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zebra Oct 2017
Here is a primer on the history of poetry

Features of Modernism

To varying extents, writing of the Modernist period exhibits these features:

1. experimentation

belief that previous writing was stereotyped and inadequate
ceaseless technical innovation, sometimes for its own sake
originality: deviation from the norm, or from usual reader expectations
ruthless rejection of the past, even iconoclasm

2. anti-realism

sacralisation of art, which must represent itself, not something beyond preference for allusion (often private) rather than description
world seen through the artist's inner feelings and mental states
themes and vantage points chosen to question the conventional view
use of myth and unconscious forces rather than motivations of conventional plot

3. individualism

promotion of the artist's viewpoint, at the expense of the communal
cultivation of an individual consciousness, which alone is the final arbiter
estrangement from religion, nature, science, economy or social mechanisms
maintenance of a wary intellectual independence
artists and not society should judge the arts: extreme self-consciousness
search for the primary image, devoid of comment: stream of consciousness
exclusiveness, an aristocracy of the avant-garde

4. intellectualism

writing more cerebral than emotional
work is tentative, analytical and fragmentary, more posing questions more than answering them
cool observation: viewpoints and characters detached and depersonalized
open-ended work, not finished, nor aiming at formal perfection
involuted: the subject is often act of writing itself and not the ostensible referent

............
Expressionism

Expressionism was a phase of twentieth-century writing that rejected naturalism and romanticism to express important inner truths. The style was generally declamatory or even apocalyptic, endeavoring to awaken the fears and aspirations that belong to all men, and which European civilization had rendered effete or inauthentic. The movement drew on Rimbaud and Nietzsche, and was best represented by German poetry of the 1910-20 period. Benn, Becher, Heym, Lasker-Schüler, Stadler, Stramm, Schnack and Werfel are its characteristic proponents, {1} though Trakl is the best known to English readers. {2} {3}

Like most movements, there was little of a manifesto, or consensus of beliefs and programmes. Many German poets were distrustful of contemporary society — particularly its commercial and capitalist attitudes — though others again saw technology as the escape from a perceived "crisis in the old order". Expressionism was very heterogeneous, touching base with Imagism, Vorticism, Futurism, Dadaism and early Surrealism, many of which crop up in English, French, Russian and Italian poetry of the period. Political attitudes tended to the revolutionary, and technique was overtly experimental. Nonetheless, for all the images of death and destruction, sometimes mixed with messianic utopianism, there was also a tone of resignation, a sadness of "the evening lands" as Spengler called them.

Expressionism also applies to painting, and here the characteristics are more illuminating. The label refers to painting that uses visual gestures to transmit emotions and emotionally charged messages. In the expressive work of Michelangelo and El Greco, for example, the content remains of first importance, but content is overshadowed by technique in such later artists as van Gogh, Ensor and Munch. By the mid twentieth-century even this attenuated content had been replaced by abstract painterly qualities — by the sheer scale and dimensions of the work, by colour and shape, by the verve of the brushwork and other effects.

Expressionism often coincided with rapid social change. Germany, after suffering the horrors of the First World War, and ineffectual governments afterwards, fragmented into violently opposed political movements, each with their antagonistic coteries and milieu. The painting of these groups was very variable, but often showed a mixture of aggression and naivety. Understandably unpopular with the establishment  — denounced as degenerate by the Nazis — the style also met with mixed reactions from the picture-buying public. It seemed to question what the middle classes stood for: convention, decency, professional expertise. A great sobbing child had been let loose in the artist's studio, and the results seemed elementally challenging. Perhaps German painting was returning to its Nordic roots, to small communities, apocalyptic visions, monotone starkness and anguished introspection.

What could poetry achieve in its turn? Could it use some equivalent to visual gestures, i.e. concentrate on aspects of the craft of poetry, and to the exclusion of content? Poetry can never be wholly abstract, a pure poetry bereft of content. But clearly there would be a rejection of naturalism. To represent anything faithfully requires considerable skill, and such skill was what the Expressionists were determined to avoid. That would call on traditions that were not Nordic, and that were not sufficiently opposed to bourgeois values for the writer's individuality to escape subversion. Raw power had to tap something deeper and more universal.

