Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
October 2013

for Maria and Logan...

you need two hands, one foot.
count my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...

birthdays.

point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you taste grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be taken,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if need
explanations.

none know, can provide,
still and yet, a
priestly sacred chord,
grants relief,
absolution,
song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
that ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
unreasonable,
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse.

what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrect
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm,
could it be
Morrow?

bath drains, rosemary and mint
odors dismissed, the  Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

didn't know
the Renaissance come
and go,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
Notes: my birthday was a few weeks ago. One of a number poems I've written about birthdays.  This one was modified, but only slightly for Maria and Logan.
By the East River and the Bronx
boys sang, stripped to the waist,
along with the wheels, oil, leather and hammers.
Ninety thousand miners working silver from rock
and the children drawing stairways and perspectives.

But none of them slumbered,
none of them wished to be river,
none loved the vast leaves,
none the blue tongue of the shore.

By East River and the Queensboro
boys battled with Industry,
and Jews sold the river faun
the rose of circumcision
and the sky poured, through bridges and rooftops,
herds of bison driven by the wind.

But none would stop,
none of them longed to be cloud,
none searched for ferns
or the tambourine's yellow circuit.

When the moon sails out
pulleys will turn to trouble the sky;
a boundary of needles will fence in memory
and coffins will carry off those who don't work.

New York of mud,
New York of wire and death.
What angel lies hidden in your cheek?
What perfect voice will speak the truth of wheat?
Who the terrible dream of your stained anemones?

Not for a single moment, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
have I ceased to see your beard filled with butterflies,
nor your corduroy shoulders frayed by the moon,
nor your thighs of ****** Apollo,
nor your voice like a column of ash;
ancient beautiful as the mist,
who moaned as a bird does
its *** pierced by a nedle.
Enemy of the satyr,
enemy of the vine
and lover of the body under rough cloth.

Not for a single moment, virile beauty
who in mountains of coal, billboards, railroads,
dreamed of being a river of slumbering like a river
with that comrade who would set in your breast
the small grief of an ignorant leopard.

Not for a single moment, Adam of blood, Male,
man alone on the sea, Walt Whitman, lovely old man,
because on penthouse roofs,
and gathered together in bars,
emerging in squads from the sewers,
trembling between the legs of chauffeurs
or spinning on dance-floors of absinthe,
the maricas, Walt Whitman, point to you.

Him too! He's one! And they hurl themselves
at your beard luminous and chaste,
blonds from the north, blacks from the sands,
multitudes with howls and gestures,
like cats and like snakes
the maricas, Walt Whitman, maricas,
disordered with tears, flesh for the whip,
for the boot, or the tamer's bite.

Him too! He's one! Stained fingers
point to the shore of your dream,
when a friend eats your apple,
with its slight tang of petrol,
and the sun sings in the navels
of the boys at play beneath bridges.

But you never sough scratched eyes,
nor the darkest swamp where they drown the children,
nor the frozen saliva,
nor the curved wounds like a toad's belly
that maricas bear, in cars and on terraces,
while the moon whips them on terror's street-corners.

You sought a nakedness like a river.
Bull and dream taht would join the wheel to the seaweed,
father of  your agony, camellia of your death,
and moan in the flames of your hidden equator.

For it's right that a man not seek his delight
in the ****** jungle of approaching morning.
The sky has shores where life is avoided
and bodies that should not be echoed by dawn.

Agony, agony, dream, ferment and dream.
This is the world, my friend, agony, agony.
Bodies dissolve beneath city clocks,
war passes weeping with a million grey rats,
the rich give their darlings
little bright dying things,
and life is not noble, or sarcred, or good.

Man can, if he wishes, lead his desire
through a vein of coral or a heavenly ****.
Tomorrow loves will be stones and Time
a breeze that comes slumbering through the branches.

That's why I don't raise my voice, old Walt Whitman,
against the boy who inscribes
the name of a ******* his pillow,
nor the lad who dresses as a bride
in the shadow of the wardrobe,
nor the solitary men in clubs
who drink with disgust prostitution's waters,
nor against the men with the green glance
who love men and burn their lips in silence.
But yes, against you, city maricas,
of tumescent flesh and unclean thought.
Mothers of mud. Harpies. Unsleeping enemies
of Love  that bestows garlands of joy.

Against you forever, you who give boys
drops of foul death with bitter poison.
Against you forever,
Fairies of North America,
Párajos of Havana,
Jotos of Mexico,
Sarasas of Cádiz,
Apios of Seville,
Cancos of Madrid,
Floras of Alicante,
Adelaidas of Portugal.

Maricas of all the world, muderers of doves!
Slaves to women. Their boudoir *******.
Spread in public squares like fevered fans
or ambushed in stiff landscapes of hemlock.

No quarter! Death
flows from your eyes
and heaps grey flowers at the swamp's edge.
No quarter! Look out!!
Let the perplexed, the pure,
the classical, noted, the supplicants
close the gates of the bacchanal to you.

And you, lovely Walt Whitman, sleep on the banks of the Hudson
with your beard towards the pole and your hands open.
Bland clay or snow, your tongue is calling
for comrades to guard your disembodied gazelle.

Sleep: nothing remains.
A dance of walls stirs the praries
and America drown itself in machines and lament.
I long for a fierce wind that from deepest night
shall blow the flowers and letters from the vault where you sleep
and a ***** boy to tell the whites and their gold
that the kingdom of wheat has arrived.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2023
October 2024
11 years later…dedicated to all my dear friends here,
some who may be reading this for the elventh
time!

<|>

you need two hands, one foot.
for counting my years.
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, well, a century...

birthdays.

point of inflection,
point of opportunity,
presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody else created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrites and
future versions three and more
foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
when I ask,

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you tasted grief?

have you not but
one pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake made, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be taken,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores, not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les delicious treats,
keep theologians, logicians
on retainer, if needed for
explanations.

none know, or can provide,
still and yet,
a priestly sacred chord,
that grants relief,
absolution,

please
a song of hallelujah
the ache of
perpetuity worry,
an ancient pain,
grows fresher daily,
the loss of one,
of my body,
my primal knot
unreasonable,
everything should be
permitted to be untied,
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.


this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
by white blood cells ,
champions of rhyme, verse.


what if the poetry ceases?

Though the bones creak,
the body they carry. resurrected
once more,
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not yet currently invented....

what if the poetry ceases?

but be assured, told
scientists hard at work,
on the
forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint
trap some words,
tap some words into
your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat that
provides aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived
the muse is feted, sated,

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?

mmmmm,
could it be
Morrow?

bath drains, rosemary and mint odors dismissed,
the Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all gone,
didn't they have birthdays too?

Michelangelo didn't know
the Renaissance come
and gone,
and nobody
tole ya?

please recall t'is the day
after my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day +/- a few,
seven or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases?

(how will I breathe?)
first penned some years ago,
annually tinkered,
weirdly prophetic
and still spot on…

in the “early” days, wrote my poetry on a cellphone
while soaking the venoms out…
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2014
yesterday may have been my birthday.

you need two hands, two feet,
a multiplication table
an abacus to count my years,
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, perhaps, a century.

birthdays.

a point of inflection,
a point of opportunity,
a present presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
how I lied, how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody else created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewrit and
future foretold.

one single thought,
memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
when asking myself

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you have tasted grief?

have you not but
a singular pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake made, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be faked,
attained?

do, does, did.

let me then this day,
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores not drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les délicieuses friandises to sweeten life,
please keep theologians, logicians,
philosophers on retainer,
even historians, those future fortune tellers,
if needed, unnecessary explanations -
or just satisfactory rationalizations.

none know,
or can provide,
still and yet,
a year round
a priestly sacred chord,
to grant relief,
absolution,
songs of hallelujah,
erasers of the ache of
perpetuity worry.

those ancient pains,
grow fresh daily,
the loss of one element
of my body,
prevents my primal knot
reasonably to be untied,
everything should be permitted
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
nouns of nutrients.


this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse,
and asking myself

what if the poetry ceases?

though the bones creak,
snap, crackle and pop,
the body they carry, the heart
eccentric~centric: tire shop patched,
yom kippur white resurrected this day,
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers,
and the last one special,
spoken standing.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers likely refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....
so I ask myself

what if the poetry ceases?

be assured, I am told
scientists hard at work,
on the forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint,
trap and tap some words,
into your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat, scented waters,
provide aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived,
the muses, the Devils
all herein, feted, and sated

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

yet, I cannot help but ask

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?
mmmmm.

could it be
Morrow?

bath drains,
rosemary and mint odors dismissed,
the Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all dispatched,
didn't they have birthdays too?
didn't you know,
Hey Michelangelo!
the Renaissance come
and gone,
nobody tole ya?

t'is the day
my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on Fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
seven or twenty decades ago +
a few centuries, some blackbirds,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem~song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

yet, but,
always one thought recycles:

**what if the poetry ceases,
how will I breathe?
Written years ago. Tinkered and edited once a year.
Edna Sweetlove Jun 2015
How shocked was I when my mistress, Filthy Fiona,
Told me one summer's day she had one up the spout;
After all, the silly ***** was on the pill (and in any case
Half the time my seed had gone up the lesser used route).
But, accidents will happen when you least expect them:
Maybe her recent attack of diarrheoa had upset the apple cart.
O, how relieved was I when she told me she had booked herself in
To the Marylebone Abortion Clinic for a good old pump-out session;
And, even better (much better), I wasn't expected to foot the bill
As her private health insurance would cover it nicely,
Thank you very much indeed, God bless you, my darlin';
The excessive premiums were clearly a fine investment.

