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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
it's not the case of irrationality with the usage of pronouns as a way of being assertive away from the existentialist dittoing of the pronouns; even if i utilise the pronoun to be a noun or a verb via dittoing, with the framework of an esp. exemplar "irrationality," i am still, after all, the speaker of the noun and verbs, and the keeper of them; i am not irrational to the extent that i ditto myself outside of other categorisations of words, since dittoing myself within the pronoun category opens the accusation that i use all other words with ambiguity while allowing no moral ambiguity into my actions - but there is a clear morality to the use of words as the worthwhile exchange of meaning, in newtonian sense in the least and foremost not going beyond the dropped stone or insinuation of passerby engagement into games - but clear crisp cut - silk scarf tagged twelve quid was sold on the haggle for ten quid - so that haggling wasn't an ambiguity, but the price of the scarf was! so how many sexualised insinuations have i heard with impromptu to no action?! too many! all of them declassified from furthering action because of too much innuendo and nuance of that famous disguised dialectics lost - known as the death of god. cartesian in existentialist terms, thinking presupposed as the notation via "i." thought no longer as an existential certainty... but because of the dittoing of pronouns... an... ambiguity! well it was originally an ambiguity, but why excess pausing to counter? the english are a nation of shopkeepers... yes... and the french are a bunch of nosy café patrons with rude lovers disguised as bartenders muscle aching to munch the next croissant in drag and feel sexed up gagging.

verum, ego scribere similis rumi*; scribbles and similitude -
worth an afghan worth of eyes in syria for an afghan girl
saying to her loved up something or other:
see it come back, god forbid you hear the calculative laugh
of augustus on the way back, just while europe resigns from involving
the remnant slavs like libyans or syrians or hebrews in the original format
of strength: let the hebrews deal with them
in their own vatican - we need to curb north africans
and the mid-middle-eastern olives
when taking over the northern peoples for economic harvests.
but then the madman laughed without ordinance and impunity -
he laughed augustus' rationalism into the grave of choking chock fudge brussels
with spare tonsils eating nothing but cauliflower and lard -
elsewhere in movie via ghent; or was it in bruges or
was it in brussels starring jean claude van damme?
i call it... writers went mad on excess phonetics never readied
or introduced - except with magritte wearing a diaper
rather than a full james bond when painting.
i heard it was a proper heist to keep the police numbers handy,
i had it all tanned in argumentation for hued brown in the nordic
special; oddly enough no nordic special sailed for a sinking of the vasa
with predestination - airport was nice - we argued then -
we're not a continent of north harmonicas with jokes
between mythological four lead clovers and oak real canada threesomes.
well i was a continent with croatian and scandinavian,
i'm not originally a mc donald continent - although that 'MADE IN CHINA'
helps to resolve all future wars with the silkworm beginning:
rodeo in the haven of horse's burp and fall of the cheap spain due to tourism -
old continental had corrida - new continent has rodeo -
somewhere between the ****** and maidens came oceans elves for a bet on
who could write a horse out from riding into a blunt metal clasp of stirrup eager sounds:
or a twenty aged colt sounding like an eighty year old nail wrinkled with rust hammered.
blunt metal won, horse gasped for air, the ***** was taken home with stitches,
the maiden was taken home with a groom in stitches also, although
stitches of old age prior asked for in her meringue dress to suit: wrinkles;
but hey! there's **** in between! who's the loser, the aviator or the aqua puncture of thought?
but still augustus laughed it off with nero on the waiting list of possible re-encounters;
israel received the southern cicero of the roman empire,
while the rekindled empire got the north-eastern and northern part of
the unexplored without saints travelling elsewhere,
and for that it got implosions, with the schengen approval reminded
to cloister the leftists eager to holiday in syria on unesco cruises in sand and sheep ****
of kept marble - for that cocktail party convo, and next day article in the new yorker;
shame on you for using children to ploy en masse morality of guilt
to later reproduce the hydra with so much racist cribbing
of a seahorse riddling perpetual dynamos
as to imagine the future cot rock-a-baby-jihadi saladin:
the fire is in his own house, runs with a
              flaming matchstick to his "neighbour's house"
to start the fire rather than trying to put the fire out in his own house.
honestly? sounds a bit binary in bangladeshi.
Miss Saitwal Aug 2018
Places where we go and free our headspace,
spreading our  hands and feeling the raindrops.

It felt like an unique amalgamation of fright, fury and pure joy.

Fright of all the obligations barged on the soul.
Fright of not being with the right people at the right time.
Fright of falling on our own feet.

Round & round on the playground,
with an overwhelming typsy feeling.

The joy of sliding on the slippery dip,
touching the sky hanging on the swing.
The breeze touching the feet, playing with the hair & ticking the ears, until we fear to fall on the ground.

The alarming feeling of how precious our life is.
The joy of constantly working on ourselves to improve in life.
The joy of keeping ourselves first.
The joy of not missing out & living in the moment;

The joy of emphatic long conversations,
The joy of selfless efforts with no expectations.
The joy of doing the right things,
always at an unsuitable time;
The joy of being intutive over calculative.

The joy of spending fruitful earnings;
& believing in karma.

Feeling no need to explain our way of doing things
& doing what makes us feel good about ourselves.
Absolute joy of not being too ******* ourselves.

All joyful things go wrong, because it is their job to.
We make all dreadful things right, because it is our job to.

It all makes sense now,
We must get up,
spread your hands,
feel the raindrops,
and say,

“We made it all worth.”
Stephanie Frank Dec 2016
Behind these stone cold eyes of grey
Is a companion loyal come what may
Through the night and through day
Loyalty forbidden to go astray

Behind this unreadable ****** expression
Is a heart sculpted in unlikely fashion
Ready to love with blissful abandon
Ready to hate with gruesome passion

Behind this queer nonchalant flamboyance
Is a very well hidden calculative spirit
Very unwilling to leave life to chance
But very willing to cross the sky limit
Àŧùl Mar 2013
Sins,
...
It's not as difficult & complex.

Karma,
.....
It's not as calculative & fair.

Infidelity,
.......
It's not as obscene & rare.

You simply committed the sins most common,
.........
It's me, the eldest & youngest your children,
Who bears the brunt of your sins.
© Atul Kaushal
Go write your own history
Learn the geography well
To compass the feelings
Do your geometry
The value of pi does not change
Variables and constants
Algebraic expressions
Do many experiments in the chemistry lab
Observation and inferences
Experience gained
Make sure you do your math
Be Calculative
You ought to make calculations and come to decisions
Learning languages for special skills
Expression is an art
And creative you must be
Attended the orientation programme for parents of grade 10 students for the new academic year, went for my older son.