Hence the turn inward to private torments. Poets became the judges of poetry, since only they knew the value of originating emotions. Intensity was essential.  Artists had to believe passionately in their responses, and find ways of purifying and deepening those responses — through working practices, lifestyles, and philosophies. Freud was becoming popular, and his investigations into dreams, hallucinations and paranoia offered a rich field of exploration. Artists would have to glory in their isolation, moreover, and turn their anger and frustration at being overlooked into a belief in their own genius. Finally, there would be a need to pull down and start afresh, even though that contributed to a gradual breakdown in the social fabric and the apocalypse of the Second World War.

Expressionism is still with us. Commerce has invaded bohemia, and created an elaborate body of theory to justify, support and overtake what might otherwise appear infantile and irrational. And if traditional art cannot be pure emotional expression, then a new art would have to be forged. Such poetry would not be an intoxication of life (Nietzsche's phrase) and still less its sanctification.  Great strains on the creative process were inevitable, moreover, as they were in Georg Trakl's case, who committed suicide shortly after writing the haunting and beautiful piece given below

................
SYMBOLIST POETS
symbolism in poetry

Symbolism in literature was a complex movement that deliberately extended the evocative power of words to express the feelings, sensations and states of mind that lie beyond everyday awareness. The open-ended symbols created by Charles Baudelaire (1821-67) brought the invisible into being through the visible, and linked the invisible through other sensory perceptions, notably smell and sound. Stéphane Mallarmé (1842-98), the high priest of the French movement, theorized that symbols were of two types. One was created by the projection of inner feelings onto the world outside. The other existed as nascent words that slowly permeated the consciousness and expressed a state of mind initially unknown to their originator.

None of this came about without cultivation, and indeed dedication. Poets focused on the inner life. They explored strange cults and countries. They wrote in allusive, enigmatic, musical and ambiguous styles. Rimbaud deranged his senses and declared "Je est un autre". Von Hofmannstahl created his own language. Valéry retired from the world as a private secretary, before returning to a mastery of traditional French verse. Rilke renounced wife and human society to be attentive to the message when it came.

Not all were great theoreticians or technicians, but the two interests tended to go together, in Mallarmé most of all. He painstakingly developed his art of suggestion, what he called his "fictions". Rare words were introduced, syntactical intricacies, private associations and baffling images. Metonymy replaced metaphor as symbol, and was in turn replaced by single words which opened in imagination to multiple levels of signification. Time was suspended, and the usual supports of plot and narrative removed. Even the implied poet faded away, and there were then only objects, enigmatically introduced but somehow made right and necessary by verse skill. Music indeed was the condition to which poetry aspired, and Verlaine, Jimenez and Valéry were among many who concentrated efforts to that end.

So appeared a dichotomy between the inner and outer lives. In actuality, poets led humdrum existences, but what they described was rich and often illicit: the festering beauties of courtesans and dance-hall entertainers; far away countries and their native peoples; a world-weariness that came with drugs, isolation, alcohol and bought ***. Much was mixed up in this movement — decadence, aestheticism, romanticism, and the occult — but its isms had a rational purpose, which is still pertinent. In what way are these poets different from our own sixties generation? Or from the young today: clubbing, experimenting with relationships and drugs, backpacking to distant parts? And was the mixing of sensory perceptions so very novel or irrational? Synaesthesia was used by the Greek poets, and indeed has a properly documented basis in brain physiology.

What of the intellectual bases, which are not commonly presented as matters that should engage the contemporary mind, still less the writing poet? Symbolism was built on nebulous and somewhat dubious notions: it inspired beautiful and historically important work: it is now dead: that might be the blunt summary. But Symbolist poetry was not empty of content, indeed expressed matters of great interest to continental philosophers, then and now. The contents of consciousness were the concern of Edmund Husserl (1859-1938), and he developed a terminology later employed by Heidegger (1889-1976), the Existentialists and hermeneutics. Current theories on metaphor and brain functioning extend these concepts, and offer a rapprochement between impersonal science and irrational literary theory.

So why has the Symbolism legacy dwindled into its current narrow concepts? Denied influence in the everyday world, poets turned inward, to private thoughts, associations and the unconscious. Like good Marxist intellectuals they policed the area they arrogated to themselves, and sought to correct and purify the language that would evoke its powers. Syntax was rearranged by Mallarmé. Rhythm, rhyme and stanza patterning were loosened or rejected. Words were purged of past associations (Modernism), of non-visual associations (Imagism), of histories of usage (Futurism), of social restraint (Dadaism) and of practical purpose (Surrealism). By a sort of belated Romanticism, poetry was returned to the exploration of the inner lands of the irrational. Even Postmodernism, with its bric-a-brac of received media images and current vulgarisms, ensures that gaps are left for the emerging unconscious to engage our interest

......................