Like the gent I am, I offered to drive her there in my pink Porsche 911,
But she insisted I need only pick her up after the remedial session
As she had made other travel arrangements to get there; and
One cannot argue with a dame under such trying circumstances.
How I would have relished the amusement of those who saw the ****
Arrive in one bloke's car, deposited caringly with a consoling hug,
And collected by a different chappie, with a kiss on her plump cheek.
But, after all, 'twas only fair I found out later (with a gay grin)
When she told me she really had no idea who the father was
Although her two selected chauffeurs were the best two bets.
How I laud the foresight of the percipient abortion law reformers:
Our sad world has more than enough unwanted ******* as it is.
Hal Loyd Denton Oct 2012
The mystery of you flows in white did I draw you from chilly waters and you were
Reborn to me if the colors speak that are showing you in finest light are true the perfect blending of
Flowers in profusion that contour to your essential frame do you not form the center of a spraying sprig
Of unequal quality as in life woman divides herself between wife mother and daughter I choose to
Further divide her into honor for a brief moment speak of dishonor men can at their low point can do
This with ease and apparent arrogance I’m not an old fashioned relic of the past others speak these same
Words you shouldn’t use fowl language in the presence of a lady not all of us are accustomed to
Chauffeurs and butlers but you still can be a gentleman you can esteem the greatest gift God ever
Created man is sadly knot headed it takes a woman with deftness and grace to loosen the knots on with
Her honor the great place for this discovery is in an ancient temple a woman is a rare individual sadly
Bought and sold way too cheaply by both sexes one under fire and constantly having to defend her
Worth and at times they succumb to the lie that they are not as good as men well look in on this scene
Deep in the jungle heavy with undergrowth indicative of life you stumble on this rare find as can be
Imagined it leaves a lot to be desired time has broken outer walls the outer court lies in disarray and
Then the inner sanctum built to hold off the ravages of time some things remain as they always have
Others for one reason or another have suffered and show wear but near the altar over to the side one
Last help is giving for you to condition your mind to give up the occupying thoughts that would bar you
From your true blessing that all this was created to provide first you hear the gentle cascading of a water
Fall for long periods of time the sun strikes squarely in the middle and to add eloquence and boldness
The water receives this assistance the ancients were greatly versed in paints of extraordinary
Pigmentation and of lasting durability they coated the solid rock with a green that was sheer and
Imitated the glory of sun in the waves of the sea they sought to have it breathtaking and they succeeded
And as the center piece they had a statue of a woman of striking qualities was she a goddess or a high
Priestess she was adorned in white her dramatic pose flowed out to the end of her gown there is a
Depicted statement captured here she holds a pitcher it is full and the tint of blue shows this and the
Idea is she just drew it from the pool and is offering it to all of the strangers that come and are thirsty
In this solitary fact women are observed so acutely as stated sometimes women pressed and crowded
Feels the need to be showy or go overboard to please that is the farthest she can go in error her beauty
And privilege is derived from the tenderness she possesses just small acts that denote mercy carry more
Weight than ever can be found in outer attempts to be **** or alluring that is for private times that
Understanding and love combine to give a flourishing it goes the distance to bring the final completion
You wear a garland a crowning a defining moment that only women can know celebrate who you are
Harry J Baxter Jun 2014
walking through artificial American Dream
where the air tastes like $100 shirts
and the fraternity of extravagance
the light shines through the perfectly spaced trees
to turn everything filigree
and all of the people
walking tall and confident
like plastic action figures of success
the silver spoon tastes bitter
when it’s been in someone else’s mouth
just like the $30 dollar entrees
and the four story department stores
these people are not my people
my people sport scars which they wear like tattoos
my people sport second hand cars with junked up speakers
A ferrari engine sounds like a the cries of every young kid
who falls into ghetto trappings of big dreams gone unmatched
and even the homeless people were eating ribs
drinking starbucks
with cups filled with ten dollar bills
the prestige drips down the wall
like fresh spray paint
to drip into storm drains
where diversity goes to die
this alien land of hostile takeovers
and university donors
where the **** is non-existent
but *******, cirroc, and xanax
flow freely
chemical castration of the lazy philosopher
an injection of man made ambition
where the hands on the Rolex
keep tight around throats
because being late to that meeting is no option
Children being driven around by chauffeurs in Bentleys
women being driven by the promise of security
I think to myself
I’ll never see the benefit in the scheme
which leads to El Dorado
and Atlantis is just a myth
maybe I just bleed the black and Gold and Richmond
like the ink dripping off my hungry fangs
to see the benefits of injecting a syringe
of Hoya blue liquid sapphire
to get so high
that I lose sight of the ground forever
Spent a long weekend in the DC/Georgetown area of the country. Don't get me wrong, it's a beautiful area and I had a hell of a time playing rich for a weekend, but the trip left a bad taste in my mouth. besides, **** Hoya blue, I'm all about Ram black and Gold
Hal Loyd Denton Nov 2011
Who You Are

