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Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
someone once said: only the natives can be designated
free speech...
the immigrants can have their dog
and let it bark, along with whatever thinking comes
their way...

exploring the last remains of thought -
well then... suit and boot me up for some "thinking"
as i extend it into writing...

if i were of the native stock... "elsewhere":
most probably h'america or australia... even in italy
having tea with mussolini i'd be:
an expat... as an outsider among outsiders
but among my sameness-namesakes of surnames
akin to jones and smith:

i will never be an "immigrant" among...
it's not even a voice of cocern, this little voice of
mine...
an englishman who decides to move
to h'america is an expatriate for the native
englishman who stayed behind...
he's never an immigrant...

perhaps other nations view the people that left
them in such a positive light?
where else to emigrate to that doesn't
speak basic english with a tinge of
a "welcoming" plethora of accents?

proudly having expatriated...
or having to have had to humbly emigrated...
bark bite and tail in tow...
my the luck of being an expatriate...
readily prepared with a francophile basis...
e.g., or some other: less frost-bitten
idealism as the work ethic of:
work work work...

we know the english immigrants
as expatriates... but i doubt that people
from where i from would call me...
an expatriate... they'd call me...
eh... hangman noose... a deserter...
god forbid the fact that i somehow managed
to integrate... but then found myself wondering...

have, have integrated into... "what"?!
today i was truly astounded...
after all... Romford, Essex... England...
can boast about a few things...
notably? it's the past place you can buy vinyl
without amazon.co.uk...
you can actually play the buyer and the person
that loiters with his shadow...
flicking through a dictionary of sorts...
finding a record...

i actually left the house for ulterior motives...
but i succumbed to the allure...
and as i walked the January 2nd 2020 highstreet
in Romford...
i heard english... as a spoken language...
twice in the pedestrian commute...
and of course when it came to a lingua franca
scenario of buying or selling something...
otherwise:

perhaps i retained my primitive instincts
and the tongue and should have left it with a ghost
of me back in the clarifying vicinity of
an airport 50 miles from Warsaw...
i have bigger things to worry about though:
how i should start learning Romanian...
even though: i thought bilingualism was a good
idea?
it's not?

not among the natives could i ever be
an expatriate...
an ever: never... like any more thesaurus
sharpening would do the trick to balance
the optics of "perspective"...

if it wasn't a mistake...
it has still been a purchase:
freddie hubbard on the trumpet,
jackie mclean on the alto sax,
kenny drew on piano,
doug watkins on bass
and pete la roca on drums...

the only reason as to why i bought
a gramaphone was to buy the only cheap vinyl
there is... jazz...
to escape the earphones...
to find the complete volume of space
that would later be deemed:
confined to a room... cell... or some alternative
variation: but... oh jeez...
how wrong it was of me...

make a note: alto sax jazz is not for you...
remember: alto sax jazz is not for you...

a sensation of being a foreigner in
an already double-dutch foreign sense of land...
anything that drops from clinching
to the London transport system
with the trains and the tubes and buses
is: england...
the england of my youth where i remained
like that... dunce in the ****** tunes cartoons
interlude...

and what of my citizenship on paper?
wave a passport around
like a benchmark or an otherwise easy
accent-identifier?
perhaps i don't even know:
Bristolian - my best guess with this acquired
tongue...

but at least buying jazz is getting easier...
freddie hubbard a known name...
but... no... alto sax jazz is not for me...
now it figures...
i can get away on a whim when
a trumpet solos... but not when an alto sax
solos... i really can't stomach it...
will i give this Bluesnik record back?
no, i need a testament -
i have bought something
but the self-reflection is free...

there's only so much classical music escapism
you can try -
before long you realise that the people
listening to classical music...
mostly... when they make requests...
want "something soothing"...
want "something jovial"...
or usually it's a piece of music that has
been attached to a movie...
classical music - apparently doesn't feed
people a subtle stream of images...
and it's obvious: those requests are not phoned
in on by blind people...

imagine... the ****** of F... when you have ⠋
to work with...
what is an sunrise... a sunset but a dash
of colour... a spring of the heavens
an autumn of the heavens...
but my my... in this inverted listening of jazz...
⠙⠑⠑⠏
⠃⠇⠥ ⠑    DEEP BLUE...

if i were blind: and came to the pearly gates...
i'd ask for letters: primo pronto!
later i'd worry about colours and shapes...
as i'd probably stick to my first passion
and hearing this fathomless shapeless
sounds that... abide to no lineage with a recant
of a triangle's use of 90°...

otherwise... what if you've been fed
the: classical music when listened to when a child
will increase your i.q. -
but what are the chances that you will:
"regress" from listening to classical
music and take to jazz?
perhaps because jazz has to be felt,
it has to be heard, first,
rather than... the silence and scribbles
of a composer at his desk -
where a classical music composition
is very much like writing:
that whole a prior shabang!
none of the a posteriori zigzagging
of impromptu and jazz?

one thing is certain... i'm not going to
be a fan of alto sax jazz...
sonny clark on piano - yes...
art blakey on drums - yes...
kenny burrell on guitar - yes...
alto sax no... ah... but give me tenor sax
and... no please no big bang jazz
equivalent to thelonious monk...
at least jazz gives you pedestrian tastes
and whims...
nothing akin to bowing at the altar
of a Beethoven: or talking lightly of
the man - "the man"...

and who the hell said that being
objectivity "works all the time"
that objectivity "runs the marathon"...
alto sax jazz is pedestrian music...
don't get me wrong...
you want to walk down a busy street
and you want to drown the sounds
of progress: no horses sneezing,
no horses' hooves playing tic-tac-toe
chess on cobweb stones...
alto sax jazz is your take-out
walk-through...
but when you're hunched in a chair
and pecking at a keyboard with
ten good beaks of the tips of your fingers...

again: how do the hands rest before
the keyboard?
the right hand:
index middle, pinky and thumb...
the ring finger is used for the: delete button...
a revision - the pinky does the enter -
and the cascade follows...
the left hand?

primarily the index and *******...
the thumb is always attached to space...
shared with the right hand's *******
to space,
i can't remember if i ever used my ring
or pinky finger of my left arm...

so much for inverted chiromancy...
the polacks will never give me the wings
to be an expatriate...
i will be forever: he who abandoned
that land running with milk and honey...
but... look at how they stand behind those
from england that decided to go "elsewhere"...
they are not immigrants...
they are... expatriates...
have nothing filthy them it comes to
the connotation...
it's not sad it's not funny it's: somewhere
"in between"...

because we know that the only russians
that ever make it out of russia
are the oligarchs... and by that standard
of "sentiment": they're always welcome...
who wouldn't welcome the pharaohs without
giza pyramid ambitions of construction?!
passing chalk as cheese -
and passing... ink for blood...
perhaps i haven't sweated enough to be allowed
to write but as little as this...

