Fred forever.
Bored of these games
Screwball scrabble your monopoly
I'll take the risk not pass go or bow to authority

I wanna Poke your face with a hot poker
Just to see your poker face  
I might just be a pawn but the queen's I have to chase

And who would of thunk
I lost all my marbles
When I went and played kerplunk
My battle ship sunk
And it's now not the rope swing
I want hang from that tree trunk

So check mate this was my only first draughts
The mouse has been trapped warhammer's looking for a blood bath on the warpath

So don't go and pin the tail on the donkey
Coz' you might get a buckaroo though
But look for the clue'do
And you might find more
But only if your a hungry hippo and can find the hidden meanings in theese words and connect all four
Mike Hauser Mar 2013
I've got this awesome idea
To write the greatest of poems
It'll start out nice and easy
Then with a BANG make some noise

It will be widely read
In every coffeehouse in town
Soon to catch on like a wildfire
Then #1 with a bullet nation bound

Writing so amazing
It'll astound everyone
Why it might even get hired killers
To turn in their guns

It'll make the strong want to weep
And the weak to stand strong
There will be waves of applause
This poem will have it all going on

They'll beg me to let them use it
In a Presidential speech
Afterwards they'll fly it straight to the conflict
Where it'll bring peace to the Middle East

Finally coming to rest at the Smithsonian
Taking up it's rightful place
They may have to move that old Space Shuttle
To give my poem plenty of space

But before any of this can happen
Before it rings true, buckaroo
I suppose I should think up something special
And jot down a line, maybe two...
Perig3e Feb 2011
There are words on the range,
and out to pasture,
in the lowlands,
and on the hilltops.
Ole Buckaroo,
what's a poet to do,
if not to ride out,
lasso, brand, and corral a few.
All rights reserved by the author
JoJo Nguyen Jul 2016
it's the old Lehman
interlace again I
wonder how many I's
might some day buy The
Daily Mirror making
David the first poet to become
rich but like so many artist long
after they're dead

we're like nerve fibers
fasciculating fine word
that juxtaposes well to fardels

we bear-- words
heavy with too much bass
restricting us to only 3
degrees of freedom: Music
Word and Color

we' ld build a higher Babble
if only unbound from
a flat syllable world

we'd settle the Prometheus score
with 4D notes like cut-red-Bminor-spin

we'd render the higher ordered
flesh with 10D swirl-syncopated-reflect-bass-kisses-Lorena-Tom-***-soft-cookware­
to a fatty shard able
to cross synaptic chasm but maybe
we shouldn't for there's the rub in our xenophobic
extra dimensions

we'd find Superman
banished enemies or Buckaroo
aliens waiting to invade they always come from that extra
dimension don't they the ones

we don't fully understand the ones
wavering on the edge of perception of curiosity of fearfulness of exploring
a neighbors yard watchful for their dog
ready to run back
to safety back
to our one dimension back
to one Word
Singularity
Aaron LaLux Sep 2018
Everyone’s looking for an escape,
a virtual reality with alternative facts,
virtual because it’s almost reality,
except it’s reality without all the commitment,

and within,
a virtual reality we can augment,
what it used to be like back in base reality,
and we can ponder on where the time went,

& when  I say time,
I’m referring to the time in reality spent,
because after all reality is the only thing real,
and the experiences within them are the only thing you can’t invent,

see the truth is the only thing that exists in actually existence,

yeah sometimes truth is stranger than fiction,
ask Buckaroo Bonzai,
ask Stephen Hawkings ask Steve Jobs and,
ask yourself why you’re alive,

why you put up with the pain,
why you put yourself through,
why you still hesitate to act on instinct,
when you know there’s nothing to it but to do it,

everyone too scared to speak up,
but everyone wants to be a hero,
there’s not much purity to speak of,
and evil seems to wear a halo,

hey bro,
or sis,
or whatever label,
you label yourself with,

there’s not much untainted land left,
there’s not much clean water,
the days are getting shorter,
and the nights are getting longer,

the hearts are getting colder,
but the earth is getting hotter,
plus these days reality is such a pain,
it often doesn’t seem worth the bother,

maybe the rebellion can’t begin,
because maybe it’s already done,
but then again maybe it’s only getting started,
and maybe the games have only just begun,

and if this is the case,
then you know it’s already on,
but just one question before we begin,
are you Ready Player One?