The mystery of you flows in white did I draw you from chilly waters and you were
Reborn to me if the colors speak that are showing you in finest light are true the perfect blending of
Flowers in profusion that contour to your essential frame do you not form the center of a spraying sprig
Of unequal quality as in life woman divides herself between wife mother and daughter I choose to
Further divide her into honor for a brief moment speak of dishonor men can at their low point can do
This with ease and apparent arrogance I’m not an old fashioned relic of the past others speak these same
Words you shouldn’t use fowl language in the presence of a lady not all of us are accustomed to
Chauffeurs and butlers but you still can be a gentleman you can esteem the greatest gift God ever
Created man is sadly knot headed it takes a woman with deftness and grace to loosen the knots on with
Her honor the great place for this discovery is in an ancient temple a woman is a rare individual sadly
Bought and sold way too cheaply by both sexes one under fire and constantly having to defend her
Worth and at times they succumb to the lie that they are not as good as men well look in on this scene
Deep in the jungle heavy with undergrowth indicative of life you stumble on this rare find as can be
Imagined it leaves a lot to be desired time has broken outer walls the outer court lies in disarray and
Then the inner sanctum built to hold off the ravages of time some things remain as they always have
Others for one reason or another have suffered and show wear but near the altar over to the side one
Last help is giving for you to condition your mind to give up the occupying thoughts that would bar you
From your true blessing that all this was created to provide first you hear the gentle cascading of a water
Fall for long periods of time the sun strikes squarely in the middle and to add eloquence and boldness
The water receives this assistance the ancients were greatly versed in paints of extraordinary
Pigmentation and of lasting durability they coated the solid rock with a green that was sheer and
Imitated the glory of sun in the waves of the sea they sought to have it breathtaking and they succeeded
And as the center piece they had a statue of a woman of striking qualities was she a goddess or a high
Priestess she was adorned in white her dramatic pose flowed out to the end of her gown there is a
Depicted statement captured here she holds a pitcher it is full and the tint of blue shows this and the
Idea is she just drew it from the pool and is offering it to all of the strangers that come and are thirsty
In this solitary fact women are observed so acutely as stated sometimes women pressed and crowded
Feels the need to be showy or go overboard to please that is the farthest she can go in error her beauty
And privilege is derived from the tenderness she possesses just small acts that denote mercy carry more
Weight than ever can be found in outer attempts to be **** or alluring that is for private times that
Understanding and love combine to give a flourishing it goes the distance to bring the final completion
You wear a garland a crowing a defining moment that only women can know celebrate who you are
Hal Loyd Denton Dec 2012
The mystery of you flows in white did I draw you from chilly waters and you were
Reborn to me if the colors speak that are showing you in finest light are true the perfect blending of
Flowers in profusion that contour to your essential frame do you not form the center of a spraying sprig
Of unequal quality as in life woman divides herself between wife mother and daughter I choose to
Further divide her into honor for a brief moment speak of dishonor men can at their low point can do
This with ease and apparent arrogance I’m not an old fashioned relic of the past others speak these same
Words you shouldn’t use fowl language in the presence of a lady not all of us are accustomed to
Chauffeurs and butlers but you still can be a gentleman you can esteem the greatest gift God ever
Created man is sadly knot headed it takes a woman with deftness and grace to loosen the knots on with
Her honor the great place for this discovery is in an ancient temple a woman is a rare individual sadly
Bought and sold way too cheaply by both sexes one under fire and constantly having to defend her
Worth and at times they succumb to the lie that they are not as good as men well look in on this scene
Deep in the jungle heavy with undergrowth indicative of life you stumble on this rare find as can be
Imagined it leaves a lot to be desired time has broken outer walls the outer court lies in disarray and
Then the inner sanctum built to hold off the ravages of time some things remain as they always have
Others for one reason or another have suffered and show wear but near the altar over to the side one
Last help is giving for you to condition your mind to give up the occupying thoughts that would bar you
From your true blessing that all this was created to provide first you hear the gentle cascading of a water
Fall for long periods of time the sun strikes squarely in the middle and to add eloquence and boldness
The water receives this assistance the ancients were greatly versed in paints of extraordinary
Pigmentation and of lasting durability they coated the solid rock with a green that was sheer and
Imitated the glory of sun in the waves of the sea they sought to have it breathtaking and they succeeded
And as the center piece they had a statue of a woman of striking qualities was she a goddess or a high
Priestess she was adorned in white her dramatic pose flowed out to the end of her gown there is a
Depicted statement captured here she holds a pitcher it is full and the tint of blue shows this and the
Idea is she just drew it from the pool and is offering it to all of the strangers that come and are thirsty
In this solitary fact women are observed so acutely as stated sometimes women pressed and crowded
Feels the need to be showy or go overboard to please that is the farthest she can go in error her beauty
And privilege is derived from the tenderness she possesses just small acts that denote mercy carry more
Weight than ever can be found in outer attempts to be **** or alluring that is for private times that
Understanding and love combine to give a flourishing it goes the distance to bring the final completion
You wear a garland a crowning a defining moment that only women can know celebrate who you are
Por el East River y el Bronx
los muchachos cantan enseñando sus cinturas,
con la rueda, el aceite, el cuero y el martillo.
Noventa mil mineros sacaban la plata de las rocas
y los niños dibujaban escaleras y perspectivas.Pero ninguno se dormía,
ninguno quería ser el río,
ninguno amaba las hojas grandes,
ninguno la lengua azul de la playa.Por el East River y el Queensborough
los muchachos luchaban con la industria,
y los judíos vendían al fauno del río
la rosa de la circuncisión
y el cielo desembocaba por los puentes y los tejados
manadas de bisontes empujadas por el viento.Pero ninguno se detenía,
ninguno quería ser nube,
ninguno buscaba los helechos
ni la rueda amarilla del tamboril.Cuando la luna salga
las poleas rodarán para turbar el cielo;
un límite de agujas cercará la memoria
y los ataúdes se llevarán a los que no trabajan.Nueva York de cieno,
Nueva York de alambres y de muerte.
¿Qué ángel llevas oculto en la mejilla?
¿Qué voz perfecta dirá las verdades del trigo?
¿Quién el sueño terrible de sus anémonas manchadas?Ni un solo momento, viejo hermoso Walt Whitman,
he dejado de ver tu barba llena de mariposas,
ni tus hombros de pana gastados por la luna,
ni tus muslos de Apolo virginal,
ni tu voz como una columna de ceniza;
anciano hermoso como la niebla
que gemías igual que un pájaro
con el **** atravesado por una aguja,
enemigo del sátiro,
enemigo de la vid
y amante de los cuerpos bajo la burda tela.
Ni un solo momento, hermosura viril
que en montes de carbón, anuncios y ferrocarriles,
soñabas ser un río y dormir como un río
con aquel camarada que pondría en tu pecho
un pequeño dolor de ignorante leopardo.Ni un sólo momento, Adán de sangre, macho,
hombre solo en el mar, viejo hermoso Walt Whitman,
porque por las azoteas,
agrupados en los bares,
saliendo en racimos de las alcantarillas,
temblando entre las piernas de los chauffeurs
o girando en las plataformas del ajenjo,
los maricas, Walt Whitman, te soñaban.¡También ese! ¡También!  Y se despeñan
sobre tu barba luminosa y casta,
rubios del norte, negros de la arena,
muchedumbres de gritos y ademanes,
como gatos y como las serpientes,
los maricas, Walt Whitman, los maricas
turbios de lágrimas, carne para fusta,
bota o mordisco de los domadores.¡También ése! ¡También!  Dedos
teñidos
apuntan a la orilla de tu sueño
cuando el amigo come tu manzana
con un leve sabor de gasolina
y el sol canta por los ombligos
de los muchachos que juegan bajo los puentes.Pero tú no buscabas los ojos arañados,
ni el pantano oscurísimo donde sumergen a los niños,
ni la saliva helada,
ni las curvas heridas como panza de sapo
que llevan los maricas en coches y terrazas
mientras la luna los azota por las esquinas del terror.Tú buscabas un desnudo que fuera como un río,
toro y sueño que junte la rueda con el alga,
padre de tu agonía, camelia de tu muerte,
y gimiera en las llamas de tu ecuador oculto.Porque es justo que el hombre no busque su deleite
en la selva de sangre de la mañana próxima.
El cielo tiene playas donde evitar la vida
y hay cuerpos que no deben repetirse en la aurora.Agonía agonía, sueño, fermento y sueño.
Éste es el mundo, amigo, agonía, agonía.
Los muertos se descomponen bajo el reloj de las ciudades,
la guerra pasa llorando con un millón de ratas grises,
los ricos dan a sus queridas
pequeños moribundos iluminados,
y la vida no es noble, ni buena, ni sagrada.Puede el hombre, si quiere, conducir su deseo
por vena de coral o celeste desnudo.
Mañana los amores serán rocas y el Tiempo
una brisa que viene dormida por las ramas.Por eso no levanto mi voz, viejo Walt Whítman,
entra el niño que escribe
nombre de niña en su almohada,
ni contra el muchacho que se viste de novia
en la oscuridad del ropero,
ni contra los solitarios de los casinos
que beben con asco el agua de la prostitución,
ni contra los hombres de mirada verde
que aman al hombre y queman sus labios en silencio.
Pero sí contra vosotros, maricas de las ciudades,
de carne tumefacta y pensamiento inmundo,
madres de lodo, arpías, enemigos sin sueño
del Amor que reparte coronas de alegría.Contra vosotros siempre, que dais a los muchachos
gotas de sucia muerte con amargo veneno.
Contra vosotros siempre,
Faeries de Norteamérica,
Pájaros de la Habana,
Jotos de Méjico,
Sarasas de Cádiz,
Apios de Sevilla,
Cancos de Madrid,
Floras de Alicante,
Adelaidas de Portugal.¡Maricas de todo el mundo, asesinos de palomas!
Esclavos de la mujer, perras de sus tocadores,
abiertos en las plazas con fiebre de abanico
o emboscadas en yertos paisajes de cicuta.¡No haya cuartel!  La muerte
mana de vuestros ojos
y agrupa flores grises en la orilla del cieno.
¡No haya cuartel! ¡Alerta!
Que los confundidos, los puros,
los clásicos, los señalados, los suplicantes
os cierren las puertas de la bacanal.Y tú, bello Walt Whitman, duerme a orillas del Hudson
con la barba hacia el polo y las manos abiertas.
Arcilla blanda o nieve, tu lengua está llamando
camaradas que velen tu gacela sin cuerpo.
Duerme, no queda nada.
Una danza de muros agita las praderas
y América se anega de máquinas y llanto.
Quiero que el aire fuerte de la noche más honda
quite flores y letras del arco donde duermes
y un niño ***** anuncie a los blancos del oro
la llegada del reino de la espiga.
brandon nagley May 2015
Covenant of all ages,
Contrite despite the hatred here many feel!

Begged emotions,
Vexation of treasured spaces,
Inherited shackles to the debackle of brutes and feathered conquest!!!

Chauffeurs for you to lure,
Cheribums of wooden steps!!!

What ***** didst thou come from frosted faced vampiress?
You succeed in all pleasures,
Yet for thy measure your still undressed!!

Not like the rest,
Your timbrel makes settled noise,
Hard to avoid when thine feet trip over each step!!!

Church organs rattle about me as hymn book's not always around,
Some are phonies,
Many lonely,
Coheed to icelandic ground!!!!

Groupies meet in secludes corners,
While adorers temp with foul mouth tounges,
No blacks to white, or whites to black, just two players making one!!!

Orange cones to ex out any leaving plan's,
No clothing stands here!
This is not a mall town shop!!!!

No ice-creamed malts,
Just rags connected to colts,
Where trainers come from thy gambling slots!!!!!