there's always this sense of alienation
among the germanic tribes of "israel":
europe... even if they are the scots or the welsh
suckling at the teats of romulus & remus' lupa...
as the old saying goes among the slavic people
when "integrating" into a germanic-esque society -
by the time you have integrated...
there's this dog-**** pile of Babylon left...
and the germans are: "nowhere"!

the saying goes via:
if you go among the crows...
you must croak their croak...

here's to flying high as an imitation seagull!
brazen: into this arable land...
that's being teased by the Thames estuary...

passing through a Warsaw train station
i noticed the immigrants / the expatriates
on the eastern front...
mostly mongols...
notably the ukrainians...
but now in england i'm starting to think
in concrete terms... better start learning
Romanians...
and on the street: you can't see a focus of
who's here and who isn't here...
back east the Roma people stood out
like a sore thumb or a voodoo plum and...
that didn't bother the locals since they were
meshed like glue...
but, here, in england?
everyone's a sore thumb a voodoo plum...
because the natives,
the blessed idiosyncratic professional
eccentrics have left and...
i'm not going to be the first chasing them down...

London the only and last bastion is
overrun with the whole lot of us...
well: the "us" vs. "them" mentality...
don't get me wrong... i'll still listen to the concerns
of the peripheries... in this cest pool
of immigrants, degenerates...
old people who "forgot" to move...
the lunatics the in-betweeners and the old guard
clinging on...
perhaps, after all... english was a very
accomodating language...
it wouldn't take a genius to learn it from scratch
being thrown into the deep end of the pool
aged 8...
who was mute aged 8 going to school
being moved from "east" europe to this island
with... no prior to linguistic connection?
moi...

and now look at me... i'm teasing myself
with... sordid welsh as if i were ever the posterboy
for welsh nationalism...
scottish nationalism? eh... if they were to retain
their gaellic roots...

expansion:
the longing for those who have left:
in the anglo-sphere - expatriate...
the abhoring sense of those who arrive -
immigrant...
otherwise... the english are always
and everywhere: welcome...
hence the expatriate status of those
who have left their native land...
even in h'america: a shared language:
to be an immigrant... while speaking
the same language?! how preposterous!

the difference between eastern style
comedy presentation and western style
comedy presentation: on stage...

the eastern folk prefer cabaret: theatre dialogue
montages...
the western folk prefer stand-up:
monologue samuel beckett esque
performances...
'woe i... stand alone in this infinite
space and... find others to laugh with...'

- perhaps we're not being less funny because
we're lowering our "i.q.": yes, the we are...
we are... lowering...
i find lee evans to be funny...
a laurel and hardy weren't exactly funny
by modern comedy standards that:
it's only funny if it's intelligent...
if there's a crossword puzzle at the end of "it"...

perhaps pride is the shackle...
and ham... what ever happened to self-depreciating
humor that managed to somehow
elevate you as also having a sense
of humor:
do intelligent men even laugh
at something that isn't a word-play or
a corset of wit?
perhaps we're experiencing a drying of wip...
perhaps the jokes are only supposed
to come: days after as a form of
reflection on the sigma canvas:
the joke has to exist outside the performer
and the stage... it needs to be: a live-experience...
it has to take on DASEIN qualities?
it has to be internalised?

that: oh yeah... that's funny...
perhaps the same thing has to be observed
and it can't be retold in an impromptu
fashion shackled to a stage?
the stage is the new camp-fire?
i thought so too... about the television...

as: here's to slagging off everything that's
being published online bypassing
the editorial process of selection...
well... if it weren't for all the seriousness
surrounding internet banking...
and internet shopping...
pen to paper...
******* clinching a ripped roll
of cushioning paper
and a pseudo-***** imitation
for a wipe while massaging my prostate
over the enlightened prospect
of dropping the blitzkrieg plump-dump-plum
into an echoing lake in the ceramic basin...
otherwise...

a seanse with that moment of realisation:
"something is happening to us
collectively"... it's as if: we're under a spell...
oh i was under a spell today...
watching alec guinness in the fall of the roman
empire...
and as coming from a people
that were never conquered by rome?
on this fine fine island that was...
well... my hopes were also high for
the conquests of the mongol empire...
and the remains of it in the form of the tatars
in crimea...

here are my tattoos... it's hard to break from them,
it's hard to wash them away...
but at least i can attest:
my brain might be all fat and sponge and
electricity... but there's some skull and skin
to be had of it...
otherwise... why would the year 1066
be important for me... why would the magna carta
be important for me?
i too have my years in tattoos on this big brian
of mine...

otherwise there's that copernico-darwinian
surge of: journalistic science...
i still find it staggering that darwinism continues
to capture the imagination of people...
"of people"... only in Wittgenstein was left
alone in finding that Copernicus did something
astounding... this surge of "awakening"
via darwinism: this statistical bombardment
like it was some tabloid journalism:
throwing a pebble at a mountain while
also ushering in a mantra: grow by
a poppy's seed added height! grow!

perhaps i'm just jealous...
among the polacks i will never be an expatriate...
what a jealous people...
an englishman who moves to france...
comes 20 year later...
he will have never experienced
the mark of cain: immigration "humphrey bogart"...
he or she moved to france...
perhaps to italy...
i remember being in greece and...
i was nothing when i said i was ******:
but with british citizenship! to add...
so what?
well... so what greece...
i latched onto some north africans
and went to **** away the night
in some strip-bar where i had
two strippers either head o' mine...
and it was constellations galore...
grandmother Etna said:
rest here, among the smooches poor child...

i borrowed Etna from when Aeneas
"left off"...
****'s sake... this is the Meditarrean
and not the Baltic? where is the amber
the whiskey and the leverage of gratations
of time?!

i will agree. Macedonia come night traffic
of quicksilver tinging?
if the metal is cheap and you douse it in some gold?
a mountain dripping fresh from some quicksilver
from the moon peering at it?
objectivity what?

the finite plateau of snow-riddled Serbia...
and perhaps that's because these people
speak their own language...
and have so... and i'm just the next
"english" tourist...
a jack kerouac americanism and:
oh sure! sure!
spectacular fly-over country tourism!
everything's so so different!
and yet all so oh so much the same!

darwinism was going to run the 5000 meter
race... it's currently running the 10000 meter
race... god help it in running the marathon
of still pretending: old news is new news...
i can't distinguish between darwinism
and copernican discovery...
only in the english-speaking world
would this discovery not escape a criticism
from ancient greece and some, some predecesor!