.
IMAGIST POETRY
imagist poetry

Even by twentieth-century standards, Imagism was soon over. In 1912 Ezra Pound published the Complete Poetical Works of its founder, T.E. Hulme (five short poems) and by 1917 the movement, then overseen by Amy Lowell, had run its course. {1} {2} {3} {4} {5} The output in all amounted to a few score poems, and none of these captured the public's heart. Why the importance?

First there are the personalities involved — notably Ezra Pound, James Joyce, William Carlos Williams {6} {7} {8} {9} — who became famous later. If ever the (continuing) importance to poets of networking, of being involved in movements from their inception, is attested, it is in these early days of post-Victorian revolt.

Then there are the manifestos of the movement, which became the cornerstones of Modernism, responsible for a much taught in universities until recently, and for the difficulties poets still find themselves in. The Imagists stressed clarity, exactness and concreteness of detail. Their aims, briefly set out, were that:

1. Content should be presented directly, through specific images where possible.
2. Every word should be functional, with nothing included that was not essential to the effect intended.
3. Rhythm should be composed by the musical phrase rather than the metronome.

Also understood — if not spelled out, or perhaps fully recognized at the time — was the hope that poems could intensify a sense of objective reality through the immediacy of images.

Imagism itself gave rise to fairly negligible lines like:

You crash over the trees,
You crack the live branch…  (Storm by H.D.)

Nonetheless, the reliance on images provided poets with these types of freedom:

1. Poems could dispense with classical rhetoric, emotion being generated much more directly through what Eliot called an objective correlate: "The only way of expressing emotion in the form of art is by finding an 'objective correlative'; in other words, a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked." {10}

2. By being shorn of context or supporting argument, images could appear with fresh interest and power.

3. Thoughts could be treated as images, i.e. as non-discursive elements that added emotional colouring without issues of truth or relevance intruding too mu
...............
PROSE BASED POETRY
prose based poetry

When free verse lacks rhythmic patterning, appearing as a lineated prose stripped of unnecessary ornament and rhetoric, it becomes the staple of much contemporary work. The focus is on what the words are being used to say, and their authenticity. The language is not heightened, and the poem differs from prose only by being more self-aware, innovative and/or cogent in its exposition.

Nonetheless, what looks normal at first becomes challenging on closer reading — thwarting expectations, and turning back on itself to make us think more deeply about the seemingly innocuous words used. And from there we are compelled to look at the world with sharper eyes, unprotected by commonplace phrases or easy assumptions. Often an awkward and fighting poetry, therefore, not indulging in ceremony or outmoded traditions.
What is Prose?

If we say that contemporary free verse is often built from what was once regarded as mere prose, then we shall have to distinguish prose from poetry, which is not so easy now. Prose was once the lesser vehicle, the medium of everyday thought and conversation, what we used to express facts, opinions, humour, arguments, feelings and the like. And while the better writers developed individual styles, and styles varied according to their purpose and social occasion, prose of some sort could be written by anyone. Beauty was not a requirement, and prose articles could be rephrased without great loss in meaning or effectiveness.

Poetry, though, had grander aims. William Lyon Phelps on Thomas Hardy's work: {1}

"The greatest poetry always transports us, and although I read and reread the Wessex poet with never-lagging attention — I find even the drawings in "Wessex Poems" so fascinating that I wish he had illustrated all his books — I am always conscious of the time and the place. I never get the unmistakable spinal chill. He has too thorough a command of his thoughts; they never possess him, and they never soar away with him. Prose may be controlled, but poetry is a possession. Mr. Hardy is too keenly aware of what he is about. In spite of the fact that he has written verse all his life, he seldom writes unwrinkled song. He is, in the last analysis, a master of prose who has learned the technique of verse, and who now chooses to express his thoughts and his observations in rime and rhythm."