Inspired by the principal’s speech, this piece came out :))
Lea Rose Apr 2015
The city, alive
feel
the beat of its
pulsing heart
in your hands
inhale
the air it breathes;
it heaves
abandoned desires
melancholy sighs

immerse
yourself into its
hollowed alleyways
concealed by
shadows of
wandering footsteps
trace
crevices of
every brick
a canvas for
misguided souls
who live for
art and cigarettes.

The city, alive
deceit lies
in calculative eyes
designed to
lure you in
with every blink.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2023
when was the last time i went ice skating?
at the old Romford ice rink,
it was one of my high school friend's birthday
party... i was perhaps... 13...
today was my second time on ice...
well... this time round i managed to walk
upright on the skates...
the skates didn't fold in on me
                        like i might be a *******
walking with the aftermath of polio...
i.e. my feet didn't buckle, and the skates didn't
push into my ankle bones...
giving my excruciating pain...

ice-skating is unlike the other gravity found
in either cycling or swimming...
one can look the complete fool when ice skating...
it's so simple: it's so simple the more adept
skaters say... i asked for clarification:
so which part of the legs does most of the work?

the top part... for a 2nd timer i advanced pretty fast
upon doing a second round, round the ice rink...
self-taught magic... fear of letting go
of the railing...
but that's not the point...
i was on a "date": or rather i "think" i was...
it wasn't a date...
          it was... gelling together of coworkers...
i've worked with some of these people for almost
a year...
it took a year for something remotely socially
related to be "established": i know:
calculative, frigid tongue of formality is my
go-to release, jargon: i know...

        outside of the realm of the brothel
where we are immediately imitate and touching
each other to this almost grotesque spectacle
of timid, lonely people, playing "chess" over pints
of beer, talking,
i'm more used to: nakedness and *** comes
a priori, all the other nuances of talk and mingling
come a posteriori... hell...
the world of interaction was standing on its head...
i had to remember:

as a man i'm not to talk about myself,
i have to ask the girl all the questions...
i can't revel in any details of me:
even though she might be a "cage-fighter" looking
woman... that she might be a lesbian
i still have to keep some contorts of manhood
in this interaction: i wasn't even overthinking
anything, there were no awkward pauses just
details of awaiting prompt...

first she asked me whether she put her right foot
into the equivalent right of the skate...
i told her: i see an aligning curvature...
she had them on the right way... took them off...
ridiculous: they were right of right the whole time!
so i told her: and you asked me to go ice skating
a second time in my life while you can't
even put on your skates on the right feet!
ugh...

walking on skates was fine... until i stepped
onto the ice... ugh oh... like i told her...
i'm going to make a fool of myself...
i'll be like that Harry Potter scene in the Prisoner
of Azkaban... were Wesley imagines
that cupboard demon Ridiculous emerging as a spider
made pointlessly scary by having
skates attached to its legs...

that was me...
    1h on ice... three or four more sessions and i'll
get a hang of it...
but there's an authenticity on ice...
unlike when swimming or cycling...
self-taught... well: i don't expect a grown man
to be endeared by getting skating sessions...
can't imagine that... it's not out of pride...
it's out of: i taught myself how to swim:
even for all the dearest of things in the world
my father wanted to teach me...
peer pressure got the better of me...
i'm guessing peer pressure is going to kick in once
more...

but she filmed me pretending to fly on ice...
sent the video to a few people... from 8 people...
400+ views... now she wants me facebook details...
i don't think it's such a good idea...
i internalise my experiences and i...
i don't mind talking to strangers... in a pub...
even today after the ice-skating she wanted
to go for a pint... we had three...
she noticed a Fred who works in the metal-scrap
industry near Rainham: has to wake up
at 6am get to Walthamstow for 8am... pick up
a tonne of copper... drive back... blah blah...
works an imaginary 80h week...
even train drivers... hell... surgeons can't work
the legal hourly limit of 60h per week:
fatigue... you can't work tired:
might as well allow work to be done by drunkards...

no... it wasn't a date... i was 14 and she was 13...
we went ice skating...
**** me: might as well have been a cinema "date":
but it wasn't reading each other's CVs
over food i'd end up paying for...
in the pub i realised i was going to be 37 in May...
i noticed all the young girls...
they spotted me with my "date": it wasn't a date...
she's a lesbian and i'm a brothel frequenter...
from one end of the pub.... we sat beside
Fred the scrap-metal-mogul and disappeared from
view... what happened?
three of them with one beta-buckle-buck sat near us...
suddenly an older lady... with artistic inclinations
of dress started hovering near the bar...
walking past her to the toilet she sort of excused
herself for being in my line of sight...
i'm just here to go to the bathroom...

        being human, like so, is weird to me...
i'm not used to it...
  i'm used to being alone,
not in a solipsistic / autistic sort of way...
  it's just weird that i can pretend to be a clown
without putting on any clown make-up...
i'd rather put on some clown-make-up
and disappear into: a film best not made...

has it really been that long? it had to be a lesbian
to (do i need to stress the fact that she is?
most people these days stress their little somethings
of identity politics, for example...
clinically "schizophrenic": in a Lingua Inglese world
of commerce... bilingualism is a quadratic /
a "clear" disability... two tongues too many!)
ask me to go ice skating and then have a pint of beer
with her? no... able bodied, no able minded female
had the stomach or the courage to ask for
something pretty and simple as, this?!

let's go ice skating! let's go cycling!
let's have a picnic in Hyde Park!

i came home, said sorry for being late... i was only expecting
to go ice skating...
gave revelations of my lateness...
spoke to mother (dear)... waited for my father
to finish watching Match of the Day 2...
saddled myself in the chair before a computer
and started writing out my father's invoice...
tomorrow i'll be working on his VAT and sending it off
to a new accountant...
my mother started sobbing...
why? i'm already the freak i was supposed to have
become...
    base: closeness with others?!
is that, even, remotely, possible?
if all the world is a stage... i'm playing the role of actor
pretty **** well...
i'm not going to allow myself the frivolity
and the escapade of not entering the arena of intra-personal
relationships with... former, youthful... hopes...
naive feelings off of: FUZZY-THRILLS...
what once was mammalian has become
lizard... cool, cold, calculative...
that's how you adapt to the environment presented
for you to digest...
everyone is playing some sort of game...
the Thespian intrusion into all expressions
of art... hell! beyond mere art...
this... Thespian Dictatorial Reign makes all other
expressions of art obsolete...
no wonder painting suffers the most...
why has painting suffered the most under the Thespian
Dictatorship of appealing to the masses
while poetry is... a hiding demon in a dank, drab...
petty 3 x 3 x 3 cubic expression of cut-out yet still waggling
like a decapitated head of a chicken sort of:
magic act?!

no amount of Paul Celan
in the mouth of a Norwegian super-star of literature
could ever fathom-dim
this fabrication of close-relation-ship? ahoy!
ah... **** it...
                      tiles and count the loaded bullets...