∆ Aaron LaLux ∆
grumpy thumb Feb 2016
Welts on my hands
knuckles cut raw
back is aching
can't work no more.
Been thinking of this
losing a fight with that.
Wish I had a million
or a cowboy hat.
Cast my nets
caught nothing to eat.
I'd place my bets,
but the odds are too steep.

But when I see you
all pain disappears
can't imagine anyone else
beside me in my older years.
You're a priceless love
my buckaroo.
I never feel hugry
when I can feast on you.
I've nothing to risk
since I won your hand.
But when you're not near
I'm a lost useless man,
so I am.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2020
better than a poem.... a promenade...
          not the noun "vs." noun...
in the realm of verbs...
it's one "thing" to call a tomato a fruit...
a cucumber a vegetable...

salmon pink moon hue
with an air tonight
so crisp: it deserves discovering INXS
for the first time...

this mighty biscuit of the moon...
hardly shipwrecked against
some distant constellation...
or itching rooftops or
teasing mountains...

everything was so alive
in the cool breeze...
no gods were summoned
to explain... this solipsistic adventure...

teased by the senses
with a leverage to tickle the extremes...
and bubbles towed...

such an icy prized briefing
of locality:
towing a mind like an anchor...
before the altar of
what two feet spine erectus...
became a cinema of
the centipede...

    better than a poem...
a promenade...
hell... this deserves a mathematical
sharpening:

crude...
   a poem < a promenade...
and i passed one of these two or three...
restaurants...
the schizophrenic riddled:
futuristic no flying cars though...
no neon strobe epileptic lighting
worth a tomorrow...

   a poem < a promenade...
    the air was electric... it was...
stealth in giving juice...
even the pavement seemed to
be clapping...
with each ninja step placed
with imitation of the stealth cat
passing by gravitating toward
the concept of ghosts...

a poem < a promenade...
          what seemed intact...
and what was already bound
to outer-urban decay:
the differential scrutiny didn't
bother me...

almost two weeks freed from...
medication that aimed
to make me better...
herr schwachkopf...
and this is somehow...
not "challenged"... somehow...
the hippocratic oath
in the realm of psychiatry...

           extensions of a willingness
come: falling asleep today...
if only it came down to the crux:
of becoming: debilitated by
a heartbreak...

ghost buses... tonne load of shadows
and freak-out...
constrict imitation glue...
random words:
borrowed lexicon-bombs...

a poem < a promenade...
    <
            <           <     <

i see the symbol... and i know the words
hidden within them...
a poem <is less than> a promenade...
unlike diacritical marks...
or the critique of punctuation:
     colon no italics...
because... colon = italics...

outside of the claustrophobia /
myopia of a prosaic paragraph and...
staging a fake *** dialogue?
              < contra... š...
                                  ж (fwench je suis)...
                   ш...     SHape of... ****...
                       >            hôpital ...
           <š
                             ô>:
   let's just pretend...     H is a surd in english
too...        the apostrophe could be
more frequently used...
causing revelation when it
and it would always come down
to... a...     'ammering...

   (best plugged in...)

rock-cho'-kim-ouch-and-then-the-chewing...
like... bargain busting
an ape *** from moor-yokko-coco-solo-oh-no!
straight up to the moon...
for a telescope riddle-me-this...
sorting session...

japanese gravure... idols...
**** as an insinuation...
because... i have a **** the equivalent
of a prized bull...
and she has a face and a mouth...
like any... porcelain doll might...
unequivocally: lambasting... a concept
of... a tired old grenade...

   teeth like double-dodgers...
of a... corn-flake smiley...
                
     2 < 3...
                 4 > 3...
                              a vowel < a consonant...
but no "lost" meaning...
                      when borrowed...
forbidden pleasures...
the forbidding: a mere thought of...
having to not grieve...
all the already in tow... restrictions...
sensible pleasures...
            
    the theatre of thought...
marquis de sade's ******...
                        "vs." nabokov's ******....

daddy issues...
mummy issues: ed gein...
                             subconsciously...
unconsciously... and...
                   all these ******* dreams...

power-pill mode...
                 my own little escapade of...
rummaging in lost details...
     word-bombs of spontaneity...
a poem < than...
    < it comes from its own... demand...
the word: than...
   a poem <
                 is, less, than...
                                      a promenade...
this evening of... slow-coach and
loitering for the moon... hued with a tinge
of teasing smoken salmon...
hanging low...
  шut up! i too thought about...
                   suit... the mingled with rugby posts
of a H...
  not AN h...
                              