.............
OPEN FORMS IN POETRY
open forms in poetry

Poets who write in open forms usually insist on the form growing out of the writing process, i.e. the poems follow what the words and phrase suggest during the composition
Akemi Nov 2018
Blanket city run along soaked in rain. Idiot Boy wastes his time visiting a passing crush at the other end of town. Slips between two houses and a metal sheet, communal refrigerator in the middle of the road filed with half-empty soy bottles.

Dead bell stop, mocking red blink of the operator. Father arrives, a mess of wiry muscles and hair.

“Hey. Is Coffin Cat here?”

“Who?” Father squints at Idiot Boy’s cap. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact.

“Um.”

Recessed in the blackness behind Father, a Figure says, “You looking for Coffin Cat?”

Idiot Boy nods.

The Recessed Figure turns. “I’ll go get her.”

Father returns to his parched body on the couch, content.

Indistinguishable forms move back and forth in the kitchen to the right. They stop their pacing and glance at Idiot Boy as he passes. Idiot Boy avoids eye contact and slips into the left-bound arterial vessel.

“So this is the heart chamber I’ve been living in,” Coffin Cat says as Idiot Boy enters her room. There is music gear. “It’s pretty comfy.”

“Oh, sick mic,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at the mic behind Coffin Cat’s head.

“I feel like a ghost,” Coffin Cat replies, falling on her bed.

Idiot Boy settles next to her. Animal distance. Intensely aware of his rain-soaked right shoe. “Same.”

Nothing comes out right, intersubjectivity a false God to mediate the impossible kernel of being, nobody can find nor express. Idiot Boy searches for connection. He glances around the heart chamber, at the music gear, but nothing grips. Four pears sit on a table by the window, their skins garish green in the harsh grey light.

Coffin Cat moves from the bed to the floor. She opens a virtual aquarium on her computer; fish eat pellets dropped from the sky to **** out coins to buy more fish to **** out coins to buy more fish. Capitalist investment and accumulation. Every few minutes a rocket-spewing robot teleports into the aquarium to attack the fish. Ruthless competition in the global marketplace.

“No! Why would you swim there, you ******* fish?” Coffin Cat yells as one if her fish is eaten by the nomadic war machine. “So dumb. ****. Why did it eat my fish?”

A knock at the door. The Recessed Figure from earlier enters the room. “Hey, mind if I join?” Their arms dangle like fine threads of hair.

“I like your music gear,” Idiot Boy says, pointing at nothing in particular.

“Idiot Boy also makes music,” Coffin Cat adds from the floor.

The Recessed Figure does not respond. They are enthralled by their phone, streak of dead pixels along a digital chessboard, minute reflection of their own gaunt face in the glass. After an extended period, they decide to move none of their pieces. A gaping coffee grinder rises out of the rubble at their feet. They begin filling it with tobacco from broken cigarettes.

“I’m surprised you’re still playing this,” Idiot Boy says to Coffin Cat. “I swear this is one of those games designed to ruin your life. Get addicted, stop going to work, become a hikik weaboo.”

“Already there, man,” Coffin Cat laughs. “Nah, this is my new job. I’m going to be a professional gamer.”

“Stream only PopCap games.”

Another knock at the door. Tired squander in an endless pacing of flesh. Strawman enters and nods at the Recessed Figure. “Hey bro.”

“Good to see you, man.” The Recessed Figure plugs the coffee grinder into the wall. “You got any ciggys?”

Idiot Boy points under the table and says “Ahh” with his mouth.

The Recessed Figure empties it into the coffee grinder. The device whirs into motion, creating a centrifugal blur, a mechanical and headless hypnotic repeat.

Idiot Boy and Coffin Cat look for horror movies to watch. The Recessed Figure empties the contents of the coffee grinder onto a metal tray. Strawman repacks it into a ****. White smoke fills the empty column, moves in slow motion like an oceanic rip a mile off coast, surface seething with quiet, impenetrable violence.

Idiot Boy refuses the first round. It’s never done him any good. Face turned to smoke and the wretched weight of a tongue that refuses to speak. Headless carry-on as time ticks through the clock face.

The door bursts open. Everybody turns as Manic Refusal or the Loud Person saunters in.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off!” the Loud Person says in exasperation. “First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

“What? What’s happened?” Strawman asks.

“Some rich ****** in Australia has bought me as his wife. I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!” the Loud Person laughs bitterly, before hitting the ****.