wouldn't anyone just bore of darwinism
if they were told: over and over again:
the copernican "reality"?
a scientific fact is... akin to a religious dogma...
until... it becomes regurgitated with
enough time, with enough journalism and...
tabloid wind... and after a while...
it's only worthwhile to be spoken to
amnesia peoples of the world: unite!
it's hardly "stupid" or "intelligent"...
more or less overlooked...
because a pebble thrown at a mountain:
is... no added mountain to behold...
conventional wisdom is the only wisdom
that there ever was made to be made:
available...

nonetheless, the circumstance stands...
unless from the slavic hemisphere
of europe...
unlike any other circumstance: other than
the one given, among islanders...
among continent builders akin
to australia and h'america...
the post-racial societies of post-colonial
spain in south america?
ever wonder why the brazillians don't
look for inspiration from the portugese
when it comes to football?
you'd think: those yanks better have
the best football team in the world...
they haven't exactly looked back...
back at "us": oh god... tea afternoon and cricket...
baseball wha'?
basketball? "football"?
why are "we" looking forward and "they're"
looking back?
perhaps i should learn some spanish and
get some insinuation about:
the argentinian sense of lack when looking
back into spain...

or what else is there to be had?
move to Greenland... admire Denmark...
**** it: do the whole stretch and find
some locals on the Faroe Islands...
perhaps i too will find a tomorrow...
but tomorrow i will find: sobering up
and having to deal with: everything beside jazz...

mmm... "delayed gratification" prospects...
seven kings: canon palmer catholic school...
when boys are educated alongside girls...
what if i went to Ilford County High?
what if i were born to immigrant parents
and wasn't an 8 year old immigrant?
what if i went to the Ilford Ursulines?
the all-girls school... the former, Ilford County High?
what chances of me being an intellectual
******?

what, oh the chances!
perhaps praying: segregated... is a tad extreme?
but perhaps ******-exclusion policies:
teaching boys throughout their puberty
as segregated from girls in the same hormonal
development "range" is...
well! how else! you take a boy and girl
and you put them into the hormonal cocktail!
just because it's in a shared educational
environment... why these teenage pregnacies
you ask?
i wouldn't ask such blunt questions...
not since the genius of Copernicus
couldn't attract these...
psychological left-over intelligenstia clingers...
that darwinism has allowed...
what it darwinism and journalism?
everything! the ant as the ego
inside the mind of an ape...
the dormant tapeworm embryo
inside the mind of an ant:
with siesmic consequence of a disturbance
of the collective hive network...

borrow too much from an ape...
borrowing from an ape is one thing...
it's the borrowing from all other
animals: with the ape as the backdrop
that's truly bothersome!
at least religious spew the same facts
over and over again...
scientific dogma? who keeps track?
tomorrow might be the next:
butter vs. margarine controversy!
what sort of "religion" is science
(it's not a religion... if it's not...
why does it have to cohabit a bed
with journalism then, to spew "new",
"improved" facts, then?!)
when... it's so ******* finicky!

look via the ape long enough:
it won't matter whether it's a geocentric
of a heliocentric system that
reigns above your head, no torso,
a pickled spine...
legs and arms floating about like:
an octopus experiencing spasms
pickled in brine...

perhaps these are the zenith years of
darwinistic popularity...
perhaps like the copernican popularity...
there will come a time of:
fatalism... that somehow all of this
is... inevitable...

i see one answer: this cage of grammar
this cage of whatever this god made human
pressures me into complying to...
to the last typo! i will stand against it!
without caging me into a use of emoji or
some other hieroglyphic purse of:
shortened "thinking"...

the "seven silences" might have passed
around my presence that i dare not
call it: in concrete - figure...
and still my eigth silence to unmask
nothing more than a mask...

who are these immigrants, these tight brewed
broods, these furrow brows
representing the native pensive "squint":
of anything beside the eyes and a thought
of h. p. lovecraft?
perhaps inside of europe:
but as ever... without a russian passport...
without a russophobia that's
a tickling hard-on... the "in-between-land"...
perhaps the balkans...
who are we... to these germans and quasi-germans?

we use their tongue, their zunge...
their everything they will otherwise allow themselves
to deny: perhaps this is not Dublin,
this is not Glasgow this is not Cardiff...
perhaps this is not Italy,
this is not France...
perhaps this is "europe" as long as
Scandinavia is involved...

woe a we unto us: the viking Rus...
or some lent word of lost vogue...
last time i heard:
these northern ******* are in no favour
of treating the Spaniards or the Greeks
as their equals...
as long as they have rich arab pimps
race their lamborghini brute ******
down... knightsbridge...

then! and only then! iz ist europa "reconquista"!
"reconquista"... i'll defend these poor polacks
that didn't think it...
"necessary" to only learn english in order
to comply to the global dictum of neu-communist
internationalism...
- what, they didn't teach you you stupid
**** that it only took to learn from english?!
- last time i heard... not teachings polish
to a canape of anything beside the french,
the spanish... also worked!

english as a language is oh so accomodating...
the people will react like antibiotics,
naturally... enough of darwinism and you'll
be found, bound, to having to reference it...
past a de facto menu:
and more like a subjectivity...
there's only so much truth that can be stated...
before fiction has to reply...
because... how many regurgitated facts
can be regurgitated...
before the desert of fiction and...
there's only the fact of a bottle of water...
that remains...
and there's not impetus to walk toward
an oasis...
a fata morgana is hardly a scientific experience...
when experienced...
it's something associated with
a desert and within the desert must either:
live... or die...

what if etymology was to become the new
standard for journalism...
what if one were to escape this contant
bombardment of darwinism...
like it wasn't the next new vogue akin
to the copernican "revolution"?

is that even possible?
whenever i return to Poland...
esp. in Warsaw... i'm a deserter...
i'm not an expatriate...
the native english call those who left
with a sense of longing...
somehow: or at least that's the leftover...
the expatriates from the inside-out
perspective... never the immigrants...

i'm an immigrant and...
a paper citizenship is: no citizenship at all...
a passport is only worth a passport
at a border crossing...
in between the everyday daily affairs?
'where are you from?'
****... 'Bristol?!'...
i'm hardly going to speak
the cockney cockers or an essex schlang...
am i? ***!
all but ******* plumbers and church pulpit
mongers... and some over-ripe
riddle fruits: if not simply left
bottles of wine for the bears...

the first part though, bothers me...

someone once said: only the natives can be designated
free speech...
the immigrants can have their dog
and let it bark, along with whatever thinking comes
their way... in mere thinking...
and a dog barking...

the natives will only have a freedom of speech...
what if an immigrant becomes a citizen?
just asking...
what if an immigrant is granted a citizen
status?
well then... i am your humble example
of a civic nationalist...
such a confusing term...
it must be: for the natives...