                       a solipsism is not autism...
it's... oscar winning performances
of winging-it... simulation practices...
   wouldn't anyone not tire...
of all those *******... formal cameo
conversations to degrease the cognitive loop
of animation imitating inanimate objects...

like... walking into a store...
like a painting...
and... "suddenly"...
a person is presribed to your presence...
since... he alone can move...
those unmoveable objects...
onto the counter of you making
a transaction...

         i abhor faking those
formal cameo conversations...
of shopping for essentials...
     when i know the money i will spend...
is not the money i need conversation /
extra attention for...
if i were walking into a shop...
unexpected in somehow spending more...
than i expected...
   i walk in to buy a skeleton...
or some muscular mush since i already
own an exoskeleton...
    
          as i am about to solve the "mystery"
of cow-towed europe...
with count of 3 rotten teeth...
1 of mine... 2 of my father...
                 it's that blessed presumption
of democracy in the great western slavic
enterprise of: what once was...
the brothel of kings that's currently:
in situ with a synonym: poland...
     or: king john's nickname...
lackland...
   ******'and!
        laugh out loud: when living strapped
to a people with a clarity of border...
sea! to the north! of us!
sea! to the east! of us!
sea! to the west! of us!
sea! to the south! of us!
   oi! geoffrey! oi! paddle!
we're getting from this ****** perspective
of: island... we're... heading... straight...
to the moon... to **** around
with hans christine andersen....

         dream big! no ottomans or mongols
are or will ever be at... our doorstep...
from the period of the norman invasion...
from the romans... such pride...
the last usurper of peace...
was a... 20th century zeppelin...
  and... that's about it...

i like living the basic truth of being
a historical continuum unit...
true... not children... i'll foster some...
one is bound to foster some...
in the end...
hell... i'll give up my mind to foster them...
so much less heart...
when it comes to investing in a future...
i was always prescribed a future:
i wrote for the present...
a "circa"...
                          because i never believed
in children with a personal
investment on the cards...
i can't imagine...
i tried a placebo once...
a distant cousin of mine...
aged... toddler-weight...
i was frankenstein: he was...
again: i was the monster...
what i fiddled with was...
a ***** of glue...
glue and mortar...
        details of bone...
breath... later invested in brat...
and... precursor details of a budding
physiognomy: a detail of...
prejudice... etc.          etc.

i know i would be a terrible father...
i'd be a father that wouldn't...
speak to its child...
i'd treat it like...
that experiment... prescribed by...
   frederick (II) hohenstaufen...
what tongue came first: budding...
from the downfall of babel...
and the resurrection...
a babel for a tower... a pyramid scheme...
for all loss of reins...

i don't know how i should suffer...
not having a child in that...
i don't know how...
i would not abound in glee...
having prescribed him or her...
my signature of mistakes to replica...
unique signature... sure...
but still... somehow...
a detailed study of a clone in...
"will"... in "free will"...
                
       i own a bed... but i rather sleep on
the floor... bone breaking experience:
call for dog... on the clarity of wood...
i own a bed... but i rather sleep on
the floor....

             brothels... oh the scents...
bourbon... mostly... sickly sweet whiskey...
brothels and bourbon...
i went to them to excavate...
an amnesia...
if came back... riddling that...
lost and last pride of....
   after we ****: we kiss...
sleeping with glued pucker ties
to: the kisser...
of them: making a signature
with a tease of a... crow-hark...
     signature... crease..
                    an extension exclaiming:
pardon! pardon! signature...
    the pause...
                         a signature weaving...
braid teasing...
**** with a mohawk or...
a real trim-razor funk of...
         the 80's hype of... mr. mullet...
big fig in new zealand and
              alpha male rugby boyo...

how her eyes softened when i closed
them with a kiss...
of course we retired from pistons and ferrari
buckaroo...
                  i come to retire my mind
with a cinema of a brothel...
i come to... desire less and less
of a memory: knowing that there's
a serenity of having invested in...

           i tend to use two mirrors to have
to concentrate on being...
debased by a selfie...
or what once was...
   the missing ******... narrator...
  i need two mirrors to take a "selfie"...
ever wonder and bewilder yourself
with the days...
when people took photographs of you...
unsuspecting?!
Osez, déesse, osez !