“Oomph, that’s rough,” Coffin Cat quips from the side.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold to off some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“But like, who is this guy?” Strawman asks, pointing.

“And he’s been reading all my profiles. He has access to all my information. I don’t even have control over my Facebook profile. Grand Larson’s logged in as me, posting for me,” the Loud Person continues. “I met him once in Australia, clubbing, and now he’s tracked and bought me.”

“That’s creepy as ****,” Idiot Boy says.

“So he’s not a complete stranger?” Strawman asks.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. First time back in five years and I’m being sold off!”

Idiot Boy decides one hit from the **** wouldn’t be so bad. He packs the cone with chop, lights and inhales. Smoke rushes through the glass channel, a swirl of white ether, more than he’d expected. He quickly passes the **** to Coffin Cat, before collapsing onto the bed, eyes closed. A suffocating sensation fills his body. He sinks into the chasm of himself, further and further into an impossible, infinite depth.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

Idiot Boy doesn’t know what’s going on. He feels sick and tries to get Coffin Cat’s attention, but cannot move his body.

“Come on. Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

A strange silence stretches like an artificial dusk, a liminal duration, the hollow click of a tape set back into place in reverse. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. They’re selling me off! First time back in New Zealand in five years and they do this to me!”

The Recessed Figure makes a noncommittal noise.

“I knew it, I knew if I came back, my parents wouldn’t let me leave again. Whole ******* thing arranged!”

Coffin Cat laughs quietly.

“No, you don’t even understand. This is the first time back, the first time back in five years, and I’m being sold off to some rich ****** who owns all the banks in Australia.”

“How about this fella? He doing okay?” Strawman asks, pointing. Everyone turns to Idiot Boy and laughs affectionately.

“Still working at . . . ?”

“Yeah, yeah. Management. Hospital. You?”

“Like, property. Motions.”

“Subcontracting? Intonements?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Mmm.”

“Sell me drugs, Strawman.”

“Nah. I don’t deal drugs. I don’t deal drugs.”

Idiot Boy slowly opens his eyes and stares out the window. The same grey light as before. He moves his arm further towards Coffin Cat, but is still too weak to get her attention. The same strange silence stretches. The Recessed Figure coughs and the Loud Person whirs back into motion.

“I can’t believe it. I can’t ******* believe it. . . .”

As the conversation repeats over and again, Idiot Boy begins to think he has become psychotic, or perhaps entered into a psychotic space. He thinks of computer algorithms, input-output, loops without variables, endless regurgitations of the same result. Human machines trapped in their own stupid loop. Drug-****** neuronal networks incapable of making new connections, forever traversing old ones. Short-term memory loss, every repeat a new conversation of what has already been. The same grey light painted upon four pears by the window.

He’s not sure if Coffin Cat’s laugh is getting weaker with each repeat.

Signal-response. The exterior world oversaturated with variables: roadways, rivers, forests, wildlife — an ever changing scene to respond to — the illusion of depth. Automatic response mechanisms reorient to new stimuli. The soul rises like surfactant, objectified fractal diffusion. A becoming without end.

But within the border of this interior world, the light stays grey. No input, no change; the same dead repeat, over and over, until sundown triggers a hunger response. Lined all along the street, a black box ceremony of repeating machines, trapped in their idiot cults, walls of clay and blood.

Idiot Boy finally gets Coffin Cat’s attention. She helps him through the house’s arteries to reach rain and wet stone, overcast skies. As he shakes in shock, Coffin Cat mumbles, “It’s cold.”

Idiot Boy sits silent on the ride home. Travels through himself. Tunnel through the body or Mariana Trench. Loses his footing before a traumatic void. Leaves the car and pukes.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
why did i ever go out on a friday night?
drinks with "friends" and hitting the essex
club "scene" -
well - no much of a scene -
there was never the music you'd want to listen
to: come friday or saturday -
even mid-week when all the rock kids
were "hanging out" -
what would be chances of being your own d.j. -
catching something really new...
POIZON - church is poizon -
cool mom - something between a crossbreed
of cage the elephants and nirvana on blew -
3rd view - moi -
but i used to: and i remember that gehenna of
a sobering walk - alone after a night out -
like some furious son of sam -
when youth still had the adrenaline with it
and a sense of anger ******* around with
disillusionment -

those were the friday nights: bon jovi highlights
and long hair and milking a somewhat androgynous
look - sometimes the mascara would come out...
those were the days of having milk skin
and a proper shave -
the long hair and the waistcoast and cravat: semi-,

the lonesome story before i met my beard:
fwyday mordaithceirch -
i actually have a name for it...
i forgot what's already the designated
whittle pecker mr. pritchard of the down down:
below...