this ordeal of the everyday lived:
from the tumultuous ordeal of the body:
thus, summoned to give presence-count
of the "grieving" grave...
my own told woe being unaware...
of the woes of others...
such the price: of a life short-lived...

prior to the said engagement...
rereading some snippets of Spinoza's
Theological-Political Treaties...
because... i own a copy of the Ethics...
but not in English...
i like to imagine myself gloating
on what's readily read contra what' readily
available: and not...
      
i'm not dating material.. trying to imagine, thinking
might have curated me better...
she gives me ice skating...
i want to give her... a Walter Sickert exhibition...
we're not going to match...
over a pint i tell her: i was never
into these DATNG APP matching...
these window-dressing exhibitions:
and how many have you met, face to face?
2?!

i didn't tell her but i was sort of going to:
there's me and this gall from Hawaii...
she sent me honey and dried pineapple...
i didn't... we're mismatched...
she's lesbian and i'm a brothel frequenter...
life since my idea of teenager dating has
become, serious, ugly...
i don't want to have anything to do with it...
for almost half an hour i felt like...
a lion bound to a cage...
impossible to conjure up a lion
without a cage... classifying it as: pet-worthy...
something to make people pretend....
a wound for a heartbeat...
this beast better perform...
  prior to the details of boys
sending girl their ****-pictures:
oh no, no prior to the hard-on...
some variation of a p.s.:
when the blood runs dry...

                  they send their ****-pics after having
*******, when the blood is "drying up"...
not prior, shrivel, limp, lacklustre, prawn-curl whittle 'ichard...
ktle Jan 2019
I fell in love with you.
The time before I knew you feels oddly incomplete
Like the universe has been conspiring
My every step so that I would take the paths leading to you.
I think I knew my entire life
That one day that I would be by your side
Laughing, smiling and inevitably falling.
I knew because you were the one in my dreams. I realize now that
You were the reason why my bones kept tingling and wouldn't settle.

I want you to know that girls like me
Are cautious and afraid to fall in love for the first time.
Girls like me are calculative and hesitant
Because we are too afraid to pay for our mistakes;
We were taught that we are only made of our successes
And that every failure will become a hidden scar
We must be careful to never repeat.
But you came and made me reckless;
I made my decisions blindly and allowed myself
To forget about everything else in the world except you.
I’d trip racing to fall asleep each night just to see you the next day,
All I’d eat was your attention to feed the butterflies in my stomach,
And all I could see were the moments we had and the future we could write.
And even when the scars became so many
That they could no longer be hidden under my clothes
I kept falling deeper and deeper in love you with.
I decided that the pain wasn’t at all bad,
That the wounds were worth every moment of your friendship.

I am envious of the me in another world who was led to you
And who is free to keep loving you, but
It gives me a grain of comfort knowing that somewhere else
You and I are happily listening to our favorite songs
On a rainy Thursday evening, happily and forever in love.
But in this world, it will only be me who falls
So painfully and deeply and foolishly and madly
And beautifully
In love with you.
"The First" and the end of the first.
Lexander J Apr 2015
I plunge my fists deep into the cavity beside your heart
oh then I scream as thou pristine hands are painted red, for
my knowledge's a disposition, my loving's an addiction,
I may be tightly knit but my mind's fraying at the edge,

I felt myself caring, when I thought it no longer could be
my warped obsession with you
gave me something to think about, and queerly set me free -

alas my pastimes remained
a quandary to the twisted and deranged
through the eyes of a calculative Psychopath
I am cursed to forever see,

yes I know what to feel, I know what to say
but don't be fooled, I'm a living masquerade and I care not for you in any way -

oh I'll buy you a coffee, take you to a room and please you there -
but then the twitches start, as I rip the sultry fabric
from your skin, grab handfuls of your velveteen hair,

oh you'll be petrified, you'll freeze
as I finally unveil the insanity that I strive to appease -
in full swing and oblivious to the pain
revelling in the serendipity that is my disease

I'll take you for all you are, and all your worth,
then I'll swiftly **** you
and leave your body bleeding upon the hearth -

strolling casually into the dying sun,

smiling as the day collapses and begins to fold -

a horrific sight enough

to make one's blood run cold.
RayRay Mar 2017
Why
I find it disturbing that,
When God created man,
The wise Lord gave us Maths.
But we became calculative and used it to keep tabs.

He also gave us Languages,
But we too found ways to be ****** and rude.

Strangely, he gave us Science,
Thinking that it would improve our world,
But all we did, was try to disprove him.

Oddly, he created Technology,
For awhile, that worked well,
But even with that,
It now tries to replaces the very humans that he created,
With scraps of metal.

Are we truly on a one way street to destruction?
Why...
Rubab Bashir Jul 2016
I know that
There is always an end to road
but that leads to another road
Red line that ceases sun shine
but that declares yet another scene: night
Spring that declares an end of two seasons
but that acts as a warning of yet another harsh season
I know there is always an end
but that is in fact another beginning
I am aware of all world of wisdom & facts
I am pretty much logical and calculative person
But with you
every logic fades
every calculation is wrong
I know you're long gone
and may be I am going through 5 stages of grieve
But I am incapable of forgetting
incapable of leaving even an ounce of feelings
incapable of forgetting every word you ever uttered
incapable of unloving you
incapable of not missing you
incapable of letting you go even though I have never intended to hold on
incapable of figuring out that how can you be no one to someone like that
Why is it so unfairly painful to bear!!
drained with my feelings
Shalini Nayar Sep 2014
My heart aches a thousand times more
Each time my mind wanders.
It is the voices that rage me.
I hold my chair tight till it tattoos marks on my palm.

Because of you, because of your *****,
Your *******, *******, worshipping the ******* blue ******,
You have made me so jaded.

The naivete that I carried on my sleeve,
The sweet innocence looking forward to wonderful,
The trust I invested in total strangers,
The belief that there was good in every mankind,
All lies. I am now blinded by brutality and deceit.
I lost trust and I lost God. Both never existed.

How manipulative, calculative you were.
Not to mention your sister-*****, who later became your own concubine,
How she'd tricked me, lured me into believing every move.
I nodded, smiled and laughed along with the deceit.
All along a big *** knife was ****** into my back.

Who knew backstabbing was your favourite sport.

Shalini Nayar
© 2005
karen dannette Jan 2015
The crackling fire spits sparks into the night sky
The atmosphere, alive,  with bright hues of burnt sienna
Illuminating your spirit with pure beauty,  sadness cannot thrive.
Love more real than any I have known..

Your eyes are so blue, not even a hint of a storm cloud approaching.
Your smile makes me forget every other lover I've known.
Every part of my body throbs in anticipation of your touch...............

I never saw it coming, blinded by emotions and lies
Leaving welts you left on my soul, so damaged
Your bitterness eats me alive
Buried alive,, slowly suffocating by the dirt thrown into my mouth.

