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Micheal Wolf Aug 2013
Infuriated doesn't come close when listening to the words you spout
You are so special in every way I could feel the need, I had to say
If you don't go away I'll strangle you with your mum's **** beads
Now where that came from left me at a loss, but he shut up and buggered off.
Probably gone home to check what else his mum has hidden under her bed!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
     Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
     The nose is holy! The tongue and **** and hand
     and ******* holy!
Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is
     holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an
     angel!
The ***'s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
     holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
     holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
     Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-
     sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering
     beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the *****
     of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop
     apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana
     hipsters peace & junk & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy
     the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the
     mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the
     middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-
     ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &
     Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow
     Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the
     clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy
     the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the
     locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucina-
     tions holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the
     abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!
     bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent
     kindness of the soul!

                                   Berkeley 1955
Now we all know the story of the grinch and the who's
So listen quite closely for I have some bad news
The Grinch is back in Whoville and before you make a fuss
The blame for his existence must fall on all of us
We the the Grinch in power, we elected him you see
This time the Grinch has got a name, it's Brian Mulroney!
You're a mean one Misher Grinch
The meanest man alive
You stay up in your mansion
At 24 Sussex Drive, Mister Grinch
The Grinch called for his council to gain some ideas
He planned to discover each persons worst fears
"I've demolished their lifestyles in the time I've been King"
Then he thought to himself, "That has a nice ring!"
"I've sold out the country to whomever would buy it"
"It's such a feeling of power, I wish you could try it!"
"I've taxed all I can  I've cut low cost housing"
"It makes me feel special, in fact it's arousing"
"I'll get them this Christmas, make them regret their decision
"Of voting NO on my Constitutional Vision"
"I;ll leave them no money to celebrate the season"
"And if they speak out against me, I'll charge them with treason"
Now, out in the Provinces the people spoke out
We;ve fot to find someone to knock the Grinch out
We've not much to choose from, It'll be a tough job
We cannot depend on the broad and the slob
Audrey McLughlin, I'm sure isn't up to the test
I'm not sure what's bigger her IQ or her chest
Jean Chretien was good, but his reputation is fraying
And if you're not from Quebec, you don't know what he's saying!
The Grinch was a terror who did not like free speech
Elijah Harper learned this when he put "MEECH" on the beach
We need a strong leader to whom the torch can be past
It doesn't matter what party, we just need one fast.
Back up on the hill, the Grinch started to fume
He was feeling threatened by someone, but he wasn't sure whom,
He called in Joe Clark and they formed a long list
Of all those against him, but there was someone they'd missed!
They listed the Premiers from the West to The Rock
There was not one name among them that was made of the stock
to take on the Country and make it stand strong and free
In fact of 5 of 11 couldn't quite spell B.C.!
But deep in his soul the Grinch still felt a tingle
So he called on hils staff and fave Geroge Bush a jingle
Maybe H. Ross Perot was a citizen up here,
You know who he is, he's the one with the ears!
The Prez told the Grinch that Perot wasn no threat
But, the Grinch was still worried, there was someone else yet...
Now the people waged searches in each nook and cranny
And the leader they'd found had a beard, was named Lanny
He said "I can help you but I'll not thake the reigns"
"But, you'll find your new leader if you'll just read MACLEANS"
The people thought hard and when they broke from their huddle
They remembered a phrase from the past "Fuddle Duddle!"
The leader they sought was Pierre Elliot Trudeau!
But no one was sure if he'd return to the show
They approached the ex-leader and they spoke of their quest
They all spoke of taxes and how he was the best
To come back to The Grits and be saviour for all
He thought on it a bit and then he stood up quite tall
He said "Yes, I'll do it!", and his voice came alive
"What I buggered in twelve years, The Grinch has ******* in five!"
Now, the rest of the story is yet to be told
The winds of change are a blowing and they're blowing quite cold
Please heed what I've written and think for a while
For the Grinch is still here with his chin and his smile
This Christmas think ******* the message I've sent
Let's make it the last he get his seven per-cent
Let's make this a Christmas both Joyous and true
Let's give the Grinch what he gave us, but let's give it times two!
I will probably be writing an entirely new version later this year, once the son of Trudeau, Justin Trudeau, becomes the Liberal Party Leader and is on his way to becoming, hopefully, The Next Prime Minister of Canada. This was originally written in 1992, but with the way the Canadian Political environment is today, it still fits, so I pulled it from my handwritten archives and posted it here. If you are Canadian, you can tell, all you have to do is switch Mulroney for Stephen Harper  and you have the same grinch we had before.
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2013
Neocons— like bees,
Puritan values in hives,
So many good drones.
martin Jun 2014
There was a vicar from Fife
Who never took a wife
Instead he toyed
With a choir boy
And buggered him up for life
jeffrey robin May 2013
Who?
...
What are the choices?

----

None
---

---

Christ the hobo the freight train

The buggered boy the ****** ***

The boy in the basement video games

The blind man's bluff the the walking lame

---

Who?
.

Why you ask?
--

I don't know what  else can I say?
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
i can't imagine a better maxim for a marriage:

   when both of you are young...
and... instead of being
these "star-crossed lovers" -

with a rubric
                  of the thwart(ing)...

to marry: when both are still in love with life...

                    from a nation-state into
the ***** of a diaspora...

what a fine word...
   the mass-influx of hyping around
the otherwise, fake:

       migrant workers...
like the current argument for
british sovereignty:
we will not have any of the bureaucracy
from Brussels...
but, we, will! have...
those romanian fruit & veg pickers!

it's hardly a joke:
more like a choke...
                    what's the difference between...
leaving one part of the country
for another: part of the same country...
and then... being daring enough...
to leave the country: thoroughly...
and have to learn a new language?

dual-citizenship...
go back? stay here?
hmm... i'm not really fond of speaking
or writing in ******...
the germans dissolved...
the russians too: dissolved...
i'm pretty sure that language can
remain intact... as it is...
under the law & justice party...
once they focus on the breeders
with tax-free incentives...