oh ****... what language am i using?
the language of the... natives!
rubric civitas!
civic nationalism is reserved for:
those that came from abroad...
i guess the ethno-nationalists never made
this distinction clear:
watching their contemporaries leave their
native pit of woe...
and they would never call them:
deserters... only... only... expatriates...
after all... aren't we in the postmortem of ancient Rome?!
isn't this the time when the remnant
english come out and glorify being
the conquered people of this: lettering?

what is civic nationalism?
what is learnt, integrated nationalism...
this is civic nationalism...
how about the english forget about something,
like solving crosswords...
esp. among the middle-classes...
and let's envision their globalist dream!
let them learn a second language
and let us all become bilingual!
oh no... not polyglots... just bilingual!

i can't be an ethno-nationalist...
em... because (a) (b) and (c)?
aren't the post-colonial commonwealth
remnants of the empire the sort
civic-nationalists there's talk of?
what language am i writing in?
hebrew?! mandarin?!

ethno-natioanlism and its tribalism...
civic-nationalism and its state...
where does the church fit into all of this?
it's like not being an amuptee but
nonetheless being prescribed a "missing limb"...
the **** would i need a third arm for?
wilt the third leg allow me to run faster?!

i guess the term ethno-nationalist is
conflated with civic-nationalist in the ethno-nationalist
realm of "debate"...
a civic-nationalist is your casual parlance
h'american patriot...
patriotism in h'america: nationalism (still)...
in europe...
if we have to: hello, my name is: bob
do it all over again with the squares
and dictum assertions and what not attached...
between the ethno-nationalists and
the civic-nationalists...
the inter-nationalists...

i'm a civic-nationalist because:
i fear people need concrete examples...
i will not move back to Poland...
except on the holidays...
to visit my grandparents...
which is why i have retained the labour
of a native tongue... and "identity"...
i will remain in England...
until England becomes: Alle-Land...
and even when all these
ethno-nationalists ******* to Australia...
and become civic-nationalists over there...
well: over there good luck!

why would anyone ask an ethno-nationalist
the question: are you a civic-nationalist or?
civic- implies:
i'm a Brit from a grand "beyond":
circa 3000km away...
civic is a bewildering prefix for the nationalist
of a ethno- persuasion...
it really is... esp. when this ethno-nationalist
doesn't believe in the existence of
expatriates... that he would remain... "stuck"...
and that somehow... ethno-kin could come
and replace... those kin that left: "in good faith"...

savvy?!
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
you really want to attack feminism? now's the time... disown the heritage of male circumcision (m.g.m.) - if you're really peeved off with feminism... stop circumcising... then watch the show.

a girl writes something like this:

My mind wanders too far for me to catch up
The world seems so foggy
I can’t find my thoughts                   -

well, no wonder psychiatry invented
secondary fiction -
dissected the individual into ego (brain)
heart (superego) and **** (id) -
or first person, second person and third person
narratives - she writes *my mind

but then writes a ukulele song -
between possession and dispossession the sigma
is riddled - one deems ownership but
is unsure what it owns on the pH (patent hyperbola-scale) -
the world ain't ******* foggy -
it's foggy because at one time to own the mind,
at another you don't, at one time you
own your thoughts, at another you turn into a robot -
thinking = a conscious affair to obstruct eating a
desert when fulfilled - as Heidegger put it (mildly):
we're still not thinking - the one antibiotic that
treats even the SS man's horrid actions:
um d'uh... i wasn't taught to think, therefore
i can plead the insanity parole - mm d'uh... you can't!
the biggest excuse in jurisprudence is lack
of thinking - people excuse their actions by
excusing their lack of thinking - apparently you
can commit genocide and be pardoned by
excusing your inability to think -
you can **** people, torture them, but be pardoned
on the grounds that you were without
the other essential synonymous with soul... thought...
you can walk free and pardoned when you
prove to people you never learned how to think
outside the schooling realm of up-kept Pythagoras
and 1 + 1 = 2 or a + b + j + e + c + t + i + o + n = abjection -
what a waste of time democratic law is -
never mind humans invoking theocratic jurisprudence
through angelic gossip (that won't help either)
of missing phallus - flap flap - flap flap -
go on, nose dive from the twin towers - pigeon **** for
words in the Koran's worth -
forget proving the soul, or god, do what Heidegger did
by saying: i doubt thought exists -
i'd like to define it, a soul is easier to define, something
not prone to destruction - proof of thought is harder,
too multi-tasked - existential Pandora -
it's hard to imagine people actually thinking when
given automatic tasks - no wonder they sometimes
slip on god's great banana skin - unlike animals
who only have an automaton of eating greenery implanted
in them - whether mammalian elephant tusk or
raw canine chew - their automation is reduced to
constantly need to eat - we have more luxuries -
a naturalist's ***-life is a monologue on the Savannah -
keen on dung-beetles, not so keen on oyster-******* -
i can just **** and laugh given i have my excess skin...
you need a sparring partner - because wanking
without ******* gave birth to Onan - why didn't Freud
spot the Onan Complex? oh wait... in the image
of the Gods... all the Gods have *******...
some dumb Iraqi shepherd cut the details off...
and so came the dominance of woman with what
became the ******* excess metaphorical with her excess...
and so the two factions clashed in Egypt;
oh i believe it... i believe it as in to not ridicule it...
too many serious people... terrorists... orthodox clingers-on...
why not believe it in order to spare yourself
the senseless gymnastics of wordplay governed by ridicule?
there's no harm in believing it... when you
don't have to practice the religiosity behind it with
the dress-code included
; mind i wear a t-shirt while
you wear the tux? we're going to the same opera,
and it's pretty dark in the theatre... ah... of course you
won't mind!
Becky Gold Apr 2011
Boys and girls
You haven’t escaped
The confines of
Our small home town

20 years old and still wearing
The band t-shirts you bought
In high school
Ripped jeans, fading fast

Aporias
Unable to progress past
This world you were brought into

Static
In our small town
Lack of worldly knowledge,
Independent thought

Stuck
So much to explore
Experience
Run and leave
Our small home town

So much more
That you could do
If you only left
You would know
How vast this world
Freedom, allowance
Understanding

Escape and learn
More than just
The life
The people
The simplicity of
Our small home town
Poetic T Feb 2016
The elusive necessity was plaguing his waking
Thoughts so long had it been numbed beyond
Reproach but like a scratch it had haemorrhaged
In his latent thoughts and then like a dove,
Bludgeoned, choked white turned crimson.

He had made them into fractured images, abstract
Monuments to his mind diluted thoughts of beauty.
But he needed to mould form once again. Those of
No addresses were his trail and error his fingers were
A master piece of arcane excellence, creation was to bleed.