Beating me into the ground with a shovel..  
I can hear the echoes within the soil, tormenting with anguish
Violently trembling and  shuddering with anger.. or is it  fear?
Sorrow aches deep within , vulnerable.

A vicious cycle starts from sweet to sadistic...
Wicked thoughts invade the purity of love.
Will we be able to withstand the cruelty and pain?

Unable to reach some kind of compromise.
How much I love and adore you,
My soul is old and my spirit free,
Yet you try to clip my wings and cage my essence.

Forever filtering  through my flaws and imperfections
Your intoxication transforming you into a savage
Being tortured, slowly, and with a motive
Your words are  weapons to use against me.

Flesh ripped apart,   blurring my vision with such a vengeance
Scratching and clawing
As they furiously circle and isolate their victim.

I am no innocent, I will not be
Oblivious to my crazed, moody outbursts.
I forget that my tongue can be the fork that eats you alive.
My mind unable to comprehend the damage I've done.
All my demands are incinerating the chance of happiness.

My addiction and your affliction segregate our hope
Calculative and manipulating, we can't live like this  
We both lose a battle we don't even realize is going on within ourselves.
Making no sense of the battles we choose, petty and useless.

What is the true reality of our abuse?   You are forever placing blame...
Surely, this cannot be love, for it takes no prisoners
Forever damaged and scarred, bitterness within my heart...

Wandering aimlessly, surrendering to my demise
But still, my heart belongs to only you
Knowing that only pain will it cause

Tired of running in circles,
Aren't you tired of sleeping in your clothes?
Never trusting again without fear of anger and loss?
Or does it matter to you what the peace and love will have conquered or will you only think of what it has cost?
This poem was written as non-fiction.  As I edited and did the rewrite, I can see much more on the other side of this.  Please offer any honest feedback.  
Thank you for your time and the reading of this poem.
While living in Berlin
I dreamt for  Sanghai,
when crossing the river,
Never sail, tempted to fly.

What is there in mind
seldom comes out of mouth,
Say yes with emphasis
When clouded with doubt.

Treading for north
And thinking of south,
while talking of peace
Often I shout.

When hate is in heart
Then soft is response,
Always calculative
cautious of pros-cons.

Pulling the water
when out of a well,
Am enjoying in mind
A flower and smell.

Aspiring for love
and desiring for life,
Spending life as if
a planned strife.

Who is this man
"Amitabh"  I thought,
Replied my mind
I am, I am not.

       Ajay Amitabh Suman
Copyright Claim:.  (ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ) I am the author of  this  poem. This Poem is my Original work. I hold all the right in relation  to my poem,  as available in law. No body is entitled the use this poem , or any part thereof in any form without written consent from me.
Divya Kaushik May 2020
We don’t talk now
I understand you are busy
Surprisingly, my mind doesn’t plead
Your memories to not become a history
My feelings for you play silently
Arousing everything but sadness
And I wonder why there is no void
Why I don’t feel cramped  
Even with your reflection’s occupancy
  
With you as my guide
I discovered the greatness of brains and numbers
Honestly, I still feel the awe of it
For what use are skills and experiences, if not appreciation
I have known being a source of your pride
But how come there is such detachment at your end
May be your sources kept expanding to the extent
That I became a lost fraction of even thousands  

You gave me your clothes when I was soaked  
Laughed and gave me directions when I got lost on the road
Gave me the stage to show, and to answer
I helped your daughter cross French and English waters
But  I  couldn t help  her with German
How  could  I  draw  a  map,  when  I  didn't know the land
So I was  kicked to  the curb, to  never be contacted
You  told me to not become  a  calculator
But I don't remember ever being calculative

And I  never held anything against you For the free and  reasonable  me  would never  approve
Teachers like you  are still the reason
I  like to  be a student,  through and through.
Students have a few teachers in their lives, but teachers get a lot of students in their lifetime. And I felt the bond is not quite as strong with the teachers as I may have perceived.
PJ Poesy Mar 2016
That flickering star has been sending Morse code. Translation turns out no definitive message but the dots and dashes are unmistakeable. Now to unscramble the letters, how to make sense of it?I know I can do it, but it will take time, a team of highly paid scientists and a lot of government funding. There was a bullfrog whose croaking had absolute calculative exhaustive expression last night. I think he should be employed on this team of scientists. I'm certain he knows something. There were moths dancing in front of my headlights where I parked by the pond. Their syncopated flutterings seemed to tell a story, though I can't be sure it was in relation to the star or bullfrog. Still, it shouldn't be ruled out.
Its been a long, long time
Cant seem to find
Any shred of peace of mind.

Thoughts invade, tranquility escapes me
Memories bombard
And reality rapes me.

Crooked steps come, close behind
A sinister trap
But I'm far from blind

A calculative maneuver, clever plot
But you've yet to taste
The hell I've brought

Bring on your best, I've faced this before
I'll go down swinging
In this ******* war.
He's finding his way back to sanity, again
Carefully trending through his shadows
desperate for changes, and starving for truth
He's still hanging by the moment he held on to.

His heart was calculative and cold
But he now sits in warm embrace.  

He still knows his lovers face,
But he longs for love's new taste.

His chains have been broken
And he now walks free
He's spinning around, but hanging  on tight
This time he will gracefully fall into heaven's true embrace.
Mateuš Conrad May 2022
i lied... i must have the dates mixed up...
the last exhibition i saw wasn't From Russia
at the Royal Academy of Arts...

it was either Edward Munch at Tate Modern
or the Pre-Raphaelites at Tate Britain...

but i found it impossible to not cycle into London
today... i finished some whiskey at about
1pm... got on my bicycle... stuffed about 10 empty
bottles from various liquids:
*****, whiskey... cider into my rucksack:
dropped them at the recycling bins by the supermarket:
because i'm green and all:
i just have a fetish for recycling...

   my god... this writing is terrible: i haven't drunk
enough... sober writing is dishonest writing:
unless you're old... then sober is probably honest:
age does the trick... but when you're a little bit younger:
nothing like a little bit of ***** to make
you speak the truth...

obviously i was going to do exactly what i wrote...
and some Plato (taking off a mask)
was almost a thought experiment:
was i going to write fiction? or was i going to write
poetry? was i going to cycle from Romford
to Tate Britain and watch the Walter Sickert
exhibition?

             i got there... smoked a cigarette...
sweating like a pig being chased...
how i love to punish myself on the bicycle...
i'm like a remora when it comes to traffic...
the shark? oh... a bus...
                 a truck... a heavy-duty truck with a skip...
i'm the remora sort of using it as momentum
generator...
because i never cycle in the blind spot...
a wise remora is the cyclist that keeps to the outside
of the shark...
since i've started cycling around London i haven't
heard of any cyclist deaths...
   well no: i'm not saying it's because of me...
but i'm not exactly invisible...
like today i spotted someone imitating the way
i give direction...
  *******-pencil pusher type stretch out their hand
wide like they're about to do a horizontal
seigl heil!