Osez les mots qui piquent

comme des femmes matador,

maîtresses sauvages de la mer mate,

tueuses au coeur de pierre

qui vous quittent à la longue

et qui de **** vous étirent la peau

de leur longue-vue et se pâment

d'extase muette quand vous

vous débattez en vain comme

des pieuvres folles

dans la dentelle d'araignée

de la barrière de corail où ne règne nul garde-barrières.

Osez les mots, déesse, osez !

les mots qui scient comme le sel marin

Et l'acide qu'elles vous jettent à la figure

comme si c'était une chopine de rhum

mais qui **** de vous défigurer

vous plongent dans l'abysse incandescente

de la mer-lave qui nettoie.

Osez les mots, osez, déesse, osez !

Osez les mots qui puent

comme des gouttes d'eau lourde

qui s'échappent du bec des colibris

qui tels des Canadair ivres répandent le feu

Dans la darse au lieu de l'éteindre.

Le mot feu pique.

Osez le feu, l"Ardeur. Et chantez l'Ardance !

Osez, maîtresse, osez !

Osez les mots qui gisent

comme des jets d'encre

qui giclent des tentacules des pieuvres

et qui écument les souvenirs au lieu de les effacer.

Osez les mots, maîtresse, osez !

Osez les mots qui grésillent

comme des aiguilles de pin en pleine éclade

et qui vous chavirent

et qui vous rendent à la merci des sirènes.

Osez les mots burlesques,

les mots qui font des frasques,

les mots qui effeuillent et font le striptease de l'ombre .

Osez les mots fétiche,

les mots qui mènent la danse,

les mots à forte poitrine,

les mots orgiaques qui dansent le gwoka,

les mots burlesques comme Tempest Storm et Buckaroo,

Osez, osez, osez, osez, maîtresse ,

Osez les mots qui bandent leur arc

Et mettent en joue...

Osez les mots, osez les mots , maîtresse

Osez les mots qui frottent

et qui transforment les maux de dos

des Quasimodos en mots d'eaux.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2019
"they" kept scrambling,
scuttling their way back
into the asylum...

   like there was no
retraction...

   videos and response
videos...

      and then...
    someone left something,
and there was no
comment section...
  
and it read,
as a litany worth of all
that was not pop
via the dada movement...

arthur cravan
    jacques riguat
     julien torma
          jacques vache
   (jack...
  jackson...
   why not: ja' que!
           huh?)

and then the whole, "thing"
imploded
into a high school
schoolyard brawl...
scuffle...
   whatever you call
throwing an orange
at someone's head...
playing the lottery...
will it hit him...
or will it miss...
  a bit like three
beavis & butthead
loons
staying out too late,
forgetting to leave
a park...
jumping over
the fence,
and the fat one...
jumps...
  then gets "hanged",
by a ******...
on the park fence...
and you're wondering:
how many more seconds...
before we release this
budgerigar...
from an abstract fence...
when he's still...
a fat boy,
dangling on a park fence...
yapping like
some ugly duckling...
dangling...
      from a "noose"
of his underwear
being caught on a
vlad the impaler safe-keep?

  **** it, let's all be
as pedantic as: moi...
   and sift through
what's,
i assure you: to come.

life was so pure...
back when,
you'd huddle in for a friday
night...
and never take gaming
seriously...

  gaming would be akin
to reviving the understanding
of chess...
or mahjong...
   you'd spend
a "solipsistic" saturday
morning...
not worrying about homework
until sunday night...
and...
you'd congregate,
go to the shopping-centre...
and buckaroo
the afternoon away...

     like now...
me: eyes: void / blank...
good thing i didn't learn anything
about leaving comments,
or engaging in:
a comment section...
i'm all pro democracy...
but...
  comment sections, per se?
that's worse than a tweet...
given the current twitter
debacle...
   never used it...
moved to gab.com...
huh? i don't know how
to use that...
give me a ******* hammer
and a nail
and a book by heidegger:
sure...
    we can make that work...

like, i wanted to leave
the schoolyard at some point...
but then the ****
just kept nagging me
back into a mafia-esque
demand for cipher-zunge...

you know why comment
sections ****?
i remember the days
of the microsoft chat-rooms,
the m.s.n. hybrids
of social media...

        whatever this is...
       it is, whatever that was,
and neither,
will ever meet.