He used a diamond headed drill thinnest you can get,
With that inclination he descended in to their thoughts
Targeting the synaptic transmission centres of where
Pain metaphorically existed. Like trimming roses he did
The same with the spine, peace of mind and body as one.

His perfection of his profession  had released his ominous
Side that  was now at play the ones that tendered his first
Tries were brain dead from the trial and error of his drill.
Then their was the unfortunate vein nicked her and there,
Some bled internal while others like waterfalls it descended.

No one ever discovered his human errors, all were ash
Cinders filled his  crematorium of hellish demise. For those
Now gone no pain just silence shards of bone all that's
Left is memories in wisps of fading smoke. That was the
Past now all that exists is his first of many creations.

The insertions were made bone muscles removed slowly
Like an artist his scalpel glides effortlessly it creates his
Vision of the beauty of the desires, depictions of what
He see's within them and creates it with flesh and bone.

"You are my creations of will and my perfections of canvass,
"I name you the Cheshire breed, look upon your grandeur,

They blink saying nothing but smile from ear to ear their lips
Gorged, plump, but all that whispers on their features are
Tears rolling down on their stapled smiles. He always liked
Pairs an image reflected in both their views of his twisted
Perfection and then released them on the watching world.

He felt like Noah leading them into salvation two by two, they
Were insignificant before but now they were a tapestry of flesh
Reinvented upon imagery of their own makings. Waiting for
His beauty to be eyed by the masses. As his new edition to this
Collection was now being created in the depths of his operations,
He stroked there hair never knowing what he had done to them.

Outrage monster they called him, he was an artist of unparalleled
Sophistication, in time they would admire his work. And so he
Readied the new forms, the radius also ulna and all ossa bones
Were removed. And so was birthed the clingers, huger's of
Self loathing. Neatly knitted they adhered to their ****** silhouette.

I release you beautiful creations of my inner most yearnings.
They couldn't scream a voice box severed, only tears descended
Upon themselves. Hooded they heard only a voice, it would
Linger for what life they deemed worthy to live. Screams were
Collected upon their sights at what was observed in dismay.
He expelled joy seeing his work displayed to  the masses via TV.

"My art of the flesh is descended to those lowly souls.
"All can now envisage my creative genius unbound,

"Now the final form can take place, the puppets will fall,

He had planned this endeavour for so long, no one was any the wiser
As he had planned this over years. So many had he seeded,
Only thought of missing time that they had for unknown reasons
Past out. But that was then and this is now, each was injected
With a cylinder only millimetres across but when a frequency
Released, then they would be like puppets without strings, they fall.

He would release his puppets upon the world, he released a
Message to the media that his puppets would fall down that
They would all lie in silence.  He told them of his art forms become
Flesh and this was verification of what he claimed. weeks had
Past and no words were heard, but then a video surfaced that
Would tell of his needing to create and that they would all fall.

"News at 6 the homicidal artist, has now released this video,
"VEIWERS DECRESTION IS ADVISED,

"Hello my puppets so many have a stringed along.
"Not knowing that you were mine all this time,

"I am an artist of the flesh, I must admit a spilt much,
"But they are but ash for artwork that fails isn't worth keeping,

"But to what is important my public, my new piece of creation,
"This has been a long time in the making patience is a virtue,

"Have you ever felt an itch, that cant be reasoned with,
"That itch is me beneath your skin, that's me,

"Now for the finally, this is going to be something people,

"I now cut the strings of life, you puppets of life no longer,

EXISTS,EXISTS,EXISTS,

Then all went silent in the news room, and then where shock
Feel panic arose. He just stopped mid sentence, then news came
In that the video had a submerged signal buried within its layers.
So many fell, their strings were cut in moments. But that wasn't
The worse for months people just died they tried to delete it.
But once on the web its always their to be looked upon.

"Curiosity was a killer, I dare you to watch,

They tried in vain, but he was a shadow in a thought, an urban
Legend of reality. So many surgeons were questioned. But self
Taught was their theory, how many had he killed before perfecting
His master pieces of flesh. their were a few copy cats but his were
The real deal. Two are still alive today he didn't implant them
His creations had to live. the others deemed life unliveable, sorry.

His last words would hang around the country if not the world
For a long time to come, he has never or she has never be found.

*"We are a tapestry of creation, let life be your art. For we must
Bleed to feel alive for without doing this how do we know were
Even existing or for that matter alive,
my latest serial killer a slight epic but the words did bleed forth
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2022
502 bad gateway bypass...
title: shattering of stone
body:
in the rubble: a mountain could
be found;
as might be suggested...
given enough time and there's plenty
of it, as there is of space...
the now known deserts of the world...
were once great mountain ranges...
the ancient Egyptians even tried
to replicate this truth by erecting pyramids...
as if implying: look! look!
there were once mountains here!
now! there's nothing but sand!
how the gods, grunted at the idea of mountains
in what is not Sahara... fickle creatures
like the creatures they created are...
who knows... perhaps there will one day
be the desert of Himalaya...


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i'm still shy on one reply...

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

but we're talking about a psychotic girl...
one layer of narrative against another...
she might as well conjure up
a missing 13 year old cousin
to just test you...
thar's how it works...
this reality, this ugly "thing"...
and the deviances of how much
i want to sleep with her...
there... i said it... beautiful view.
Sweetheart Dec 2010
sand sculptures fashioned
    as balmy beach impassioned
    Summer love ... rationed ...

    soft silky fingers
    building sultry peaks lingers
    caress ... as clingers ...

   water fills spaces
   fragile sand grains erases
   breaking bridges bases ...

   structures may subside
    wet or dry causes landslide
    weakens ... tumbles ... hides ...

    granules recede
    love, like sand, infiltrates need,
    grows from special seed ...

   complex designs stand
   created mold ... hand in hand ...
   love castles in sand ...
comparisons and analogies of love to sand ...
copyright by Library of Congress - Washington, D.C. USA
ConnectHook Dec 2016
You have always encouraged us, your deplorable neighbors, to be open-minded, to be tolerant, to build consensus and to appreciate diversity. In light of recent electoral events, we think you have a golden opportunity to practice what you so tirelessly preach.

    We sense that you are upset, bewildered and disturbed by your new president. We are sorry you feel that way, and hope we can make the next four years easier for you. Please keep in mind that many of us irredeemably deplorable clingers endured eight years under that community agitator, although he had not received our vote. We also put up with the grating, strident scoldings of that woman senator and ex-Secretary of State for a long time. While we certainly despised many aspects of their agenda, we did not march, chant hateful slogans, or smash up any property. We did not inundate electors with pleas to switch, nor did we threaten even one. We did not melt down on YouTube or fill Facebook with melodramatic profanity-laden tirades. Please pause to consider this. Perhaps it is time to be tolerant and to appreciate the political diversity of our Democratic Republic. Calling people fascists, racists, misogynists and bigots is getting old now. Instead of telling us what our values are and why we are such bad citizens, why not join us in some small way as fellow Americans on a quest for greatness?