Wounds to every room,
Dont get hung up on thyself,
Wherein harlotry cometh in,
Surely all grins are tiredly screaming out for help!!!!!
Jessie Sep 2013
The year of cigarettes.
This year as a ghost.
The year of chauffeurs.
This year of sweater mornings.
The year of not being __ enough.
This year of risks.

I'm not sure where home is anymore.
Came Out Swinging by The Wonder Years.
I spent this year as a ghost.
Jaanam Jaswani Oct 2016
When I first fled my hometown,
I was told there was a separation:
a continental drift that dragged me by the wrists
and it was as if i was a ballerina that twirled
away too swift, so deep in desperation.
It was my fault, I say.
Home looked like marble tiles and candelabras on mahogany, so grazed with grandeur
solemn servants and chauffeurs
a prison echoing empty space
prim and proper, neat and tidy, dental dexterity
and a library of unsealed books i don’t read.
When I first fled my hometown,
I was told there was a separation,
but i had dreams too big to fit my pockets,
and living at home was essentially sedation.
It was all my fault, I say.

When my home shrunk
into 228 square feet-
stretched out 8821 miles away,
I was ready for reparations:
Ready to cocoon myself inside
for 28 hours, to be locked up in my little tower.
I’m free now, I say.
Home looked like my only dish,
unwashed for three whole days
sheets one solid colour
white walls
pantslessness
and an entire shelf of unsealed books i don’t read.
I rise to the setting of the sun;
water boiling in a kettle, and
i make instant noodles because there’s never
a place more silent and shielding
than home.
I am free now, I say.


When I bought a place of my own,
Home was just the right temperature
but too many cluttered corners.
my mind exhales
A pair of incessantly open arms await me,
and i get shamed for the books i lunge around
but don’t really read
there is no spit in my face
but there are kicks at my back
i am learning
that all the freedom in the world doesn't keep you
from the prison you hold in your own mind
i am learning
what a home feels like
for the very first time

i open my eyes to sunshine and orange juice
and the morning breath of a lover so oblivious to misery
our souls sing in flawless harmony

i am finally home
*and my mind exhales again
says the neon sign gleamed,
refracted on your face
that sullen evening – I do not have

many nights to remember. If from a high
place I imagine you flailing,

what would call you back? What for?
You, coming toward the light – the subservience
of the next face

chauffeurs us. Unfazed, will me to pretend,
if not, then carry on the next meeting.
I will whisper to myself: this is how I sustain beatings

You have no use for poems.
Neither do I. You, dressed in your best,
I, submission refined by sartorial. Notice how my hand
continues to displace geographies. The thinning
  horizon of a candle, almost a faultline.

Slumped on your back as if comfort were a burden
to say: keep this time together with its fever. These often times
the last moments seal them shut out of histories.
When we came into,

I had a falling out – there is a straight line we could
run into and this instance might enervate

into a single drop of honey into your mouth. I await that
prophecy like it was the final thing before I resign
to incompleteness.   Delicate essence

the    neon sign says, glaring through the
  glib downpour outside. You laughed at our
unpreparedness, but the readiness that was obligation when
  separate had no omen of rain.

I am watching myself again. Everything was slanted
by rain as the living err me. Even when together,

       feels like emancipation. Going disparate places.
Outside it continues to rain. You asked if this rain washed
   this city whole and gave it a new name, would I still remember.

It is June from time since then, the skies still attentive.
I will not come out until it rains.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
poetry as audio - only audio - the tendons: physics between
animate muscles and inanimate bone - poetry as only audio,
poetry to be disguised without the skeletal alphabets -
never seemingly written - bounce drum rhyme -
                   repetition to no flute
or violin sound -
               bouncing, ping-pong
of consonants -
           the usual cliches -
listening to recitation like to classical
music, and felt no emotion,
only the mechanisation with
robotic churns of the body,
a voice above me, clouding me -
with each b and p and d and q -
                               at the new Bermuda -
passing through to either attend
each though and oar past the Stygian
thought - yes,
   this is the city where men are mended,
spaghetti for the cowboy
     and the poet in a western of Minotaur
  vast west: imploring: western.
       there she and he hang on a
scaffold - not a stage -
      among the heads of chauffeurs
and aristocrats - upon the grand scaffold,
with the chandelier guillotine -
where tongues are cut off: as the people
feared: the stealing of truth: similarly an
apple in Arabia - hence the tongues roll
out from the mouth of dutiful thieves -
the grander good of the beheaded caricature:
spineless -
                   and each word with attempt
to be both meaningful
            and knocks - to better resound
with meaning but still the never-to-be
syringe of sound - myriad of knocking,
thumping and whistling,
          never to accept the fakes from the paraphrasing
and ditto:
                  they hunted the stones: alias
for the hearts-
                            so too, the fluctuations
of bemoaned cravings: settling into routine -
    and the grand extreme rainbow of grey -
where truant light en-robes the eye with
shades rather than colours - where white and
black mingle truer, than into what the pristine
Newtonian spectrum arrives at -
        oh or not so dramatic on every turn -
thus the voice, neither trumpet, nor the saxophone -
   or agile hands and violins -
to the palette of niche villages -
         hollowing out the angry mob -
and the secret heart, without an inner -
the voice above me like a halo
                    to suit man's comparison with
angels' wings - thus the halo,
         man's comparative image of bleeding
out to do good and earn flight,
               then the halo and the Berlin wall -
that of the puritan nurture of one's own -
thus too, a poet's recitation,
a claustrophobic immersion in orchestra -
          suddenly a reminder of the conductor's
wand - thus an entire orchestra in
a room the size of a house, or the poet's voice
reciting in the equivalent of a matchbox -
equal measure of the two being comparatively equal.
  so indeed, poetry should only be encoded
purely audio, never in skeletons of
numbing toothpicks scattered - A as three of them
   and Z as three also -
                      but of course, no talk of urban
rivalries - of the softened heart to absorb more,
   and even more - never the stone that's the heart
un-repenting to experience more, as ever the more
needed to claim a knowledge of life...
                        forever trying to make rhyme
the odd chance - to make rhyme the odd chance -
to not succumb to philosophical systematisation -
for poetry faces the fates of shoes boxes and
         cardboard boxes stacked -
                           as they did: to succumb to
philosophy's systematisation, perhaps not rolling
the Sisyphus vocabulary - but conscious of techniques
in variations cannot be mended: why write
  poetry by being conscious of writing a passport?
rhymes ought to be rare, spontaneous -
             chance meetings...
                                                chance kisses...
   chance cheek against cheek -
                              so i too feel a voice of poetry
said: perfectly aligned to my body's movements...
unlike music, extreme in classical: to sway heart and eye -
of the voice: the entire body is aligned to move -
to never sit still... thus: into writing.
                                but poetic scores should never
be written... immediately: said...
                                and they should be marked
by the waking quake of idle fingers and the teleportation
from voice to encode into these zigzags naked for
the eye to see...                       or so it seems,
  upon hearing... even though there is no excess of
narration - where each to his voiced concerns
does not obey to be ushered by dim-wit and the
intelligent narrator, as each narrator makes it clear:
mere puppets where characters should reside -
   in each book... a character a poet...
                       and already that demand to
despise the god - with each narrator overpowering
  weakling characters - impossible poetics -
                         if not merely puppets to coerce
the architect of movement - sodden prose brimming
with clouds, tables, and sunken eyes -
                      charcoal swans and cobweb constellations -
          akin the two: but with each musical note
    i count words equal - and the genesis beyond
  the standard of civilisation, of the desert fathers -
            then into each of the 26 limbs -
                  and the marriages of the 26 cousins -
     the balance of the ratio 26:5 - .2 thus man and woman -
              or in ratio or fraction reverse: until the last penny...
(matthew), or... because abraham obeyed me (genesis) -
                            strength in nothing being comparable -
              and weakness in everything having
                                     anecdote - amalgam - and a
                                                         sweaty amphitheatre;
from applause to organisation by arithmetic -
         as from encore to echo - and the readied to cling
         in the umbilical chord of history's hunger, of mother
earth and the blind eyeing the world through
                                   both telescope and microscope -
           in heart as both reside: with diminishing
                             vibrations - at last, the love least entertained
  and embracing.
Martin Bailes Mar 2017
Just seeing that dumb red hat
gives me the Heebeejeebees,
the Holy Camoleys,
I get the *******,
the John B. Scrotes,
I feel Ben Carsoned,

as if I've been Rogered in my sleep
by Quasimodo & then been forced
to pleasure the Seven Dwarfs,

I have the shivers,
I plead repugnance,
I share the odium,

I experience that near frenzied disgust
as left by a cold slug traversing one's
naked arm in the dank moonlight,

when that oh so ridiculous red tractor
hat is worn by men who have
chauffeurs & bejeweled
golf carts,
& look like a fat cat's fantasy
of a fat cat,

to Make America Great Again for that matter
maybe you have to go as far back as Sitting Bull,
Red Cloud, the Shawnee, herds of bison,
counting coup, & eagle-feather headdresses,

Making America Great Again does not in any
way involve Leroy from the hills feeling better
about his race or Donald J. Trump coming
forth as some sort of Poor Man's Moses.