Chicago! what a fine diaspora hub
for the ****** "expatriates"...
good thing i never made it to
h'america: in stripes...

the friends of my youth...
most of then? crimminals...
        the nicknames we had for each
other:
i remember being taunted as being
an... "angol"... because my father wasn't
their father and wasn't part
of laying down the foundations
of "bones" for the dockland light railway...

i left a nation: still in its infancy...
and to its infancy i will drink!
but as a language: not a people...
not a geographic location...
a metaphysical manifestation:
if the word be a faustian signature...
yes, my lord... i see the pinching
itch of the natives squandering it...
like it should not have been...
a frederick hohenstaufen II experiment
in a nunnery on Sicily...
mute children... raised by nuns who didn't
speak: pretending...
to see... what language was genesis primo!

my allegiance is to the tongue...
it might allude to the fife and drums...
but dealing with the rascal
who deems...
that god save the queen be treated
with irreverence...
i'm not as daft and yobbish to glare
with a hydra giving birth to an extension
of its neck-load girth...

give me! the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
and i'll show you le marseillaise!
i have long ago pledge my allegience
to the tongue...
              
because? well... to be honest...
under all the supression from the...
(a) herr meisterstuck:
         the day:
        
        the prussians... "forgot"...
they were jumbled up with the lithuanians
as the last pagans of europe...
and then they decided: whatever it
was that they decided upon...

i hear some russian... i hear a down syndrome
person talk...
it's all lovely and sing-along...
but it's hardly by strict obligation
to the latin script... is it?
i have to nibble at pitty-worth jokes
to aid my...

diaspora: involuntary mass dispersion
of a population from its indigenous territories...
last time i checked...
i was born into a city famously known
for its practice in metallurgy...
i was the never-to-be grandson
of Die Krupp ambitions!
    i would leave my hometown and...
well... there was Warsaw...
or the... brain-drain train "elsewhere"...
from a nation into the grand...
vacuum of the diaspora...

except in england...
       the no. 303... most of which settled
in either Scotland or... Stratford-upon-Avon...
elsewhere... some other... "elsewhere"...

well...
   given that i have had had a choice...
ha ha! comma? sir?! that that?
      given that i have had - had a choice...
well... imagine... perhaps there's something
about Fwench... but i'm chosing sides...
it's not in Norwegian...
so... b'leh b'leh b'leh... b'leh...
                      
               i just have to borrow some german...
speaking this... hybrid saxon having
buggered enough afghanistan-esque brit druids...
the zeppelins were always dropping...
soap-bubbles...
          i tease oh god...
i tease... but this music is so... so...
oh so delight-ful!

                   die könig im gelb!

ah... to marry: when both are in love with life!
terrible affair: should... "life" somehow
matter: to disappear...
this love a suffocation for the best ****
they had in... ever...
and there's nothing of what life is concerned
with...
either children or... being infertile...
but to be in love with life...

the russians can't proclaim a diaspora...
then again: the "mafia"...
i've heard of an italian mob-esque...
      disposition... subsequent undercurrents
to boot...
an... irish mafia?
bothersome details...
         i still pledge my alliance to a Dickens
over a a Shakespeare...
because...
by chance... i might find some poetry
in the prosaic? by Shakespeare alone:
i'm... "expected".... aren't i?

bad news from York-and-the-shire...
Rotherham... and the... prefix ****-
   and the suffix -stani "debate"...
                   do you even know
how... let's not go there...
to term a bogus inconvenience of...

'what the hell is concerning you...
to fathom from cloud-9 a ****** notion of...
being out-bred?!'

an economic war... is a slow war...
it takes time...
it would take the amount of time...
to turn a once proud town focused on
metallurgy into rubble...
some stayed... some moved to warsaw...
some... played: a joker hand de facto...

i am: this... subtle... p.s. curiosity...
had i only come to breed...
rather than to otherwise...
nuance... allegiance...
zu die zunge?! alles!
             die menschen?
                     jeder seine haben!
             die schwach wind und der flagge?!
ist: die schwach wind: und der flagge: nein?

perhaps there's a stressor
of impetus in german that's not allowed
in english...

     ich bin hier für die sprache...
              
it must be translated... such it being:
oh such a wonderful... phrase...

   to marry... when both... are in love... with life...

zu heiraten... wenn beide...
                           sind im liebe... mit leben!

art-*******-and-funky-funky...
parsley-sage-rosemary-thym­e...
        what? thyme? there's a phi or a theta
to posit... instead...
you took the Dubliners' route of: paddy...
tad... and toink!
                'ucking scoundrels!

i will call... the greek-chinese ideogram...
I(ota) the key... and... "thereabouts"...
a keyhole of O(micron)...
it's an id: representation...

                 squashed: yes: 0... for better...
"graphics"...
    
to be young... and to share a half of both:
of being in love with life...

       Φ = the key enters the keyhole (I, O)...
    Θ = the key is turned... (Io)...
         Ψ = the door is opened...

        enough... Beijing "abstract" concerns...
for anyone?
       what's the abstract of rotation?
                                   oh... i guess: 'micron!

so much for abstracts as: only from boing-boing-xin...
some letter can qualify to be
apprehended in ideograms...
B - bossom or a fudge-yeast-byproduct
of a full ***...
              etc. or... Φ, Θ, Ψ...
       now by adding the brackets...
and time has a geography...
from the height of mythology...
to the depths of journalism...
that's... a vector:  (Φ, Θ, Ψ)...

     it's a key... a door... a keyhole...
                            an opening... n'est ce pas?!
hey! let's complicate it further
with: mr. squint... chop-sticks...
dragons... live vermin sushi...
    and counting dry grains of rice...

i'm not: Česlav Miloš...
to begin with... Czesław Miłosz was...
a Lithuanian...
because Copernicus wasn't ******...
"because and because"...
                     sides... all this talk of:
"allegiance"...
**** it... it's a cosmopolitan allegiance
to... the commonality of tongue...
shared to the point...
when... old fictions wrestle with me
and i'm confined to my own cubic...

for english is a language i can
entertain...
allow... yes... this parasite can erode
its host's cranium und...
                                  grauangelegenheit...
it was never... so imposing...
as a german tongue or a russian tongue...
therefore and thereby?
      an easily qualified tongue-donor
with the expanse of thought:
a complete and utter brain-drain on...

now...
there's a difference...
the english will not know it...

there's the nation... and there's the diaspora...
can the english... claim h'america...
or canada... or... australia...
as a nation-extension toward the confines
of a diaspora?
no... i don't think so...

that: quintessential inconvenience of
being merely: english...
   more prone to a local geography...
a devonshire... a derbyshire...
               someone of york...
  lost in new york...
                    a people with...
an imploded seance of diaspora...
    from the humble little island...
to: whatever fraction that was supposed
to make one impose on...

had i just been Irish... and "somehow"
forgotten my Gaelic...
or been that Welshman and no longer
with any Cymru...
well then...
but i come willing because...
      beside the mother and father...
the maternal grandmother and -father...
who will i speak my "native" and "mother"
tunge / zunge to?
          
i rather imagine marriage:
as when both of them are in love with life...
and in love that being said:
a little tale o' whittle england:
make it big in h'america...
        
