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Julian Mar 2019
Tantalized by the fractious limerence of a vestigial habiliment of the old order, we conclude that hypertrophy leads to a limbo where random permutations alloyed by the rickety limits of concatenation subsume concepts that are equivocal but populate the imaginations of newfangled art forms that jostle the midwives of rumination to lead to unique pastures that are intuitively calibrated to correspond to definitive unitary events in conceptual space that sprawl unexpectedly towards the desultory but determinative conclusion of a meandering ludic sphere of rambunctious sentiments cobbled together to either rivet the captive audience or annoy the peevish criticaster when they dare to inseminate the canvassed and corrugated tract of intellectual territory created ad hoc to swelter the imagination with audacious ingenuity that is an inevitable byproduct of lexical hypertrophy. In this séance with the immaterial realm of concept rather than the predictable clockwork reductivism of a perceptual welter that is limited by the concretism circumscribed by spatiotemporal stricture we find that an extravagant twinge of even the smallest tocsin in the interstitial carousel of conscientious subroutines compounding recursively to pinprick the cossetted smolder of potentiality rather than extravagate into the vacancy of untenanted nullibiety can spawn a progeny of utilities and vehicles for dexterous abstraction that poach the exotic concepts we fathom by degrees of sapience malingering in lifeless bricolages of erratic abstraction in manners useful to transcend the repose of abeyance and heave awakening into the slumberous caverns of still-life to make them dynamically animated to capture ephemeral events that defy the demarcations of wistful indelicacy of the encumbered bulk of insufficient precision.

Today we embark on a quest to defile the anoegenetic recapitulation of canon that litters the dilapidated avenues of miserly contemplation that has a histeriological certainty and feeds the engines that enable novelty but ultimately remain rancid with the stench of the idiosyncratic shibboleths of synoptic alloyed impoverishment that leads to the vast wasteland of cremated entropy that is a stained foible of misappropriated context interpolated usefully as botched triage for daunting problems that require a nimble legerdemain of facile versatility that we easily adduce to conquer the present with the botched memorial of a defunct salience. Despite the travail of scholars to retreat from the frontier into the hypostatized hegemony of recycled credentialed information, we often are ensnared by the solemn attrition of decay as we traverse the conceptual underpinnings of all bedrock thought only to dangle precariously near the void of lapsed sentience because of transitory incontinence that is contiguous to the doldrums of crudity but nevertheless with mustered mettle we purport that the very self-serious awakening to our hobbling limitations is akin to a prosthetic enhancement of ratiocination capable of feats that stagger beneath the lowest level of subtext to elevate the highest superordinate categorization into heightened scrutiny that burgeons metacognitive limber. Marooned in the equipoise of specifiable enlightenment countermanded by the strictures of working memory we can orchestrate transverse pathways between the elemental quiddity of impetuous meaning and the dignified tropes of transitivity that bequeaths entire universes with feral progeny that modulate their ecosystems with both a taste of approximated symmetry and a cohesive enterprise for productivity that rests on the granular concordance of the highest plane to the indivisible parcels of atomic meaning that solder together to exist as intelligible if strained by the primordial frictions guaranteed by the brunt of motion incipient because of the metaphorical inertia created within insular universes to inform sprawling conurbations of mobilized thoughts designed to reckon with the breakneck pace of the corresponding reality to which they explicitly and precisely refer to.

We must singe surgically the filigrees that amount to the perceptible realities that transmute temperaments into the liturgy of routine conflated with the rigmarole of neural dragnets of reiterative quips in an elegant game of raillery with our supernal contumacy against the rigid authority of aleatory vagaries mandated by a dually arbitrary universe in a probabilistic terpsichorean dance with the depth of our dredge for subliminal acuity or the shallow bellicosity of common modes of glib contemplation characteristic of the basic nobility of improvisation. This basic interface with the world can either be mercurial or tranquil based on the interactionism of the enfeebled trudge of surface senses or blunt intuitions and the smoldering impact of the vestigial cloaks that deal gingerly with the poignant subtext evoked in the cauldron of immediacy rather than pondered with the portentous weight of imperative singularities of uniqueness derived from the plunge into the arcane citadel of microscopic introspection so refined that the ineffable drives we seek to fathom become amenable to the traipse of transcendental time that rarefies itself by defying the brunt of compartmentalized bureaucracies administered by the fulcrum of stereotypical notions of acquired gravitas imputed to mundane pedestrian quidnunc concerns that defile humanity rather than embolden the subaudition of gritty punctilios that show the supernal powers of the axiomatic divinity of sharpened sentience to reign with supremacy over the baser ignoble components of bletcherous nescience that leads to knee-**** platitudes that provoke folksy peevish divisions. We should rather orchestrate our activity by heeding the admonishment about the primogeniture of poignant sabotage buffered by the remonstration of innate tranquility and finding a whipsawed compromise of rationalization with true visceral encounters with the fulgurant quips of brisk emotions that grind industriously into amorphous retinues of the trenchant human imagination to either equip or hobble the leapfrogged interrogation of veracity and more consequently our notions of truth and fact.

When we see the hackneyed results of default ecological dynamics, we find ourselves aloof from purported transcendence because the whimpered bleats and cavils of the importunate masses result in a deafening din of cacophony because we strive throbbing with sprightliness towards the galloped chase of tantalization without the luxury of a terminus for satiation. Obviously a growth mindset is the galvanic ****** that spawns the imaginative swank of the pliable modulations of our perceived reality that, when protean, showcase the limitless verve of our primordial cacoethes for epigenetic evolution rather than the stolid and staid foreclosure of impervious sloth that memorializes the gluttony of speculation about fixed entities rather than imperative jostling urbanity that dignifies the brackish dance with dearth and the exuberant savory taste of momentary excess because it engages the animated pursuit of limerence rather than the exhumed corpse of wistful regret. Nature is a cyclical clockwork system of predatory instinct met with the clemency of the prosperous providence enacted by the travailing ingenuity of successive cumulative generativities that compounded unevenly and unpredictably to predicate a fundamental zeitgeist calculated to engorge the fattened resources of the resourceful and temper the etiolated dreams of the fringed acquiescence of a hulking prejudiced population of dutiful servants that balk at the diminutive prospects of a lopsided distribution of talent and means but slumber in irenic resolve created by the merciful hands of defensive designs that configure consciousness to relish comparative touchstones rather than absolute outcomes that straggle beyond a point of enviable reference to shield the world of the barbarism of botched laments clamoring for an uncertain grave from the gravity of the orbiting satellites of apportioned wealth both sunblind and boorish but simultaneously inextricable from the acclimated fortune of heaped nepotism and herculean opportunism. The intransigence of the weighted destiny of inequity is a squalid enterprise of primeval abrasive and combative tendencies within the bailiwick of the indignant compass inherent to the system that fathoms its deficiencies with crabwise and gingerly pause but airs a sheepish grievance like a bleat of self-exculpation but simultaneously an arraignment of fundamental attribution erroneously indicted without the selfsame reflexiveness characteristic of a transcendent being with other recourses to clamber an avenue to Broadway without malingering in the slums of opprobrious ineffectual remonstration against the arrangement of a blinkered metropolis of uneven gentrification.

We flicker sometimes between the strategic drivel of appeasement and the candor of audacious imprecation of the culprits of indignity or considerate nutritive encomium of the beacons of ameliorated enlightenment because we often masquerade a half-witted glib consciousness lazily sketched by the welters of verve alloyed with the rancid distaste of squalor and slumber on the faculty of conscientious swivels of prudential expeditions with an avarice for bountiful considered thought and wily contortions of demeanor that issue the affirmative traction of adaptive endeavor to cheat a warped system for a reconciled peace and a refined self-mastery. We need to traduce the urchins that sting the system with pangs of opprobrious ballyhoo and the effluvia of foofaraw that contaminate with pettifoggery and small-minded blather the arenas better suited for the gladiatorial combat of cockalorums tinged with a dose of intellectual effrontery beyond the span of dogmatism rather than the hackneyed platitudes that infest the news cycle with folksy backwardation catered to the fascism of a checkered established press that urges insurrection while tranquilizing dissent against the furtive actions of consequence hidden behind the draped verdure of pretense whose byproduct is only a self-referential sophistry that swarms like an intractable itch to devolve the spectator into a pasquinaded spectacle of profound human obtuseness that pervades malignantly the system of debate until the reductionists outwit themselves with the empty prevarication of circular logic that deliberately misfires to miss the target of true importance because of the pandered black hole easily evaded by creatures of high sentience but inevitably ensnaring the special kind of dupe into a cycle of bellicose ferocity of internecine balkanization. The vainglory of the omphalos of entertainment is also another reckoning because it festers a cultural mythos of glorified crapulence parading a philandered promiscuity with half-baked antics that gravitate attention and the lecheries of gaudy tenses of recycled tinsel alloyed by debased aberrations of seedy grapholagnia that magnetize as they percolate because of the insidious catchphrases embedded in pedestrian syncopation that ignite retention and acclimate to mediocrity the sounds of generations discolored by faint pasty rainbows rather than ennobled by majestic landscapes of ignipotent mellifluous sound that stands a supernal amusement still for the resourceful trainspotter.

Despite the contumely aimed in the direction of contrarians for deviating from the lockstep clockwork hustle of stooped pandered manipulation that peddles the wares of an entirely counterfeit reality, I stand obstinately against the melliferous stupefaction of entire genres of myth and subcultures huddled around the sentimental tug of factitious sophistries regaled by thick amorphous apostates that cherish the vacuous sidetracked spotlight with fervor rather than pausing on the enigmatic querulous inquisition about the penumbras that lurk with strained effort beneath or above the categorical nescience of the shadowy unknown that often coruscates with elegance even in obscurity. I fight with labored words to spawn a psychological discipline that invokes the incisive subaudition of the pluckily pricked exorcism of true insight from the husk of buzzwords that constellate auxiliary tangential distractions from the art form of psychological discernment that predicates itself on the concept that the rarefaction of rumination by degrees of microscopic precision enables the introspective hindsight of conscious events that can be parsed without the acrimony of cluttered conflations of the granular prowess of triumphant ratiocination that earns a panoramic perch with the added luxury of perspicacious insight into the atomic structure of the rudiments of our phenomenological field and the abstractions that linger beyond perceptual categorization. When we analyze the gradients of anger, for example, we can either be ****** into a brooded twinge of wistful resentment or we can decipher that through heuristics designed to cloister the provenance of subconscious repose with ignorance there exists a regimented array of tangential accessories embedded deep within the cavernous repository of memory that designates a cumulative trace of compounded symmetries of concordant experience immediately perceptible because of the tangible provocateur of our gripes and the largely subliminal tusk that protrudes because of primal instinct that squirms with peevishness because of the momentary context preceded by the desultory churn of smoldering associations swimming with either complete intangible sputtered mobility through the tract of subconscious hyperspace or rigidly fixated by an arraignment of circumstances with propinquity to the deep unfathomed flicker of bygones receding or protruding because of the warped and largely unpredictable rigmarole of constellated spreading activation.  
When we examine the largesse of the swift recourse of convenience we forget by degrees the travail that once bridged the span of experience from patient abeyance in provident pursuit to now the importunate glare of inflated expectations for immediacy that stings the whole enterprise of societal dynamics because it vitiates us with a complacency for the filigrees of momentary tinsel of a virtualized reality divorced from the concretism that used to undergird interaction and now stands outmoded as a wisp beyond outstretched hands straggling beyond the black mirror of a newfangled narcissistic clannishness that shepherds the ostentation of conceit to a predominant position that swaddles us with fretful diversion that operates on a warped logic of lurid squalor and pasty trends becoming the mainstays of a hypercritical linguistic system of entrapment based on the apostasy of candor for the propitiation of fringed aberration because of the majoritarian uproar about touchy butthurt pedantic criticasters with a penchant for persnickety structuralism. With the infestation of entertainment with the ubiquitous political cavils engineered by the ruling class to have a common arena of waggish irreverence we forget that sometimes the impetuous ****** of propaganda is cloaked by the fashionable implements of a rootless time writhing in a purported identity crisis only to gawk at the ungainly reflection of modernity in the mirror and remain blissfully unaware about the transmogrified cultural psyche that feeds the lunacy of endless spectacle based on the premise that one singular whipping post can unite an entire generation of miscegenated misfits looking for commonality to team up against the aging generations that cling to the sanctity of cherished jingoism against the intentionality of a revamped system that malingers with empty promises using exigency and legerdemain to obscure the mooncalves among their ranks that march on with quixotic dreams that tolerate only the idea of absolute tolerance and moderate only when feasibly permitted by the anchored negotiation of the fulcrum of totemic governmental responsibility between factions that wage volleys of invective at each other to promote a binary choice of vitiated compromises of mendaciloquence that ultimately endanger the republic with either the perils of hidebound conventionalism and nativist fervor or the boondoggles of fiscally irresponsible insanity cloaked with rainbows and participation trophies. Reproach can be distributed to both sides of the aisle because ironically in a world where gender is non-binary the most important reproductive ***** in the free world is a binary-by-default despotism that polarizes extremely ludic fantasies on the left met with the acrimony of the traditionalisms on the right that staunchly resist the fatuous confusions of delegated order only to the sharp rebuke of the revamped political vogue that owes its sustenance to a manufactured diplomacy of saccharine lies and ubiquitous lampoons that are lopsided in the direction of a globalist neoliberal bricolage of moderately popular buzzwords and the trojan horse of insubordinate flippant feminism that seeks to subvert through backhanded manipulation the patriarchy so many resent using lowbrow tactics and poignant case studies rather than legislating the egalitarian system into law using the proper channels. I myself am a political independent who sides with fiscal conservatism but libertarianism in most other affairs because the pettifoggery of law-and-order politics is a diatribe overused by sheltered suburbanites and red meat is often just as fatuous as blue tinsel and sadly in a majoritarian society the ushers of conformity demand corporate divestiture in favor of an ecological system of predictability rather than an opinionated welter of legitimate challenges to a broken system of backwards partisanship and wangled consent. Ultimately, I remain mostly apolitical, but I am a fervent champion of the mobilization of education to a statelier standard that demands rigor and responsibility rather than the chafe of rigmarole that understates the common objectives of humanity and rewards conventional thinking and nominal participation to earn credentialed pedigree when the bulk of talent resides elsewhere.
Yenson Sep 2018
For our Echoing Little Red Riding Hoods
Lagging behind in the Opposition Departments
Lets help you out by  offering some buzzwords
For your important assignments even though they've
been floated around forever,

But we understand you need some help catching up
So memorize these basic premises
And please enrich your lives and utilise your valuable time
by raking your little brains to create  poems with them

Lets begin with ITALIAN , don't forget RAINBOW, LIES
is also in, add RESPECT, throw in RUDENESS, factor in
LITTLE GIRL, remember ANGEL, write about TRUST, that
much overuse term, throw in BLACK - that's quite a
popular one. Also PINK is quite up the scale, as well as HEART-
Broken ( as if ) and pleeeezee make a big fuss on LONELINESS
That's a big seller. APPLE and SERPENT did appear now and
again so trigger them as you like.