oh, oh so what...
rough friday nights in my youth -
on the clubbing "scene" -
and always that moral hangover when it came
to drinking with others -
ever since i started drinking by myself:
i forgot the mirror and that bucket
of warm water beside my bed to put my hand
in before going to sleep...
once or twice the company was worth the drink -
but most of the time you only kept
such company: because you were drinking -
drinking was never an afterthought -

now... i like drinking alone -
at least i can keep fact-checking the company
and the odd vocab peacock taking to the catwalk
of a ruminating free-fall tongue waggle
and rummage - the needle in the haystack
adventure - or... the ******* bucket
of deshelled oysters...

there have been some awful friday nights -
but: seeing how i started to give my beard
a welsh name borrowed from a willem dafoe
novel - and how it simply became pointless
to wake the dead with the angry tantrums
of youth: and how i seem to have
forgotten where my 20s "went" -
somehow rooted in: da-sein and how
i "wasted" 2 years on one book by kant -
2 years on one book by heidegger -
and: how i didn't have the time to "catch-up"
on the greek classics -

oh these island dwelling people -
i try to imagine them not being a seafaring:
and their messiah / superiority complex -
with their breakfast that could hardly
be digested come the hour of noon -
or no messiah / superiority complex -
the traffic: indeed - works like clockword...
from left to right...
sidenote: what of fahrenheit and
the feet and inches - stones and pounds?
ounces?
the metric of: baseline 0 here,
baseline 00 over there...

no... Michele Campanella piano solo take
on wagner's das rheingelt: entry of the gods into
valhalla - it's hardly anemic -
it's... the last leaf of autumn falling -
because the crescendo has already happened...
a befitting closure...

the superior island folk and their...
hyphens and germanic loan words -
how almost all names in chemistry are still
in their germanic: intact form of: no hyphen:
broken leg or broken arm...

woodwinds... perhaps... the violins providing
the humming of birds:
chirp chirp: no chirping -
and of course the horn - but the horns never
as prominent as those drank from...

something has happened today -
but i am... left without having any english
sensibility / egalitarianism -
somehow i always equate egalitarianism with
the english - the islanders -
a firework went off in the background -
mr. sloth awoke mrs. slouch after 3 years
for a firecracker celebration...

because who would want to be ruled
over by unelected: chocolatiers...
esp. after their trial run in the Congo -
but i have certainly had worse friday nights...

it can't exactly get much worse than...
say... listening to the siegfried idyll...
multitasking: drinking a cider, smoking a cigarette,
balancing act of folded leg sat on
perched on a windowsill solving a no. 11,289
sudoku from the 27th jan. 2020...
otherwise prior to:
imagine my disbelief at the pleasure -

with numbers to somehow escape thinking in words:
no grand arithmetic linear gymnastics -
of the end result -
certainly no logical statements -
just a whirlwind of numbers complimenting
these few words...
and what a fine friday night it has become:

the pizza was made - god save me from the perfume
of yeast... or checking on the rising dough
from time to time -
the leftover yeast gave me the opportunity
to bake an imitation sourdough crust pretty-as-a-picture
loaf that: would make any mushroom blush
and shy away from unfolding into an umbrella pose...
or a Y... curling outward-inward into an upsilon Υ...

because how could i forget the pleasure of
sifting through numbers?
by the time i attempted puzzle no. 11,290
i had to write a "map"

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
2)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x

come to think of it... where's a subscript?
if i'm going to use 1, 2, 3...
to tier the allocation of squares...
tennis and sudoku...
tennis: a game of 7 rectangles -
and how many judges and ball boys / girls?
sudoku - a puzzle of 10 squares - perhaps...
if i'll use tiers 1, 2, 3: a1, b2, c3...
what if... sudoku invoked letters rather than
numbers?

much later... oh believe me...
this is the antithesis of knausgård
writing about using googlemaps...
        