I hate that stupid hat!
Aux petits incidents il faut s'habituer.
Hier on est venu chez moi pour me tuer.
Mon tort dans ce pays c'est de croire aux asiles.
On ne sait quel ramas de pauvres imbéciles
S'est rué tout à coup la nuit sur ma maison.
Les arbres de la place en eurent le frisson,
Mais pas un habitant ne bougea. L'escalade
Fut longue, ardente, horrible, et Jeanne était malade.
Je conviens que j'avais pour elle un peu d'effroi.
Mes deux petits-enfants, quatre femmes et moi,
C'était la garnison de cette forteresse.
Rien ne vint secourir la maison en détresse.
La police fut sourde ayant affaire ailleurs.
Un dur caillou tranchant effleura Jeanne en pleurs.
Attaque de chauffeurs en pleine Forêt-Noire.
Ils criaient : Une échelle ! une poutre ! victoire !
Fracas où se perdaient nos appels sans écho.
Deux hommes apportaient du quartier Pachéco
Une poutre enlevée à quelque échafaudage.
Le jour naissant gênait la bande. L'abordage
Cessait, puis reprenait. Ils hurlaient haletants.
La poutre par bonheur n'arriva pas à temps.
" Assassin ! - C'était moi. - Nous voulons que tu meures !
Brigand ! Bandit ! " Ceci dura deux bonnes heures.
George avait calmé Jeanne en lui prenant la main.
Noir tumulte. Les voix n'avaient plus rien d'humain ;
Pensif, je rassurais les femmes en prières,
Et ma fenêtre était trouée à coups de pierres.
Il manquait là des cris de vive l'empereur !
La porte résista battue avec fureur.
Cinquante hommes armés montrèrent ce courage.
Et mon nom revenait dans des clameurs de rage :
A la lanterne ! à mort ! qu'il meure ! il nous le faut !
Par moments, méditant quelque nouvel assaut,
Tout ce tas furieux semblait reprendre haleine ;
Court répit ; un silence obscur et plein de haine
Se faisait au milieu de ce sombre viol ;
Et j'entendais au **** chanter un rossignol.
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2023
“catharsis, the purification or purgation of the emotions (especially pity and fear) primarily through art. In criticism.  It is a metaphor used by Aristotle in the Poetics to describe the effects of true tragedy on the spectator.”

<>

composed many, months & many, many years ago, and hazily recalled, written in a moment of purification and purgation, petrified by aging and it’s companion, self-pity from fear of approaching death, sought purity by its very composition, when someone just recently poked my eyes with the word c a t h a r s i s, and this old poem resurfaced…no, no, it’s not my birthday anymore…

<>

yesterday was my birthday.
you need two hands, two feet,
a multiplication table
to count my years,
each finger, worth a decade.
each toe, perhaps, a century.

birthdays.

a point of inflection,
a point of opportunity,
a present presents itself,
to rewrite history.

a second coat of paint,
gift-wrapped in weak excuses.
of how I lied, of how I ain't,
grimm-fated fairy tales
somebody created.

invisible suits of gold-cloth
worn to my party of
past rewritten and
future foretold.

one single thought,
a memory,
seizes my heart,
as I fall to my knees.
cracks my temperate ease,
renders open the
woof and weave
of recycled deceptions,
causing all to be revealed
and asking myself

what if the poetry ceases?

you know prostrate?
you have tasted grief?

have you not but
a singular pain,
one act,
one deed,
one memorization,
act of cowardice,
act of desertion,
mistake maden, taken,
for which
forgiveness
can never
be given,
be faked,
attained?

do, does, did.
did; does; do.

let me then this day,
win the birthday lottery,
let floods of relief from
daily chores drown me,
chauffeurs to drive,
masseurs to massage,
cooks to cook,
les délicieuses friandises to sweeten life,
please keep theologians, logicians,
philosophers on retainer,
even historians, those future fortune tellers,
if needed, for explanations -
or just satisfactory rationalizations.

none know,
or can provide,
still and yet,
a year round
priestly sacred chord,
to grant relief,
absolution,
songs of hallelujah,
erasers of the ache of
perpetuity worry.

those ancient pains,
grow fresh daily,
the loss of one element
of my body,
prevents my primal knot
unreasonably to be untied,
everything should be permitted
on my birthday, no?

this day, these days
breathe through words,
molecules of vowels,
stem cells of consonants,
the fabric, the tissues of life,
veins are a dictionary
of corpuscles,
red blood cells are
mounds and nouns of nutrients.

this day, these days,
the infection of my soul
is tempered, kept at bay,
tamped down from the
full flowering
of white blood cells
of rhyme, verse,
and asking myself

what if the poetry ceases?

though the bones creak,
snap, crackle and pop,
the body they carry,
resurrected this day in white
for morning, afternoon
and evening prayers,
and the last one special,
spoken standing.

thrice daily poetry I recite,
roses red, violets blue,
my marrow transfused.

though my prayers likely refused,
the poetry act immolates
the fringes of my disease,
for which the common cure
is not currently invented....
so I ask myself

what if the poetry ceases?

be assured, I am told
scientists hard at work,
on the forgive n' forget drug.

meantime,
take a bubble bath in
rosemary and mint,
trap and tap some words,
into your cell phone bone,
the poetry heat, scented waters,
provide aspirin relief.

through this poem,
on one day annual,
I am relieved, relived,
the muses, the Devils
all herein, feted, and sated

gone for few moments
concerns, worries of
exposure today,
the agnostic's foxhole of hell
is dis-remembered,
the gloss returns,
the faux dispatched,

ain't birthdays grand?

yet, I cannot help but ask

what if the poetry ceases?

what rhymes with
Sorrow?

mmmmm.

could it be
Morrow?

bath drains,
rosemary and mint odors dismissed,
the Argentine disparu,
the Spanish Medievalists,
the Neo-Raphaelites,
all dispatched,
didn't they have birthdays too?
didn't you know
the Renaissance has come
and gone,
but nobody tole ya?

t'is the day
my sweet city recorded my
naissance in the
Hospital of the Flowers
on the fifth Avenue.

the 'crats put the datum
in the bureau with the
night creams and
the statistics
as follows:

on this day + a few,
six or seven or decades ago,
perhaps even fourscore,
a few centuries,
a question was born,
and an ache that is
sometimes relieved,
by a poem~song.

though do not celebrate,
t'is a day to calibrate,
review, edit, tinker,
rewrite, often a stinker.

always one thought recycles:

what if the poetry ceases, how will I breathe*?
Big Virge May 2019
These Days ...
Let Me Tell You ...
I'm ... TIRED of Driving ... !!!

But HELL NO ...
I AIN'T ... " Riding " ... !!!!!

Cos' ...
When I See How Some Drive ...
It's Like They're ... IMPROVISING ... ?!!!?

There Was A Time ....

LONG Ago .................................................................­......

When It Was ...
FUN To Drive ... !!!

But ...
Nowadays' I'm Quite Pleased ...
To ... Get Back Home ALIVE ... !!!!!

I'll Explain What I Mean ...

This ...

ROAD RAGE ... Behaviour ...
Is Simply ... OBSCENE ... !!!

The Language In Use ...
Is REALLY ... UNCLEAN ... !!!

From GROWN Men To Women ...
To Those In Their Teens ...

I Just ... Can't Believe ...
The Things That I've Seen ... !?!?!

Men ...
REVERSING ... Down Roads ... ?!!!?
To AVOID Those ..................... They Goad .........

It's Like ...
They Thought That ... " Their Car " ...
Could Stop Them ... Taking BLOWS ... ?!?

The Words In This Prose ...
Simply ... Go To SHOW ...
That ... Actions You Take ...
When Driving On Road ...
Can Possibly Leave You ... ?
With Blood On Your Nose ... !!!

Or ...
EVEN WORSE Still ...
Bring Your Life ...
To A ... PREMATURE Close ... !!!!

I'm Learning These Days ...
To Just ..... Keep My Cool .....
and AVOID These Young Fools ...

cos' Young Drivers These Days ...
Like To Drive Round With ... " TOOLS " ... !!!

Knives and ... GUNS ...
They Keep ...

"Stashed In Their Boot" ... !!!!!

This Story ...
... IS TRUE ... !!!

One Day I Was Driving ...
Behind A ... " Young Group " ...

Who ...
THOUGHT They Were TOUGH ... !!!
And Were Acting ... UNCOUTH ... !!!