How about BETRAYAL, LOYALTY, FAKE FRIENDS and that
famous one, FOUR or is it THREE, what about BONES,
Lets not forget SKELETON or even ANOREXIC, let also
remember SCREAM, that was a scream..hahah see what
I did there! Remember GREY that has a bit of colour and
what about BUCK or even DOOR-MAT that was a wipe-off
or SUBMISSIVE another popular one.

Hmmm...what about HAIR CUT or TOMBOY or DIGITAL
those are quite good or WOODGREEN or HULL or DOG
that reared its head...woof....woof...hahahah or CEREAL,
beats me what that's about or even MONEY..though that
never was an issue, how about GOLD-DIGGER just for
drama or 50/50 which has been mentioned. Hey! don't forget
RED, what to do without that pinking away.

So please  Little Hoods, students of the Opposition Department
keep with the programme and work on these pointers
crack your little brains and write poems like crazy little ants
Your contribution is valuable cause persistent is the Key.
Keep up with your assignment and forget all other things
Oppose, oppose, oppose, work those little brains!
Julian Apr 2019
The inaugural bang swiveled with the vacant expressions of a muted feral crowd indignant about ethnic identity and swift in the recourse of tyrannical thugs pandering withered abuse

I solemnly abided in a chirpy itinerant glower against the exclusive system for stranding the disintegration of lyrical integrity for the Potemkin cheers of the culmination of too many jeers

Withered words for the abeyance of silence I incurred with wistful pleas for resurgent clarity beyond   sheepish fears

So I loitered in the evanescence of words..

Watching with alacrity as the strident ignorance of grafted wretchedness writhed its last mustered exsibilation at the sound of windbags bloviating beyond prodigal extravagance without a visible tweeted word

I measured my pause…..as I considered the heft of poignant exposures to a dismal serenade of miscegenated politics and garbled breaths of wheezy mendicants seeking participation in the trophy of smothered compliance

But I marveled simultaneously at the extinction of the shriveled crowds as they sized up the minutiae of wastrels glamorously inviting a frozen recapitulation of sorrows borrowed and wasted on minced platitudes that swindle still the votive confidence of regimented sympathy pretending empathy for soured hearts professedly defiant at their bereaved will

My pulse I clocked at 120 as I wondered where on earth the 140s and 150s have frittered their patience on with such brazen alacrity for the garish snarl of a sojourn into the ineffable effrontery of aureate mutiny against the tyrant of deaf spoon-fed indignation without the luxury of shared ignominy of memorable cadence for frippery in sparse blurbs registered in braille rather than brawn

Then I remembered my vociferous persnickety temperament and the curdled hatred of procrustean swan songs to an etiolating standard of ethical entanglement in aloof issues delivered with a decisive swoon too swift in earnestness to outfox with a quipped rebuff or a calculus of classical spoof

Then I wondered with a problematic but inherent prolixity…..
I too could adorn the adoring moon with a lyrical lampoon geared for a clockwork punchline or a winsome rebarbative tune….OR…. enchant with an incisive acerbic rant about how pasquinades outstay their welcome because of the clambered insistence of happenstance years ago in a blinkered mirror but never rehashed too soon

But where would affection heap its laurels if I dared to swindle the spotlight away from frisky poetasters who proved a renegade inspiration for fluttered triumph in a seaside tragedy only the crestfallen waves of pestilent Idiocracy could steal from my outstretched tenacity in verse and verve

Boom went a fulmination of hatred at my labored words! And then I swerved to avoid potholes of tenuous gainsay…. and other miscreants littering the world with misappropriated labels for laments belabored with publicity for displaced enmity distilled from a cauldron of mismatched ignorance….tethered to the vagrancy of gripe plucked at the ripe time for a twenty-dollar prize give or take a dime

But that dime separating 1990 from 2010 meant more than anything to a life littered with hallowed word crimes…. against the sanctimony of syncopation with cheap bleats too arrogant to be sheepish at the lavish indulgence of the marginalized wines…. brewed in a castle flickering on fiat worth rather than the simplicities of minutes of warbled time

So I currently warp minds with the proctor of a gamble too garish to finesse the quicksand of attrition but jaunty enough to bypass the limitations of a linear self-referential memorial about the circular nature of irony espoused by divorced rhymes

Now I stand ascendant….waiting for the retinues of retinas to absorb the wavy rigmarole of the serpentine pathways carved beneath the buzzwords of race and division and towards soldered unity with a human race beyond racism…. and a class divorced from socioeconomic crass division

Just then I arrived at serenity…. as I realized that the BAR exams that encage so many aspirant hearts are counterfeit in the court of the highest judiciary art that believes that insidious artifice is an embezzled venture of frolicsome guttersnipes wallowing in division can never revive a lifeless heart…. even if quick-witted credentialism rattles the slaves to vapid artforms that any humanism would never deem smart

Ditch the agitprop as a human frailty indentured to endure the curated disease without a cure to make the snollygosters in Washington ever so cocksure with their cockalorum disregard of the palatable consensus to make news real again….Finally for the fraternity of an enlightened human race in a benighted world of trendy fatuousness that infests the planet with the debauchery of glorified urchins jerking the levers with severed brevity to promote infectious foofaraw with cultural indemnity

I leave you with this

What is ornate complexity without the luxury of concerted beatific bliss that the parsecs that flummox your minds throb vehemently with cohesiveness in my internal design are not remiss

And remember the benighted standards of kitsch for the kitchens of penury bewitched don’t stand a chance against the overriding itch to vanquish mountains one after another to cross them off the list
Mandi Drake Jul 2016
I remember
Keywords
& Phrases
So I can
Pretend to be
Informed on subjects
I could give a **** about
But people
I'm trying to impress
Or please
Totally think that
I'm abreast of things.
But I'm not.
I just don't care. Seriously.
I don't give a ****.
Sorry
But I dont.
Sports are dumb.
Football, golf, baseball, basketball...
Don't even get me started on
Anything you care about.
Odds are I honestly
Care less
About it
Or anything
For that matter.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
502 bad gateway bypass...
title: shattering of stone
body:
in the rubble: a mountain could
be found;
as might be suggested...
given enough time and there's plenty
of it, as there is of space...
the now known deserts of the world...
were once great mountain ranges...
the ancient Egyptians even tried
to replicate this truth by erecting pyramids...
as if implying: look! look!
there were once mountains here!
now! there's nothing but sand!
how the gods, grunted at the idea of mountains
in what is not Sahara... fickle creatures
like the creatures they created are...
who knows... perhaps there will one day
be the desert of Himalaya...


i felt it coming at me like a freight train...
i was going in for work sharp...
woke up at 6am, had a coffee and ate the prepared
bun with pickles and liver pate...
but couldn't finish it... drank a coffee and smoked
a cigarette... had a shower, pampered myself
with about 7 different pampering products...
usually i'm obviously to how i smell like...
but on the bus i could quiz myself:
who here smells like soap and who here smells
like either stale bread or a curry / eggs?
that's the 86 route for you...
it's the immigrant bus... and... funnily enough...
i'm an immigrant myself... although...
it's different when you come to foreign shores
aged 8... and thrown into the education system
rather than bypass all that jazz & enter the work
force... by immigrant status i'm a veteran of sorts...
by 7am the pains and spasms in my abdomen were
becoming excruciating... i could feel
a plug-hole of a **** building up...
      like a bear before retiring to hibernation...
i wouldn't be able to just simply, **** this plug-hole
of a **** out before or on the job...
why? because there would be more to come...
dizzying effects of focus...

i was nervous... she said she would be coming to
do a shift today... who? Jeminah...
she sent me a text telling me how anxious she was...
i figured... the best... blatant: covert question
would be... you worried the trains are not working?
oh... you can get the 86 bus... the tube might be open...
pulling a long long stick...
a lever even... something Archimedes would
use to lift a mountain off the ground...
she felt anxious... oh... because of those two storms?
Eunice - the worst for 30 years...
red weather alerts? you worried about that?
i was seriously stroking a massive bear silly...
she felt anxious for all the reasons i wanted her
to feel anxious about...
n'ah... the way to get to the venue wasn't on her mind...
neither was the weather...
she was found out... she didn't want to be in
the company of the other girls...
and because i put my foot down:
this is getting silly... i'm not going to get blamed
for your son's and her son's friendship fallout...
telling the truth...
    what a recurrent theme with me these days...
well... at least its not a soap opera style of
a multiverse of competing dramas...
there's only one... and i'm fortifying myself with
all the right answers... i need to play this out
like an opera... petty **** that can grow and grow like
that must be explored from many angles...
down the line...

she didn't show up... the other two girls involved
acted slightly funny... she must have passed on
my Pontius Pilate messages: i'm washing my hands clean
of the matter... you girls created this issue...
you sort it... those two boys are not falling out
over something their mums did...

handshakes all round... two clingers...
one ****** with a nervous tick but one guy with
cerebral palsy... well... oddly enough...
having been a recluse for almost a decade...
i have managed to surprise myself by fitting the role
of a people person... i don't know where i was storing
this confidence... self-assurance... stoic silence...
i don't feel the need to talk unless talked to...
sure... i might say an anecdote or two:
how Millwall fans at Fulham told me a joke
about a West Ham player who's fond of kicking
cats... cat lives matter...

the shift itself... West Ham are back to their usual
antics of not respecting lesser opponents...
Newcastle are on a campaign trail to survive
in the Premier League... two of their best players weren't
playing: yet they still managed to draw 1 - 1...

who do you think are going to fall?
i says: Burnley had it coming for the past two years...
yeah... Watford is a boomerang team...
one season on the Premier level...
the next on the Championship level...

seems i can have much fun with people,
whether coworkers or the actual public...
the freaks among the coworkers follow me like
dogs, while the public?

an old lady wanted me to use her camera to take
photographs with the West Ham mascots:
some bear mascot was first, then Harry the Hammer...
i had to tap Harry's shoulder when a father asked me
to call him back while he moved along the stand
so he could go back and have a photograph taken
with his kid: so heavily padded he almost didn't feel
my touch...
but he went back...
then that retired police officer that took my side
when some busy-body ***** of a: not my supervisor
kept on demanding i put on a face mask...
that infernal: secular niqqab...
the retired police officer noted: he's distraught...
**** the club: if they can think they can get away
imposing their own rules: all staff must wear ******
coverings... this busy-body even said:
i don't you not covering your nose...
so, what then? my chin is capable of breathing?!
scale of escalation... the from me to the supervisor
to the busy-body third part...
the ex-police officer used the hypothetical
argument: but i have a deaf person, friend,
sitting next to me: he needs to lip read...
how is he going to read my instructions if he can't
see my mouth...
and then... well... i wasn't bothered...
wearing these nappies always brings back
memories of my grandfather's funeral...
he was a big deal in a small-town where i was
born... a foreman in the metallurgy industry...
he knew a lot of people...
but how many showed up to his funeral?
not even the half that i'd have expected...

we kept chatting... my supervisor later came up
and asker me... so...   ?!
oh... you know, we just talked about life...
his father was a widower... living in Cornwall...
he used to get free grub from the local (pub),
but when the pandemic hit...
he lost all WILL to live...
and me says: you know how people say that
you can die from a broken heart,
i guess you can also die from being denied
WILL... we agreed... we shook hands about x3...
like a post-scriptum he asked me for my name
and i asked for his... Mark...
now living in East Sussex... but originally from
Dartford...

Mark said he had thick skin... and i told him...
your eyes are watering... i don't believe it...
looking at them feels like watching a very bountiful
aquarium... you're not going to fool me mate...
life... plus, it's not against the law to not wear
the *****... as i later said:
now you get to see who the people with OCD
and the hypochondriacs are...
yeah: it feels weird... i'm walking around without
the "*****" while my wife is still paying
servitude to outlaw rules...
but if they want to... why deny them the right...
sure sure...

but i had to use a member of the public
to infiltrate the hierarchy on the job...
he used the proper arguments... i was just thinking:
perhaps people just want to see my face...
recognise it... see ****** expressions...
after all: we've been playing a game of pretending
to be Muslim women for two years...
how about we start playing hide & seek once more?

what happened later... the curiosity of the children...
i looked at them, smiled, they smiled back...
they felt so comforted... they felt like:
well... thank god this cubist-esque freak-show is
running and hiding... little girls, little boys...

like i told Mark: but the young 'ung suffered... too...
you need to see people faces,
i might have slouched with the expression
of "****** recognition"... but expressions matter...
you sometimes have to out the tongue to the face...
you want to see someone laugh,
at ease... nowhere near the culture & the people
of Afghanistan... this might have to be the building
block of the supposed "great" restart...
seeing people's faces...
esp. when it comes to children...
they want to see faces they can trust...

but it's outright blatant...
i'm not going to make a comparison between
The Beatles "vs." The Rolling Stones...
for me it always been
Bruce Springsteen "vs." Chris Rea...
no... can't choose...
who the **** do i couple Bob Dylan with?
i'm currently sipping some whiskey while
in the company of ol' Bruce...
ah... Bob Dylan vs. Tom Waits...
        Tommy 'ol boyo...
                    live circus... going out west (live)...
Tom Petty though...

there was one expulsion... a ginger she-male...
all the fans were laughing: don't give her out...
the SIA guys were playing gorillas while
i was on my break... putting my hand on the shoulder
of the hurt party... calm... calm... you ginger ostrich...
stop pandering to the parade of:
already lost teenage hormones...
it sort of worked... i giggled... and no one
became involved... i chewed on my gum like i
like might have been found chewing on a broomstick
or a horses' mane...
i chewed so hard until my jaw hurt...