         this... the most complete...
antithesis of a diaspora...
                    or rather: what lingua franca
was... and what l'inglese is...
and how: even if arabic tried...
and even if: mandarin would hope for...
well... hardly...
jackie chan kung fu and muhammad:
english is more popular than islam...
**** it up: camel jockey!
oh sure... they're "muslim"...
conflicting opinions... once:
speaking in english "arrives"...

                   i'm here: to turn up the volume...
because... i might as well have been
born in estonia... and speaking... estonian...
and never having left estonia...
been very much happy for the euro
and the... thumbling russians... somehow...
"retreating"...
well... if the russians are retreating...
they're: trying to revise being
an indo-european mongrel with...
accents of scandinavia concerning
the founding fathers of Kiev...
and them being russians:
what the hell do we do with the ukranians...
and the mongols that settled and became
tartars?!

yeah... the russians are on the retreat...
    this little island that... hopes for a diaspora...
instead... shuckles...
it has to settle for a h'american empire...
an australia... a new zealand...
ogh! mein! gott! no expatriate diaspora!
no tea with mussolini typo excursions!
mein gott! v'er vill youz goez?!

         zee f'ikkin moonz?! on a sputnik flarez?!
light up baboon *** numero uno:
then whisper among the fwench...

yes... very much brilliant...
         to be alive... and to marry so young...
and be helped: so young...
and not be thwarted...
   'coz crazy bunnies had the best ***...
great: to be alive, so young,
and married: and married to each other
and at the same time: having life marry you
to love it: to be together and married
to a love for life:
and... just... somehow...
having a co-dependent... of reciprocated
self-interests...

                            even in poland...
a soviety satellite...
with concrete chicken-shacks... ah yes:
that... "once upon a time"...
better the ******* state as my landlord
than some grubby liquorice ****** 3rd party:
libertarian "full dislocusre of mammon's
expression of par-tay"... sort of *******!
give me the state, the grey-suit and the gimps!

or? shackle me up for a stipend
working the sloughterhouse...
to boot... a house filled with 20 dobermans...
and 5 rottweilers...
i'll slaughter your cows... for the steak chops...
as long as i have the dogs to cuddle
and imagine myself doing the greater:
cosmic-karma-good...
the dogs... the harem of dogs...
no... women need excuses...
the dogs!

                 hell... a woman would require...
anniverseries... flowers... pinnace for a tsunami...
crumbs... what's a loaf of bread?
details... something to be minded as:
once being a plughole...
blah blah... hands for cushions...
        
              plus... women can't drink...
let her everything else: apart from the whiskey...
if she really wants to drink...
tell her to sober up on some Stendhal or
some Balzac... but don't let a woman
try to outcompete a man drinking...
she can drink...
but not... in that most... ugly: crab-feast
of... "detail"...

the english man... england...
h'america, australia... new zealand...
oh... wait... you were hoping for a diaspora...
weren't you?
yeah... clearly i didn't find an affair of
the imitation of greece...
took charge of the latin script...
inverted the mediterranean sea...

i speak your language: doesn't imply
i've shed the "ethno-nationalist" tattoos of "d.n.a."...
for a people to have made it bitter...
with the teutonic order over access to the baltic sea...
what's the baltic sea?
it's like the black sea...
the baltic sea is about as useful as...
well... the danes and the norwegians
held the toll and price of passing...
just like the turks or the byzantines held
the key of the bosphorus...
the baltic... is a "sea"...
just like the black sea is a "sea"...

did you know... there's a caspian sea?
yeah... it's a "sea"... more like... a lake would
be so much better...

the english could be akin to the arabs
from 200 years ago...
instead: sitting on a tonne of salt...
and waves...
and open horizons...
while the arabs sat on camel ****...
sand... and dinosaur juice...
and materialistic leprosy and limp-****
viagara palm tree impromptu...

sure... the lottery ticket of the past,
oh the most glorious past times...
        nothing lasts forever...
       so it seems...
            here's me celebrating Dickens
to the last... breath... because...
keeping up with speaking my native
language: when there are no
prussians, no russians...
           no austro-hungarians...
and there are only...
ukranians and lithuanians readying
to guilt-trip me over the failures
of the polish-lithuanian commonwealth?!

in this language i can...
ale... nie... w... tym!
martin challis Oct 2014
Listen son
It’s al ‘right to feel
It’s OK to cry
It’s even acceptable to not be perfect
In everything you try

Failure can be positive
If bent another way
A kind of subtle back-burn before
The fire of success comes your way

Its not the end of everything, but the
Beginning of something new
It’s probably the way you see it
Is the shape that comes to view

A mountain so enormous
Never seeming to be climbed
Until you’ve done some treading
Most likely one foot at a time

Some day you get right up there
You’re laughing with the clouds
And at some stage you lose your grip again
Falling all the way back down

So you pick yourself right up
Spit gravel from your mouth
And head to other climates
I’m recommending south

On the way you meet a few kind souls
Perhaps a little wiser than yourself
Some who might begin to question
The state of your mental health

But don’t despair; it’s all good stuff
The journey, the quest, the sport,
Some days you’ll go a long way
On others you’ll pull up short

Just keep going that’s the main thing,
I’m buggered if I know where, cause’
Eventually south goes north
And every other where

Keep treading, keep smiling,
Don’t forget to breathe
It’s important to enjoy yourself
And keep something up your sleeve

It isn’t easy, this I know,
When some old ****** gives advice
You think he’s a little crazy and
He don’t talk so very nice

You’re probably right, he might be mad,
But the thing about this is,
It’s better to keep asking questions
Than be sitting in a tizz

Complain or question or kick or scratch
The ticket is the train you catch
The one for somewhere, the one that goes
Not sitting at the station and picking at your nose

Get on board
Live a life
Have some fun and
Cause a bit o’ strife, now

I’m sorry I can’t say more than this
But I reckon you know why; it’s
Coz you’ve got a good long life to lead
And I’m about to die.



MChallis @ 1999/2014
Joe Haydon Mar 2014
Right.
So I did my ankle in on Friday.
****.
Thought I'd see how I was to drive by nipping to work and back.
Ok. So far so good.
The tyre pops.
****.
But I get there.
Ok - it's cool - change the tyre:
Spare wheel? Check
Jack? Check
Security socket? Check
Tyre iron? No.
No?!
****.
So.
Now stranded outside work with a buggered ankle, a popped tyre and without a very important tool to change the wheel.
And for some reason nobody else seems to keep that vital piece of equipment in their boot either.
****.
Anyway.
As Lady Luck would have it (in her mysterious way), a chance encounter ended with a lift home.
WOOHOOO!
I will return tomorrow fully prepared.
With luck I won't get a ticket sitting on a double yellow all night.
Hold on.
Luck?
Luck?!
What?!