Their ... IGNORANT Driving ...
Made Me ... HIT THE ROOF ... !!!!!

I Was ... ON MY OWN ...
There Were ... THREE of Them ...

I ... Beeped My Horn ...

Next Thing ...
They Jumped OUT ...
of Their ... "BLACKED OUT BM' " ...

A MATCHSTICK White Boy ...
and Two ... Asian Men ...

In FACT ...
They Were ... " Boys " ...
With A ... ******* PROBLEM ... !!!!!

I Was Feeling ... "low" ...
and READY To ... BLOW ... !!!

I Parked ... IN THE ROAD ...
So ... NO-ONE Could Go ... !!!!

I QUICKLY Advised ...
As I Looked In Their Eyes ... !!!

"Let's go, if your ready !
I'm ready to die !"

"Whoa, Hold on now bro !"

Said The ...

" little " ... White Guy ...
The Driver ... Complied ...

BUT Their ...
Drugged Up Companion ...
STILL Wanted To ... " TRY " ... ?!?

I Told Them ...

"Just GO !"

They QUICKLY ...
Said ... Goodbye ... !!!

I Believe I'm Now LUCKY ...
To ... STILL BE ALIVE ... !!!

Just DRIVING ... These Days ...
Can Be A ... " Fight For YOUR LIFE " ... !!?!!

DRIVING ...
... Is A PAIN ... !!!

PARKING ...
... Is The Same ... !!!

Parking Attendants ...
Don't Seem To Have SHAME ... !!!

They're Making Us PAY ...
For These ... " Parking Campaigns " ... ?

THIEVES and LIARS ... !!!
Are Now Up For ... HIRE ... !!!

WILLING ...

To Take ... "Bribes" ... !!!
From Your ... " Average Guy " ...
To Make Themselves Money ...
From FALSE ... " Parking Fines " ... !!!!!

Working In ... " Teams " ...
With ... TARGET Led Guides ...

If YOU ... FAIL The Team ...
Your Dubbed The BAD GUY ... !!!

In LONDON Alone ...
They're ASSAULTED Each Day ... !!!

BUT It's ... NO SURPRISE ...
The Way They Behave ... !!!

The Things They CAN DO ...
Have Left Me ... AMAZED ... !?!

If You ...

Offer Them CASH ...
For A Fine You Must Pay ...

Some Attendants ...
Have ... " Methods " ...
To Get Them ... ERASED ... !!!

For ....

HALF of The Price ... !!!
Man ... What A DISGRACE ... !!!!!!

You Drive AROUND Town ...
Just To Get A ****** SPACE ... !!!!!

Only To Find ................
A ... Uniformed CRIMINAL ...
LYING ... In Wait ... !!!?!!! ...

I'm NOT EVEN ... Gonna Start ...
On The ... CONGESTION CHARGE ... !!!!!

Creators of THIS ...
Are CON MEN With BIG CARS ... !!!!!
With CHAUFFEURS Who DRIVE THEM ...

This Charge Is A ... FARCE ... !!!

BILLIONS Are Paid ...
To Drive Cars These days ... !!!!!

But FOOLS Are ... "Complying" ...
To Hold TRUTH ... "In Hiding" ...

From Speed Cams' ...
To .... FINES .....

These Schemes Are ...
... " Conniving " ...

and These Are ...
Some of The Reasons ...

I'm TIRED of ..........

.... " Driving " .... !!!!!
After seeing a documentary on the BBC that showed the level of corruption attendants were involved in, plus the general slog of just getting home, I wrote this, soon after the incident I mention, in the poem, that I was involved in .....

One of a few I had before leaving London ..... It seems worse NOW !!!!!
that moves from its mooring: it was from interstice
          to intersection somewhere in Poblacion.
          I was once there, looking for loose change beside
          the market. Quickly I began as though an impression
          was made past the kiosks dense with the matrimony
          of the tabloids and print: its dearth on the streets
          of Plaridel. Mud caked at the grey backs of gutters,
          a spectacle
                                              of leaves on the ground like deft
          hands place them there for empires.

         the first that I touched: wind,
         last: your face, wind was it only that you and I were
                          never off-tangent, always, minus the blindfold,
             seeking endlessly as though things refuse to be found,
              pulsing in the heat of hiding grace.

      
          and goes back to its source: something too splayed for science,
          only too easy with a child’s fancy – chauffeurs playing checkers,
          crossing each other out within conjunctions – much you or I,
          our weights syndetic and our weightlessness, imagined – as if phrasings
          loose like waters from the spigot left open: mother arrives, haranguing.
                       like how it was simple for the wind to remind us fit to this
                 meet constantly receiving your incidence, and my place stilled
                to familiar topographies.

          a window is left open, with its hands in the terminal of silence
                holding light like obdurate stone; the surrender registers
                with grievous art, you curved like a bent question mark,
           or a swollen oblation borrowing its sheen from the ****
                    of bobbing beacons – the candid Manilascape you kept on
                           fevering for              like an open sentence

               only to find its birth.
Cette nuit-là
Trois amis l'entouraient. C'était à l'Elysée.
On voyait du dehors luire cette croisée.
Regardant venir l'heure et l'aiguille marcher,
Il était là, pensif ; et rêvant d'attacher
Le nom de Bonaparte aux exploits de Cartouche,
Il sentait approcher son guet-apens farouche.
D'un pied distrait dans l'âtre il poussait le tison,
Et voici ce que dit l'homme de trahison :
« Cette nuit vont surgir mes projets invisibles.
Les Saint-Barthélemy sont encore possibles.
Paris dort, comme aux temps de Charles de Valois.
Vous allez dans un sac mettre toutes les lois,
Et par-dessus le pont les jeter dans la Seine. »
Ô ruffians ! bâtards de la fortune obscène,
Nés du honteux coït de l'intrigue et du sort !
Rien qu'en songeant à vous mon vers indigné sort,
Et mon coeur orageux dans ma poitrine gronde.
Comme le chêne au vent dans la forêt profonde !

Comme ils sortaient tous trois de la maison Bancal,
Morny, Maupas le grec, Saint-Arnaud le chacal,
Voyant passer ce groupe oblique et taciturne,
Les clochers de Paris, sonnant l'heure nocturne,
S'efforçaient vainement d'imiter le tocsin ;
Les pavés de Juillet criaient à l'assassin !
Tous les spectres sanglants des antiques carnages,
Réveillés, se montraient du doigt ces personnages
La Marseillaise, archange aux chants aériens,
Murmurait dans les cieux : aux armes, citoyens !
Paris dormait, hélas ! et bientôt, sur les places,
Sur les quais, les soldats, dociles populaces,
Janissaires conduits par Reibell et Sauboul,
Payés comme à Byzance, ivres comme à Stamboul,
Ceux de Dulac, et ceux de Korte et d'Espinasse,
La cartouchière au flanc et dans l'oeil la menace,
Vinrent, le régiment après le régiment,
Et le long des maisons ils passaient lentement,
A pas sourds, comme on voit les tigres dans les jongles
Qui rampent sur le ventre en allongeant leurs ongles
Et la nuit était morne, et Paris sommeillait
Comme un aigle endormi pris sous un noir filet.

Les chefs attendaient l'aube en fumant leurs cigares.

Ô cosaques ! voleurs ! chauffeurs ! routiers ! bulgares !
Ô généraux brigands ! bagne, je te les rends !
Les juges d'autrefois pour des crimes moins grands
Ont brûlé la Voisin et roué vif Desrues !

Eclairant leur affiche infâme au coin des rues
Et le lâche armement de ces filons hardis,
Le jour parut. La nuit, complice des bandits,
Prit la fuite, et, traînant à la hâte ses voiles,
Dans les plis de sa robe emporta les étoiles
Et les mille soleils dans l'ombre étincelant,
Comme les sequins d'or qu'emporte en s'en allant
Une fille, aux baisers du crime habituée,
Qui se rhabille après s'être prostituée.
Mac Feb 2018
Shoulders back, eyes front
Big smile, never blunt

Hair curled, makeup done
Don't cry, nowhere to run

Camera’s on, lights bright
Families here, don’t bite

If you think this is bad, just wait
Mornings almost here, don’t be late

Six’ am, shower and dress
Seven to eight, makeup needs to look its best

Eight’ fifteen, act like you eat
Small piece of toast, just a little bit of wheat

Eight’twenty-five, pack your bag
Almost done, don’t you dare drag

Eight’ thirty, chauffeurs here
Mum’s tagging along, don’t jump off a tier

Nine o’ clock, school starts
First class of the day, the fine arts

Every stroke, taken with care
People are watching, so add some flare

Ten o’ clock, science class
Kid says hi, go ahead and pass

Eleven to twelve, flirt with the ****
And sit back and watch as his girlfriend gawks