p.s.
      anger...
isn't that something worth
pacifying with copious
     amounts of ms. amber?
****... better buy
a camera and a mic.
and record myself saying
something:
that i can't quiet, literally,
think through.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.i never understood Ezra Pound on this point, sure, Latin doesn't bestow noun-status on letters, unlike the elaborate Greek O, is no more oh but more omicron... no wonder their letters have linguistically / phonetically transcendental value in being utilized in scientific / mathematical constant... but... Mandarin? or Japanese? what's with this elaborate phonetic encoding... when all you're saying is sushi? ... you looked at this ****?! all it boggles down to is: SU-**** (すし); or??? SUE-SHE.

yeah... you really need a strong cider,
perhaps even two,
of the henry westons quality,
spiked up to 8.2% before you can
decide on any whiskey,
     and the whole night: ahead of you...
notably after still finding yourself
digesting a killer, i mean a: KILLER
spaghetti bolognese,
which you cooked yourself,
just a day prior...
         **** me... like any curry sauce:
some things just taste better
on the second day...
or like a song, several year later...
you can never have "too much" music...
pop levi's song...
       motorcycle 666...
alternatively... rotting christ:
chí, xí, s(h)í...
           (the acute iota?
     in english that's an ee...
e.g. peer, peep, pucker up
buckaroo...
               the bees are sleeping).
- and so, another night
begins.

p.s. narezushi
   (salted fish)...
no letters in these languages,
but sure as **** syllables...
   those aren't letters,
those are syllables...
   graphemes,
or ideograms,
   there are many names for them...
well... just the two...
   like AH and HA would be different...
even though the encompass
the same letters...
             yet such an elaborate
phonetic encoding...
and all you're saying is: sushi...
**** me...
p.s.
     i've found out... that...
hello poetry allows you to write
the simplified Japanese syllables...
but nothing of Mandarin...
not a bad thing,
the original observation is still
intact...
   for such an elaborate phonetic
encoding...
   you're reduced to speaking
window-licker...
              CHAU CHOO
XING XEE...
                 i mean: no letters,
just syllables...
         fascinating...
             Ha-Shoo-Rho...
means nothing, but that's how it works...
hidden syllables, like the Semitic language...
   that made-up word?
  it would be written in Latin script
at               HSR...
                         because you'd be imprinted
with the details of each ideogram
to suspect what vowels go in between
each of the pivot / crux consonants...
still...
          such elaboration,
and all you end up with is...
                すし     (sūshí...
   or súshí... if you're samuraī)...
   はい: h'ai... ha'i...
                     so ******* elaborate, and yet...
so back to basics mundane
of Latin castrato sing-along.
the former banality of editorial constipation(s)
in the realm of preference
and prejudice
like some sacred barometer of what might
appeal to the crowd...

modernity and old age:
man's gift unto man: old age...
"gift" (insert snigger) -

Montenegro Montenegro
black mountain poetics i used to be a fan of
after i passed by the beatniks
notably from all the liberal homosexual
****-erotica
it was like a drug of youth this literature
but somehow now
when i think about it
i should have been chasing girls
i should have been chasing girls
in my 20s
shooting my shots
blanks and live ones
perhaps should have fathered about a dozen
*******
donated my ***** to a clinic
better that than using dating apps
that is better have been a bio-incenstive
impetus comma dot dot
i mean should have thought about
not this ego-mutation
and bad bah thought
to uneven the ground upon
which the crucifix stands...

to my nightmare and glee of horror like
black sheen on Gidea Prime: Baron Gideon
stood like a lamppost where
all the shady dealings were done in full
view...
where this proud monstrous sexuality
was still but a timidity (a temperament) taboo...
homosexuality...
i should have been chasing girls
in my 20s
and now how do i not hurt her...

the pantheism and the pan-Slavic movement
of the 20th century
prime but then there was a history
of somewhere in the West: the Dictat:
DYKTAT...