Dear Lady Luck,
Make up your mind.
Please.
Yours,
Joe Haydon
Mike Essig Jan 2016
by Ramond Carver**

You don't know what love is Bukowski said
I'm 51 years old look at me
I'm in love with this young broad
I got it bad but she's hung up too
so it's all right man that's the way it should be
I get in their blood and they can't get me out
They try everything to get away from me
but they all come back in the end
They all came back to me except
the one I planted
I cried over that one
but I cried easy in those days
Don't let me get onto the hard stuff man
I get mean then
I could sit here and drink beer
with you hippies all night
I could drink ten quarts of this beer
and nothing it's like water
But let me get onto the hard stuff
and I'll start throwing people out windows
I'll throw anybody out the window
I've done it
But you don't know what love is
You don't know because you've never
been in love it's that simple
I got this young broad see she's beautiful
She calls me Bukowski
Bukowski she says in this little voice
and I say What
But you don't know what love is
I'm telling you what it is
but you aren't listening
There isn't one of you in this room
would recognize love if it stepped up
and buggered you in the ***
I used to think poetry readings were a copout
Look I'm 51 years old and I've been around
I know they're a copout
but I said to myself Bukowski
starving is even more of a copout
So there you are and nothing is like it should be
That fellow what's his name Galway Kinnell
I saw his picture in a magazine
He has a handsome mug on him
but he's a teacher
Christ can you imagine
But then you're teachers too
here I am insulting you already
No I haven't heard of him
or him either
They're all termites
Maybe it's ego I don't read much anymore
but these people w! ** build
reputations on five or six books
termites
Bukowski she says
Why do you listen to classical music all day
Can't you hear her saying that
Bukowski why do you listen to classical music all day
That surprises you doesn't it
You wouldn't think a crude ******* like me
could listen to classical music all day
Brahms Rachmaninoff Bartok Telemann
**** I couldn't write up here
Too quiet up here too many trees
I like the city that's the place for me
I put on my classical music each morning
and sit down in front of my typewriter
I light a cigar and I smoke it like this see
and I say Bukowski you're a lucky man
Bukowski you've gone through it all
and you're a lucky man
and the blue smoke drifts across the table
and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue
and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk
and I puff on the cigar like this
and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this and take a deep breath
and I begin to write
Bukowski this is the life I say
it's good to be poor it's good to have hemorrhoids
it's good to be in love
But you don't know what it's like
You don't know what it's like to be in love
If you could see her you'd know what I mean
She thought I'd come up here and get laid
She just knew it
She told me she knew it
**** I'm 51 years old and she's 25
and we're in love and she's jealous
Jesus it's beautiful
she said she'd claw my eyes out if I came up here
and got laid
Now that's love for you
What do any of you know about it
Let me tell you something
I've met men in jail who had more style
than the people who hang around colleges
and go to poetry readings
They're bloodsuckers who come to see
if the poet's socks are *****
or if he smells under the arms
Believe me I won't disappoint em
But I want you to remember this
there's only one poet in this room tonight
only one poet in this town tonight
maybe only one real poet in this country tonight
and that's me
What do any of you know about life
What do any of you know about anything
Which of you here has been fired from a job
or else has beaten up your broad
or else has been beaten up by your broad
I was fired from Sears and Roebuck five times
They'd fire me then hire me back again
I was a stockboy for them when I was 35
and then got canned for stealing cookies
I know what's it like I've been there
I'm 51 years old now and I'm in love
This little broad she says
Bukowski
and I say What and she says
I think you're full of ****
and I say baby you understand me
She's the only broad in the world
man or woman
I'd take that from
But you don't know what love is
They all came back to me in the end too
every one of em came back
except that one I told you about
the one I planted We were together seven years
We used to drink a lot
I see a couple of typers in this room but
I don't see any poets
I'm not surprised
You have to have been in love to write poetry
and you don't know what it is to be in love
that's your trouble
Give me some of that stuff
That's right no ice good
That's good that's just fine
So let's get this show on the road
I know what I said but I'll have just one
That tastes good
Okay then let's go let's get this over with
only afterwards don't anyone stand close
to an open window
Here you see an ******* in action. Raymond Carver was a genius. I'm not the only person to be ambivalent about the Buk. Notice how well he captures the repetitive self-glorification.
JM Romig Apr 2015
everybody’s angel bodies
find happening midnight
on Kansas pavements
hipsters’ motherwords are wholely robed by time
instant everything is ordinary
buggered city  immortals --
annoyed, parentless, marijuana everymans
swiftly digging unknown eternity
groaning strange in the long mysterious night
roaring, vibrating kindness
from their holy tongues
blazing inner hideous human gold
draining ***** forever
draining everything
forever -
Moloch, Buddha, Abyss
Reduce, Reuse, Recycle
Mostly a Cutup from "Daydreaming of Ginsberg" by Jack Kerouac, and "Footnote to Howl" by Allen Ginsberg. NaPoWriMo 2015

To make sense of it, imagine its explaining the modern world to the beat generation in their own language.
Ben Jones Feb 2013
A doctor who lost his dear wife
Took to probing the secrets of life
His intention was pure
Though success premature
Lead him quickly to trouble and strife

The notion popped into his head
To dig up the recently dead
With his stitching and knife
He created a life
Which promptly absconded and fled

He looked like the worst of mankind
But was blessed with a brilliant mind
He lurked in the wood
For as long as he could
But he yearned for the touch of his kind

To the doctor he went to proclaim
That his plight was of Frankenstein's blame
And he said he'd begin
To **** off his kin
Unless Frankenstein made him a dame

So the doctor stole bodies and stitched
With a frenzy, the man was bewitched
For his son would be saved
Once this woman, de-graved
Was alive and the monster was hitched

But a face at the window appeared
As his second success was neared
The creature was grinning
His eyeballs were spinning
In his trousers, a cobra had reared

So the doctor was filled up with guilt
And he tore up the woman he'd built
So the very next day
In a horrible way
His son was all strangled and ****'t

The doctor pursued his creation
Across countries with growing frustration
He went for a stroll
In the southern most pole
A long way off from civilization

The going was chilly and slow
But he finally caught up his foe
The creature was greater
He killed his creator
And buggered off into the snow