Tom Waits - going out west (live)...
now we're talking...
prior to Prince dying: you had not access to
songs like Party-man... Trust... all copyrighted
material... yeah.... but i own the best of CD...
why can't i stream it?!
oh, right... he's dead... free-for-all...
free meat for the crows...

why oh why would someone walk up to me
and ask to take a selfie with me?
yeah... this American accented dude...
i watched him through the second half...
off his nuts...
but at half time he walks up to me and asks...
can i take a selfie with you?
sure... weird...
am i famous?! or am i just ****** approachable...
all the other stewards are like bricks in
a mountain: but mountains don't have bricks...
or they're over-anxious busy bodies...
it's like people never learned their NVQ training...

safety, security, service....
the service part is the building part...
you pass off being attired in safety / security tactics...
but... service comes first...
you talk, you interact... you learn to be human...
one year of this, before i ask for being given references...
that's when i'll work toward looking toward a more
permanent employment as a chemistry
teacher... even though... scribbling this sort of *******:
i'd love to become an English teacher...
ha ha... an English teacher... even though i'm not
English...

i need the references... working with my father in
roofing... no, can, do...
they don't want familial ties in references...
one year... i'd still do these gigs on the weekend...
but one year...
you get a chance to deal with a football crowd...
you got a belt... when it might come to dealing
with a classroom of rowdy children...
like Louis XIV stated... it's the trick of the eye...
look the authoritative type...
there's nothing more to it...

then these three supporters at the front...
when they first started singing the song for the cat-lives-matter
footballer who was more into... kicking
cats than a football... how did the lyrics go?
almost Dr. Seuss...
he kicks with his right foot... he kicks with his
left foot... i pursed my lips... i tried to cover my
face with my hand... all the while trying to as
instructed: not taking sides... not showing emotions...

but their remarks came fast... i must have looked
interesting...
so where are you from?
Russia? guess again... Ukraine? nope...
Czech Republic? nope... ******! yep...
but i've been living here since the age of 8...
and i'm 35...
have a nice life: she said... one of them was
ginger... presuppositions of Irish... the beard was
pulled... oh my god, the girl looked proper, proper,
drunk...
i went on a break... i came back:
oh! he's back! you know you're the only one
without a hood on! all the other stewards...
the guy who's usually here is somewhat asleep
while prying open his phone...
where's your pancho against the rain?
oh... i gave it to a spectator... blah blah...

point being... i was actually waiting for her...
Jeminah... all the time... she didn't show up...
i've just received a text from her...
what is... drotaverini hydrochloridum?
i had to take it today...
a rubric of buzzwords...
it sells alongside suggestions akin to the morning-after
pill...

well, it will be a rubric of buzzwords...
i had to take some pills for the cramps in my stomach...
it just felt like one of those Sprintsteen,
Chris Rea, Bob Dylan, Tom Petty sort of nights:
when you feel nervous about thinking bout
a girl while simultaneously feeling nervous
about taking a ****... so you feel like taking a ****
at 7am but delay it to until 5pm... 6pm...
because the girl's easting away at your mind...
you're getting cramps in your abdomen
like you you're about to do a clown trick
with balloons turning them into theoretical poodles...
because you just love the girl:
you just love the girl...
she might be a single mother, she might think
she's a woman... but she's just a girl to you...
even though you're not her father...

oh right... the buzz... words... as someone who studied
chemistry i should know what drotaverini hydrochloridum
is... it's for the abdomen cramps...
for: i ought to have taken a ****...
but here's me stalling...
will she, will you come?
DROVATERINE....
an antispasmodic drug...
   used to enhance cervical dilation during child-birth...
i'm giving birth: to a feeling...
i think i'm in love... she's all anxious...
Bruce's: Maria's Bed... yeah... i'm on that same page
in this story...
esp. noted use in Asia and Central Europe...
i'll be lazy: i'll cite it verbatim:
it's structurally related to papaverine,
is a selective inhibitor of phosphodiesterase 4
and has no anticholinergic effects...

the way i see it... i'm giving birth to love....
i want her fat **** to sit on my face...
sorry... what?!
i'm being absolutely serious...
just looks up the article on Anticholinergics...
i don't have a womb...
but i have a heart that seems to have
sunken into the levels of the intestines...
while i get all spaghetti tangles
for brains...
i'm in love... i can't help it...
she a cougar red head... a deep red...
a mahogany red...
i can't stop thinking about her...
it's exactly impossible to live:
without having to think about her...
anxious cluck by cluck...
if she's not going to abide by failures in life
then... no... life's not worth living without her:
when she's at her pinnacle of failure...
let me pick her up...
let's pretend there's an old world
worth looking at... that there might be a world war
in the theatre... none of these proxies in
the H'American department of... up-keeping
hard-ons and kaleidoscope coyotes...
now for the text messages... why weren't you around?!

i wrote this yesterday, i went downstairs for sone grub
because i couldn't fall asleep...
my mother came down... saw me in my TOMBSTONE
mode... drunk... what? you want me to punch
myself in the face? lucky for her, lucky for me
i remained silent, because the night was silent...
she ****** off i ****** off... today i made mein vater
und mein mutter some ******
chicken broth with vermicelli...
all the usual suspects were used...
the leek, the parsley root, the carrot,
the garlic (skin on), the celery... chicken... d'uh...
although i didn't use the chicken *******...
that's going to be used for a curry...
  
and what are my other options? living alone?
paying rent to a landlord from hell?!
shame... sure... but the attic is full of clutter
and there is no basement...
plus i have a private library the deservedly might
need a proper: HEAVE! HEAVE!
50 oars...

i'm in love and not for all the right reasons...
if my youth took the route of an atypical man...
starting from 20 working my way up...
yeah... but i went mad at the age of 21...
******* invisible choir, great wind dispersing it...
psychiatry that tried to attempt its regression
tactics of implanting me with false memories...
giving me anti-psychotic drugs that fattened me up
until a nurse said:
you either loose weight... or you'll be put
on high-blood pressure tablets...
so... i bought a bicycle... lost 20kg... cycled off
into the sunset...
now... 35... years old... oh... look...
they're looking... they're actually interested...
the young girls have: "woken up"...
yeah... by now? i'm not interested...
i don't and i didn't pay much attention
to the game of genes... it's a fractional impossibility...
unless you're cloning yourself...
by the time you're a grandfather...
only a quarter of you remains...
  why bother with the argument?
        it's silly...Darwinistic unrealism has always been
a thorn in my side...
eh?                            my genes have my consciousness?
i'm... translatable to future generations?
sure... but they can't be my own...
why would i be interested in young girls...
if things worked out for me like they might have
worked out for other men...
a walking *****... and spare parts of monetary dough...
i never wanted to make money...
i took the principle left around for others to see...
between the aesthetic and the ascetic...
well... St. Francis of Assisi...
other men in my position: who have hungered and
been left out in their 20s... now in their 30s can have
their comeback...
their revenge... me? i'm trying to court
a woman 4 years older than me... with a boy
that's 11 years old...
i said: bully them into teaching your German...
you know, it's the mother tongue of English...
grammatically the two languages are very much
aligned... Fredrick... "bully" them into making
you learn Deutsche... i said BULLY i implied:
persuade... do i need to use sign language...
finally... though... a third head on the Hydra...
if i had a little Frankenstein in my possession...
i could be learning Deutsche proper with him....
a youngling like that... sponge for brains...
maybe i could teach him some of my ****** zunge...
wow... no no... that's the whole point of turning
toward art... by 35 i could have been earning
100+ £... yawn... no, truly...
playing this to-and-fro with younger girls
because i now might have status...
not much fun... to be exacting...
single mum... problems at school...
you should learn German rather than French...
he understood it splendidly...

             just you wait... i'll get him into modern German
folk music... did i buy her off with my homemade wine
and him with my own made banana loaf with hazelnuts?!
here's to me!
salute!

              - on these isles for most of my life...
35 - 8 = 27... twenty-seven ******* years!
and no chance at a pluck at the Rose...
up north she was giving it up to grooming gangs
from Pakistan... down south...
shy ******* nunnery: "all of a sudden"!
but now... ah... this... hybrid of Scotch and English
stock... i'm shuddering... i'm still getting these
cramps in my abdomen that says:
you have a womb... what?! i'm transgender?!
what the ****?!

that's why i didn't want to earn money...
well... it's not that i didn't want to...
you see what happens when you go mad aged
21... and how you figure things out...
at least now i'm not a target...
i don't have anything to offer expect for...
knowledge...
it's a blessing...
since... it's hardly what any woman wants...
women tend to want only their own advice...
they conjure this advice like witches conjure up...
perhaps the rosemary herb
goes well with lamb... but like the Turkish
broads suggested... but if you add it to beef...
oh! mein! gott! the Turkish lavash!
with that red onion & parsley roughage of
a side salad... mouth-watering stuff...
i don't really need to see the competitive hard-on
of whatever Sultan to counter the Hagia Sophia...
just that beef lavash...
and yes, you'd be wrong... English cheddar
works just as well...

but... i'm no Frank O'Hara... there's no qualm in
me about not being a painter...
why i'm not a painter translates to me as:
why am i not a painter?
i abhor colours... well... i like some more than
others... the amber and the auburn...
the greens... whiskey... autumn...
but when it comes to movies?
i prefer them to be black & white... less strain
on the eyes...
if images are moving? black & white...
sure... no one is expected to paint in black & white...
like no one is expected to write in
rainbow hieroglyphics... i can stand for an hour
beside a colour painting...
it doesn't move, i don't move...
time, the world: moves...
fair enough...
but colour-riddled movies?
a strain on the eyes...
    why am i not a painter?
                     why am i not a narrator?!
i'm clearly neither... what's the middle ground?
priest? psychiatrist? *******... poet?!
oh you have to be choking me to make me joke...
let alone laugh... but i'm not rhyming...
but there was a time and a place
when people identified this art with
a need for mathematics... measure... ticture...
rhyme... music...
like **** that's happening now: proper...

- perhaps it's not painting, i think it;s painting,
perhaps lacking in colour, perhaps lacking in contorts..
in shapes, in disguises...
what? no traffic light: goes green?
no traffic light remains red?
no middle ground for the amber?
no cyclist prepped to be the shepherd of traffic?
to leech onto a truck where he might be
visible... to orientate the roundabout congestion?
no one, ever, minded, this?!
before moi!
           oh... what shame... what utter shame...
we were supposed to help each other out...
not be these... petty demigods...
silly ******* idiots...

             i might have to reiterate my stance...
she's giving me the love-ups making me feel like a woman...
i'm getting cramps in my abdomen...
sure... i ought to have taken a **** 7 hour prior...
but i keep it in... like a bear about to hibernate:
a plug-hole ****...

- anticholinergic agent are substances that block the action of the neurotransmitter called acetylcholine (ACh) at synapses in the central and peripheral nervous system...

-  anticholinergics are divided into two categories in accordance with their specific targets in the central and peripheral nervous system and at the neuromuscular junction: antimuscarinic agents, and antinicotinic agents (ganglionic blockers, neuromuscular blockers...

she says she's anxious... i'm nervous too!
i'm getting cramps in my stomach...
i'm giving birth to love...
i want access to her son... i want to learn Deutsche
with him... is that too much to ask?
i don't have the sort of money
to access younger, fertile, girls...
i'm left with single mothers... MUFFAS...
oh... she's rounded... like the earth ought to be...

i'm still shy on one reply...

Apologies for the lateness of this message, came home and "had to", i.e. wanted to make some Silesian gnocchi with beef in a dill and a horseradish sauce... cooking for three, it takes time, then I fought up on some footie... was soaked at West Ham, but it was a good shift.... so what happened to you? Weren't you supposed to come? I found out late that the tube was working, managed to use it on the way back... so what happened? What were you anxious about? The bad weather the day before? I took a walk for a newspaper when the storms hit... it was almost fun-windy... at one point I stood rooted in one place for about 3sec being unable to move... the winds almost roared, i even stopped listening to music on my headphones as I listened to the wind whizz by and ruffle the trees... sort of like ASMR but with a loud speaker... I imagined the wind ruffling the trees like someone brushing their hair on an ASMR video... you feeling better though, yes? You doing Fulham this week?

but we're talking about a psychotic girl...
one layer of narrative against another...
she might as well conjure up
a missing 13 year old cousin
to just test you...
thar's how it works...
this reality, this ugly "thing"...
and the deviances of how much
i want to sleep with her...
there... i said it... beautiful view.
Reece Oct 2013
I could tell a thousand stories about a boy.

There are dry crystals of DXM on the desk on which he writes CVs,[1] and as he writes he listens to Lou Reed because of his apparent lack of knowledge of Reed's back catalogue.[2]

He takes Molly on Friday nights, because rappers say its cool, how could Chief Keef be an idol to reasonable people?[3] Spouting buzzwords and memes in public places, hoping to be noticed and applauded for a knowledge of he knows not what.

The Twitter feed reads like toilet paper, with less information
Fooling himself into thinking that he needs that rapid a-disinformation[4]
He wonders why there are still advertisements for MySpace, is it not dead yet?

He uses a trusted torrent search engine to download every episode of TV shows he watches religiously. Is that not an indicator of a profoundly unhappy person?[5]
A liberal thinker in his own right yet still regards the BBC as having unabashed liberal motifs haphazardly forced into all of its programming and news coverage.[6]

Why have hashtags stumbled into the global lexicon, and is this an example of cultural Marxism?[7]
Why is he never noticed?
That sweet jazz serenade that emanates from speakers in his lonely house, is but melancholy drones, might as well be Tim Hecker as opposed to Jack Teagarden.[8] His record collection is vast, the smell of vinyl pungent and nostalgic.[9] Obsolete so they may be, but those indie movies sure make them seem cool.

Oh he watches Truffaut, Fellini, Tarr and Michael Snow, he does it to appear cultured, but to who? Since nobody exists.[10] Antiutopian music videos, depicting *** and violence, he could make crass judgments on society but he knows that he loves that Robin Thicke video and what Kanye West did with New Slaves.[11]

Spending hours at a time, ******* to amateur **** on some seedy site and pictures of girls that he probably shouldn't have seen. [12] And after such laborious efforts he can return to an endless cycle of hitting F5 on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, 4chan, 420chan, VICE, TheYNC, BBC News, Mishka, 2DopeBoyz, World-Star Hip-Hop, Fetlife and Hello Poetry. Amassing information and retaining so little that it hardly seems worthwhile.

Yes he reads, when so many do not. Nabokovian purple prose and the way Bukowski was so ******. He read Poe in elementary because 'goth' was new to him, and now he loves Whitman, Plotinus and St. John of the Cross because Ginsberg mentions them in Howl and Other Poems.[13]

He uses words he doesn't understand like 'catechism', 'ecclesiology' and 'female ******'.
A sprawling mass of words, never ending streams of thoughts, the constant reminder of drudgery in modern times. Wishing he was from some other period, but the idea is ridiculous in and of itself.
He makes crass jokes and thinks they're actually funny.

He's lost. He's empty. He's sad and he's a fraud, its how I knew him best.[14]
[1] Even after brushing the back of his hand across the surface in hopes of ridding the cheap IKEA MDF of tobacco and cannabis leaves.

[2] Information he can use in further conversation, fooling himself into thinking it matters or that anybody cares of his extensive knowledge and new found love of Songs for Drella since Lou's passing.

[3] The same can be said about Codeine that purple dream. Promethazine, in the bloodstream, enough to make a grown man lean

[4] Why even use toilet paper anyway, did the Mother Nature Network not provide a convincing enough argument for the use of a bidet?

[5] Especially considering he cannot watch said shows without marijuana, painkillers, dissociatives, opiates or all of the above. A consequential addict.