    me? i laconically lift my hand and indicate
with my wrist / hand a blinking motion of a car's
indicator: up and down... up and down...
i'm turning... but usually it's me: the remora
and the big *** shark of a bus or a truck helping me
cycle past... Sunday drivers... it's Tuesday!
stay awake! focused! you're not walking!

i love getting bicycle rage... oh rarely with pedestrians...
what i do with pedestrians is that i cycle
really close to them when they have
crossed their allowance of road...
they usually jump back: startled...

    because in an urban environment:
i punish myself... unconscious spatial coordination...
i love that there are so many objects moving around
me... big objects... small objects...

i hate cars... not that i've ever driven one...
i tried... once... eh... this exoskeleton doesn't suit me...
it's different in a bus... because hey...
Cliff Richard and ****...
                   walking... the bicycle... or a horse...
either one...
hell: even "god" can't beat the bicycle with his
donkey or a horse...

it took me less time to get from Romford to Tate
Britain than if i had to use public transport...
plus: what do you get to see on the tube
beside quasi-autistic faces with the taboo
of no-eye-contact...
**** that... i'm going to punish myself: 101kg...
not good enough... i can feel my spine...
plus i just might find some fury to swear
in my native language... because English is just
too soft...

i have to write the following sentence in Deutsche
(obviously i'll translate it)
ein radfahrer ist ein verkehrschäfer -
a cyclist is a traffic-shepherd...
countless times i've seen this at work...
we're not sacred cows...
i know my place in the "gutter" of either
the double yellow or the single red
or the double red or the single yellow...
but i know my place... i can orientate myself
around pedestrians blah blah etc.
only someone solipsistic enough will get themselves
killed when using the roads:
pristine inventions!
  even the English flow of traffic is logic-proof...
entertain the roundabout...
it works like a clock... how does "time" move
on the clock... at some point prior to 12am or
12pm... from left... to right...
that's how the hands move...
the rest of the world is wrong: wong! wong!
they drive on the wrong-wong side of the street...
traffic flows up on the right side...
but down on the left-side of the road:
no! traffic should flow up the road on the left...
and traffic should flow down: on the right!

- i was supposed to get a birthday present...
opera? eh... ballet? i'm getting bored of sitting
and having to applaud...
      i'm just bored of hearing applause...
i've heard enough over the past few months
at football matches... translating that to opera
or ballet is... i don't even have a word for it...
there might be a word: but i'm not too bothered about
finding the 1cm in 100m: designated pin-point.

i'm suspicious that women are looking for artists (men)
once they reach old age... decrepit "fools":
senile buggers... life experience and all...
where's the fun in that?
   the youthful artist: or rather: entertainer in his youth...
but no, oh no... the artist needs to be old...
to hell with that... when's my next shift?!
Saturday... Sunday...
tomorrow's Wednesday... vet appointment...
maybe tomorrow... maybe Thursday...
i'll need to punish myself some more
and drink plenty of white wine... then off to Khedra...
to hell with painting nudes...
**** the nudes: literally...

who was that English poet that came home crying
after seeing Liszt play: jealous...
about how many women swooned over his performance?
Matthew Arnold?! yeah... it was him...
hell...
  poets and musicians don't mix...
                  achtung zu d'eh-tile... detail...
verdrehen auf gestalt: verschmieren auf farbe...

poets and painters?! ooh... that's another topic altogether...
i walk into an art gallery: i'm home...
i'm happy that i didn't opt for the opera tickets...
i had this arts review from the 8th of May...
i knew i was going to see this exhibition...

not since Edward Hopper...
   then again: i haven't heard anything about Francis Bacon
being showcased... i'd give a toe of mine
to see him being showcased...
who else could compete:
i've only recently become acquainted with Walter
Sickert...
disappointed? no... not that i can think of...
should i have swapped the exhibition ticket
for a concert ticket?
no... not that i think it would have been necessary...

it's a completely different experience...
i'm my own best and worst DJ in private...
i've been in mosh-pits at Slipknot concerts...
i've been to the best Tool concert: to the best concert
i've ever been to in Glasgow...
wrapped my arms around with German girl:
protected her from being squashed...
shared water... have her water...
came back with snogging...
   snogging a random girl at a Tool concert...
well: that's life...
   but i do remember seeing her standing all alone...
lonesome as the crowd was dispersing...
trying to look for me... i walked past her...
oh right: the man is supposed to instigate the chance-lance:
charge...
   regrets that i didn't?
i was going back to Edinburgh talking to this
teacher / pub Celtic band... what did he play?
flute? banjo? i do remember telling him:
the quintessential pop song? Material Girl... by Madonna...

eh... friendly conversation...
but if i were to approach that German girl...
and say: let's go back to your and ****...
and i'll leave you the next morning and never talk to you?
i think the snogging in the crowd...
sharing water...
  it was one of those splendid moments that
ought to have been only a moment...
    i can't imagine the alternative from that...

why?
only today... while i was smoking a cigarette i noticed
these flock of "seagulls": about three elderly matriarchs
and two birds readied for the slaughter...
as i walked into the gallery they kept hovering around
me... is he interested? isn't he interested...
to be fair: i was there for the art... not for some hook-up:
so libido stirring...
that's the "problem" when you're already paid
the devil for one of his concubines...
devotee women of "god" / "culture" stop interesting you...
not that i'm shy: i'm calculative...
but once you've paid for a *******:
so what, WILL i be paying for?
dinner and a maybe-****?!
  
   let's just skip dinner and get into the *******...
people are already making that horrendous
faux pas of profiling themselves...
so at a dinner date: i know what she likes,
i know what she dislikes... what the **** is there
to talk about? **** it: call the butcher in: let's cut up
some meat!

for a minute i took my gaze away from
the paintings: hook-up culture not working?
dating-apps the bane of your existence?
too bad... i never used them...
thank **** for that...
i don't know how or why i was ****** into
this social media frenzy...
validation? oh no no... bypassing the sloth
of the editorial process:
the: first appeal to the selective elect:
who then... make appeals to the rest of the public:
public first... the editors like ancient Greek
sophists can shove it up their *****!

wait wait: yeah: wait and i'll be dead!
to hell with it... this is open season!

is this one of those regret moments or memorable
moments? i think it's a memorable moment...
why would i regret some "hunt":
some classically inspired heterosexual finicky game
off a rom-com inspired:
reality is something that moulds us...
temporal creatures trying to figure out a way
around a "claustrophobia" of genetic inheritance...

to hell with that too! genetics-blah-blah...
if we were not such "god-fearing" people:
secular as they come... but also phobic prone
regarding the full extent of science...
we'd be doing gene revisions like the Chinese
are doing... hey... all the toys are in the sandbox...
why not play with them?
to avert the chance of having your limbs
aputated because of diabetes?!
Western civilization has become: Ssssss-LOW...