The End
Spider web crick-cracks on eggshell skin
Raggedy Ann rag doll made of porcelain
Second-hand bruises, scratches, scuffs, and knicks
In the healing shields of my hands, quick enough to fix
Super glue and elbow grease I knew would save the day
So full of good intentions, I carried her away
The best laid plans of mice and men, all buggered by my feet
The jingly song of transience played out on cold concrete
A mindless second's trip-up, the crystal princess killed
Her splintered features looked up, haunt my memory still
Lips forever frozen, screaming "Please, no more!"
In kaleidoscopic pieces scattered on the floor
Ben Jones Oct 2015
A doctor who lost his dear wife
Took to probing the secrets of life
His intention was pure
Though success premature
Lead him quickly to trouble and strife

The notion popped into his head
To dig up the recently dead
With his stitching and knife
He created a life
Which promptly absconded and fled

He looked like the worst of mankind
But was blessed with a brilliant mind
He lurked in the wood
For as long as he could
But he yearned for the touch of his kind

To the doctor he went to proclaim
That his plight was of Frankenstein's blame
And he said he'd begin
To **** off his kin
Unless Frankenstein made him a dame

So the doctor stole bodies and stitched
With a frenzy, the man was bewitched
For his son would be saved
Once this woman, de-graved
Was alive and the monster was hitched

But a face at the window appeared
As his second success was neared
The creature was grinning
His eyeballs were spinning
He dribbled and lustfully leered

So the doctor was filled up with guilt
And he tore up the woman he'd built
So the very next day
In a horrible way
His son was all strangled and ****'t

The doctor pursued his creation
Across countries with growing frustration
He went for a stroll
In the southern most pole
A long way off from civilization

The going was chilly and slow
But he finally caught up his foe
The creature was greater
He killed his creator
And buggered off into the snow

The End
Terry Collett Mar 2013
Her seventh suicide,
attempts failed, saved,
the last by that medic
with the beard like Christ.

Thin sharp blade
against forearm,
the fingers shaking,
the eyes focused,
the voice of some French singer
in the background,
the red line,
the spurt of blood,
the walls, the bath,
splattered.

Seventh time lucky,
the water warm,
the water reddening,
the body becoming cold,
tired
she closes
her eyes,
is this how one dies?

Mother’s demise
with the cancerous crab
******* into her brain
and ******* up to pain.

She thinks on,
the French song
on the hifi
low, darkening.

That medic
brought her back
last time,
like some Lazarus,
back from the dark,
the unknown light,
the long night.

Seventh suicide,
attempts made,
unsuccessful,
buggered up,
teetering on the edge,
that time balanced
on the high office ledge
and that cop
with the Al Pacino look,
talked her in,
failed again.

Outside another day,
sound of pitter patter,
sound of rain.
Terry Collett Apr 2012
It was sports day
at high school

and the field and tracks
were crowded with

teachers and kids
and the sun was out

causing sweat
and heat rash

and Reynard said to you
that girl who fancies your ***

is waving to you
over by the small wood

of trees and bushes
so you looked over

and saw Christina
waving a hand at you

leaping up and down
her short gym skirt

rising and falling
as she leaped

showing off
now and then

her dark green *******
mind she don’t eat you

Reynard said
and walked off

to watch the races
as you wandered over

to where she stood
at the edge

of the small wood
don’t you look

the **** beast
in your black shorts  

she said
eyeing you over

her right hand smoothing
down your white tee shirt

are you running?
she asked

yes a short sprint
you replied

anything more than that
and I’m buggered

she looked at the field
holding her hands

in front of her
and you gazed

at her white legs
and white ankle socks

and black plimsolls
I’m in the relay race

she said
I‘ll have to watch

to see when my turn comes
then she turned to you

and said
have you been inside the wood?

you looked behind you
no not so far have you?

yes we went there
in science looking for bugs

and such
she said

maybe you could show me
you said

what?
bugs and flowers

and butterflies
you replied

she smiled at you
maybe but teachers might be watching

or other kids or prefects
and what if my brother Cedric

sees us enter
and tells my parents?

just a science tour
to see all nature’s gifts

you said
tell them that

if any see us go
and you watched her

fumble with her fingers
looking around the field

and whispered softly
no.
When Cameron came to Stratford
he came in disguise,
afraid of the eyes accusing him,
he stood in the stadium
like an Athenian,
but we saw through his games
and Olympiad flames,
when Cameron came to Stratford
we buggered off to Crewe.
Stanley Wilkin Nov 2016
TURNING and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.*

W.B.Yeats




In a time such as this, in darkening days
        Without screeching witches
Frightened banshees, buggered old men
Searching for solace, eyes streaming with icicle-lust-
Gangrene facebook: torn-up, shredded twitter

The cries of the disconnected,
Wailing!
Wailing!

In a time like this, in darkening days,
The disconnections come in waves!

Searching for reason amongst the unreasoning,
Hunting for sanity within the insane,
Identifying the dead from amongst the living.

Wailing!
Wailing!

Email excreting venom
Internet exfoliating lies-politicians wrapped
                         In deceit-
A cold time of it, a wretched time of it.

Only within our hearts does hope lie.
                      Only there
Away from conflict and disorder
                             Away
From the capricious cacophony of biased debate.

Wailing!
Wailing!
Doktor Howl Mar 2012
Ah, youth, were hast thou fled?
It seems to me only yesterday that
I was dodging the draft in WWII.
Where was I?
Oh, yeah.  Someone's buggered off with
My false teeth.
It's that f*cking cat again.
The Unbeliever Aug 2014
I didn't mean to
Didn't want to do this
Maybe
I just wanted to know
Maybe I can't stop

Do you know what it's like?
To play second fiddle
To another
But not first for love
The one of your life
They keep saying
There will be another

Another, when it took
All my life
Just to find the one?
How can that be?
Buggered imagination

I found her pictures
Found her darkest desires
What she asked for
Begging on her knees
Sexually, not me
Beautiful dark long haired
******* herself for my man

Everything I'm not
Things she wants
Sensually, aggressive
***** little *****
Destroyed all my dreams

Look at her pictures
Venerable, shy; all a lie
She cries about cages
Freedoms, chains and sins
But she wouldn't do for hers
What she would do for mine
I just don't know, want to die

I curse her name
Her face, burns
Forever
Until
Still
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
too many youtube punctuation akins before my voice comes through, like: hi! i'm child-minding chalrie! ola! oo! advert gives a ****?! you see that? advert gives a toss! well... ola! original lost to marsh potatoes mash.

like i was led by a solomonic harem:

we're buggered;

   to be honest.... hugh grant could have
said that better, and, would have facied him...
if he made that one film from my youth
about a damsel in distress... and the return
of charles II to england... the thing adam and the ants
imitated: highwayman no robin hood...
clean shaven like a daffodil in early spring frost
for the eye to peer into...