[6] Why too must we have 24 hour news? Many wasted hours spent filling time with puff pieces, non-news, celebrity gossip and speculation. When did news stop making the news, why is this only a new phenomenon, and can we always just blame the internet? #NEWS

[7] He won't admit that he doesn't actually understand the intricacies of cultural Marxism but willingly throws the phrase about each room, hoping to be noticed.

[8] More noise to drown out the bipolar thoughts and ringing in his ears from years of abuse at punk rock shows and over crowded, dangerously loud clubs and free parties.

[9] He still maintains a last.fm account out of some convoluted sense of self-worth

[10] He could just watch The Hangover, The Fast and Furious and Transformers, perhaps he'll make friends that way. #CommonInterests.

[11] He still makes aforementioned judgements whilst never outright damming his favoured videos.

[12] #NabokovianFantasy

[13] He is a hero of our time, and Pechorin rolls in his grave at the sentiment.

[14] The author of this "poem" does not actually know the subject.
Jacob Oates Apr 2015
I'm tired of being told what to believe in, and what matters in life. Constant bombardment of stimuli, telling me what makes an artist, what good art is, who to elect, what to wear, what cause to take up. I already have my 20/20 vision, had it checked, verified, took it beyond the threshold and came back sans t-shirt. I don't need someone giving me the play by play 24/7 when I can already see this world, unfiltered and pure as it is.  I could mystify this sentiment further by adding in abstractions and platitudes signifying nothing, but I don't feel the need for my catharsis to waste anyone's time. You don't need me giving you advice anymore than I need advice or commentary.  I don't need backseat drivers or neologistic buzzwords and fortune cookie wisdom shoved down my throat to taste comprehension.  I know what I want. I'm not ashamed of that.  I grew up knowing only self doubt, and it would appear the Millennial M.O. is to float through life praising the "art" of self doubt. As if it is something worthy of praise to be crushed externally and internally, instead of working towards bolstering from within.  With the chaos of the modern era, systemic inequity, and politics as a fashion statement, I keep my inclinations for the most part buried until my voice reaches beyond masturbatory passive aggressive self aggrandizement.  It is hip to give a ****. But that's the problem.  Giving a **** has been reduced to a fashion statement, it's how we decide who we let in, who we talk to, who we ****, who we praise. If you keep up the right front you can make superficial fair-weather friends do for you.  Therein lies an acquiescence to societal woes and whims that counter-cultural kids always know exists in the back of their minds with a beleaguered smirk and a reminder to themselves that they're really just playing the part as they clock in to their jobs and message their friends about anarchy.  It's all a big game, depending on who you are determining what kind of game it is. Some people play the lottery and leave their existence up to chance because it's all they know.  Some people play a mean game of poker and act like they've got enough ability to bluff their way through this knowing they've got nothing stacked.   My game is chess.  I don't tell anyone what moves I'm planning, but I'm five moves ahead and I'm aiming to topple ****. I have to, it's the only thing that drives me, keeps me motivated. Self doubt is praised as a tool to spur on growth.  I don't need to doubt myself in order to grow, I have had enough people doing that for me.  Until I reach a precipice, until I have unmade myself and pushed beyond what anyone, (myself included) deems me capable of, I am an unreliable narrator, and my voice will carry no weight.
Prose/rant
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2022
promise me! promise me to get me out of this hell-hole i put myself in! promise me! i don't know why i put myself through, several days of transcribing a snippet, this was merely a snippet from Kierkegaard's oeuvre, but, how unbelievable! each word was a labour, prop up the book in the right place, read, don't look at the keyboard, let the devil find work for idle hands... look for the devil who would be able to write like he might read Braille! my god, the punctuation, ****** an elephant's ***...the essential Kierkegaard - edited by howard v. hong & edna h. hong: hurt my sensibilities, or, rather, my pedantry, when it comes to punctuation... transcribing is not plagiarism... its brick-layer toils... one word, after another... if i were translating from Danish, i think i'd punctuate the text better: to give it some... panache! some: oomph! you know? this is my dedication, i'm supposed to be awake at 7am... i already shined my shoes, i've already prepped my white shirt, black trousers, black clip on tie, i have my papers (credentials) in order... tomorrow i'll be at the London Stadium overlooking West Ham take on Leeds United in the FA cup... like always, i'll be more interested in the crowd... spotting a pretty girl among the "yobs"... because i truly care about football when it's on the t.v.: in real life... i once stood with three cans of beer and watched a non-league / non-professional match compromising of enthusiasts in a park, at a distance... i couldn't see much... i still don't see much difference... unless it's on the t.v.: the stadium doesnt really "frighten" me... but this one time in the park, i sort of looked the Michael Myers part... headphones in... one young woman was trying to... communicate to this older woman: also walking her dog... about confronting me... i think i "said": gaze... i looked at them... the younger woman was trying to tell the older woman about confronting me... the older woman told the younger woman: YOU, HAVE, NOTHING, TO TALK ABOUT, WITH THIS, MAN! i was drinking a beer, standing... a decent distance from the football match: but i also remember that... that 1995 Charity Shield game at the Old Wembley between Manchester United & Newcastle: ants kicking a grain of sand... obviously i didn't understand why i might pretend to be a *****... my new favorite word... *****... alias for paedohpile... if i don't look menacing and some woman can "think" she stands a chance against me: merely posturing... then we have issues... oh **** me... transcribing... that's worse than plagiarism.... i once did the most pristine plagiarism job on some... social-science course up in Edinburgh... i was having to make up credit scores, being the romantic idiot... losing my virginity to Isabella of Grenoble... oh, get a French girlfriend, take up French... i hate the language... they write what they don't speak: phonetically... which is sort of in line with my prior ambition for the plunge - to transcribe some Kierkegaard, but also translate some SZYMON STAROWOLSKI observations... circa... 1650... the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth... sorry.. it's not going to happen... i've done enough transcribing enough *******'s worth of: this punctuation needs to... "go"... to better understand myself... through this iron maiden of: someone else wrote: what someone else wrote... i'll leave ol' SIMON for another take... given... transcribing is a labour... writing, freely... idiosyncratically: appealing to my, appeal...  how, why, when... oh i can deal with that, these days... it's not even concerning what sort of thesaurus peacocking exfoliation is being used / abused by the writer... i'm... more allured... by... punctuation... since i don't bother to rhyme, since i find all lyricism a tad bit... crass... what else is there? the measure of: how to stop... how to begin... how to "objectify" the conjunction-intermediacy of... punctuation... no manner of human speech can be / could be encapsulated by comparing it to a river... point being... i'd rather write as freely as i can, about the most mundane events in my own life: prop up my subjectivity than... somehow... "somehow"... succumb to some sensible objective reality... objectivity does not give me a drive... it does not equip me with a manly persevence... it's antithetical to what i understand as human nature simply because... ha ha... objectivity has been owned by the English... it's their lot of being sensible... like watching would-be journalists looking at what's currently happening in Kazakhstan... then trying to compare it to... the posturing: the civilian security of protests in Ham-Ham-H'America... and it's like... so what? the people are simply, expected to, take it?! the liberty's of the individual that believes himself to be outside the collective will... sure... well... sounds nice... unless of course... the hive really does come after you... i'm all for individual liberties, after all... i own a private library that could put the public library where i live to shame... although... i'll give them a sly one: Thomas Mann's Dr. Faustus... they owned it, i simply loaned it... fair enough... but i'd rather write about women... i was having my haircut done... closed my eyes... because... hell... the mirror and ****... with my eyes closed i was stroked by this blonde bombshell... we talked about owning dogs, about owning cats... Alsatians? oh, i really have a hard-on for them... i used to own a dobberman... prior to it being illegal to snip their ears and cut their tails... she was a cat that does that to her? like she looks to be self-harming? perhaps she should nickname him Freddy Krueger?! my maine ****? oh... it's rainy, he just sleeps in my bed... he usually sleeps with me.. what?! the bed's big enough for the both of us... i'd love to own a boxer... i'd love to own a rottweiler... i'd also love to own a Triumph bike...

one of my replies... you know, a liter of whiskey can go down well... i get double drunk from good conversation, i rarely encounter what i'd consider a good conversation... that's why... i much prefer to drink alone, of note... i had more fun pretending to talk to myself than expecting "talking" to be an anti-canvas with some, living, breathing: might have kidney failure, etc. punk or, sociopathic? here's the script:

see you now,, i'm just about to rewrite a Kierkegaard transcript.... i can't imagine it being much fun... the whole process is so unoriginal... but oh, oh so necessary... that i sort of don't want to live without it... bonus points... i''ve drank enough to make it... bearable... trans-scripting....i danced a little in my bedroom, donned my cat with a pair of sunglasses.... thank god i'm not kind of a sort of H'american version of a... "winner"... so much of life can be tolerated when it's not being competed for!...

i've just filled out an induction form for the West Ham stadium, played niceties with my supervisor, sent her an emoticon, LOLz back... i'm pumped up, ready to smack a few teenage boys into shape, what, could possibly go wrong? speaking below the depth of breath / audibility, watching the birds... i want, i want to give them a second, a third, a fourth... chance... let me give these people a chance... i know their failures... but... the possibility of being loved by one of them, whether man, or woman, whether pseudo-woman... i'll go as far as to say... i wouldn't mind a "Thai surprise"... i know they're capable of it... give me this already acquired heart of stone... and i'll show you... that they'll bleed rivers of honesty... just a little while... that is all i ask...

this is all, of course, before the plunge begins...
wait...l of course there's more, there have to be constellations
involved!

it was originally titled: Private Library Allure...
now, i'm "thinking": two ripe mangoes...
a mango curry or a mango chutney,
or perhaps, both?!

i have this one particular constellation in mind, that's visible to the naked eye, don't worry about - wait... let me take a second look:


                  •


                    •
      •



           •


    

            •          (circa)... the big wheel...
the grizzly she... in terms of gods & men...
there's an replica: much smaller...
so i guess this is the microscope: since it is enlarged
while the identical constellation
is a telescope...
       no matter... i'm thinking of this constellation

                                 •
                          
                          •
      
                   •
                       •
                    

                          •
                             •
                                •



              •
          ­                                            •

the scorpion constellation, it only appeared once
(to my knowledge) in pop culture,
in Dreamworks' the Prince of Egypt...

now wouldn't that be a waste... me simply drinking,
not allowing alcohol to be the extra calorie intake
that might require me to scribble...
waste of a good whiskey: should i simply drink it
and not focus on scribbling...

point being, i'm about to undertake something
i'm not very keen on, to prove a point,
i'm about to transcript two of the most profound pieces
of writing that recently caught my attention...

not to mention i'm reserving bragging rights...
my private library is... richer...
than the public library of the town of Romford...
i might be an alcoholic,
but i'm also a bibliophile...
there's nothing more precious thank a book...
perhaps a tonne of bricks...

why did i decide to cycle in these temperatures...
****'s sake... i'm old school,
i don't "trust" wi-fi cordless earphones...
the temperature dipped so low that
now the wires are performing at sub-optimal standards...
sort of hushed...
mind you... i love the cold of the January nights...
******* get such a hard-on for the wind
that they almost feel like they've been pierced...

none of the following will be original content,
but i just have to transcript it...
maybe a whiskey refill... a cigarette...
i need to get into the groove of typing up
someone else's work...
oh ****, there are two of them...
well... at least one of them i will not have to translate...
however: do i want to include the original...
all those diacritical markers (ctrl + c / ctrl + p)
will be rather fiddly... do i have the time?

- oh, right... i'm here... the above was...
"somewhere" / "sometime" else...
a sort of... quantum-dasein...
past-participle... black hole... blah blah...
i'm still gearing up for the transcript
of Kierkegaard...
the translation of that ****** equivalent
of the Czech: YAN HUß

-------------------------------------- (pending line)

the pending line is not moving... i've already
written a pre-scriptum a day "late"...
i think i'll manage the Kierkegaard...
but none of the ****** "crap": since...
i'm not about to translate...

once more, please refer to the essential Kierkegaard...
edited by howard. v. hong...
& edna h. hong...
            hong? i too have a terrible surname...
a bit like ******, or Stalin...
people see Elert... they immediately prompt me
with: so... you're AH-LERT?!
i never hit them back with with...
you sort of missed this zeppelin...
it's etymologically german...
in earnest... it's missing: SCH...
that's... ESCHLERT...
          but i have no trouble with people
who like... low hanging fruit...
pedestrian interactions...
         a peasant among among peasants...
a peasant who can discriminate against
peasants...
my given surname at birth was no much better...
fellow countrymen...
oh... i remember it... this one time...
tricked me...
open your mouth...
so i opened my mouth...
then quickly closed it...
i was spat at... a fellow countryman spat
in my face...
although he was aiming at my mouth...
i hold... not allegiance to the English...
1997... why was i deported?
for being an economical migrant?!
oh... the world is now, somehow, ******* welcome?!
i hold not allegiance to the English:
to the tongue: all...
but i also hold not allegiance to my inherent
****** reference... i'd rather just call it
a "reference"...

i abhor both parties... one for sort of telling me to
******* because:
they're now the church-going party of people
and my grandfather was conflated with being
a communist party member:
sure... since... socialism in a soviet
satellite was very much the same sort of shin-dig
as it was in RaSHa... ROSIYA...
*******... wanking me off a little...
**** Poland... **** England...
both can sink... to... whatever they deem
to be acceptable by their standards of...
oh... in England... peer Lord Ahmed... *****...
Rotherham... fun times!
i don't even want to know anything about
Poland.... my ethnic class by birth...
i'd rather ******* and create trans-ethnic mongrel
gremlins with a a girl from Kenya...
in Kenya...
yeah... me... in Kenya... creating a pseudo-Brazillian
republic of... copper-skinned polymaths &
multilingual freaks!
sign me up!
                  
i really didn't expect to mind much of me...
it's nice that... they read so little nd watch so much regurgitation
of a t.v...

like i once pointed out: objectivity is...
overrated... hell... it's more than that...
by now it has been hijacked by fake-news and
anti-science pseudo-narratives...

which tells you a lot about a people who
seemingly tolerate Muslims...
tolerating Muslims that don't tolerate Sufism...
i'm good with the Turkish barbers...
anything else... you better ask a Hindu...
how do Hindus "tolerate" Islam... if, at all?

these are not my words... they are a verbatim
transcript that most public libraries will not own,
but i own... ergo...

the subjective existing thinker is aware of the dialectic of communication. whereas objective thinking is indifferent to the thinking subject and his existence, the subjective thinker as existing is essentially interested in his own thinking, is existing in it.