Twelve’ fifteen, lunch has arrived
All gossip, officially food deprived

Two more classes come and go
School has ended, time for a new show

Manicure and pedicure, don’t stop smiling
Phone stops ringing, just keep dialing

****** at four, study at five
Family dinner at six thirty, try to survive

Eight’ o clock, detox, and yoga
Try not to freak that your life is worse than the battle of Saratoga

Ten o’ clock, just a quick shower
Cry out your feelings, this is your only hour

Cut your ankle, no one will know
Just give it an hour, the blood slow

Lay in bed, just one more day
You can end it after your birthday
the darkness of the hour
the minute
and the day
now the second
and the universe has come

i have unplugged my 3rd pair
of eyes
from my constipation
and now as my mind
relaxes
i see her and i

don't see her
and i'm not going to advantage
myself a card of James
Joyce
and Finnegans Wake
and the daughter's premature
dementia
perhaps the ill fates
of those who begin to write
and write with meaning
rather than journalistic
mumbo jumbo
let's ***** a statue
of a writer like
Sienkiewicz at the end
of that long straight street
of Kielce

siala baba mak
nie wiedziala jak
chlop powiedziel
a reszte to bylo tak...

missing like
i was missing at Wembley
yesterday
and through most of today

i'm living an organic life
i overheard
the news i wanted to hear
on the radio today...
at 4pm
just as about the serpents
were uncoiling from
the suntans... freckled ginger
nightmares...

only 56 arrested...
plenty of IC3 Black Hitlers
making fun of Asians
in turbans
notably the Sikhs
it's like you
invited one sort in
and another sort appear
and...

i wouldn't be drinking
but let's face it...
the literary genius of Bukowski
as a... as a... ******* postman
and the genius of me
well... perhaps a Miroslav Holub
the benchmark of writing and
science
but then there's too much Greek
referential in it...

MONEY IS LOGIC
i said those words with love in love
and when i tell her
this isn't going to work
life became gravity
and my heart became hardened
she still doesn't believe me
like now
i'm matching her pound for pound
and i'm shrinking to the pride
of a Dwarf living among
Men and Elves
but i'm becoming a cunning fox of a peddle
no stool... a hobbit
a sort of Irishman
of Europe
naive but still persuasively accurate
in my reading of reality:
now becoming abstract
now not so abstract
now becoming abstract
now not so...

      and this life and breadth of losing breath
on speaking come and hount
me
imagine someone: also writing
while doing their "supposed"
wage labor... enslavement
well what is to allow differentiation
between en masse dictatorial of
a tiny minority to another tiny minority
to another one
form Poutin through to Twump
and to no who in Damascus

because looking into those eyes
of CP (close protection)
former Deutsche police officers
those chauffeurs
of the "stars"
where one looked like Roberto Martínez
so i asked: is... is there anyone important
making arguments here
for a discounted entry, i.e. for free?

well i was mapping and mapping
my supposed schizoid hemispheres
onto the schematics
and drawings...
i was allocated the supposedly
deafening of defeat placement
at the Spanish Steps where the infamous
Wembley breach happened back
in 2020...
but that was on a national level
with a national interest in bread
some circus
perhaps football
but who can tell given that most football
fans are not opera fans
and i could indulge drinking heavily
before going to the opera
but going to a football match
i don't understand why or how
a sport is to be enjoyed intoxicated
rather than sober...
drink too much and instead
of 22 wankers with 20 running
and... one shift
i was left mesmerized just watching
the officials
notably the sideline priests

MONEY IS LOGIC
and sometimes i shift from watching a game
to watching the crowd
to watching the grass
to watching the floodlights
to watching the sideline referees
and that's that
and i'm no more happy than discontent
than less happy than discontent
and i ponder Hemmingway's simplification
and then i just allow things
to flow
without haiku interruptions

and i was so gearing up to being on the Dortmund
side for the event
i was so shy in jokingly choking
on spewing out, in a shout

words much ascribed to the fetish of:

ACHTUNG! ACHTUNG!
ARBEIT MACHT FREI!
ARBEIT MACHT FREI!
ABLENKUNG MACHT ZIEGELNAGEL...

ZIEGELNAGEL:
******* doft dorft ooze SCHTOOPI'D!
some "things" need reworking
and revision

i much preferred the Deutsche fan demure
and i'm Catholic
as ******
and the French are Catholic
and the Spanish are Catholic
and so much ethnocentric scribblies
in America from Hin Land
and Cha -
   i mean: what's a ****** to do
if not swerve: entertain...
ride rollerblades round and round
on a roundabout: backwards
listening to Mario and Luigi's cassette
seriously dude, seriously GANDU...
gandu gandu...
no joke

that's me Wallace and Gromit
i call Warren
and Ahmed Ahmed and Uzeer the ****-
-stani
joking about putting wooden knives
in each other's pockets
to have to peer at and through 90K people
congregating to have
run

so there was this Muhammad Muhammad
who felt ill and decided to go home...
i stood there among charging police
horses and barking police dogs
while about 300 people ran across the cement
while i was holding a freebie
worth circa £1000...

steward accreditation and a high viz jackets
and you think i was stopped?
you think i was stopped?
i'm experiencing a hyper reverse engineering
of voyeurism
on my skin
like this skin has become leather...

beside from Hamza and Sikander
i was not exactly given a hot take on staff
and it turns out as
the cordon was put in place and about 30
papa echoes stood in front of
about 40+ stewards and SIAs
i was standing in front of the cordon
ensuring legitimate customers
were ushered in
while the pranksters were being
pranked
because the UEFA tickets were interactive
and required special pen UV or not
just PINK with dotted lines

well to one argument i said:
but i know you're lying
by the face you used to lie...
and the argument counter
said: but this is my face...
to which i replied:
honestly: this is my face too...
a joyful attention to detail
and to think that drinking is a good excuse
but i drink to excuse flourishing
in a heightened environment for
stress hormones to exfoliated
and drip-feed-me
this inexhaustible feeling of furor...

i drink to excuse myself
even today while i settled down
to an afternoon with father
and we talked about Martin
and that bewilderment:
but i drink a liter of whiskey
and what... beer killed him?
ten bottles that's 5 liters of beer killed
him, every day for 2 years
well by that account i ought to be
dead
and i know my head is hurting
not because of a dehydrated brain
i say the brain bleeds
and the brain sweats
but i'm constipated hence the nail
in the head

        so i made us a halloumi (grilled)
entree on a salad
of cucumber, pepper, plum cherries (tomatoes)
salad greens,
radishes... and roasted pecans and hazelnuts
with a dressing
of oyster sauce,
yogurt, chili infused olive oil
blah blah
ouzo - citrus infused soya sauce blah blah
we had a beer and we talked
and i was just wondering:
am i just tired...
no i haven't had anything to drink
but at least he understands
and will know: he's tired...

and i was tired
and blah blah blah...
well if i were to have my last days spent
in the presence of my father
cooking him dinner
having had an adventure
at Wembley
and exchange that
for ****** favors for about a year
with Edie...
conversation-wise
can she even hear me?
i wonder...
even Reyla wonders whether she's heard
i too wonder:
i don't think i am heard
i don't think Edie hears me
i talk to her and it's as if she's the one wanting
to talk talk talk talk chalk
talk talk chalk chalk talk chalk...

MONEY IS LOGIC

that's the words i sent her
when i contemplated going to visit
a brothel
last night
it became painfully stupid once
i was on the N128 on Cranbrook Rd
heading toward Romford
that i was in no mood
for ***
or for that matter paid for ***
and with no fear of a libido:
maybe if i had a ****-ring on me
i would have
but that's my and Edie's discover
but i didn't bring the right sort
of rubber with me
i had already withdrawn
         over £700 and i told her

but if i can't sleep on your lanai
like a dog

but if i can't sleep on your lanai
like a dog?!

           dogs... who cannot sweat
but excessively salivate...
well: so much for the purpose of mascara
of the camel lashes
of your young girls walking about
like miasmas of ghosts of beauty
that once was
that i almost had a dream of women
who would slice rotting onions
in half and then smear their bodies
with to imitate getting a suntan
in winter...

             yes: i am yet to undertake
the task of learning from hallucinogenic au naturale...
from fungi
from LSD papercuts on the brain...           (papper?)
it figured... all that potential, wasted,
on those happy-go-****-me hippies from the 1960s
so much potential squandered
there was no gearing up to something
rightwing
coherent,
when exploring these territories for a flavour
of what only was a timidity of an Huxley...
(payper - paper - papper - patting - pet hates
no bounce bounce in titter - tittering -
no giggle in ****** - just a word, a spelling
accuracy - get away with Saka and inking
someone darker
and we have colts with Spanish fans
returning from the match on the Metropolitan
Line-Z_

                    whoops!               )

and i did walk into my room stark naked
with all the constellations
when Reyla was sleeping in it
a 13 year old girl
and i laid by the bed
like a guard, dog
and i was rudely woken up
and told to move
because somehow nakedness outside
of the hyper-context of ***
is not simply birth
and death and all beside
the supposed thrills of taboo...