as it turns out, you write one great piece of work
and everyone applauses...
you write a thousand symphonies,
and everyone turns flame-eyed and forgets
your one spectacular moment, which
you take into hades and wish to forget given
the total output, when they mention that it
was all great, but so comes cousin critic and you
know that most of it was... a bit ****...
               and because of that:
they tend to do better... they?
   the ones that hit the banknote of a one song
wonder... and then receded into life,
and debated with gay peerage in some restaurant
akin to bridet jones' diary scenario,
and oh my oh my: the palpitations necessary
like make-up... i can almost see flamingos take to ballet!

and then it's back to *quack quack quack

of promenades in the park watching mallards...
  
original jealosy fades.... no, nothing else,
it just fades... which can feel a bit weird,
basically it, just, fades - i take to foot what people
take to: speeding down the a408 thinking
about tax; well yeah, i tax my feet with a mile, or two,
sometimes i take to the mile or two
with a different pair of shoe.
                                   you a rhyming rhino too?
              
you write pachebel's canon,
you're going to compete with haydn's 103
symphony...
similar to a question: how many eggs am i
carrying in my basket?

dear reader, like i child i never fathered,
or like a dog i never petted,
          or should i simply aim at: dear ego?
what unit i had and never thought with,
never mind the thought of?

the fact that you can't cry, is the reason
that you are depressed,
that's another statement that's worthwhile,
stating apathy as a misery
without tears
, the original melan- -choly...

listen, i don't care because i don't want to,
  i care about something that i want to care
about because thte things i would like to care about
i can't or don't want to,
   so i take the "metaphor" (which means
half my hans zimmer is gone) that keeps
haydn's symphony no. 103 almost floating
above pachelbel's canon...
      i'd love to miss out the second l...
and there, the ****** white, the doves,
     the church, and... hail! the marching bride!
that feeling of consecration...
    can you realise that newspapers are stink
compared to dust-affording books?
              yep... newspapers are ****
compared to book... i kept a week's worth
of newspapers in my room, i realised
that it stank as if a cat ****** in my room...
  when i listen to pachelbel i'm supposed to think
of kent, or devon, aren't i?
thumbs up essex oi oi!
                   halfway house out of 'ackney
  or 'eckham...
      oh right, right, like i was ever invited to a
marriage...
                     some 'un 'as to be the black sheep
of the family...
   well... i hope she divorces aged 40 and has a miscarriage
aged 35... if i really wanted to give a toss...
i'd toss, a cricket 'ard ball of
                mahogany cranium and make
believe that i was loved,
instead of receiving postcards from strangers...
living about a mile away...
    so there i see pachelbel with his canon in D....
and there i see mozart, laughing in steppenwolf
as is worth citing:
      i wrote so much ******* i just had to
tickle my ***** like a philosopher might ****** his
beard... if that answers your question:
they remember him for only one song,
and do so rightly,
   me? i'm not quiet sure why they remember
me for a hundred.
   it's like pachelbel is the *** pistols
        and i'm the ramones, or the offspring,
or stiff little fingers... or the dread, ****!
green day?!
                 according to noel gallagher
who did say that never mind the *******
was something we didn't accomplish with his
oasis albums... even though back in the day...
on the european continent, no one sang anything
apart from oasis songs... you went to paris:
oasis... you taizé... oasis...
yes, what was, once, france... or frau hans...
and then the exagerration on the f....
like an alo alo alo episode...
                 that's basically what it sounds like....
pachelbel's           pa-she-sha  l          fix it bell's
   pashelbel's               it's also half check in czech...
     but that's what noel said akin to mozart:
to be honest? i'd rather just (have) written than canon in D
and ****** off; if i wrote more than that
i'd be anything but that spare prosthetic limb
for that one legged man, dancing at a party in Versailles.
Acuriousnature Aug 2014
Stay down soldier.
Don't wake up again
Stay here inside your mind again.
Your heart's under attack again.

Sleep.
It's safer in your dreams my friend
Don't dream of you and her my friend
Don't dream about the bitter end
Just dream of something else right now and lend.

Your thoughts
To work that you've still to do
To family, friends, your puppy too
Don't think about your love true
The color of your hearts not blue

It's RED.
This Love's not dead
She's in your head
Just lead
There by by yourself instead
Leaving you with the chilling dread

Be Strong.
In this you can't be wrong
To sing the song
Of love gone wrong
Of love that lasted 4 years long
You lost the place that you belong

Move on
Go forth and don't look back
Accept the past and let it last
But stay on this old track
Don't let the demons stack
The odds against your soul under attack
They seize your soul, a snack

Rest.
This is a simple test
No answer is the best
Inside this meaningless quest
Beat upon you breast
In vain your heart distressed
It's pieces a mess
Unless
You dress
Your heart upon it's nest
Without it's buggered pest

Pestering perishing
That's the thing
That horrid ring
Preventing you
Who claims to sing
The song itself is glorying
The brutal heart's devouring
By devils with their pointed sting

By day you rule with smiles so bright
By night night you cry till mornings light
And yet your heart and mind still fight
Believing that their path is right

Right.
Who writes your story
By what right

This maddening confusion now tearing apart your rhythm with out care for all the efforts you have given to keep within the lines tearing out all of the logic all the structure all the spines and yet within the chaos you betray us to the dark. I am you and I am me.

Now let's keep this between us three. The trinity completes the form that makes us whole even with the hole between. Our shiny chrome battered as we encircle the hole. Where once our love once used to be.

Where was I again? I've lost my track.

These words will lead themselves again
With disregard for foe or friend
Even with knees at prayers bend
Begging for mercy
Heaven send