it's almost somewhat ******* but at the same time:
i don't even know...
backward moral superiority
over... something it originally instigated...
or broke rules for the existence of...

i can't imagine myself waking up one day and...
having regrets: instead of memories...
i won't allow it!

funny that... i'm still to write about the actual Walter
Sickert exhibition...
i think i'm about to write about it now...
"i think": well: that's always been synonymous with
"i doubt": the plethora of emotions that comes
with think that verges on doubt... it's almost akin
to being in love...
           i am: regardless...

oh my god... i only spent about 40 minutes in
the exhibition: do you need more?
i spend £120 for an hour with a *******...
so what's £20 for 40 minutes spent with a dead
artist? peanut... whenever i go to an exhibition
i have a tendency to: not want to: overstay my welcome...

the ******* lighting was all wrong!
who curated this!
who curated this! the lighting is all wrong!
i was actually bound to looking
at a painting... ballerina in me:
shuffling... left... right... forwards... backwards...
the heavily oiled: layered paintings can't
have this sort of lighting...

it's like my argument for subtitled movies...
why... why why why! why!
are the subtitles running at the bottom
of the scrreen?
don't people know how difficult it is to read down
and then look up?!
what horrible "thing" could possible happen
if you ran the subtitles on the top of the screen?!
you know how much easier it is to read at the top
and focus on something down below!
it's as simple as: why no culture on this earth
wrote like: it might be an imitation of a tree growing?!
from down toward up?!
even the logicians of Mandarin wrote:
up to down...
they didn't write down to up...
****'s sake!

couldn't you try... moving those lights...
"downstairs": to illuminate the paintings from down-below
rather than from the top?
who the hell walks into an art exhibition and in
his cognitive "seance" think:
oh this looks pretty... no... this is not still-life...
the lighting is all wrong...

i seriously had to look at some paintings from
the side...
some had mirror protections on them...
so there was clearly some distorting reflection...
me or some object...
this lighting is ****! who curated this?!

i wasted £20 of a worth of a birthday present, on this?!
****** lighting!
   couldn't you have lighting coming from
the side... or from the floor?
why from the ceiling: all the ****** time!
no imagination: nada... zilch!

it would have been better not buying
a ticket and instead buying the book for £40
than £35 with the ticket...

first room i entered: always the best stuff:
the portrait of an artist as a young men...
self-portraits...
i had a smile on my face...
i was mesmerized by:

- self-portrait (circa 1896)
- self-portrait, the painter in his studio 1907
- self-portrait: the bust of tom sayers 1913

i don't care what anyone says...
the last reference? it looks better in real life than
it does in print... those hollowed out eyes...
was the skull to ever have
the capacity for eyes?!
worm by the eye... worm by the mouth...
by the ear... nose..
you need to see it: in this! ****** Tate Britain lighting!
who curated this?!
this is the first time i thirsted for excellence!
came short... not the artist: the curator...

first room: beginnings... self-portraits...
ha ha... "Lazarus": slurping oat-meals...
the servant of Abraham: another good one...

one of my ultimate favourites becomes
this Mona Lisa... tiny little thing...
Venice: the little lagoon...
circa. 1884...

architectural interests... crap... crap... crap...
well: good... but... thank god some of the stuff
is still there... but i don't need to paint
what i can blink at... against...

then the nudes...
oh the nudes...
   each artist and his ******* nudes...
Picasso had at least some imagination
to contort the **** beyond recognition:
to try to get a proper hard-on...
Freudian hammers and sickles...
or as i like to call them:
swastikas and scythes...

what?! aren't we to not inherit the horrors
and make jokes of them?!
terrible lighting... absolutely terrible...

the sea paintings drew my attention...
where: the: ****: is: Dieppe?!
la saisons des bains...
               seascape circa 1887...
    
ah! there she sits pretty!
   Cicely Hey 1923...
      you just want to **** her nostrils off!

Off to the pub 1911: Freddy ******* Kruger!
ah... that's why...
that's why... an artist... **** it: painter...
might compromise with a poet
for something... someone...
images are yet to be born from the images
that are to come...

that makes no sense...
images are yet to be born from the already
born words...
yeah... that makes sense...

i wasn't exactly moved by the nudes...
i had a poker mask on...
i've seen enough: plenty...
the the architectural stuff bored me...
i know boredom: unlike any other boredom:
the habitual need to continue
the mechanisation of replicas...
but the subject matter isn't there...
a sort of a writer's block...
you persist... writing about the most banal things...
painting the most banal things:
in order to keep up with
your own: well established technique...
but it's unimportant crap...

can't be fascinated by **** paintings...
Narcissus ate all my nudes....
i **** before the altar of mirrors...
i know when a mirror eats the contorted expression
of a prostitutes face....
i'm no jack the ripper...
      
surprise me with: horror ****...
not *******...
  surprise me with...
    people imitating... from the last movie i saw?
that wasn't imitation...
that was *******: readily available...
******... handcuffs... lubricants...
cucumbers... shame-tactics...
at least with men pain came with war...
women at nut-job crazy:
***-warfare...
   shaming tactics... no wonder i get
a limp **** with a woman that isn't
a *******...

   no wonder i go to art exhibitions:
perhaps... just perhaps the fairer ***...
but most certainly the uglier *** should
the inverted become extroverted
and: likewise... the antonym... compound...

the days of Jack the Ripper are gone...
i still don't know how someone like Samuel Little...
did what he did?
no *******: casually...
a proper ******* with a *******...
come on... at least they're giving it up for an asking
price! there's no *******: nuance!
there's no dating involved!
  these days, can you imagine?
going on a date... you match profiles...
what's there's to talk about?
she already mentioned all her interests...
all her dislikes... her likes...
what's left?
you order steak...
    chips blah blah...
does your steak taste like beef?
do your chips taste like: potatoes?!

then again: we're supposed to be switching diet
to synthetic "meat": bean born alternatives...
whatever... that's why i figured out:
focus on art... don't bother with gene replication...

and as i cycled home like a demon...
now i'm sitting down...
listening to "pleb" culture...
fat boy slim's: right here, right now...

i don't want to wake up one day and have
regrets.... instead of memories...

this exhibitions was a revelation... Plato's
false beliefs? not in bad faith...
those three old women and those two young girls...
psychologists?!
oh sure sure... they were really gearing up to
talk to me... i was more than willing to
destroy my inner-boundaries...
for some love with narrative:
than *** without it...

    clearly i'm out of touch!
   what appeals to the masses can never appeal
to the individual... why didn't i choose
a ticket to see an opera? i read about this exhibition
come May 8th... gusto... Waldemar Januszczak...
he has good taste....
i wanted to fizz out... to zone-out...
at the FA cup final i was hearing a crowd...
but also church bells... i was fizzing with sound
in my ears...