   Yes, we know. It bothers you that that we do not get all our views from NPR, MSNBC and the NYT. We are aware that our vibrant variety of news sources is not pleasing to your erudite sensibilities. (And please forgive us for not being as apocalyptically alarmed as you are over "Global Warming"). We are aware that the tactical failure of vote recounts, pressuring electors, and throwing infantile tantrums has left you feeling hopeless and without a game plan.

   Mother Russia is also concerned about you, for you are in fact as dear to her as as any of her adopted children. In your deeply troubled state, she longs to embrace you. Maybe this is an opportunity for you to seek solace in Orthodoxy and to delight in the richness of timeless Christian ritual. This would be far better activity for your souls than crying over lack of gender-fluid bathrooms and easily-procured abortions. Mother Russia is grieved by your confused notions regarding faith and family. Rather than celebrate perversity, why not participate in true diversity and join us in making our sovereign nation great once more?

   Liberal progressives, we have need of your enlightened and broad-minded creativity in these troubling times.

Sincerely,

a brainwashed dupe and minion of Vlad Putin
⛧ ✝ ☃ ☪ ☠ ☮ ☯ ☢ ✌  ☮ ⚔  ♥ ☭ ✪ ⚢ ⚧ ⚩ ✿ ⚥
♫ Oh Lord, Kumbaya.... ♪
PerfectTruths Nov 2014
We worry about our thoughts,
The way we talk, the way we walk.
We are too easily embarrassed by the little "fails" we make each day.
When he only thinks they are funny, creating a lighter way,
to look at things, on the brighter side, you feel a little better,
about yourself, your flaw, all written in a love letter.
I like to write, it shared my emotions, Using metaphors,
and other figurative devices, techniques that are used as emotional cures.
You ever wonder if what you're saying is right,
or things you bring up, might give the poor boy a fright.
When really, he didn't say anything to bring that thought across,
just you assuming, by his ok, so you toss,
you toss your heart out to him even more, convinced you're a ******.
He LOVES you, you want to deny it, you don't feel you deserved to be love. R.I.L... not a typo.
R.I.L , rest in love, for in love you are truly never rested enough, insatiable hunger and thirst for more,
either to give or receive, you want to make sure he's sure, that you're sure.
but surely one day, it shall rest, for true love, is behind the blinds, hidden in a corner, beware,
beware of the emotional damaged, the psychotics, the stalkers, the late night talkers, the clingers, the criers, the touchy, the huggers, the takers, the jealous, the moody, the miserable, the laughers, the lifetime movie watchers, the imaginations, the achy ones, the ones with the weird fetish.
For behind the wet paint sign, if you choose to ignore a warning,
you most likely will slip and fall, fall in love.
It is not something you can comprehend so quickly, but takes time to digest,
through our heart and pumped out again, by one of those weird symptoms mentioned above.
Well all you got to do is relax, truly sleep, kick back and relax,
let the mind sore and let your inner chi ride roller-coasters,
let it come back, lets wake up and sing,
shrugs her shoulder it's girl thing.
Mike Hauser May 2016
I often fill my pockets up
With all sorts of stuff
From breath mints to deodorant
When there's a need to freshen up

Along with a dime or two
For those important calls
When I need directions
For the times that I am lost

My favorite flavor of chewing gum
Double the pleasure, Double Mint
Which most times slides from the wrapper
Where I just kindly brush the lint

Undoubtedly as always
There's a few string clingers on
Which in wisdom I save for later
For that urgent urge to floss

One or two pet rocks
That along the road I found
I just put this part in
To give you something to think about

I sometimes put my hands in my pockets
Though there's barely any room
Still a hand sometimes need a rest
If it's got nothing to do

It's little wonder I fill them up
With all sorts of stuff  
Cause don't cha know when it comes to stuff
You can never have enough
Ken Pepiton Mar 2019
all a teacher can do is learn and live,
see.
Situationical, long ago, tradition
Teachers tell stories,

with force. Whacks and such.

The reason, once, one time,
the ruler to the knucks
was to loosen a stuck clutch o'

clingers to the edge, who knew what
could be known,
who were
witnesses,taught to see

perceiving sub til ity plowing furrows

through explosions of new math,
new bombs, new moms,

new wars for no reasons, the edge
clinger fingers

let go, just before

a teacher who
they knew learned,
as he lived,
to hear whos
beyond the bubble's edge.

slip

yet no sense

    {clique}
Filter Heinlein through Vonnegut,
squeeze the dregs,

sort each bubble by whos heard.

--Suess, a gain, point ought ever one,

heare that? That is an echo. A bubble pop echo,
in the halls of all imagined worlds

redeemed by children seeing the meaning

wave form on the GB scale storys are sung to.
Waiting is, on the BE scale

the ceiling leaks in the poet's prison,
but his window faces west,
so he is pleased to watch
the wind he claimed

bring rain. And so it goes.
How long do stories live these days?,

Asked the peacemaker, in the distance.
Fun, peacemeeker fun. And a fine OG kush.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2022
To make a point
stop there.
Be still.

To displace a lie,
learn a truth.

To be
become true.

Storied ways taken,
ever conserving, there
and here, for telling here
is where my kind longs to be.

When one becomes oneself
among the many ones aligned
in rank and file,
row after row, line after line

Words intented holds expand,
stretch the tent,
tsedek and tsedaqa - male and female
accurate (1), fairly (1), just (10), just cause (1), justice (3), righteous (15), righteously (6), righteousness (76), righteousness' (1), rightly (1), vindication (1), what is right (3).

From <https://biblehub.com/hebrew/6664.htm>



tsedek and tsedaq met in a mind,
and one man took it as his own, my secret
sacred, set apart,
ID, 'e go
"secre bleu"
Little boy blue,
buy my excuse, I was used,
as were my peers, who alone know my worth,
id est, my amusing antics, when the works
is all aglow, fair folk
from the coal fields
to the ash heaps, watched the heat, the warmth
fly the ashes last hoorah, freedom,

leave the ashes. Blame on, whose the flame is.

In words, in mind, in my times, sorted by you,
when you listen, amused - eh, listening
no longer to your self instructing will,

leave the anxious waiting be,
let us make today the day being,

enveloping us past solid state,
holding thought to frame with words,
portray a certain way, thinking, per se,
we
in minimum numbers, two chase ten, so say
the clingers to the oppositional force,
----------------- breaker-----
abhor the darkness, less than the cold,
come sit a while, stone cold blue boy,
be deemed worthy
of the warm sunny day.