(insert: my own questioning furthered from the genesis of this 19th century Danish thinker... point aside... i am... the queen's subject... i am not, the queen's object... the queen is not forcing me to be subjectively objectionable to... say... building a new wing for Windsor Castle... i can't be, regarded as the queen's object... constitutional monarchy doesn't work through the expedience of extension... i am the queen's subject, i am not her object... i am subjected to the queen... the monarch... but i'm not... "objected"? i'm not objecting to the hierarchy she presupposes, predisposes with... it's almost a "paradox"... but as a subject... in the most immediacy... as a subject... i am not her object... i am not her servant! that some people, within her immediacy are her objects, by regal extension, her guards, her... ******* tea nannies... sure... but... i am beyond her claim for being objectified... i am "subjectified"... how? i can fester... concern for the monarch, i can adorn her with "dasein": care... but her regal extension dilutes itself... her regal power... the cut-off point... is... when she can no longer objectify me... i can be no more her ******* tea-*****-nanny... her soldier... hell... a police officer is not made a police officer by some royal decree.... a police officer is a subject of the regal authority... a soldier? an object of the regal authority... why? the soldier serves the crown... the police officer? serves the public: the subject of the subject(s)... not... like the solider: the object of the object... to be subjected to "something": is hardly demeaning when otherwise the supposed stance of being "demeaned" is to be: objectified... counter to any sort of "argument": to be objectified... is to be spared... the experience of being: subjected to... i.e. / e.g. to objectify a woman... is a synonymous expression for... not subjecting a woman to... what objectifying her in the first place might... entail... by objectifying a woman... you're at least not subjecting her to... the undercurrents of objectification per se...

even i am thinking to myself: this sounds stupid...
the fox is currently having an asthmatic fit of giggles
come 2:20am...
if i am objectifying a woman as a "thinking thing"...
then... i'll be less likely to subject her to: think...
if i am objectifying a woman as a hammer...
then... i'll be less likely to ask her to:
also bring some nails along...
that's the positive on the micro-scale...
because on the macro-scale?
i'd rather be the queen's subject than...
be her... well... the extension of the queen:
her object... her tea-*****-nanny...
her soldier... her... prime minister...
it's a ******* weird dynamic... but...
it's the most pristine that has ever existed... period...

constitutional monarchy ought to be
the envy of the world, for some of the bad apples...
it still i... it should never be undermined...
should it ever be... i'd call that... treason!
to the very fabric of reality!
and as someone who was diagnosed as schizophrenic?!
go figure... but don't come cryuig to me...
make, sure...
you have some "ice-cream" **** readily available
to sa e you, some Rotherham **** heart-throb...
why oh why... having lived n these Isles...
for as long as i have...
the would me mothers of my would be children...
i'm not even going to beg to, ask...
low i.q. breeds low i.q.:
naive... people(s)...
           genius is an aberration...
it's a  mutation...better stuid and reproductive...
work along: plenty for the ants..
*******, ants...
and once they age?
darts?! football matches?

i can't blame them!
i have yet to cite them proper...
although: thank god the filter
of having to invest in having to read...
in people actually reading

therefore, his thinking has another kind of reflection, specifically, that of inwardness, of possession, whereby it belongs to the subject and to no one else. whereas objective thinking invests everything in the result and assists all humankind  to cheat by copying and reeling off the results and answers, subjective thinking invests everything in the process of becoming and omits the result, partly because this belongs to him, since he possesses the way, partly because he as existing is continually in the process of becoming, as is every human being who has not permitted himself to be tricked into becoming objective, into inhumanly becoming speculative thought.

the reflection of inwardness is the subjective thinker's double-reflection. in thinking, he thinks the universal, but, as existing in this thinking, as acquiring this in his inwardness, he becomes more and more subjectively isolated.

the difference between subjective and objective thinking must also manifest itself in the form of communication ˣ. this means that the subjective thinker must promptly become aware that the form of communication must artistically possess just as much reflection as he himself, existing in his thinking, possesses. artistically, please note, for the secret does not consist in his enunciating the double-reflection directly, since such an enunciation is a direct contradiction.

ordinary communication between one human being and another is entirely immediate, because people ordinarily exist in immediacy. when one person sttes something and another acknowledges the same thing verbatim, they are assumed to be in agreement and to have understood each other. yet because the one making the statement is unware of the duplexity (dobbelthed) of thought-existence, he is also unable to be aware of the double-reflection of communication. therefore, he has no intimation that this kind of agreement can be the greatest misunderstanding and naturally has no intimation that, just as the subjective existing thinker has set himself free by the duplexity, so the secret of communication specifically hinges on setting the other free, and for that very reason he must not communicate himself directly; indeed, it is even irreligious to do so. this latter applies in proportion to the essentiality of the subjective and consequently applies first and foremost within the religious domain, that is, if the communicator is not god himself or does not presume to appeal to the miraculous authority of an apostle but is just a human being and also cares to have meaning in what he says and what he does.

objective thinking is completely indifferent to subjectivity and thereby to inwardness and appropriation; its communication is therefore direct. it is obvious that it does not therefore have to be easy. but it is direct, it does not have the illusiveness and the art of double-reflection. it does not have that god-fearing and humane soliciude of subjective thinking in communicating itself; it can be understood directly; it can be reeled off. objective thinking is therefore aware only of itself and is therefore no communication, at least no artistic communication, inasmuch as it would always be required to think of the receiver and to pay attention to the form of communication in relation to the receiver's misunderstanding. objective thinking is, like most people, so fervently kind and communicative; it communicates right away and at most resorts to assurances about its truth, to recommendations and promises about how all people someday will accept this truth - so sure is it. or perhaps rather so unsure, because the assurances are recommendations are the promises, which are indeed for the sake of those others who are supposed to accept this truth, might also be for the sake of the teacher, who needs the security and dependability of a majority vote. if his contemporaries deny him this, he will draw on posterity - so sure is he. this security has something in common with the independence that, independent of the world, needs the world as witness to one's independenceso as to be certain of being independent.

ˣ double-reflection is already implicit in the ideas of communication itself: that the subjective individual (why by inwardness wants to express the life of the eternal, in which all sociality and all companionship are inconceivable because the existence-category, movement, is inconceivable here, and hence essential communication is also inconceivable because everyone must be assumed to possess everything essentially), existing in the isolation of inwardness, wants to communicate himself, consequently that he simultaneously wants to keep his thinking in the inwardness of his subjective existence and yet wants to communicate himself. it is not possible (except for thoughtlessness, for which ll things are indeed possible) for this contradiction to become manifest in a direct form. - it is not so difficult, however, to understand that a subject existing in this way may want to communicate himself. a person in love, for instance, to whom his ****** love is his very inwardness, may well want to communicate himself, but not directly, just because the inwardness of ****** love is the main thing for him. essentially occupied with continually acquiring the inwardness of ****** love, he has no result and is never finished, but he may nevertheless want to communicate; yet for that very reason he can never use a direct form, since that presupposes results and completion. so it is also in a god-relationship. just because he himself is continually in the process of becoming in an inward direction, that is, in inwardness, he can never communicate himself directly, since the movement is here the very opposite. direct communication requires certainty, but certainty is impossible for a person in the process of becoming, and it is indeed a deception. thus, to employ an ****** relationship, if a maiden in love yearns for the wedding day because this would give her assured certainty, if she wanted to make herself comfortable in legal security as a spouse, if she preferred marital yawning to maidenly yearning, then the man would rightfully deplore her unfaithfulness, although she indeed did not love anyone else, because she would have lost the idea and actually did not love him. and this, after all, is the essential unfaithfulness in an ****** relationship, the incidental unfaithfulness is to love someone else.


as a side-note... these impossible, to my mind:
imaginary "problems"...
say, for example...
the racist... the non-racist... and the... anti-racist...
do i use racial slurs, sure, but i always tend
to "translate" them to by implicitly urban scenario
tokens... i'm a "******" if i don't get on time,
i'm supposed to work for free...
i think of racism along the lines...
well... you, know... that Pakistani grooming
gang in Rotherham...
it doesn't affect me personally,
i'm a bachelor, i don't have a daughter...
but... even on my level, since i'm so far away
from the issue... i start to get affected...
**** is the lowest of the low...
i once ****** a *******... all giggly and drunk
at first... but then... she started crying during *******...
a burn-out moment on her behalf...
i had to stop... o.k. you're selling yourself... willingly...
but... i'm not going to... whatever...
if she might have claimed p.t.s.d.
i could also claim the same...

*** is ugly... just before perching myself on the windowsill
once the night arrived...
i heard a voice in the darkness... thanking me...
at the end of my garden... i wasn't exactly listening:
i never listen... but these words of: thank you
sort of penetrated me...
where is the supposed "Ummah"
when it comes to the Uyghurs?!
the fond fellows of Arabia... would rather send
their suicide virgins to the western land
with prospect of conquest, with prospect of seeking
our proselytes... than...
keep their Ummah intact... do the Arabs really think
that their Chinese believers are...
worth so little to them?
           where are the attacks on China?!
eh... Pakistani uncle said grandma
then decided to **** some cousin...
  sorry... low... hanging... fruit...
   i need a drink...
                            
        i can understand racism... esp. given the attempt
at a multicultural society...
i rather think of myself as a non-racist...
****** a black girl, ****** a Thai girl...
****** an Indian girl...
but... this... white, female, anti-racism stance?
i don't get it... daddy issues?
they must be daddy issues... parental issues...
you have to purposively make yourself anti-racist...
affirmative action buzzwords...
you can never be: the highest pinnacle of negation:
not-racist... you have to be actively: anti-racist...
you can never be passively: non-racist...
you have to... do... "x, y & z"...

these words shouldn't even see the light of day...
so much *******...
all of it... crass...
as much as the Brazil-Project of interracial
new-Arab interbreeding sounds great...
newly tanned "Spaniards"... "Arabs"...
"Indians"... if you've ever visited Kenya...
i remember being approached by these three gorgeous
Kenyan girls working the pandering circuit...
black skin glistening in the moonlight...
as if someone rubbed them with butter...
plump... one of the local Kenyan boys asked whether
i'd like to visit a local bar... i declined...
i forgot myself... took to the hammock...
slept the whole night in the open...
some ****** stole my cognac while i was asleep...
me? we best interact...
but... interracial breeding sort of disrespects...
the seeming aeons of... what allowed black people
to be black... what allowed white people to be
white...
it's no good, like... black girls are not angry
when the white girls are giving up so much ***
to their male counterparts?

if i'm supposed to "think" about race... sure... i'll give
it a short shot... because i'm expected...
i have a furry river and.. by now:
i'm more res vanus than res cogitans...
i don't think i need to think on the basis of
narration... i'll just be reactionary...
not because it's easier... it just seems rather...
necessary...

anti-racist: tropes! they are just that... people try
so hard to not-be... X... that they almost forget that...
they are X... because they are compensating for
the environment they were brought up in...
daddy's sins... mother's opinions...
by now a racist is better suited for conversation
than an anti-racist... who the ****** bleached "us"?
it's like: i can't the difference between people...
like... Somalis don't look more ancient than the rest
of the Africans?! maybe i should find more Ethiopians...

i sometimes think of "existing" in a way that...
elevates the posit of: exiting...
sure... cogito, ergo... blah blah...
but that's not enough... to exist is also readying
yourself to exit... existing is a pseudo-continuum
of rented... time, body... in order to...
make the banal finalities of / for an exit...
Caroline Lee Jan 2016
It's easy as a poet to turn yourself into the flawed broken ideal you so readily romanticize at any given moment
You adapt generational buzzwords like
"Pale" or "thin" or "depressed" or "bipolar"
To make up for the places you feel dull or average
You long for someone to write about you like you write about your lovers or friends
So you set yourself up like a john green character
Beautiful
Distant
And empty
You spout tumblr religion and intellectual quotes
You become as paper thin as the characters from those novels our generation can't seem to get enough of
Predictable
Sad
Romanticized to the point of extinction
You survive on maybe three good quotes and self inflicted lack of sleep
In pursuit of becoming the lie you loved youve become the truth you hate
Millennial icon
The cycle continues with you.
You don't have to be sad to be interesting. You don't have to be reckless to be important. You don't have to be the people you read. Stop romanticizing mental illness and disorders. Don't pretend. Who you are is enough.
Salil Panvalkar Dec 2013
The deafening sounds of police sirens
Tear through the evening air
Leaving behind an air of indignation
Hoping, out of thin air, to create a nation

The ebb and flow of truth and lies
Turns our interests into a public pastime
And we watch on in abject fascination
As we bring to its knees, this nation

They come and go as plastic figurines
With serpent-like tongues and vice-like grips
As we promote excessive procreation
The wheels must keep turning, to this nation

Progress, Growth, Youth, and Opportunity
Are but some of the buzzwords
Abdication of thought is the foundation,
To the structure of this nation

Power and oppression are but two sides of the same coin
Without one there cannot be the other
Smothering each other with precise calculation
Just to access the throne to the nation

Storytellers stand atop podiums and enchant the masses
While they shower them with praise
Year after year, they stand in the same formation
And salute the flag, the one that makes this nation
ConnectHook Feb 2017
───────────────▄▄───▐█
───▄▄▄───▄██▄──█▀───█─▄
─▄██▀█▌─██▄▄──▐█▀▄­─▐█▀
▐█▀▀▌───▄▀▌─▌─█─▌──▌─▌
▌▀▄─▐──▀▄─▐▄─▐▄▐▄─▐▄─▐▄
PERINATAL POETICS:
Prelude to a post-nuptial pre-partum event


What is meant
by this prenatal parental lament?
Can the Spare-a-Dime shaft
upgrade to paradigm shift
as buzzwords replace the new jargon?
If the new synthetic empathy
is merely the same old pathetic symphony,
should we put away the flow charts when the show starts
to prevent a casual view
of the visual cue?
I fear this will only occur
when fast-breeding Other
becomes breast-feeding mother
even if her man’s fertility
is eclipsed
by human futility.
▂╱▔▔╲╱▔▔▔▔╲╱▔▔╲▂
╲┈▔╲┊╭╮┈┈╭╮┊╱▔┈╱
┊▔╲╱▏┈╱▔▔╲┈▕╲╱▔┊
┊┊┊┃┈┈▏┃┃▕┈┈┃┊┊┊
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ME Oct 2013
I don't like it !

Seriously, there's nothing all that great about it
It's all been seen, heard and done before
Everybody uses elaborate words to flaunt their knowledge in a field where intelligence is merit
Everybody uses dumbed down banalities to come across as the everyman, being outrages, yet funny
A cliché of a cliché
Oh' what a great life, but not really !

The newest installment of this comes as no surprise
In todays paper of "ordinary boring", we are presented with the two new buzzwords of the day;
Positivity and Health
Have you run a marathon yet ?
Are you a negative influence on your work place ?
Guide: How to ignore the painful truth and create fake energy
Is there anything more pathetic than every person in the world lying to themselves.
If it's not the blatant ignorance of; world hunger, personal problems, true opinions, it's lying to everybody around you.

You hate that dress ! You think that he's pathetic ! You know **** well what you like, so don't refer to me as if you know what I want, think or need !