well it's not like i was starstruck either
i saw Jamie Redknapp (i didn't know
there was a silent K in that surname)
at Fulham once
but yesterday i saw him twice
or rather the first time i didn't see him
but was merely giving him directions
and what disappointed me
was rules being broken
for a familiarity contest
because a somewhat some-what-may
of having previous affiliations of
"guarding" poo-poo-puppy of a son
that Quadrant that "frenchie"
oh jeez...

          well i too performed a Hajj
to the innermost residing place
of the visage and i too
found Jesus to be misguiding
with that affair of long hair and bearded
that look is so...
so...
so ******* outdated...
it should be made... illegal...

not that i am: drunk, or high...
i'll leave that scrutiny of "policing"
to the federalists on sleep patrol...
because i don't know why...
somehow this separation of church-
-from- -state
while this nagging insistence
on no separation of...
LANGUAGE from STATE...
it's as if we're living in a time
a wasted time
a waiting upon time no time no waiting
to begin with
a time of a LANGUAGE-STATE...

echoes of interpretation from the East
i hear rumors...
a CIVILIZATION-STATE
equivalent of Rome
Russia
China...

so what? now we're all literate
yet illiterate in coding?
not able to use chatGPT
i was having a conversation with a girl
of my dreams
face unveiled yet hair covered
like i abhor hair
like i love flies in champagne in flutes
of glass
like this doesn't really matter anyway
like i want a late Monday
while the cats keep coming
uncircumcised because
you can't circumcise a cat's phallus
but instead castrate them
why not then castrate the Semites
and call them the ****** breed of intellect
just shying from the joke
of circumcision?!

         SARDAUKAR...
and what are not the Mongol chants
in Dune?

SARDAUKAR...
and what are not the Mongol chants
in Dune?

plagiarism, cultural appropriation?
you tell me...
the Mongols came to Poland
the Mongols didn't reach England
the Mongols didn't reach England...

SARDAUKAR
i can sing like a Mongol hunger-strike
protest...
HUMUMGUNGUNGOON
SUMBOONKAKOOMAMOON

SARD­AUKAR...

with all the bowels and stomach
and no eyes and no mind
all bowels and heart
and echo
and no breath.

the 56 sardaukarii.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
bad idea...
   she was sitting with a group of fwends
in a univerity accommodation,
two girls by the stove
butchering a method of making
pancakes...
the pancake dough kept sticking
to the pan, not allowing the flip...
does a man always have to intervene
in these sort of scenarios?
ladies, ladies,
you need to grease the dough up!
yes... that implies pouring
some oil into the dough,
which subsequent implies
    oiling up the pan a little...
the first pancake always behaves
like a little frankenstein,
but all the others?
  snow white, sleeping beauty...
you name, you'll get it...
pancakes...
   what have we become,
when a man has to tell a woman
about the ins and outs
of making pancakes...
               huh?
       so she saw me,
looking like a complete train-wreck...
once donning dreadlocks,
russian...
pale as any victorian cenobite
princess...
        she snatched my iPod
  (when i owned one), started rambling
about my iron maiden oeuvre
and my liking of tool...
she munched on the pancakes
with the usual yum-yummy-yum
out burst...
   attrative? not really...
she just kept pushing and pushing
and pushing her agenda...
until i cracked,
she liked the bedroom centered around
the use of candles...
a quasi take on the crow movie...
ever see love at first sight?
i've seen in, implosive and explosive
variant...
implosive?
      the sister of my ex girlfriend,
taboo topic...
                i was: hazy-eyed...
         disorientated: what?!
            in reverse? when a woman
shows signs of love at first sight?
literally: an iron maiden clench
of focus...
                    you're not getting out
of this one alive,
or... enough to suggest that,
after she breaks up with you,
then you've found work,
she's 900 miles away
and says she's pregnant...
half a year after she broke up
with you when she...
ahem... proposed...
     **** me, she even chose
the engagement ring...
   i get dumped... so what's new?
but then... i'm the one...
who has to...
pick up the pieces,
raise some *******?
      god i'd love to own a dog right now!
o hades, send me rottweiler,
a dobermann and an alsatian shepherd
all in one go!
    of course i never said
anything of this...
           russian nerd girl,
big into warhammer 40,000
figurines...
    and a newly archived
   sample of music taste...
   (hed) p.e.
           i'm still traumatized by
her memory...
       like: i really don't want to go there,
no, seriously: i really don't want
to go there...
         seeing love at first sight
in reverse...
   and then seeing the ****,
that i saw?
                 n'ah... strap me to the brothel,
i'm out... OUT!
        the next time i trust someone
it's either going to be a rabid dog,
a rabid cat,
    or that horse in a field at night,
that almost knocked me out
when it started chewing on my hand
thinking i had an apple in it...
i'll deal with *******:
on my grounds,
   not someone else's, savvy?
all this current pop self-help
psychological ******* is getting on
my nerves,
notably when in england...
thanks for the drugs...
that weight-lifting of a litre of whiskey
really helps me to counter
the once established gym
menu of weights, some treadmill,
rowing machine,
                 but plenty of squash.
love at first sight...
       once you start making
the pancakes... you're dead.
       she serves you a ******* oven
baked chicken and
     some variation
of upper-class with a slice of
lemon in a cognac glass
and you're, supposedly: "made for life"...
  why the hell was it a russian
to begin with?
   ***-wise... sure compatible...
i asked her how many multiple *******
she had in that one last night
in st. petersburg in 2007...
she said 7...
            that was fun,
i have to admit...
       for half a month while she
wason her period i implored her:
it will alleviate the pains
and cramps...
    of course she finally conceded
the remark,
****** on, bath water running...
  "improvisation" later...
   - but it's memory?
   how can i alzheimer this sort of *******?
how can i, "erase" memory
to let someone new in?
oh, ******* brainchild of genghis khan,
no one new is coming in...
soliloquy moment:
   i'm not even close to erasing
this ****, memory, memory is already
fickle in its nature,
   unless...
settled with a scholastic rubric
of the pedagogy foundations...
26 letters... they are never in order
when magnified to encompass words...
so... why this whole a b c d e f g *******?!
eh?!
           like some sort of counter
history timeline i'm supposed
to erode my brain with?!
this **** stays,
   for however many months,
and it was only months...
      something, mattered...
       the ideal, the ideal,
the ideal of me finally being able to fall,
and be, in love...
        i never found it again,
and i never will,
but i cling to the person who fell in love,
in the way as he did,
and kept it,
   until being rejected,
and then cast into a pit of lies...
   from which: i, the narrator, spawned...
and it will repeat itself, repeat,
repeat, repeat, constantly...
           not because i haven't learned
to forget: but because i haven't learned
to lie...
to craft castles from clouds in the sky...
to create the motiff of artifice...
you never visit a butcher for
a pre-cooked ready-meal...
    you go... hopefully...
   for the olaff, and the raw cuts of meat...
i abhor idealistic lovers,
these... chauffeurs of idealistic "freedoms"...
a priest wasn't going to cut it,
a psychiatrist wasn't going to cut it,
i needed just enough heart numbing
*** with prostitutes
to feel inclined to preserve the womb
of birth in my body,
as the warmth of my heart,
and then...
             enough justification to stand
akin to tombstone,
plus i paid an extra 10 quid on
top of the 10 quid entrance fee to the brothel
and the 110 quid for an hour's
worth with a bulgar woman...
           so... i could speak from
******* on a ***** of a thousand
***** a thousand tongues.
       lucky me... "apparently" the kid wasn't
mine... "apparently" she was dating
her old boyfriend when she split
up with me...
        she married, divorced...
       married again...
****** here and there...
              would there have been any
point in fathering a *******
compared to this compensation
of written words?
          i don't think so...
          but at least now i know...
i can trust a *******...
          she'll at least tell me...
that she has s.t.d. checks regularly...
and to think,
in what some people would call
the filth and murk,
              i found gold...
                           an honest tongue,
and for what's that worth: a pure heart;
pay an extra to perform oral
*** on a ******* is one thing...
kiss one... well... quiet another; savvy?
all the words secrets become
blatantly apparent,
           no more than that,
of the "original" sin...
    when cain (the vegeterian)
              couldn't plagiarize abel
   (the meat eater)...
                    but cain...
           he's not guilty of "original" sin...
he's guilty of ******...
         if he copied abel,
    and...
                    didn't become a vegetarian...
he'd still be guilty...
   of "original" sin...
                 but hey...
                           there's some devilish
logic of conclusion in all of this...
         i just happen to have come
across my the fickle faculty of memory,
and it is, a really fickle ***** of a faculty.

— The End —