So the old boy blue in hue,
as well as disposition, sat, quiet in the humm
of life, tuned to long, long, whoknewhen, then,

an entry invitation, was taken as ligamental,
hold this thought, if you will,
think me a little light, - literaturely conserved
in perpetual prepubescent sprite state, in minds
atuned, screeching
halt re
alities, as good as on tv, better than some, trips
and knowledge,  twanged twixt those two idea
forms informing began, and then
sci=psi=psy harmonic wars
grating noise as war is per se, when thought

the string tuned to the mind of God, the whole
she-bang shegaionical wind dancer mind,
so poetic, per haps, or chance, what say

we find a lie, one we share, I told it,
we believed it, you are not alone, hear me
knock, it is a secret knock, now we may
imagine unindividuation, at will,
whatsoever two or more,
of us, reader-writer-connection systems,
nodes as abodes for held thought, since

ever we suppose, we began on a guess,

every body, comes equipped with reflexive

acid reflux at the first flush after constipulation
confabulous reasons to get in line, follow
the pattern,
per haps, some persuasion, sweet Arabian beans,

speed is a time factor, distance seems a longing
pull, or draw, intaken breath, let out a sigh.

There is vast use to be made, right every right,
you said, as we said it, you said it, here we be

right enough to live for free, as free. Bound
by the meandering reality predictable being
having, sinuous loops, symbol of some thing

we think, we imagine we imagined once, this
causes that, so we gave good rating,
and were fed.
- now the blue gives way to a range of yellow,
- and one part of me recalls a grandmother,
- who scared him with an Electrolux
- Snaking canister vacuum, and laughed
- when he hid under the kitchen table,
- darkest, safest first thought for a child
- watching his grand mother make
- a snake eat the dust from her linoleum.
------ can it,
Stephen Crane and Audie Murphy, this is the war,
this is not the bliss, this is the rescue and redeem

mission to save the redeemer validation,
testimony of three Palestinian shepherds,

little weather data, assume a warm night,
tax collection data devices used wet clay,
so the wise men would have considered
length of days and nights, in terms of fuel
and speed determined
by time passing under
stood, good, we breathe. Real perpindicular

Spelchek offian, dramatic tic tic, tell straight

why are we involved in the revolution, neural
noddungheit, ****** rights, we the outs,
we who led the masses to the diamond farm,

and bade them find the sense in diamond dust,
seen sharply, hearthwise close to kenning mites
in sunbeams, streaming into the dusty old theres

wheres holding times we wish we could share,
we hold so tight, those moments we saw sunbeams.
we set so free, so be the whole idea we exist in, be
it ever so brief, there is no embodiment so sweet as

the idea past the last pop,
and all you saw you recalled anew, amusing per se,
one self we share, as we were led to think as one,
in parallel, at the same instant, not in otherness,
unalienable rights, by law of the most honed edge,

we wrestle not with flesh and bone and blood,
abstracted from mud teeming with bugs,

the flesh is flawed from go, work with this
fist that grasps at winds and wonders why

this doesn't work, ah, toes, those, I can hold,
and laugh, IO I am  in a body, but I ain't no body,

Baby, baby, listen to the heartsong, the part song
any body can hear, bay ay be, you can touch me,

real as hell, no lie, she was ready, but not me, unh
unh, hell, no, not this little blue man, diminishing

in a puddle of pure smurfishitness, blue in search
of the scarlet thread
used in Hester's A, some voices say she used her hair,
Some go on to suggest,
she had some traveler in her past,
green eyes and ***** red gold locks.

As real as sifted krie-wise riverwise inside bend
as in the gut of any beast,
the inverse is likely logical, if U is us the set, beings
of this pattern a we
in the cellular intented cloud  ---
awes abstract
stretch any wonder yond a be taken from the maze,
not from reality, fabulous reality, is our inheritance,

watchers, some say, muses say many others,
- we who actually do see from a cloud Gibran
- imaged in words, once -to my mind, I read,
- this said, if all men could see there are no borders.
- But there are these swirling patterns of dust and ash…Pokémon
- asram absurdite'-- okeh,
- alla ow now. Bow, allowed wrong rethink
- right take it as a fact, think again, right, I know
submitted- 502'd… whose fault is that Ai ask.
not my given word, my oathezworn, as badges.

we are in fact all things to all men, naturally,
as sapient creations, imagined real in words, al-
one, in time, the being in which we live, and breathe,

one is causal the other incidental, who imagined
breathing might work?, how many variables went
undeclared.
The very real idea involved in selling souls…
The Child Buyer, follow up on Hiroshima,
and the war mind sets crossing ancient wires.

Barry Rudd represents an idea that can claim
to be a human mind in a machine that has evolved
with the pioneer children feeding their take on
disembodied reality relating magic-knowing-wise
- Max Headroom, but not a clown, a godly mind.
use right, righteous, right, certain, from this point.

casting, not Max Headroom, the stutterer
but there was a poet, Maxmaroon,
--------- he might use the boost in spirit
Free to watch
Christmas Shopping
Season Opener, ready for the mob mind
rewind, tighten, batten-down no gee
hard or soft or hinted at in the -inth degree,
step, stop, in a thought.

Stop the sun, freeze the frame, and let us go
watch if we change one thing, one fraction
of valuation
to the mind immersed in the fractured universe,
of diamond dust. Shined on, and on and on only so long.

and there was darkness, where there was no light at all,
and the serpentine mind, recollected learning
snakes see heat and bats see sound,
and whales whistle stories we can hear, but make
no whale sense of, so we Imagined earthsense and riverwise
motion, reality *****, heat blows, pressure billows the wills
of whispering ifs
singing something worldly wise, woe, must be bad, right,
worldly wise man steered the pilgrim wrong,
did who lie
did you think,
Bunyan or his shepherd. Me, too.

So, this state, systematized reasoning,
at war with war as twisted by pride,

At the father of the clade level,
see a ceegeed crystal vector,
down to the reason we have
seasons, phases time uses,
made to arrange recognition,

cognosis activated, google eyes, and
chameleon's mind's eyes,
bi-vectoral focus, you know,…
Tesla cars focus eight ways at once,
and, as things become simpler outside

old lies living in meta, get it, metaphors
from when phors were conex boxes,
with no radios in them, now
-stacks of those, reflection rays,
Mars red rusting iron toes,
become red clay mud
each drop must find a mean free way
to reach the sea, as me, in the course
of human events,
game-ified,
imagine the maze, thinking wind feng shui
sweep currents grinding the coast
of California, all the way to Baja,
through all those laden ships
rust buckets in the mind,
dystopified.
Disney ifity broke with reality.