A dishonest world is the observer's nightmare
The observer's nightmare is a dishonest world
Observe Dishonest World
World Observe Dishonest
Dishonest World Observe
Which came first and how can it ever change ?

I dislike the pretty words, I dislike the sentiment of "good" and "nice", because I understand that it will not bring something new, a change or move anything or anyone. Sometimes to get better, you have to get bad, and even that is ignored, to obtain the status quo of that which will never remain.
What is the point ?

True emotion, true feelings, truth in general is good.
The naked, ugly, discarded, frantic, ******, irresponsible, amputated and lonely truth.
TRY IT !
Elin Sep 2020
What drew you to this job?

Truthfully, survival

I lie and say
I’ve always been passionate about textiles

Like the pretentious clothing this company creates
My answer is carefully tailored to appeal to my market audience

Yesterday I was passionate about data entry
Tomorrow I’ll be passionate about customer retention and management

I’ve learnt to lick the boot that pins me down in place

What does your dream job look like?

I don’t bother telling them that I no longer dream of labour

I recite the appropriate buzzwords
Sense of progression
Work-life balance
Meaningful connections
Bile rises in my throat

What do you hope to achieve in life?

My father wasted away his best years in a job that landed him in hospital
A heart attack and redundancy payout all the thanks he got

All so he could eventually retire and do what he actually loved; woodworking

He’d never been able to make a career of it
He couldn’t find a ‘market’ for it

Maybe it was because he never learnt to market himself, to sell himself

Not in that sense
Instead he sold himself

He sold his body to a timber mill

Maybe he thought it would be temporary
But then he had to give up his woodworking
Because working the wood at the mill left him exhausted

He had to sell his soul for decades until the system finally let him be

I want something different than what the system offers
But there is no alternative to the system

It offers me 50 flavours of consumption
32 different shades of participation
But no option not to consume
Not to participate

I no longer have lofty ideals
When I was young I wanted to be a famous writer
I wanted to travel and see the world

Now I just want to exist

But even my very existence comes at a cost
To merely exist I am still expected to participate
To consume and be consumed
Sell myself to whoever will pay
for what little I have to offer

Thank you for your time
Sid Lollan Sep 2017
this always happens:
sitting at tombstone
desk—blood clots from hours in this twobuck
torture-chair;
4AM? can barely read
my own thoughts,
neatly arranged,
painstakingly painted a
cross ether
glare of the computer screen.
Seven stanzas devolved
from the act
ual epiphany
of the p o e m;
chest tight,stomach churning acid from
cheap *** cheap cigarettes and cheap
grass rolled up in
99 cent Dutchmaster cigars—
Forgot to eat, forgot to hydrate, forgot to remember
the truth i was trying to forget
—forgot the point i was struggling to articulate;
Did i have a point?
I’m beginning to note tiny
Beings of Light
out’ve the corner of buzzing eyes,
all too familiar friends
friends of fiends, vampire junkies,
raving mad x-politicians,
and nocturnal suicide poets—
who after failing to get laid
in college bars
and drinking too much, too many boring conversations
with dull goons;
Get home, pour another glass,
cigarette      to dry lip     in perpetuum; beatiful Miles,
Porgy and Bess, sit down to
computer and write p o e t r y
not prose,
not prose—Man’s revelation of
histories to come, histories manifest.
not prose which brings Man’s higher-self
        into the great
        Universe-at-Large
but p o e t r y, pretentious,
narcissistic, self-important,
which alienates man from his tools of realities;
enemy of machine—but Man is machine;
no poetry is Man!
no poetry is animal,
primal, instinctive;

Well, **** me, half
way thru another cigar,
“maybe i’m not learned enough
to write a story, a **** good one at that…a novel
i’d say
-good luck you simple sloth…How
could you? just a regular self-loathing chimp
who writes — p o e t r y.”
really pondering
hard; thinking: i can’t be [that] dumb,
i'll admit what i don’t know,
(but Hell, least i’m smarter than the next guy, the
       next guy, the next guy…til the next guy makes
me a **** fool; time to relocate and read some books.)

return my eyes to the computer screen,
re read what,
an hour ago,
i was, prematurely awarding myself the pulitzer prize for
as i see it now: pure
*******.
Devil’s attorney
slinking on slouched and grim drunken shoulder,
“hmm…and you say this is your forte?…
I wouldn’t kid yourself…kid.”



Warnings
in grave visions
of a desperate worm of a man
hunched at resin-stained desktop, scribbling away
His fancifull abstractions, broken man— Mad
and scared; shriveled,
scarred by regret—
Thought he was a talker;
witty, true like Bukowski,
        or Heron;
Fresh,
inventive as cummings
        or essential as Pound.
Simple
and brilliantly smooth
        as W.C.A  or W.C.W.
elegant, smart
and far-reaching as Eliot,
        or the Old Romantics;
could have sworn his musings
Rapturous! no Thoreau, he,
        nor as damaged as Poe be
under the Impression
He could stitch his Soul
into the seams of American Divine, direct such
spirits into p o e t r y as ***** ol Ginsberg did
so bravely, beautifully
as
Wherefore art
thou loving father? in Heavens is Walt
Whitman—
He
sure was;
He
was sure,
******* sure he
possessed a nugget of gold, mined
          from inside each of these masterful
Mountains. panned entire sunsoaked cordillera;
yet
each night
would ‘finish’ a
p o e m,
clock out, tho
always would feel, incomplete,
nevermind how many p o e m s he wrote
hundreds, maybe thousands of
bottomless wells
        of words;
Great Idea! Necessary Idea,
take action, he, in prose,
a form of action the action of wit,
to give human
body to formless, ex-humed soul—
Give soul to formless body of philosophy by god!

alas,
the schmuck
never
witty never
potent enough to pen a real
mother-****** of a story,
certainly
never could imbue a plot
with significance, endow with subtext
or builda character out of his p o e t r y,
        Then give it the legs to run for two-
         hundred pages—
He had the ****, just
not the ***** of it-all…
toiled, silly
in his nebulous, castrated,
dimlit room—swelling
whiskey or gin
cigarette glued to his dry lips, attempting
to romance the grey gods so
that thay mey spit mustard-seed
onto humbled holy head—
pray that it may grow, Flower
to full Bloom
even without
ever learning
his Biology.
…never
realizing what he had there—right
in front of him. Poor *******.
-Dumb. he was.
Cursed to be a P O E T.
and doomed to fail as one.




I hate the sound of the Sunrise
when i’ve been up, writing all night; it’s
an alarm like bones in a blender
thru an endless
waking dreamscape;
Sitting, thinking loosely,
wildly, loose-
change two-cent thoughts—
This
this is when regulatory bodies
are disabled, de
funded; radioactive runoff (operational hazards)
contaminates
pure streams;
...random billboard pop
t-r-a-s-h drift in
and out of mind(probably from
        the endless drone of those same 3 chords in
any store or restaurant you enter. How about some Classical?
        Math: the food ain’t rot ‘em enough, let’s assault
   their other senses of taste. Quick. while
        we’ve got them swine trapped!)
politcal memes, halftruths and
newsday buzzwords flash, bright and
silly then recede into obscurity;
only to discover, the next morning,
their greasy finger-prints
given gimcrack shine to deeppurple dawn
Gibberish. trife piffle. bunkum and balderdash,
gobbledygook, mumbojumbo jackshit slangspit
hogwash, ** lotta raspyutintutyncomman nonsensses hoosis mut nowago sayawahhesay too dum for dada…
My
yawns
are now childish giggling;
My concentrated writings. none of it makes any sense to me.
Searching for a distraction
To regain my focus, composure…
biting
nails, tapping Art Blakey grooves on tired desk,
inspecting burning cigarette, forensically.
Oh—
look around for my cat, come here, co
me here kitty. (ah yea, comforted
by familiar purring, a hum from under the bed;

-Close my eyes,
to centralize
to meditate
to ***** out
inanimate,moving parts
to put finger
to pulse of programmed nub;
to create value
for a dying currency of language;
to whisper sweet nothings
in the ears of tender muses
and meaty hookers.
-At this juncture:
reconciled
where the finish line is
strung,
how it appears to me…only snag:
by the time i get here—none
of these
nothing have no meaning
writing,this,that? what? be
low my paygrade *******;
Let stew; sleepy,
delirious, suicidal, anxious, sorta
*****, deadly confident;
Let stew...
…then it hit me like a Point of Intoxication!
brilliantly constructed
Words,
words hanging,
hanging
like a,
Renaissance-style portrait
above a fireplace in an enlightened *****-den,
    -for a moment, seen clearly thru parting
    of deadeye yellowsmoke sea.
Maladroit,
hallucinatory, went to type,
thought better,
no doubt would ****** such
sudden genius,
fumbled for recorder, gotcha
click:
closed my eyes oncemore
to review this epiphany, to record it.
relayed, recited
like a prayer;
perfectly—this must be what the body
of Christ feels like…
when done, i, exhausted,
smiled like a son a *****
how fine
that P O E M is gonna look,
when written
down all nice and neatly.
it was close(but i knew i'd pull
something revelatory out’ve
my ***.)
satisfied,
if my pants weren’t dry
i'd swear i came.

...the following afternoon,
Upon waking, coffee, cigarette, news
in the background,
grab the recorder to listen to this opus;
well,



**** ME!
if
i didn’t make sure there was any space left
on the ****** thing!
bye bye my petty kubla khan
Smart Boy.

ah well...
it’s just
P O E T R Y ya know.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2021
(i) pre-scriptum: anchor posit

it would be all-too obvious that i'm going to begin with writing about nonsensical subjects... bowel movements... what's not to laugh about... a warm-up standing before a firing-squad metaphor... not my last words: how they don't tend to bury people with epitaph these days... in manus dei... which is hardly an epitaph... definition of epitaph: a transcendence of maxim... the... maxim... the sigma of all the incremental parts that once held the man as subject of life...

...i cycled into central London to do no more than:
**** myself off...
all those lives i'm not part of...
without a drop of bitterness:
i guess i can only be glad...
somewhere in South London past
Waterloo station nearing the Shard
i came across... a mythological blonde...
yoga-pants... *****-esque...
couldn't tell the traffic from a horserace...
she had that expression
on her face that read:
i've been to a few ******* parties...
all holes properly used...
come to think of it: i'm only
there to be ******: not there to do some
return policies...
so a timid deer...
point made when i noticed three-guys
ogling her up...
eyes turned to lap-dancing tongues...
point proven...
well... it's South London... even if's still
teasing the scent of the Thames...
it's a lot different over the river...
so i "debated" myself
on the point...
   CS4 is worse than CS3...
oh most assuredly...
CS4 is congested...
too many pit-stops...
i promised myself that i would never
again cycle into central London
via little Bangladesh that begins
in Ilford and ends at Aldgate...
that's CS4...
CS3 though? oh that's another barrel of
laughs... begins in Barking...
although it could begin in Rainham...
and ends at... don't know... to be honest...
i must have taken a CR13 from tower bridge
through to Waterloo station...
but... it's the proper underbelly of the city...
near the docks come Canary Wharf...
as i promised myself i would never
again cycle into a heavily urban scenario
being the tourist of faces and all manner
of the locals' mannerisms:
i said to myself... Essex county is open...
the trees the diluted traffic... all that fresh air...
but not exactly Belgium: flat...
such contemplations when you find
a pseudo-Nirvana of the third take of
emptying yourself into the throne-of-thrones
because... you put a quasi-hibernation
plug in your ******* for the day
and now the bowels strike back with
a build-up to a crescendo of: unplugging...
the usual suspect of bits & bobs...
  that allows you to suppose you've
been emptied but... ooh... oh...
the crescendo proper...
                      custard pie... of ****...
thank god for all the stealth work...
the pipes... the sewage treatment plants...

(ii) change of focus

i always had an invitation toward a monk's life...
ever since visiting Taizé...
the Teutonic Order had a brothel in their
monks' citadel at Marienburg...
a break from a 4 year dry run...
perhaps the end of a year of grief having
buried a friend of mine:
fishing, cycling / reading buddy...
someone to watch the Vierschanzentournee
come Christmas and New Year...
someone to listen to on a dementia loop
as if: no... the memory bank wasn't broken...
it was on a repeat that
asked the question:
is this a drowning man...
               clinging to a razor?
once old ages enter the fore...

it was all pristine in my head: i almost chuckled...
now coming to the canvas i can see it's going
to be a hard-won effort:
mini-digressions is my best attempt
to keep this afloat... even though it's sinking
like a hard-earned stone of mass...

sometimes drinking has a taste.... esp. in the variation
of kalimotxo... with a red Marlboro:
like it's the taste synonymous with a
first kiss... both of you are slobbering teenager
all to ready to precursor either *******
of glugging down oysters / eating fleshy
flowers... tongues to eager...
an ode to the mosquito legion owner/ vampire goat...