painter! painter! get me a painter!
i need to relax!
that's what it felt like... cheap *** pseudo-*******
potentials... three matriarchal psychologist
types... two lambs for a slaughter...
you want to catch me, now?
should have tried to catch me
ten years ago:
then you could have pharmacologically
strapped me in!
        now?! fwee-byrd!

               angry at the traffic...
the world has moved on! get with it!
i was told to get "with it" once, or twice...
times change: things: move...

none of these women will ever be regrets...
the women i paid for are never regrets...
they're women i paid for...
i'm reluctant for enforce a switch of the power
dynamic from man to woman...
woman offers ***... man pays for ***...
women doesn't offer ***:
man... becomes: self-sufficient....

it's almost like that brainstorm moment...
which arrives... in a football stadium...
before the crowd arrives and gets all hot & bothered...
listening to: fat-boy slims' song: right here:
right now...

there's a greater silence:
allocated to an art exhibition...
   oh: but i can find it..
i have found it...
most of the people: simple are...
there's no to be or not be
concerning them...
they're like mountains... like trees...
they simply are... replicas...
****** cues...
        
   to hell with thinking that i might be
high-brow... some people are just ******!
if that's an insult for someone being
******: while someone intelligent
is getting bashed... to hell with the ******
fetishist!

no! you ****-beard-funkies don't
get away with it that easy: who... these days...
allows a 14 year old daughter to become
pregnant?!

when life was: ah... ha... ah...
                           when you wanted to paint life...
rather than discard it as a photograph...
once upon a time... a time: that never was.
Påłpëbŕå Jan 2023
what are we if not calculative creatures
a dichotomous breed with in born bias,
struggling between believers and preachers
-we are sinful souls who aim to be pious
we claim to be depressed
and live to be impressed
craving profanity
while questioning our sanity,
we are suffering in the this hell
of paradoxes that challenge our intel
it's funny how we want touch
and affection oh so much
but we're afraid to open up and give
expecting other's hearts to help us live
we have voids and spaces too large
that nothing could ever in barge
thus we will end up alone
with our fates set in stone
we want to be stimulated, both physically & mentally
longing for someone to take away our ability
to think clearly or walk steadily,
confused because we don't know what we need basically
is it mere pleasure we look for
or something deeper do we implore?
covered bodies yet naked minds,
what is it that we are unable to find?
peace or chaos?
calm or applause?
somebody to awaken our deeper desires
or a superficial night of playing with fire?
i don't really know what's more important mental stimulation or physical fulfilment......neither or both? and if there's nothing, still is it worth being with that person?
what does it make me, eh?
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
from experience,
Alzheimer's in males is
more bearable
than in females,
given the example of
my grandfather,
there are always
dasein coordinates
of memory laying
siege to the inanimate
present...
under a veil and curtain
of solipsism
and schizophrenia
(respectively)...
"i" play truant...
      not that there is
a gender neutrality of
pronouns, there is also
a neutrality of pluralism...
thesaurus subtleties;
bull riddling *******!
males deflect
memory and coordination
of the present,
hence the "presumptive"
"thought"...
       that,
even if Elijah is to return:
a son's heart will turn
to his father's...
we both share a nostalgia,
me and Joseph...
   how we used to ride bicycles
and went fishing...
now he sleeps, and
I'm bound to drinking
till sunrise I wish will
never come...
irony... the anomaly of
premature "Alzheimer's",
namely the calculative
mind, a Macchievelian
"syndrome":
  Venetian contra
Milanese familiar...
    what? talk! talk!
"he" sure as **** will not
climb down off a cross and
give his Judas due
to another iconoclasm project
akin to: Metallica's
before it sleeps...
      a game of chess
between a schizophrenic
and an Alzheimer's project
uno...
      guess who's bluffing
toying with solipsism...
mind you, both are jacked up
on pharma placebos,
which are, so short of the true
psychedelic escapades...
     then they throw IN
a ******* in a wheelchair to
balance the books,
get a medium,
    churn out a no man's land...
get all body-realistic
and shove the brain
from basic piston dynamics
into artificial intelligence
webbing custard,
which later becomes
dog food, cartilage for
prosthetics,
         and a canvas for
medical students...
     since the blood never gushes
out of grey... mint...  
not even if I tried,
given that certain mental illnesses
are pure pilitoco...
there's market on easily accessible
terminology,
  again, borrowed from the medical
profession...
   the reason they are taboo,
is because they are too politically
useful, unless of course,
the "surprising" happens,
akin to a Texans shootout...
    straight away, gobs into the trough,
eyes into the precursor *******'
worth of **** stipends at
the Vatican...
                   if only...
       **** could run the world...
you ******* donning a bow-tie
to talk such plain-policed-talk?
apparently there's a tomorrow...
to be honest,
to me that only means
a yesterday that just happened
today...
   memory,
outside the schooldays living
plasticine...
   head in a churner,
and the sick vogue of
peacocking psychopathy,
before, the glued eyes to the void
starts swerving his
multifaceted scream of ideas...
see em, dull eyes...
toad eyes... eaten by amphibian
apathy...
    saliva on the oculus...
     and twice the venom
akin to an immovable statue...
like a copper statue of Montgomery,
so too, the one pence,
two pence in the pavement...
copper herald: the screeching
shaman of the collective death...
while tomorrow,
the dead night in sloth's *****
awaiting suckling for a dream...
a kite was flown,
an ice cream was turned into
a fancy quasi-arctic inverted
dollop...
               empire strikes back:
the Rolling Stones / the Beatles
SCHIZOPHRENIA
         was debated by the titilated
public...
         unless you're not
bilingual...
imagine...
       Pacquiau vs. Klitschko...
honey... your depression
narrative isn't going to be some
David contra Goliath anomaly...
    like that *****-whiff of a man
'aving a pint,
sliding into tango...
   while me 'aving a 50cl of *****,
doing an hour's worth of
Buckingham duck-snap
       salutations in:
                         'eet up! 'ed do'n!
sorry...
    there are too many exceptions
at the zenith that are a
turkey-feeding antithesis of
bulimia made believable...
as ever... too few exceptions at
the nadir, that are somehow
precursors to
a grief upon the plateau,
communal...
    altogether worrying...
slyly, rather than shyly,
within e.g., trying to...
      do you know that Rasputin
gave me an old Tsar rüble banknote
from the grave,  via
a Jew, that earned a Monte Casino
cross for bravery?
    the Poles still think
the Mongols are coming...
   like the Arabs...
who still think water is
       a...
                  whatever happens
in Las Vegas...
              doesn't leave Las Vegas?
about time "they" figured
out how to water the plants
with dog ****...
mind you, with a back
to the future hindsight 100 years on...
it wasn't so much that
we were ignorant,
but rather that we were:
                       misinformed...
catch you next time,
experiencing a barage of
information,
and interacting with
a self-modified
          censor-***-filter...
"thing".
Jeremy Bean Apr 2018
Set me up for failure please
Sell me into slavery
keep practicing apathy
as a cog inside of the machine