Neth Neth...
Nethen in Oldenburg, or from the Nethe river near Höxter, or the Nethen, a tributary of the Dijle
or more like
Agnethe - Agnes -
some Sylvia Plath not really Plath
was never a fan more
a poet for girls
suicide purple glove girls
cherry kisses girls of my 20s not there:
i.e. in the past...

no real investments of ego-mutation
in the other
through lies and paradises for turtles
like slow lies
and unlike quick lies
and eternal truths
but also transient
temporary truths:

we do live in a time of temporary truths
there are permanent truths
and impermanent truths
because truth is the element Titan Chronicus
Prometheus Beta Quo Delt Ah...

for the simple logic of pleasure
this afternoon brain numbing
ego wandering sloth of disguise
since now sobering thought
come and i no longer have the youthful
Red Eye Rotaugen: i see in reds
on grey for distinction of hues

like there is this imagine in my head
of being impaled high above the skies
of Golgotha
dripping blood from my sensitive
where gills ought to be if having lost
the tail was enough
to not allow the ancient monkeys
to dream up of travelling across the sea
bumping into Moby **** and Atlantis
maybe more than dinosaurs
still here oddly
like birds and remnants serpents and
baby girl loves her encyclopedia
and i'll be stuck with licking-clean-finger
after buckaroo kangaroo
Kentucky child
                        a pouch for a baby-money
slot that idea in no between
my newest love comes
in the words of (as already mentioned)
and Tomash Shalamun...

                   from Russian to Ukranian
to Slovak to Slovenian to Czech
to ****** to Romanian...

              zrkadlo > ogledalo > zrcadlo >
     lustro > oglindă > آینه
        (ayna) > ḏihn | ذهن

                    mirror-mind:

         ðihn                      ḏ
O'odham...
                          definite article: THE tongue
to the behind of teeth no 1, 1: jedynki...

speculo                 lustro: pstro!
lu stroma krawedz...
                    lu lu                   paper planes
and summer unfulfilled...

           with no kind permission from
Brian Henry: the slovenian translator -
concoctions no laboratory
instead this body and some solvent case
for drip drip...
just an idea but one without either hammer
or magnet or umbrella or oar
thus so:

such body now antiquated purpose
blind
among the worms and glitter
of fictional post religious planets
but nonetheless favouring
the Islam before the oil was consecrated
upon the earth from the realms
of Hades...
         since that time when Islam was
at peace while Christianity was at war
with itself to the point
of instanity
that only now some of us born in Catholicism
and elsewhere are looking for
answers in Judaism and Islam
with the emergence of the Nag Hammadi
library...
after all this is not some writing down
a pop song or
a pulpit praise me i'm speaking you're listening
and this is almost a stand-up comedy show
but no i see the exasperated bodies mixed
with heads and tongues
and spines and i wonder well
this is reserved for thinking readers
and anti mantra gig lords of the 0 hour contract
in the economy which is like
a rain forest or a desert or something
to employ an ego-machete against
anything this ego can morph into an object
like a house plant or one of the many
of Solomon's ants on the shy buds yet to blossom
yet to bloom...
overheated colour in the sun
first green then yellow then murk of brown
the retreat of the yearly...
affair... like water with the armies of waves
on the shores of the earth
then too earth each year
on the attack for the kingdom of the air
early early the cleaning lady of the air
with trees those pumpkin explosions of oxygen...
so obvious but not so apparently
this is never going to be a Shakespeare
or: is that yellow face?

thought the English left with the Africans
while the Eastern Europeans
were sort of left dumbfounded expressionless
with the Asians
because that's how i see the divide
the western europeans hatching a plan
with the Africans
while the Arabs stumbled toward that plan
and the eastern europeans were "left behind"
with the Asians not so much
the Japanese they're apart
Satan said Japan and i said: good lucky uncle
to the Somali 60 year old security guard
no guard... just polite conversation
no coming to shoving or pushing
a backgammon agenda to replace strategy
because it's a game with no real
offensive agenda...

hence my tease of the anti-history of Polynesia
because it is an anti-history
because there is so much water in it
and not so much land
and so not like the territories of land
the territories of the seas have been intact
since the birth of mamaman...
and the ummi the mamamann and the ummi
that's me sitting pretty:
Muhammad and Matthew sitting in a tree
one counts joints the other counts
bones and shooting Agos like that myth
of a name not yet used or personified:

   quote question quest and qw: qiqi
i.e. a quickie with no harmony... recipes of disasters
like no subjective experience of
the hypothalamus unless from the joy of
cycling then perhaps then
because that's the vector coordinate centre
then what of the subjective experience
of the... ablangada: a giddy blank blah blah a-blah
no:
the posit came from
the inseparable construct of the brain and eye dynamic
therefore a symbiosis
of not host and parasite equivalent
but the antithesis of
because that's the duality of the brain-and-eyes
said more softly and high **** flinging typos
of mind-and-soul...
                   at least to convince the "concept" of thinking
there could be some ethereal mingling
of the eyes
to at least explain why we see dreams
when our eyes are closed...