This poem will end just like many stories

It ends incomplete
Missing something
No glory
The confusion reigns my mind tonight. Incomplete thoughts run together forever.
JoJo Nguyen Jul 2015
<quote>
Though we vacationed in a castle, though I
rode you hard one morning to the hum
of bees that buggered lavender, and later
...
<quote />
It reminds me of riding in trains, in Europe, in Italy, in love.
Read the rest of this lovely poem @//poets dot org//
Use their search bar to find the two poems by Beth.
I will **** trees, miss fleas, hiss bees & kiss cheeses like nervously-
nervous nut jobs with neurotical, nerve-racking, miss-ease diseases
Half way up from the bottom down, left of center, tilted backwards,
is the contorted stance that cripples contortionists lunging forwards
Charles Puffy's jumbled diphtherial litter & rot got him caught cold
& brought to higher authorites who knew that Puffy needn't be shot
I must **** freeze, miss fleas, kiss pleas & sis knees like nervously-
nervous **** aces with a neurotic, verve-backing, mist-fees disease
in prison abuse programs for los Indios maricones of British Belize
where we choke Chinese grocers often for greenish imports of peas
from divine Cathay where Falun Gong worship's a Maoistical tease
for the likes of Planters honey peanut butter franchisee John Cleese
who unites skin-sloughing French sheep with shepherds who fleece
along knee, shoulder & pelvic joints & where pink **** ***** crease
which is alright with ****-flap pervert, the flitty queer Edwin Meese
who seeks gay normality & normal gayety with 32 gym locker keys
that unlock a twilit exo-scientometrical face that God frozenly frees
under the gun like a he/she; as known by goys blown in shot breeze
through statues soiled by pigeons above ½ moon toenails of tweeze
long after the decapitation of 91-year-old screen writer Robert Lees
whose bid to keep head & torso as 1 died like Yukio's Shogun pleas
whose fight to keep his head & frame attached died in ½-assed seas
just like ****** Bruce Jenner showing he's a she by varying degrees
that has his ill family of mule-******* climbing like chimps up trees
that has his donkey-******' family climbin' like apes up jungle trees
where syndicated-business-share-differentials run like a viral sneeze
brought on anaphylactically from the sting of gay Cuban killer bees
I caught what you got: a catchy social malady, a red, twisted nose, a
splintered bone sprain & iliac crest pain from a celiac disease strain
as our fiery Icelandical love derailed your icy Africanical soul train,
new A.P.S. screening for Chinese students made Dutch folks insane
as a homosexy Irish turn would flash a burn with Gay Gaybo Byrne
who worshiped all beans save, of course, the stringy mung, because
1 dead Martin Luther King hung sun bred rotten puker string strung
on *****/spine/pines/Ipsen, as anagrammatically fill words are sung
by Ted Nougat & Steady Nugget, Cud New Ghent, Bed **** Gent,
Freddy Knew Chant, Bad Gnu Jaunt, Red Glue **** or Ted Nugent
Ted often changes his name as a dodge for Earthen-plane espionage
with his squatting-over-a-milk-bucket-trick because his heifer's sick
'cause for you I lie to everybody else: Darryl, Charlie, Keef & ****
& lush Woody, whose affair with ***** made the Small Faces click
while avoidin' having massive holes drilled into his filthy neck Ron
managed to remain not dead to complete his homosexy concert trek
while the 2 flat signs of ratty liver brings on thrills + chills, it's only
after you abuse your flat, ratty liver that a flat, ratty liver rat squeals
squeakier than gay drug store cowboys on patented analgesical pills
washed down in ginger beer, tainted by the gooey guts of harp seals
that were buggered by moon-lying *** wipes, 2 gay Buzzes & Neils Lyrics of a geriatrical age that play epidemiological reflect old Paul McCartney's 1960's albums proving that bold jowl pigs aren't knees
as the 2 symptoms of ratty liver disease clog you with rat droppings
atop promontories, in gullies & beneath Algerian cliff outcroppings
where fleet of feet sheet beat tweet bird **** after we eat Crete meat
Warren Jun 2019
This is the story of Jeni Haynes, whose father inflicted horrific physical and ****** abuse on her from the age of four years old. As a result she created over 2000 alter egos to get her through it.
This is my account written with respect and love as  I feel she would tell it, just because some stories deserve a voice.

Dedicated to Symphony,
- For saving my life.

’I am an army,
A force of alter egos forged from the furnace of necessity.
Banded together in permanent transience,
Called forth by the voice purity.’
————————-
I am Symphony,
I’m 4
I came to Jeni first to comfort her through the pain,
Through the torture and torment of lamented youth,
I sang songs to mask the sounds of abuse,
Turned her face inwards,
Jeni found me because she needed me,
But I was not alone.
————————
There’s Judas and Muscles,
There always here,
Alters of Jeni’s yesteryear
‘We are hundreds,
thousands - an army to face,
We’re her solace,
Some of us permanently echoing inside,
some of us hide,
Some of us have a singular purpose,
All of us have the same intention,
To protect our Jeni without exception.’
—————————-
I am Jeni,
I have MPD  so they tell me,
DID is what it’s meant to be,
But I’m just me !
No one ever told me there shouldn’t be more,
Personalities and people behind the door,
So it’s perfectly normal inside my mind,
Just not what you would expect to find.

They call it abuse but it was way past that,
I cowered and cringed,
Paralysed with fear,
Praying he wouldn’t hear,
It was unavoidable,
Inescapable,
I couldn’t prevent it,
I was incapable,
Cried myself dry,
It was torture,
Repeated and repeated and repeated,
Through every sense,
The smell, the taste, the feeling and the pain,
So much pain,
Then Symphony came and things changed.
She brought with her so many,
An army to protect me inside,
Where I could hide,
They took it in turns.
Little Rikki was laid with the task,
It would brake his heart apart,
Each time he would send someone in my place
To face the horrors of my father to face,

And they did suffer,
Every alter, every time,
They passed the poisoned chalice between themselves,
Not letting it near me,
Keeping me inwards so I couldn’t see,
Without their sacrifice,
I don’t know where I’d be.
Crazy maybe.

There was Jay who spoke truth,
Kept me in line all the time,
Tried to protect me,
Run Jeni run
But he couldn’t protect me,
It would always be done.

They weren’t in my head - they were me,
Every one you could see,
I would let them step forward,
They would fulfil their need and then they’d step back,
It’s as natural as that.
It’s survival,
My solution,
A forced evolution of spirit and mind,
I was forced to find.
I’m not ill,
I’m just different.
This is who I am.
I am Jeni Haynes,
We all are in a roundabout way.

I asked people to help,
Told those of rank,
Drew blank after blank,
I’d accused my father of horrific acts,
Given the facts it’s not a topic that attracts.
So it was on me.

I studied,
One day they would see,
I subjected myself to the learn to have power,
In words and knowledge,
These are the weapons of modern times,
And I needed them more than ever.
I studied  psychology, Justice and crime,
Then I tried again.
This time I spoke their language,
I broke their arguments and lay waste to their  fears.
This time they would listen,
And they did.

I am strong,
Battle worn and worthy,
I have power more than most,
I could withstand pain,
Rained upon me over years of suffering,
I had focus,
Honed from an army that knew where to look,
And I had help,
We were heard,
We won our day in court,
That man that called himself my father,
Extradited from his exile,
Brought forth to testify for the wrongs he’d committed.
My 2hrs in court validated my years of silent abuse.
We spoke individually with one voice,
No plan,
I let those with the answers take the stand,
6 came forward to help me beat the one,
And they did,
He confessed,
Finally my fight could be laid to rest.