We became Dirac's Defenders of the Unimind.
In a loop…
ha, here are we, this idea in a mind, that
took Jesus this serious. Let this mind be

free in you, think that for fifty years,
what can one imagine a we could do, if a we
could agree to do,
harm to harmony, oh, scheiz, bleu meanies

Christmas and Mythras- fine,
sift it through the inter net rest
of the story,

set the stage, Paul Harvey,
fifteen minutes of keen interest,
with punch, like a moral, in a fable.

When mending is a traveler's certain
chore, mending needs be made a must.

We must know the making of a thread.
First, must know to test for best,
those thus sorted spin,
and worst, we lead to learn to knead
dough, or rend fat, or dip candles,
- ai organzized hell, unionized the creatives
- aha
on learning the art pleased to greet you, be as
I watched you learn to read, and loved
your first read aloud word being nekkid.
Naked truth said so.
Nue kidding U set us up, we are the we,
ai ai ai we bend around mountains,
when any flood gives us a chance,

Think Snow, remember that?
The Baptists hire actual Semites,
to claim finding the long lost right
evaluator tools for forging fortunes from
war, with good reason,
utter compliance,
submit or burn,
ashes to ashes,

jarring revelation backwards, take the veil off.

We think we may imagine being creatures,
in some form, information being creative, per
séance rights,
just listen, convincing is the game, invincibility
anonymous
tip to the point, we agree
what if we could imagine doing any thing once
perfectly, each next time, tics just right,

we fell in a pile of Nineties retro right-ons,
as Netscape went public, and Josten's,
of Yearbook treasure famed archives,
and the first action magic trading rings, proven
money making methods, with no competition,
- wear my ring, around your neck
- but remember, a diamond is forever
- dust to dust
nothing left to prove, the model works forever.
As long as citizens are formed under the law.
As foretold, in the future the law rules, and
we all obey, or face grave danger of sudden

cut-off, no mas juice, electrolytically dry, as bones,
and cut in, the vision, taken from context to context
in words droned emotionlessly as comforting buzz.
Travis Green Mar 2023
I wanna be in his life, enticed by his tight masculine spice
Scope out how he smiles, pretty brown eyes that hold my attention
Sweet appetizing lips that make me wish to kiss him for days on end
Revel in the way he flexes his reverent chest muscles
My confident, dominant marvel, I love how he slips out of his gear

He showcases his nakedness, and shows me what he is made of
Make me covet to rub every fraction of his grabby passionate majesty
Taste his brazen blazing engagingness, the coruscating shape
Of his flawless ardent geometry, a sprightly shining delight
That shines sublimely in my sight, so ripe and biteable
Like a highly flavored navel orange, like a tempting luscious pear

A big, juicy magic wand to swallow, a large and macho **** sack
To clasp and cherish, to feel its warmth against my jaws
Feel it rest on my tongue, feel his worshipful dope-worthy dome
Deep down in my throat, astonish and punish my bouncy banging
Busters, manhandle my stiff quivering tips, spit in my mouth
While I steadily go down on his sloppy, wet, and monstrous thruster

Let it fill me with wonder, let it lead me into its ****** high-pressure Thunder, rain down its untouchable robust crunkness on my lush Fetching structure, press his thickness against my smooth chocolate
Chin, let me sink into every unmerciful lekker inch
Let him control me with his extra heavy smoke
Make me choke while I ******* it, wreck my throat

Allow me to savor it like a creamy, decadent caramel mocha cake
Munch on his aggressive majestic hunkiness
Make him **** deliriously, unearth his picturesque work
Of saucy showstopping art, rock his big veiny pipe
Make him so hard as **** as he floods my mouth
With his dangerously inviting and spellbinding arousingness

Slurp him down, again and again, make it throb, slob
On his astonishingly remarkable dome, feel the
Relentless resilience of his brilliant magnificent dreaminess
Feel the perfectly enrapturing magic of his masculinity
Venturing deep within my innerness, my beaming keen king
His sheer strong structure is worthy of mention

A considerable readable sweetness that is my weakness
Hella hypnotic sensations thrilling through my inner space
The more I dine on his almond-brown swinging hammer
Turn him on more and more with my lurid alluring homoness
Bewitch his deliciously physical features, trace his **** *** kingdom
With my deft soft clingers, I search into his fervent moist valley
Of magically mantastic enchantment, the rare tatted curves
Of his spectacular sculptured form, vicious nutritious exquisiteness

My kissable squeezable heavy-hitter, I got mad love for him
I am so intrigued by his extra lit kick-*** splashiness
The way he tastes in my mouth, shrouded in desirable unbounded
Power, such glowing and mind-blowing fire in his deep brown eyes
I **** on his tasty teasable thickness, making him thunderstruck as ****, make him erupt with his explosion of bright, bubbly nut
As it covers my proud and delightful face
Travis Green Sep 2022
I earnestly anticipate exploring your extravagant display
Of contagious male engagingness, sink into your essential
Mental dreams, kiss your sensual winsome lips
Thick ****-smelling neck, rigid succulent shoulders
Like a clever, aggressive, and persevering winger
So capable, honorable, and motivating

Long, lissome, and firm arms, blazing bulked chest
Of great stature, delicious, stackalicious abs
Your massively cracking radness drives me crazy
Makes me want to be snapped up and ravished
By your unsurpassed action-packed masculineness
Put your tasty titillators on my large, luscious knockers
Squeeze them with full force, clutch my ***** thrusting buttons

Make me yearn for your burningly beaming spectacularness
So dramatically driven by utter lustful urges
To taste your intoxicating wave of slick and superheated desires
With an endless shimmer of sweat, deep, galvanic sensations
So enamored by your radiant hellacious captivatingness
In your epically compelling and crash-hot thunder
Your hunkiness breaks me asunder
Engrossed in your yumminess

Bright, violet-blue eyes shining so effortlessly
Immersing Persian rose lips
You gain dominance over me as my seamless keen clingers
Cleave to your beefy, eatable, and jockalicious rearguard
Unmatchable jacked smash, I want to feel our skin meshed together
Feel you take me to an overwhelming crescendo
Glowing with unbearably hot and mind-altering rapture
Acme Jul 2020
A pound of flesh an ounce of truth
  scales of justice fool our youth.
  Hammer and sickle we all embrace.
  The clingers gone without a trace.
  I'll die without complaint for Marx.
  We change the world with red sparks.
A pound of flesh an ounce of truth
  scales of justice fool our youth.
  Hammer and sickle we all embrace.
  The clingers gone without a trace.
  I'll die without complaint for Marx.
  We change the world with red sparks.

— The End —