           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

it's still a schematic - the narrative is yet
to begin... otherwise...
there's nothing smart about this...
i have tired eyes sometimes:
i succumb and have to allow myself
to no acid-bath these eyes in words...

esp. since i speak so rarely -
imagine... in england and i spear
the bare minimum of english -
i can: i have to: i will - when being prompted -
but i can't remember the last time
i had an honest: informal exchange
of letters... lapped up by the glutton
tongue... i looked and looked
and with my silence i can attest:
there's a speech-impediment -
a stutter that's not born from nervousness...
but... an allusion to a "stoic" through
my lack of conversation...

at least on paper i can exfoliate -
enough cider and enoug whiskey and i'm all
sparrow McDermott!
ugh... the devolved scots and the likewise
welsh... devolved nations...
only this aspect of Brexit is... well...
imagine the "evolved" status of post-Yugoslavia...
Kosovo...
this is the only aspect of an otherwise:
fair enough that's... well...
if you lived for 3 years among the scots...
you'd get to appreciate them...
this is the only aspect of this whole affair
i will ever appreciate...
i would pour blood and **** into
the Welsh continuing their...
preservation of the iaith...
forever and the more - i would love to see
scotland start to dig trenches and
forget trainspotting gaelic -
parading like ponces and humpty dumpteys
with "harkccents"... glasgewian bull-runnings...
cousins aye and wee -

a thing of beauty: a thing of union...
but this... they were bullied in brussels...
they came back and started to bully the scots...
if you have lived -
the betas of cardiff - but they tongue: remains!
look far back and wales would encompass
cornwall -
ignorant i of a 26 year "servitude" on these isles...
quiz me on outside of London:
no point...
perhaps i too would wish for the lost
theta in Dublin - towing: to t'ink...
as any sanskrit H-surd does matter...

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

but if i will replace... the side tiers of numbers...
the numbers in the puzzle will have to become
letters - greek... probably iota, epsilon and upper-case
gamma...

the bullied have returned from the palance
of the chocalatiers and: back to their old ways
of bullying the rest of these island folk...
because: it's infantile for me imagine
a resurrection of the crown (poland)
and the grand duchy of lithuania -
the commonwealth -
but somehow the united kingdom is not
fated to become the next yugoslavia -

i can confirm - up in edinburgh i was
confirmed by having the hat of Knox having
scalped me -
never is always metaphor: vaguely -
as in literally - in these quasi-paragraphs...
so it's not... infantile to even "think" that
the british empire can be revived?
zee window-licker spezials of
cross-breed h'americana postcards sent?
i nibble to attempt a joke...

oh i can bulldozer this whole narrative...
turn into a berserker -
i've saved enough money to deal
with the label loser...
all it will take is me having drunk enough -
sightseeing the slums of london's east end
and then hitting the brothel:
like an iron-head... to the pillow
and the ***** of a *******...

because i have had worse friday nights...
terrible company...
if i were not a michel de montaigne or a knausgård:
me me me, me me, me me me me,
write enough of that and:
to meme to grafitti... or to...
why are there no diacritical markers in
the english language worthy of recognition?
why would i...
rhoi fy **** y Cymraeg enw?
give my beard a welsh name?
and why is that not a cedilla C but a ******* K?
why not... Çumraeg?

on foreign shores i have made it adamant that...
this sense of foreigness does not
peppermint my presence with hopes to:
add to - an integration -
just borrow what the local have made: left-overs...
and work with that...

(insert snigger) - the neu-vikings of
northumberland...

           a             b             c
      x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x  
1)   x   x   x   3   x   x   6   x   4
      x   x   x   2   x   4   x   8   9
      x   1   9   x   4   x   x   6   2
2)   x   x   x   7   x   x   x   5   x
      x   x   2   x   x   8   x   4   x
      x   2   x   x   x   x   x   x   x
3)   x   x   6   1   9   5   x   x   3
      x   3   8   4   x   x   x   7   x

this really does have a linear narrative...
here goes...
3(c1), 9(c3), 1(c1), 2(c3), 2(c1), 2(a1), 9(a3), 8(c3),
4(c3), 8(c2), 8(a2), 5(b2), 7(c2), 3(b2), 3(b3), 8(b3),
7(c1), 5(c1), 7(b3), 5(c3), 1(c3), 6(c3), 1(c2), 3(c2),
9(c2), 9(b2), 6(b1), 6(b2), 6(b3), 2(b3), 2(b2), 1(b2),
1(b1), 9(b1), 9(a1), 8(b1), 8(a1), 5(b1), 7(b1), 7(a1)...