This is my story,
*****, buggered and systematically abused,
This is my story,
Of Symphony finding me broken and bleeding,
This is my story,
Of waging war against my father,
This is my story,
Of taking back me.
All of me,
Every part of me,
Until finally - I could see.

Jeni Haynes,
“May you find the peace you deserve.”
&
 
we walked on up near the copper mine , a darker place.                          got to thinking.
 
&
 
it comes as no suprise. often ill they die.                                   it is the way.     it is not sad.
 
&
we are sensed with  loss.                                                                  ­               that includes you.
 
he says that’s where the wind comes from,                                       to go most everywhere.
 
&
 
probably do not miss him.                       he was not around us much, well  not at all really.
he buggered off.   no inspiration then.                                                   yet.   he was my dad.
 
&
 
some day i will carry the bones inside.
What an extraordinary day it's been
first the post came at seven this morning
and as I glanced out of my bedroom window
I did spy a dog on the schools roof
I'd be buggered if I know how it got up there
well, ******* down with a feather

So I dressed, had a fill of my pipe
and with tentative steps I ventured out
walking over the crisp mown lawn
I looked up to see if that dog was still there
there was the scallywag reading a news paper
sitting on a deckchair, Well ******* down with a feather

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
PERTINAX Jun 15
From Publius

To Gaius



Gaius, how long have we worked together now?



Three, four years?



Are we not as friends, whose sweat salts the soil?

Whose blood still stains mine alter?

...

And mine yours?

...

Have you forgotten your oath?

As brothers have we not sacrificed for the work?



In shared turmoil we toiled with miniscule minutias,

Always working together to make solutions

From pesty problems.

...

Yet, since you hired Marcus you have been different;

...

The work once shared has now become mine own.

No longer do you seek success in teamwork,



Nay,



Languid you have become with the work;

Heavy have mine shoulders become as a result.



Marcus is a joke.

Sure, he makes a fine comrade

Suitable for long binges of wine and women,

But his intellectual capacity is found wanting.

...

A detriment to getting the job done.

...

Still, you insist upon toting him around,

Holding his hand like a little lost puppy

Whose eyes water with weeping greed,

For more and more favoritism and need.

While, I, sit here and continue the work;

I am here finishing what we started, Gaius:



My SWEAT

...

My BLOOD



Has never ceased to pour forth to the land,

While you reap the harvest, leaving bare kernels

For your so called 'friend' to pick at.

...

Scraps as a reward for rearing another bountiful crop.

...

While Marcus lounges in your atrium,

******* plump figs,

...

That I have grown,

...

Spending more time in the lavatorium,

Than tilling the soil or plucking and picking.



No, dear Gaius, you can have the work.

Enjoy it with your dear Marcus.

He'd make a great Antinous to your Hadrianus.

...

Together, may the gods see you buggered in failure.

...

For this, I will make an offering of frankincense and myrrh

As I set off for new fields and greener pastures

To ply my trade.



One that you will find wanted in the days and months

To come.

...

I've new fields to plow


Seeds to sow


Crops to reap


And seedlings to grow

...

Like them, dear Gaius, I will thrive under noonday sun,

While you will wilt with your work.



Without me.



Signed,

PERTINAX
René Mutumé May 2017
i sit my **** down
and feel the office nudging
a bored embrace inside an over-lit room
hell drooling on the back of a flea
spewing and rubbing its stomach full of bloated dead waterfalls
one eye standing up and looking down into a smile that i send back up
a joke is cracked about local *** around 11pm and our screens twitch
enough to ignite all the hatred and desire in the world
and if i stay here
i will finally just call you up
and ask to borrow your tongue to write my will
all hearts turned sideways and sleeping
so
enough room to dance about it all at least
even if all this will come later
the surreal worships of speed
baked in heels of bear trap misery
enough to drink another coffee and sneeze perhaps
or enough to turn over and become a beetle
where sweat becomes each other’s air
without choice
death flys by our eyes like so many commuters moaning at the same time
and a buggered cup of sun pouring into the arguments i’ll never know
where a timed **** allows me to exhale
and a sly nudge brings me back…

time to go
time to go bud
the tap says

even if it’s time to be using my hands again
where if time repeats
i’d rather it was this way
and gladly

another world becomes.
Mike Essig May 2015
Clocks are the butchers of life.
They take it and cut it into pieces.
Some folks get the good cuts:
houses, families, money, mindlessness.
The rest get the nose, hooves, tails.
Awaken, sleep, work, ****, drive, eat:
Relentlessly it drives us on following
directions, being where we must,
doing what the clock says is appropriate.
Slaves to its tick-tocking reminder:
death is coming, hurry up, hustle
or everything that will not matter anyhow
won't get done. Check your watch.
Step on the gas. Be where you must be
to make others happy and get a pat on the back.
I have been buggered near to death by clocks.
No more.I am taking time into my own hands.
I declare it obsolete. I ignore its chiding.
I won't know what day it is and I won't care.
And when my clock stops forever. I will be free.
No need to ramble
               no need to fret
                   no need
                     going home in a snit

All day
   every day
I wake up
       and know I'm blessed

I'm my
only front man
   and this
you have to understand

Not going anywhere
               I haven't planned

Each road can be rocky
       sometimes it's a smooth sail

Nobody has the answer
    nobody knows what's Noah and the whale


I found out I found this out
              move with a groove
                      that gives one safe passage
                         Don't be buggered by
                                      some tarts eye lashes

Knock yourself out
     let ink bleed from your veins
If you didn't call all in
        I would think that was strange.
Unfazed are heterophobes to acknowledge the goofiness of *******,
whilst spouting negroidal declarations to activate detonator triggers
of filthy, **** ponces infested with ticks, fleas, scabies and chiggers
that histrionically warped gandy dancers, boatswains & sail riggers,
greasers, stevedores, wharf rats, **** reamers & steady well diggers
who couldn't weather frontier-life deprivation or ****-eating rigors
when hiking trousers, peeking up skirts before yanking off knickers
Hemorrhoid 2015 shall make Earth bleed like a ******-*** asteroid
as its impact will usher in the solar system's ultimate, master 'rhoid
that's as infuriating as Springdale, Arkansas' Baptistic Pastor Floyd
as it was greyish cortical brain matter that he was resolutely devoid
With a ham sandwich I have Mama Cass back-scratching gladness,
while in Sea World's aquarium I promulgate bass-catching badness
that'll civilize the wilds of London with a grass-thatching blandness
to whelp the whipped into an Indio/Haitian grass-patching madness
to mortally wound a Port au Prince mulatto-class-matching sadness
West of the jazzily-gay mind of Bohemian mafioso Clint Eastwood
I root out like a sow pig a hint that's least bad over a hint least good

— The End —