(iii) words come across as shortcomings
  
i don't have enough patronage money to begin
painting... a photograph will have to do...
i remember this room, this same brothel...
there were two mirrors on the wall...
i'll bring her a copy of my book of poetry
and i'll ask her if i can take a photograph
of her face... for the love of Rousseau's
heart for a god... beside the argument: i need to photograph
her in a variation of the antithesis of the self-portrait...
i'm already saving up for the hour...
perhaps she will say no...
but i don't want a ****...
nor a picture of my phallus in her mouth...
i need contortions using the two mirrors...
words have become the weapons of gods
and gagging orders of men...
Khadaj'ah...
              something has to arrive sooner:
i'm breathtakingly agonised by my own: coils...

cauliflower - ALUMINITE - alias
of brain tissue folds...
           Al₂(SO₄)(OH)₄ . 7H₂O...
well... if it isn't me looking at paintings...
or naked bodies of prostitutes...
it's me looking at minerals
and their chemical formulas...

all that's quartz SiO₂...
most notably the amethyst... iron stained quartz...
jasper... petrified wood quartz...
onyx quartz... agate...

or... VANADINITE
   Pb₅(VO₄)₃Cl....

now... if i were drinking a second bottle of wine
to calm the already frantic nerves
at the prospect of the next encounter
all school-boyish...
and owned a dog... he might bark at me...
a feline presence is more welcome:
joke of my curing insomnia and "insomnia"
with this here wine...
fern of a creature... always disappears
into the dream world...
who asks for a leash or a muzzle
or walkers in the presence of a cat:
a time least spent: certainly not wasted:
that cats decided to sleep more than
actually waste their time with being:
conscious...
not somehow a waste of time:
like the waste of time modern man has
become: seeking refuge in "reverse-psychology":
duped by the undercurrent of
the crucifix of the subconscious...

the holy Freudian trinity... the sacred secular
trinity of the: consciousness:
the son... subconscious: the holy spirit...
the collectively shackled premature
*******... pre-suppositional heap of dung...
the father: shackled... proper:
in the unconscious...
if asked: about time to raise the father:
to unearth him... "him": who is my father?
shy-titan... you already know the score...

it excites me more and more with the prospect
of writing these words
and coming back with a photograph of the
*******...
dizzying heights of the grave of gravity
in that's how my body: hollows out
futures... and tendencies of a list of todays...
if only i had enough and of having enough
i would become bored:
perhaps i could become an ageing lecher...
but since i'm gagging for the least:
of the last... i'll be keeping up the spirit of mute:
sometimes teasing onomatopoeias during
*******... i want to take a selfie of
her using at least two mirrors...

i want to take two photographs...
my mind is burning from the mere thought...
clear the fog...
thank god no genetic details of mine
will be passed on...
i couldn't shackle myself to the responsibility
of children...
call it immature:
a delinquency... i will call it what it has been
for almost... "forever"...
share my responsibility in the coming
onslaught...
           if i'm feeling it... what's to suppose there's
no build-up of a greater tide...

i've made satire of the "diet"...
fuckless for years...
but come the opportune moment when i wake
up and take to a feeding:
i find her...
       juiced up from the cradle of my
unsatisfied longing...
can a woman tell a man hasn't touched
his antonym in so long
as to also not have: some... pillow-talk ref.
to combat that carnal Kandinsky-build up moment?

wine! wine! more wine!
words are staggering when picture would
better suffice to encapsulate these sensations...
for those that have had enough:
retreat into kink... gimp suits and all that's latex...
for those that haven't had enough:
retreat into mirrors...
    revising slits of katakana-niqab rereading...
some depeche mode doesn't hinder...
and one: either...

        oh sure: reimagine...
it's a feverish writing of a man who desires all that
might invoke the zenith of a shared
patience with each other:
for the worth of an hour's worth...
after the hour's done...
there's no companionship...
there are no shared stories...
we return to the shadow: we return to the grave...
the foetus is cut from the womb
from the umbilical chord...
the hour's enough...

i return to my: steinherz...
she returns to her: dachboden-frivolfotze-eskapaden...
i'm glad other people can:
cut-the-mustard... and... reproduce...
if i don't die by my own hands
aiming at the pulse...
alone in a hospital ward eyeing up nurse
with one of these octopi purely pupil eyes
of rage... i never...
it will be a private affair:
no one will interrupt the world
of people having their conversations:
i'll keep in mind the congregation
of crows:
i'll keep the crow forever in my mind...

(iv) body needs to be under 5K

can you believe me that i acknowledge all that you have written with... how can i escape verbiage...  oh wait... i was hoping your wouldn't spiral out of control with a bunch of defence mechanisms: easily-offended etc. you are... a breath of fresh air... truly... comparison? even though you sent me your picture... it's in the back of my mind... i don't remember it: i'm still focused on the avatar you presented... and... oddly enough: you are starting to resemble Harley Quinn... sipping that espresso while reading a romance novel while the whole world around her: is ablaze... let's forget the the buzzwords i picked up... they're not important... they're not important if we have allowed ourselves to synchronise ourselves on other points of interest... i can be excused leaving some time between reply, though, no? you still are a pen-pal who's sharing her passion for teaching... it's never personal... it might become personal if i pressure you with imitating my punctuation, or, for that matter: some grammatical idiosyncrasy... the red roses: roses are red... n'ah... bad example... not off the top of my head (scalp included) to make a point... i agree... we're two people toying with imitation ping-pong... next subject matter... ah... oh... casual ***... paid for or... somehow... spontaneously... given?  i already have an answer in my head: from experience... i was reading the sunday times magazine last weekend... dating apps... i know they came about circa 2012... apparently there was this great revolution of people seeking & finding casual ***... i was still into my psychotic trip without the use of hallucinogenic juice... "fear of god"? ha ha... i've just heard that dating apps were a breakthrough in how people made themselves available... casual ***... me visiting a brothel probably itches the thought: where *** is so freely available... but there's someone out there... still willing to use cables... when everyone else is using wireless WIFI... notably for headphones... i still buy vinyl and CD to "translate" the music to MP3... you're asking what casual *** is: akin to? you want me to describe what it feels like? it probably feels like any form of intimacy that one subscribes to within the "confines" (parameters) of long-term relationship expectations... although more concentrated... esp. if you haven't had a chance to be intimate with someone... my last diet lasted for 4 years... extended by a year since i was grieving for my grandfather's death... i was grooming my pet cat and she... decided to agitate me... not cognitively: primordially: therefore sexually... i'm not into this whole trans-sexuality... but what i was agitated by was a trans-species probe... i had to find resolve and exercise against a canvas of a woman... "against": to match-up to... to compliment... i found that in order to have casual ***: one must be unusually restrained for the whole affair to become: passable: casual... you can't bring your firsty laundry... your most inhibited frailty to the fore... a most assured contraint is to never invoke words during *******... at best: vowels... with a pinch of consonant: i call it the vowel-catcher "principle": what could be shouted as A... becomes a softly oozed out Ah from mouth to mouth... you chose the subject matter: blah! politics... whatever faction we supposedly belong to: there's always that citizen of the world: the universal man nibble... isn't there? would you want me to tell you what you might be missing in the arena of casual ***? i couldn't tell you... since i haven't used any of the modern short-cuts of the hook-up culture "dating" bonanza... i'm an outdated model when it comes to ***... if it happens... casually... proper... once or twice... there was this... no... i won't go into the details... it was my birthday and i mixed her a decent cocktail and.... well... the pistons... the grease.. whatever metphor you like... then there was this Thai-surprise... she was supposedly a lesbian... later a bisexual... i took her home and played her some Kind of Blue... it's not like jazz is cheap... am i still... sounding a bit crass: "objectifying" as a way of making shortcuts? isn't it? *** without having children? it must be... esp. if you have long spells of not doing what most urban folk seem to be having all the time: unless they're merely boasting about having: smoke & mirrors... i'd allow my head to be chopped off and turn into an urban myth surrounding a cockroach if i could have more of it... the urban myth of the cockroach? apparently if you decapitate a cockroach... it keeps on living: a zombie torso... finally dying after two weeks from... hunger... since... the ****** obvious... it has no head to ingest food with! - how odd... i thought i had something original to write tonight... i started scribbling then lasted long enough to find myself writing too poorly, so i resorted to read my inbox messages... i am more willing to leave you with a reply than have to masquerade with some "originality"... you asked me: or at least insinuated about casual ***...what's your take on *******? i ask the question while listening to the cure: short term effect from the album: *******... i'll hardly make this a light-hearted question... i don't even think it might be categorized as a question: hasn't ******* / rather the spread of it... become ominous? i still remember the ****** of shame with colour in my cheeks when i would buy: a magazine short of sinister... a woman's naked body: if not celebrated.... sure... i'll be the one jerking off to a revision of the **** via cubism... the face will not be a sorting out process of a nightmare...  if ever i watch a pornographic movie: it will be done via turning the sound off... whatever a woman is concerned i like to see a potential: i don't like to see something to imitate... come to think of it: i don't think i've asked a question: if i wanted some clarity... i would be gagging for it... no wonder we moved away from politics and onto such "pressing" matters as to why: so many of us are not getting enough of "it"... no? whether we have children or we don't have children: i've seen it for my very own eyes: having children doesn't allow you to savour certain guarantees:  my maternal grandfather ought to have been surrounded by his loved ones... his grandson (moi) and his daughter... (my mother)... what came about? a "conspiracy" between his wife (my grandmother)... and his son (my uncle)... so he died... alone... in a hospice... last time i checked in never wanted to have *** beyond the gratifications bound to the "casual":... i want the puddle experience when other people might stress: there's the sea! there's the sea!
you probably acknowledged a truth that wasn't a question before someone who... wouldn't want you to find seeking said experience as something... necessarily... equally shared by one and all... it won't be... i've had my moments of raging against the night having spent a paid hour with nothing more than kisses... caresses and a limp phallus... come to think of it: i don't think *** is ever "casual":  it might be for sociopaths... sociopaths who "think" that stealing apples from a grocery stall is synonymous with buying them...  by casual i'm implying: it's better that there's a transactional transparency invoked: someone is getting more than the other... the party involved with thirst is thirsty... the party selling water: eh... a metaphorical muddle by now...  while you're wondering why casual *** is like... i'm wondering what... fatherhood is... it's a nice compliment of agitations... what wouldn't i do with fatherhood: well... what wouldn't i... keep 3am a time worth staying awake for... so that i might sccribble some words down...

(v) comment section

commented on Mr *******s Integrity

- it must be a fairies' tail...no? at least en engaged cat telling with waggling to joke at the dogs' investment in: the currency of leash / muzzle? good to know that you remember Mr. Schmidt... i'mm somehow sure he wouldn't be content with anyone else remembering him... lessons seem to have been learned... and all the best of him: kept, since you allowed him to be: so graced.

- One thing I’m sure of is only a twisted A-hole would make a comment like this but at least thanks for reading this and these were real people.

- i'm the twisted A-hole and you're the "dear Jesus"... crux-sucker? fair enough... love's a temple... however you want it: on your knees... hey! your take on the best dangling of doodling fancy. no problem... i'm no homophobe.

seems to me... people lack all the entertainmet
when it comes to nuancing language...
they can digest jokes...
they can doodle around with crosswords...
but... when it comes to...
hell: if they're not going to bother...
why the **** ought, i?!
too many movies: too many books unread...
a barrage of art has left everyone
yet to feed into the feels of:
the end of the 20th century: romance.
n Dec 17
hearing
listening
talking
seeing

touching
tasting
wanting
feelin­g
                         me.
The Jolteon May 2015
"Loot"
"Riot"
"Thugs"
These are buzzwords
Buzz in your head
Straight from the Oval Office
To the newsstand held so dear
Your news is contrived
It's fabricated
Who cares if a building window broke
They breaking people's necks
But that's not worth the screen time
Better to focus on broken windows
Than a broken system
Andrew Rueter Apr 2021
Some people still don't understand the power of the internet
nor the consequences of social media
they're incredulous when society reacts negatively to someone
if it's someone they like, that is
then that incredulity fuels their perpetual outrage
little things like buzzwords change over time
political correctness becomes cancel culture
and those people say Tropic Thunder couldn't be made anymore
but those people were saying Tropic Thunder couldn't be made
when Tropic Thunder was made.

Those people have truncated perspectives
and provide truncated answers
to non-existent questions
then wonder why filmmakers don't respond to the criticism
of someone who watches ten movies per year
and their half-baked commentary on the film industry
that has more to do with their political agenda
rather than any real concern for creative liberty.
Chris Peers May 2017
Men with guns have always come from some poor mothers womb,
they were innocent kids who once played happily in their yards,
with no aspirations and yet to be tarnished by the world,
learning an obfuscated version of truth in the classroom.

Leaders of men are born out of society's frustration,
innocent boys can become greedy and power crazed men,
fulfilling the naive and unthinking of their desire to be governed,
carrying on with their heedless lives with a strange infatuation.

Killers in our streets and in countries they've never heard of,
innocence becomes tainted and men become idealists,
radicalized and propagandized by political media and religious authority,
killers killing men, women and children, they know nothing of universal love.

Men putting on costumes and killing people who are different,
blindly following orders and fighting for freedom and democracy,
massive bombs in the desert, people blown apart at a million dollars a head,
soldiers on the ground who can barely pay the rent.

Democracy and freedom mere buzzwords of selfish and ignorant patriots,
with many being intolerant, xenophobic and racist proudly waving a national flag,
and two faced Christians preaching love on Sunday and glorifying in death on Monday,
agent provocateurs infiltrate peaceful demonstrations, turning them into law breaking riots.  

Suits in congress and the White House determining lives and futures,
safe in their ivory towers and positions of imagined power,
we should put these policy makers on the front line and watch them cower,
and there's cowards in uniform who ****** and slaughter from behind computers.

The men behind the curtain orchestrate their agenda thru their chosen leader,
puppet masters and policy makers free from liability and accountability,
narcissists and psychotics giving a voice from the unelected and unseen,
the hoi polloi are regarded as expendable and merely unnecessary breeders.

Every ten years or so, a new boogeyman comes out to scare,
leaders of the governed make promises to keep them safe,
slowly eroding rights and tightening up national borders,
spending trillions on warfare and hardly a dime on welfare.

True terror is understanding what this world is all about,
innocent eyes only see the superficial beauty of this world,
while experienced eyes see the ugliness that is within,
all around the world people are screaming to be let out.

Self serving leaders look to expand their temporary empires of artificial riches,
utilizing its armed to the teeth military to ****** unarmed innocents abroad,
destroying histories and cultures and replacing them with expanding organisations,
replacing middle eastern infrastructures with emphasis on profit using slave *******.

The people police themselves and have become willing citizens of self induced manipulation,
there's a kind of mass Stockholm Syndrome of the patriotic citizens of so called free countries,
defending their leaders selfish decisions while wanting a share of the spoils of war,
the founding fathers must be turning in their graves as selfish greed has withered a once great nation.

Children made orphans and mothers made widows by far off decisions,
the enlightened ones break it down and see it as people killing people,
a general or a warlord has got to be king of his small patch of grass,
while the apathetic watch the carnage safely in front of their televisions.

We now live in a society that openly assails the critical and free minded intellectual,
people hiding behind their comforting lies and crying like a baby over inconvenient truths,
political correctness and the nanny state providing a *** to suckle saying you're safe with us,
while the millennials despise being labeled or judged and to be recognized as asexual.

The world is divided by nefarious political parties promoting freedom and choice,
setting up media outlets to emphasize their disapproval of the opposing parties stance,
while behind closed doors of power and influence, they are prostituted bedfellows,
slowly suffocating the rights of the people who still believe they have a voice.

Political and religious words echo in the minds of the patriotic and faithful,
empty promises made with a smile that satiate and calm the masses,
the wise and the skeptical see thru disingenuous rhetoric with clarity,
watching them on soap boxes and pulpits, they should be shameful.
Bob B Jun 2018
Start a humanitarian crisis.
Separate families at the border.
Remind people that immigrants
Are very low in the pecking order.

Continue with a counter program.
Keep repeating hundreds of times
How immigrants are dangerous
And also the cause of so many crimes.

Then reverse the order that
Separates the families so
You can pretend you care immensely
(Even though it's just a show).

Blame the Democrats all along
For causing all the injustice and pain.
Say they all want open borders--
That they are the ones who are inhumane.

After bombarding the people with
False "facts" on immigration,
Their tolerance for cruelty
Will grow. The power of demonization!

The frequent use of negative words
Will help to galvanize your base.
Make them insensitive
To basic rights; then play your ace.

Send to the border the First Lady.
Give her a tasteless jacket to wear
So she can add more controversy
And callousness to the whole affair.

Have your conspiracy theory friends
And harpy friend appear on the news
To brainwash viewers so more and more
People will start to share your views.

Encourage your sycophants in Congress
To parrot your buzzwords hour after hour,
And you'll be well along the way
To having what you want: POWER.