Bombard me with redundancy
imprint me with this disease
teach me only of dependency
keep your eyes fixed upon the screen

Leave your mind idling
stay blind to everything you see
be deaf to what you are hearing
life is made for forsaking

Influence my way of thinking
following robotic dreams
keep the lemming mentality
pray to non responsive deities

Do not dare to break the mold
stay calculative and cold
unless you wish to face the scold
by those doing what theyre told
Surbhi Dadhich Oct 2018
When the intermission bell rang
A bunch of boys grinning widely
With shrewd, calculative looks
Fumbled one at front
Inquired, " Hey what's #metoo??..
Sometimes serious, severe issues are considered as the **** of taunt and harassment with cloudy appearances and with a sense of vulnerable uncertainty..
Usually they ask about cars , fashion and stuff but I was dumbfound when I encountered this..As a teenager, I didn't know how to respond and the words were lost..
Emeka Mokeme Jan 2019
Any animal in
the forest that
suddenly decides
to develope and
grows a horn
just because of me,
will definitely finds
out that it's
horn will eventually
be used as a cup
to drink wine.
I am like
the praying mantis
that dances
before it kills.
Calm and calculative,
focused and thoughtful,
tactful and mindful,
meditative and intuitive.
But can also
be dangerous for
the praying mantis kills.
The dance steps
and movements
are hypnotic and
mesmerizing.
A little mistake
can drastically cause
you your joy
and happiness,
even your life
and be the
little storm that
turns into a
big deal that
can mess up
your life.
It's like the
***** and the
excrete of the
mythical animal
set as a bait
to catch it's prey.
But what does
it all mean.
Don't mess up
what is so
important to you
just because you
are a little
unsure of who
you are.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
luna Jun 2018
(while my younger days slowly lost meaning,
as these eyes can no longer see naivety)

i've learnt the art of pure hatred way too early,
as if it was no one's wish to let me feel compassion
they taught me how to turn my love into aggression
and they promised me we would turn out just fine.

as if that's the only way to deal,
not teaching me how to feel.
a child who grew up with nothing but confusion
since the beginning, though, i knew there was an illusion.
hidden in between these late phone calls
and the lingering scent coming from his room
i was calmly waiting to bloom.

this kind of pain i've grown used to,
it has turned me into a selfish love seeker
torturing myself until i'm nothing but weaker,
and maybe that's what this demon wishes
the blindess of youth
stuck on its roots.

playing dumb is an end game
but me, too, have learnt how to turn pills into closed eyes
and how to turn love into a calculative mind.

i can't save you anymore
it doesn't matter because i never swore.
Ankit Dubey Dec 2019
I fell in love with you.
The time before I knew you feels oddly incomplete
Like the universe has been conspiring
My every step so that I would take the paths leading to you.
I think I knew my entire life
That one day that I would be by your side
Laughing, smiling and inevitably falling.
I knew because you were the one in my dreams. I realize now that
You were the reason why my bones kept tingling and wouldn't settle.

I want you to know that boys like me
Are cautious and afraid to fall in love for the first time.
Boys like me are calculative and hesitant
Because we are too afraid to pay for our mistakes;
We were taught that we are only made of our successes
And that every failure will become a hidden scar 
We must be careful to never repeat.
But you came and made me reckless;
I made my decisions blindly and allowed myself 
To forget about everything else in the world except you.
I’d trip racing to fall asleep each night just to see you the next day,
All I’d eat was your attention to feed the butterflies in my stomach,
And all I could see were the moments we had and the future we could write.
And even when the scars became so many 
That they could no longer be hidden under my clothes
I kept falling deeper and deeper in love you with.
I decided that the pain wasn’t at all bad,
That the wounds were worth every moment of your friendship.

I am envious of the me in another world who was led to you
And who is free to keep loving you, but
It gives me a grain of comfort knowing that somewhere else
You and I are happily listening to our favorite songs 
On a rainy Thursday evening, happily and forever in love.
But in this world, it will only be me who falls
So painfully and deeply and foolishly and madly
And beautifully
.

In love w
ith you.
"The First" and the end of the first.

. . ~ Ankit Dubey | ©
dedicated to my love
Odd Odyssey Poet Oct 2023
i heard of a shadow,
in an empty room
full of intentions,
still they're like a rainy day
still deciding how grey it wants to be.

i picked the corner of a world,
where my square ideas were vaguely
valued; a child who thinks out of the box
i stored a piece of myself in the closet
of my parent's skeletons;
ancestry artifacts burdened by a
generational chain,- the attire of a uniform
conversation; pretending i had a
good day at school today.

"no i didn't cry as much in class,
as i usually do, dearest mother
i did try to make a pass on math on being
calculative, on how i spent my day,
busiest father."

"as i bullied a bully before he could
make me his next victim
cutting him short a few generations
when i kicked him in his *****."

and i only cried, not out of guilt,
but to guilt everyone else, as to make it
seem as if it wasn't entirely my fault.

still even if it had not rain that day,
i'd still ask myself why my tears
felt so grey that day
How shall I measure you, Time?
What is the answer to your riddle and rhyme?
   Is it the hours appearing on a clock,
   Or when it's filled by many ships a dock?
Is it the second hand moving slowly 'round,
Or the nighttime bells when they sound?

Do I dare to trust time with my fate,
To place myself in his hands great;
    Or would I be better off to entrust
    Myself to God, Who made me from dust,
And thereby get to know Time's business better
As I go about my business to the letter?

I ask, Is Time my friend
Who will stick with me to the end,
    Or just a veiled hoax, a cloaked heathen, whose
    Only duty is making sure I pay my dues?
Calculative contemplation is needed, for, the time is
Getting late!  Am I, or am I not, his?

Time, you are a dimly understood figure.
Your myriad shapes are of a mysterious nature.
     Come and go as you please,
     I am left to pay the fees.
Responsible for light and night,
Why, you change so often! are you my right?
Orpheus Feb 28
There are not enough ways to express how much I crave the sound of silence
Whichever being felt it proper to play games with my brain,
Treat it as a fleshy chessboard
With pieces abound,
Always pushing between responsibility and chaos,
Will I ever curse you,
For I cannot ever escape the chatter that comes with your calculative moves.

No thoughts flow as I type,
Yet there is this infinite flow of words to write,
And none of them sound coherent.
Is this thinking?
But I understand naught a single thing.

Sleep is calling,
I refuse to pick up,
But the song that plays reminds me
I need a refresher, a new day,
Or I'll be stuck on this path a long way,
Before the thoughts behind these thoughts
Make me human as I have been.

— The End —