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Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i just don't some things,
i don't understand that under the pretense
of writing very little
being able to write a rhyme is enough
to suggest that you're toying with
an art-form...
   personally? i don't know how i got here,
but right now that doesn't really matter.
the whiskey is cold and a cigarette is
only 10 minutes away, gone is the macho
strive to impersonate the Kray twins,
or in that line of thought: blue for boys
pink for girls,
why is the transgender movement happening?
erm... could it be because of
gender stereotyping?
   it probably has nothing to do with
annexing the words from St. Thomas' gospel,
it could really be a rebellion against
                 gender stereotyping...
out comes a woman dressed as a nun,
then out comes a woman dressed in a niqab....
  curtain-sellers! i knew it!
                 what's pajamas in punjabi?
     chuckles?    chack'ah chuck chittering?
**** me and a throng of sparrows, land ahoy!
what i don't get is that there's a science in poetry,
poetry for its lack of volume gets this leechy
science of itemisation, this vague anatomy...
i don't think i write for an anatomy,
i ****** well hope i don't write something
worth an anatomy... i basically write to give people
a feeling of eating sushi, or raw red meat...
    i entrust them with the notion that it's a narrative
that needs to be there between having a glass
of whiskey... i don't write with the hope of being
itemised and stripped bare by some English students
equating a metaphor with liver...
******* bog-standards... i really do not understand
this whole concern for a hussle-and-bussle
that surrounds poetry: you have a ******* pelican
taming the skies, why invite a Mongolian beehive
to fill in the blanks intended with "notes"?
     it's to do with the fact that you don't need to
strain your eyes, *******, it's not:
i write sparingly so you have to comment...
           why note the ****** crap from four words
when you're intended to sorta spread them out,
and feel them over a spectrum of a few days,
so that there's no synonymous-amgiguity ascribed
to them, which means you can act upon
deviating from the idealism of words thought,
and antonym them within the realism of words acted
upon...
        i just can't stand people mutilating poetry,
they're not even performing a postmortem surgery,
they're hacking at a stump of wood
    in a forest, when there are so many trees to be
looted...
               again the point... maybe the transgender
movement is due to the fact of gender-stereotyping?
blue boy, pink girl, salmon fading pink of shirts on
metrosexuals? hey, Sherlock! i'm not the answer!
   what i'm bothered about it the fact that
poetry attracts bothersome flies...
who feel a need to make poetry into prose:
economically speaking, yes prosaic literature is
worth the money, with more words in a chapter than
in a poetry collection.. how's your eyesight though?
    then there's this girl, a Joe Pachelbel (sorta),
and she does the worst thing imaginable to poetry,
the educated norm...
              the bothersome fly bit...
              it's just narration girl, it's just narration
too lazy to invent characters fake schizophrenia
          and say too many words that don't appear in
urban conversations about a ****** or a juicy mango...
and that's why i think people are put off poetry,
the fact that poetry is like this magical artefact that
might give you eternal youth... that you have to
scrutinise it so much that you almost get sick of it...
you couldn't even if you tried put a question of metaphor
into a journalistic entry...
                      so why put so much science into
an area of the humanities?
            where's the feeling part, and the part where you
have to create volume from poetry for it to compete
for an existence alongside prose?
    most prose works these days don't even deserve
a campfire anyway... in the same way that poetry shouldn't
really accept all this excess of narrative,
it's like people who read poetry are characters in
    a prose novel, they're asking for the part of
lynching the narrator into suggesting less ambiguity...
   in prose the narrator is almost too easily discredited
from playing chess, in poetry the chess pieces gain
consciousness that they're being moved and subsequently
rebel and ask too many questions...
          what the **** dragged me into this realm?
the question serves itself...
   and even donning a cravat or a boutique corset you
suggest not talking *****...
   then off the donning attire gets ripped,
   and it's heathen sprechen in onomatopoeia of
knocking on a door to open, a flower to open in spring,
a ***** to get juicy, and de Sade coming home.
                i say fiddle with the idea of a river...
  end this bogus fly-trap of people playing surgeons
with poems like they might play doctor with dolls...
                 it's getting annoying:
it's written sparingly for a reason, the blank spaces between
the words is not a prompt to comment and vandalise
the poem, which they do; pristine bourgeois? you'd
think, wouldn't you... graffiti on some urban slum wall,
a comment in a poetry book: same ****, different cover.
i never understood why they needed to say
so much about poetry in order to make it
economically viable to compete with prose custard,
     i just thought: poetry and photography are akin...
say much more than the photograph endorses
and you've just started blinking...
         which to the photograph in-itself means:
  look at another if your eyes are watering with
            peppery tears that itch; and another... and another...
and another.
ioan pearce Mar 2010
wise old owl awoke one day
and studied human habits
blinkered, busy, bussling,
stressed out racing rabbits