-by Bob B (6-24-18)
Ruby Nemo Feb 2018
I am...
wasting away, frozen in the car
picking buzzwords from common conversations
hail clinks against the windshield
a dusty melody envelops her
leftover tears seep into soles
when I could be...
wasting away in the lively sun
throwing away responsibility
as the ocean waves splash against her back
an island aria entices her
the hot pavement beneath sandy soles
where I should be...
That slick dude
In elegant suit and tie
With his graphs,
Models and algorithms,
With his pointer,
His pitch, his buzzwords,
With his MBA,
Ivy league education
And erudition

The monkey in diapers
Throwing darts

I’ll take the monkey
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
because jim dine looks like
    jack nicholson from
afar...
but it's not about that:
oculus per oculus -
     eye for an eye...

when painting is involved
i hardly think it's necessary
to give abstract "grace"
to necessary objects:

a wonky hammer or a house
is sand and grimace
and all things unbelievable
but it's not the strict
schematic...

when painters have to invest
themselves in words...
that frank o'hara anecdote
about SARDINES...

or if it isn't too obvious
as to what will be cited next:
magritte's:
    ceci n'est pas une pipe...
well: at least colour is true
as much as a noun is...

here at the zenith
red dictates stopping at a traffic-light
junction...
and there's than synonym
of: strawberries...

              when painting had become
abstract enough:
words had to become employed:
i'm still stacking
x-rays and skeletons
with muscular meshes of grey
on the fading with words...

i don't bemoan the task:
looking for alternative, "better" options
in painting...
i've have to be blind...

that painting is all eye
that poetry is all ear and perhaps
the tongue too...
oculus per oculus: eye for an eye...

i allow myself to drink to excess
tonight,
because what i really want to write
is what i gathered from this
afternoon...

autumnal promenade...
         these trees and the sunlight raising
them... to trans-natural realism's heights...
it does 'elp to merely take
a stroll...

       it's beyond comparison:
i dared to think: and if i took a photograph...
no... a photograph would
make me sulk...
i would keep it as something
both horrid and both saddening -
mind you: my memory bank
is running dry and i much prefer
to take photographs with
a blinking of an eye
to expand my memory hoard(ing)...

clearly at this junction
of the near impossible: for something "new"...
there is no new...
when there were formerly people...
up in the northern most easterly tip
of greater london
i'm looking for a "delusion"
of being able to walk
several miles without any
human interactions...

well... would a creature such as a grouse
or a deer allow itself being
spotted in daylight hours
if such a place was governed
by a frequency of man?

the deer spotted me not too far off...
by god: i didn't give it prance to
a get-go to gallop ever so silently:
by the woodland pigeon did
breaking into flight... rustling leaves
of it perching in a crown...

in love with england: more to the point...
the countryside for the nth time
resounding...
the topology of the english countryside...
it must be a desirable word to use
when i have this picture before me...
there were feet that walked
these "roads" and there were eyes
that sorrowed for: the platter of details...

it was never an intended piccadilly circus
bulwark of **** neon...
insomnia neon and incognito -
the middle of this drab
of london bothers me from time to time...
from: time to time...

not in spring not in summer:
now... autumn and these trees
and this sunlight gracing them to an elevation...
i've already chosen anecdotal
points of familiarity...
celebrity trees -
trees like signatures like:
everything else that is also a tree
but is so generic it can't stand alone...
it needs a canvas a window or a view...

then those trees that... i swear they are
so: unto themselves that
i wouldn't require a mirror to peer
at myself...

sure... upon reaching a pinnacle
of cubism... painting new abstract:
a best a verbiage and forever this extension
of psychoanalysis -
at best this verbiage and...
what is it that they called it:
base: introspection of the self...
well... that's already a doubling of
the act...

   given there's (the) definite article self
given there's also "a" self...
and then the possession of it:
which is... compounded reflexive
rather than reflective... rarely is it
my self... yourself myself themselves...
hey presto! juggle circus with
the alphabet people...

i didn't take a photograph for i didn't
want to spoil autumn per se
or my availability of sponge brainz...
i had to excavate these words...
to borrow something from heidegger...
a major pillar ought be cited:

well... hier-sein... hell... expansion...
hier-jetzt-sein:
   or rather the most temporal:
jestz-hier and i'll leave being in a shallow
grave of grace...
i'll concern myself
with... not being a fear-mongering
vegan... when i respect the animal
produce thus presented:
i will not overcook a chicken...
when i insert a thermometer into
a chicken breast it will read
in the range of 165 - 170°F...

i will not become a vegan because:
i ******* well know:
i know blindly i will allow my eyebrows
to be gambled with...
these "vegans"...
probably never cooked a chicken
properly...
when a food can be
respected...
when the ******* are juicy...
one, can, be... thankful!
but if you do a second work-around
of a butcher's "quarter"...
end up eating... protein pasta glue...
no wonder: return to
overcooked vegetables!

i much rather respect a protein...
than fake veganism for
not having respect for it!
omnivores "anonymous"!
gaffs of trends of people who...
probably don't know how
to cook... i love my... presumptuous...
agony aunt sort of flicker...
of demands...
of: stereotypes...
sometimes these higher-tier
critiques of stereotypes pay off...
they have to.

oculus per oculus...
autumn, these trees and this sunlight...
it has to be temporally specified:
"circa" from 12:30pm through to...
4pm... enough time for the weather
to change drastically...
enough time to find an old acorn...
with a ladder attached...
and sit in it... like some long lost
late-starter in the darwinistic narrative
and hide from the onslaught of
rain...

i guess that's why i cited heidegger...
but i was meditating
on other words...
oko - eye -
oczy - eyes...
            to - this
             tamto - that
         tam - there...
     conjunctions more or less...
and... how i might describe myself...

anglo-saxons were my prior...
so the anglo- prefix sticks...
anglo-slav...
for the general purpose: works...
but saxon is specific...
it's not like there's a concept
for anglo-thurengians
or anglo-pomeranians...
or anglo-swabians...
               a specified germanic tinge
that encompassed
an outline of prior to celtic and
velsh...

anglo... an anglo-wend...
                         albion-veneti...
           well... given that every *******
two-bothered-sanctum-christi
auxiliary has gathered on these isles...
"of late"...
but like a sore thumb:
"my people" have
retracted on the tide
so overpowering come
the opening of the floodgates
circa 2004...

moi? earlier immigration...
as early as 1994... n'ah... anglo-veneti
is no sticking word... anglo-slav...
anywho...

a quadratic: because i just love: squared
t'inking...
it's almost like a magic trick...
two buzzwords...
reigning the niche outlets...

patriarchy! ugh! power wording!
and... gynocentrism!
well... let's party!

back to the days of copernicus...
gynocentrism is an elevated
variation of... geocentrism?
which is paradoxical since...
that would implore the vatican to play
it: hush hush...

no! no you idiot!
gynocentrism is heliocentrism!
the all encompassing...
sun *****!
a **** that spits out...
lucifer fell head-first...
"fell"... bungyjumped and
was tugged back onto
the throne when god had a medley
with a banjo piece of working
out: a cross is never a table?
a cross is never a table?

gynocentrism is... heliocentrism...
and "the" patriarchy is geocentrism...
god... i love this quadratic...
i had a cultish idea
today...
among a Pythagorean set
concerning eating beans...
how...
you must uncover your head
when walking under trees...
how you should cover your head
in public... but have to expose
your head beneath trees...

it's not unlike the already well established
kippah and the circumcision...
so... what? exactly?
i still hafe mine: doubly mine since
i don't vacate a tonsure...
a slap me pretty sort of "disguise":
for - covert... monkish brewer... alias:
house of purim...

          hafe hafe: a'v'eh! mein!
i look across... well... no wonder!
h'america by no invitation...
those black atlases would be forever
celebrated...
as they should:
but it's not like the hebrews
took too lightly concerning
intellectual gymnastics when...
intellectually: you'd only have
to replica... stalemate...

i too could perfect: plagiarism...
not that i'm... oh god my qabbalah fetish
and how:
the demiurge is one thing...
i don't need to demand more from
the yids themselves:
their god will do... just f'ah f'ah fine...
he's phonetically ingrained...
my words aaron bricks...
he's the cement...
less the grammar... in between...
after all... he... doesn't really...
favour them as much...
always putting them to the test
to reclaim the noun israel...
hey... of all the people of the ancient
world... a people that envisioned...
their own god... israel:
wrestling them... testing them...
more or less... keeping up their soul-search
vitality assured...

now i will start to chew chewing gum...
and pretend it's everything that
requires / required me the ability
to tie my shoelaces...

      oh yes... the god of the yids abhors them...
it's not like there was no other
memorable balam...
beside... the one still hanging around
with churches
and south america and tele-evangelicals:

after 2000+ years the question
is beside: are you the son of god...
it's more... morphed into...
can i still be a hebrew?

            if you can't celebrate something
when getting into the nitty-gritty...
je suis! my ******* oddity of ***!
throw that charlie hybrid-dough
into the cauldron and let's pray
for ******* bagels! or croissants!
whichever takes your fancy!

that i somehow allow myself a "revision"
of writing under the influence
of btih music and miss amber...
the god of the hebrews already prides itself
on a following...
so meticulous that it's satisfactory /
savory -

  i can't be allowed... a nibbling?
seems unfair to procrastinate on the altar
of how easily a moloch or a beelzebub was
sacrificed upon...
whirlwinds of aeons and of chaos:
how there's only a certainty within the
confines of space:

the clinal pressure for the eye's
critique of autumn...
and the trees therefore basking
in the light of borrowing azure...
these hints of auburn and
commando foliage...
of perpetual green: shying glee
of envy...

      i want this **** of verbiage...
to impress details of fracture
and "fiction"...
i want to return to the ancient
vernacular...
for all i want i must not never
hope to conceive as: outright will...
to hell with a freedom
so ill-advised...

in these pastures where old
ergonomics: horses - graze...
i heave a thumb... a fattening
of it... i experience creases best known
to the advent of the corruption of paper...
but i am not using any of it (i.e. paper)...

there was a rabbit... there was a deer...
a grouse...
and as many birds as my fingers
could fathom themselves alone
to suit up to a replica arithmetic...
i wanted to learn enough of
simplicity: but i was never to
be allowed: a finicky teenage phase
of taming a need for replica:
offspring...

  i desired to not leave any cul de sacs
of grieving processes...
this hebrew god, though...
antithesis: an-t-fezz...
it looks so much of so differently
from the standards of merely speaking
to peering at...
this language without a clear-cutting
of sounds: dyslexia...
what?!

in a language that doesn't allow
orthographic stressors...
and all it has to offer is...
"idiosyncratic" spelling?
   who could have guessed:
a who-dunnit exterior... purpoise?

purpose?
                  purr-poise...
i do have to allow myself to stage:
when dub-step was a music
genre was still worth salvaging...
distance... vex'd... burial...
and that's about all i want to hear...

i'm so adamant in being so therefore
blistered in a gangrene of
politics that has to borrow from...
time immemorial and secure...
it has to translate into a...

you can almost fathom the silence
of horses...
they approvingly nod...
somewhat... and whatnot...
agreeing
to you being a something
and somehwat...
that allows itself to pet
either a cradle of cats
or a brood and leash invoked
sour crease of doggy-dodgings...

it's not **** flinging invoked...
it's something more sinister...
personal: thereby all the more involved / invoked...
it's not Golders Green judaism:
tonsure for a scalp / circumcision for
a ******* kippah: y'er boot?

in that... yes... i appreciate being seen...
i want to be seen...
but at the same time...
i like quivering in a fancy
of being "counter-inquisitive" debased:
outright: anti-...

              i appreciate being seen...
replicating modus operandi: esse...
but... when i invoke this most private
made most public of disclosures...
and it... somehow... "works"...
i hardly think it's necessary
to achieve an omniscient status: quo...

especially when one can encounter,
passibly...
two women... perhaps two dogs...
a park... and on a bench...
a giggle and its most certainly female...
i don't want to be "known"...
existentially pronounced / prone
having to encompass this "audience"..
i desire to be less of what's
leftover / made available...

it's just a minefield...
i visited the Ypres cemeteries...
the anglo-
lingua rubric...
             then these... shallow... deafening...
germanic sorts...
sparrow and robins and wrens would
grace their amassing puncture
of details...
and i would want nothing more...
because i was not anglo-sas
and i didn't want to earn
or learn of make oath to such bridging of
sorrows...

the mass graves of the germans
in belgium come the enforced endearment of
memory come...
no more from cabaret volatire escapism!
no... more!
they are so fuckingly posed
to be therefore so poignantly named!
by grave and so therefore by so little
of body!
the mass graves of the: germanic:
peoples:
how the english, once upon a time...
allowed themselves to play a trough
of towing themselves... romanesque!
this: greviaous mud...
this... horrid first pretender!
Bard Jul 2022
I just want to **** my rage
Put two bullets in this age
But I can't find the keys to my cage
Got these needs chaining me with a wage
Emptiness in my eyes the void is a phage

It propagates from nothing
Springs from empty living
This police state is sickening
Its body is rotten and decaying
Can we euthanize the nation of slaving

I worry that progress is over
I worry that its now or never
And I worry that we will pick never
All while I clock in and work the levers

Living is so ******* incredible
It makes me ******* miserable
Always knowing I'm not on the level
I know its lame to be so cynical
But how am I supposed to be hopeful

Everything is buzzwords and clickbait pandering
I hope its not too foreword but we're all dying
And if words are stronger than swords then bloods flying
We know the times are trying and say bullets are coming
Viruses, diseases, and pathogens  all the same thing

Death cults on their side they fight so we all die
Ancient evils six decades old still grasping fading lives
They rule our feeble lands pervert our will as a nation fades
Some souls tremble and say this will be the end of days
Some souls shake and say they will ******* pay

Maybe I'm cynical by I say its just another day and they're gonna get paid
The critics will wax they will fade lives for cash thats always the trade
Tell me whats your wage you in the fields or the house do you have it made?
Just tell yourself atleast its not a third world like the ones we made
We get to feast while the poor are in famine now thats a trade
Lawrence Hall Feb 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                               Everybody’s Subversive Now

Speaking truth to power my truth your truth
Interrogating the great reset iconic
The Davos crowd the world economic forum
Break the rules no wrong answers deep state disruptive
Buzzwords without borders globalist power
Synod on synodality
Social media toolkit inclusive
Sustainable neocolonial
Decolonise postcolonialism
Finding your voice authentic community
ConnectHook Jul 2020
Science and Justice:
Bankrupt buzzwords.
You who mouth them
Go to hell.

Peaceful protest:
Oxymorons
Burning cars
and smashing things.

Race and racists;
Nonstop news hype
From fake media
Take a hike.
God is coming !
Turn or burn !
Christ is Lord !
❤️

— The End —