yes the eyes of souls like bewildering the supposed
heard existence of devils and nuns
angels and Behemoths and geniuses
of Newton and Mozart like
dropping big names is not unlike
calling Sunday Sunday
and Friday Friday
or perhaps that's just me being sea sick
on an island
rather than a ship
or perhaps
that's just me worried i might not have any friends
beside you
and the kid and the grandma
and perhaps i will go mad a second time
and i will be crushed by going to the church
and not freely engaging with other religions
and perhaps the infrastructure of the entire island
and the population being 70,000
i am part of managing events with crowds
that amass at stadiums with more people
than the entire population
plus the 1,400 acres owned by Herr Zuck:
not zzz or sleeping in a zoo snooze
ooze this Herr dry
or watch as i burn paper in hope of flying
somehow,
elevating logic of the gauged out eyes
by now and nothing freeing me but the bottle
and t.v. perhaps turn to painting obscure
riddles in imagining the river of sand that's
also called the Tempus Ori...

                      yes: that the brain is so interconnected
with these fragile two
these so exposed pieces of vital information
and strategy
that somehow we don't think the eyes
are the Ronin the Rebels of the body
that i think they are since they curiously
conjure up dreams and that's completely devoid
of the brain's scrutiny of reality
that is the eye-drip-******-mantra
of the ***** in itself
as addicted to light and if not exposed to enough
like skin in lacking vitamin D
then the vitamin in light that maybe is there
but if we know the origins of the universe
then from beginning there must be vitamin
in the light that... something fluorescent green
and spooky arctic blue that's also
grey because not enough sunlight is cultivated
by those seas...

O this gigantic world and my only escapade because
i've reached a Napoleonic fatigue
of failed reincarnations that lead to no tactic
to counter tactic or the new ordeal
that's the imploded war dynamic of saying
in a dream:

war is a process of education
that outshines all the pedagogic hiccups
of prolonged... what?
from youth to some middle then to the youth-of-mortal-end
that's called the age of
before it was a sign of the god's benevolent
nature to allow
a man reap the outer reaches of age
and grace the earth with words
of wisdom...
but now now
now now but what now?
old age the crippler the half baked loath of bread
the cancer and dementia
at least in the past people died in the fervor of fever
in their youth what healthy and what
peaceful deaths
perhaps with painful toothache interludes
but more a life a gamble than all these current
predicaments of predictability and knowledge
of the gene pool variant and...

man's gift unto man: old age
yet without: Yeti!
                         what conundrum since love got busy
and in the way but then reality left a flower
of reminders and said:
but we do share an in vivo beginning
and now to think of it 20 years from now
i would have at least 3 co-dependents to think
of caring for split between
London and Kauai
and they'd be 85 and you'd be 75
and **** me that's like that
plus some energetic kid who just realised
she would be working the mundane cycle
of hunger fear shelter fear
love fear and all that's life an experience with
the selfishness of deities so troubled
by no sharing then sharing
then "us" oversharing with the overstep of techno-
more than bio- evolution...

now we can sort of forget Darwinism
in a way...
since biological evolution stagnated...
it is a stagnate: static even, observation...
it is not dynamic enough:
it creates rigid ontological cages of men
that used to have minds now have names
because there is only the name Freud but
no mind of Freud...
so... in terms of Darwinism
i find biology deceased...
there is only one form of evolution to concern
oneself with: namely that of technology...
Hephaestus...

          there is no looking at evolution already
established not being able to change
an increment more or less
like geology since
those are truly titanic logic branches of perception
geology, biology: almost indistinguishable
like chemistry states that there is organic
and inorganic chemistry
like there is iron in the blood
and calcium in the bones and calcium in the rocks
so... Darwinism is a nuisance argument
given the only evolution of note is
only technological...

AI like what was once the Google Search Engine
that's what chatGPT is to Googie...
i.e. that is tangible evolution
and there is no biology invoked like some ancient
rite of satisfying the wheat for harvest
or the fungus monkey generator of
deviating experiences of life
the day the planet decided to expand beyond
horizons of azures...

like the insinuation isn't there that the earth
be personified and having had spoken
said: save me O savior gasoline and Guggenheim
architect
and Mondriaan!
again: how were
the wars of the Hoecks and the Cabbeljaws
actually settled
and what ancient arguments are we even having
to preserve this day intact

i will not even ask.

— The End —