ever chasing,always racing
never gaining, life of straining
predictable futures, and the source
who's the wiser? cart or horse?

he gazed at our system
thought whats the point....
of hussle and bussle
then rolled up a joint
Mikayla Shaw Apr 2014
I
Brilliant red encased in morning dew
Effulgent in the dull bayou
All is silent in the tranquil air
So different from the hellish nightmare
Of the hussle and bussle of city life
Out here among the wildlife
A single spark of beauty
Absolutely beyond reality
The first rays of sunlight peeking over the horizon
Breathless glamour, set to enliven
Yes, it is without question
The rose is the lucky one
II
The peace is but yet a guise
As thunder clouds form in the skies
For under those verdant covers
Lies several sneaky lovers
Oh what deceiving beauty to
Fool the mind in this dreary venue
For nothing is ever as it seems
Except, of course, in dreams
It draws in love mercilessly
So people simply say blankly
Yes, it is without question
The rose is the lucky one
III**
Rain drops glimmer on the leaves
As the sun is pulled down beyond the trees
The stars come out
And not a noise can be heard throughout
Will the rose ever shine as bright
As they who twinkle throughout the night
Its marvelous beauty is diminished
As the day is finished
The darkness whispers good night, a silent farewell
Silence ringing much like a bell
Upon the night falling,
Without a single warning,
The rose falls into an endless slumber
With the rise of the sun, it will no longer
Grow stronger
Death takes yet another toll
And as I go for my evening stroll
In my mind, there is but a lone question:
Is the rose the lucky one?
Timber Jan 2019
Sticky, molding floors,
Flies buzzing around the sink,
Not a single paper towel in sight.

The busy, hussle and bussle,
The shines and glares coming from everything in site,
No space,
No feeling,
No compassion.

You’re ears are bleeding
Mine are too
Freshman band *****
Honors is okay
Magenta Blume Apr 2017
Vast, grand, expance.
Open, ever changing, mystifying.
Crystally, foamy, blue.
Salty and fresh calming your breath.
Sandy shores outline you like a map
Topiagraphy jaggade and rough in a smooth clean natural way.
You sing us your song as the tides move in and out sweeping at the surface.
You draw us in by the breathtaking colors and movements that are emitted.
Laughter, happiness, hustle, and bussle all riddle you on warm sunny days.
But when the storms sweep your horizons people shy away.
When I think about my culture

I think about early saturday mornings

and my dad playing Chalino

out of his huge booming speakers.


I think of the smell of tres flores

and the cafe de olla

my grandma would let me sneak sips of

before I was alowed to drink coffee.


I think of the the hussle and bussle

of the pulga

on hot afternoons

and the smell of roasted peanuts

And even though I've lived

all of these things,

I also think of  the times

I've forgoten words and had to explane what I mean

in a wreak of words


I think of the times

when foods were too spicy

or I was tired of

frejoles .

Did this make me less mexican? Was I loosing touch with my roots?

My culture is unique

I am Mexican-Americana; Chicana
Open for critique!
Ghosts, and shadows
From the quiet solitude
Of music, and poetry
To elsewhere
Where the hussle, and bussle
Cheer, and laughter
Of a busy bar
Vibrant, and alive
Delaying
The silent death
Currently residing
Within my soul
Which i can try to allay
For at least another day
Tomorrow never comes
Unless i let it
Meanwhile
I shall drift off
Into another portal
Another parallel world
An alternative universe
And see where
The wormholes of destiny
Take me
Perhaps
I'll end up
On that strange
Surreal planet
Called Earth

by Jemia

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