and then a "gamble" in the narrative...
the (7a2 and the 5a2 - interchange)....
it's a pleasure - not a chore -
5  9  4
2  8  7
3  6  1
8  1  9
6  4  3
7  5  2 - this line... what if it was 5  7  2?
1  2  5
4  7  6
9  3  8
if i want to solve this puzzle - i will solve it
and not read a tabloid article /
whatever the hell has become of youtube...
my diamond jukebox...

otherwise the "narrative" continued from
7a2 and the 5a2 interchange:
7(3a), 4(a3), 4(a2), 6(a1), 4(a1), 5(a1), 5(a3),
1(a3), 1(a1), 3(a1), 3(a2), 6(a2)... end result?

           a             b             c
      5   9   4   6   8   1   2   3   7  
1)   2   8   7   3   5   9   6   1   4
      3   6   1   2   7   4   5   8   9
      8   1   9   5   4   3   7   6   2
2)   6   4   3   7   1   2   9   5   8
      7   5   2   9   6   8   3   4   1
      1   2   5   8   3   7   4   9   6
3)   4   7   6   1   9   5   8   2   3
      9   3   8   4   2   6   1   7   5

because i can imagine this not being:
the most difficult Finnish sudoku...
i can almost imagine this puzzle
to be in greek...
where: 1ι, 2ζ, 3ε, 4χ, 5Σ, 6δ, 7Γ, 8β, 9ρ...

in the background all i hear is:
corvus corax' la i mbealtaine...
the greek version of the japanese puzzle...

           a             b             c
      Σ   9   χ   6   8   ι   ζ   ε   7  
1)   ζ   8   7   ε   Σ   9   6   ι   χ
      ε   6   ι   ζ   7   χ   Σ   8   9
      8   ι   9   Σ   χ   ε   7   6   ζ
2)   6   χ   ε   7   ι   ζ   9   Σ   8
      7   Σ   ζ   9   6   8   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   8   ε   7   χ   9   6
3)   χ   7   6   ι   9   Σ   8   ζ   ε
      9   ε   8   χ   ζ   6   ι   7   Σ

half-way... i just wanted to "selfie" what
will become of this... i no longer write: i paint...

            a             b             c
      Σ   9   χ   δ   8   ι   ζ   ε   Γ  
1)   ζ   8   Γ   ε   Σ   9   δ   ι   χ
      ε   δ   ι   ζ   Γ   χ   Σ   8   9
      8   ι   9   Σ   χ   ε   Γ   δ   ζ
2)   δ   χ   ε   Γ   ι   ζ   9   Σ   8
      Γ   Σ   ζ   9   δ   8   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   8   ε   Γ   χ   9   δ
3)   χ   Γ   δ   ι   9   Σ   8   ζ   ε
      9   ε   8   χ   ζ   δ   ι   Γ   Σ

going... going... gone...

            a             b             c
      Σ   ρ   χ   δ   β   ι   ζ   ε   Γ  
1)   ζ   β   Γ   ε   Σ   ρ   δ   ι   χ
      ε   δ   ι   ζ   Γ   χ   Σ   β   ρ
      β   ι   ρ   Σ   χ   ε   Γ   δ   ζ
2)   δ   χ   ε   Γ   ι   ζ   ρ   Σ   β
      Γ   Σ   ζ   ρ   δ   β   ε   χ   ι
      ι   ζ   Σ   β   ε   Γ   χ   ρ   δ
3)   χ   Γ   δ   ι   ρ   Σ   β   ζ   ε
      ρ   ε   β   χ   ζ   δ   ι   Γ   Σ

i don't mind a people being right...
but the overt-gloating...
without having to work around the sort
of paranoia associated with:
how the russians are not allowed to glutton
themselves on gloating -
because they are always made
to feel suspcious - the russians can't gloat
like most of the anglo- speaking world...
always suspect: russophobia evil genuises...
tip-toeing goliaths - less the blundering
fudge-packers of "global ****"...
and i kissed a boy and i liked it...
my genitals started shrinking
and my *** started to exfoliate with:
welcome all! welcome all hard and on!
and that tongue in my mouth always helps...
but imagine my surprise when
i started to navigate my hands
but the reply came:
timbuktu and mt. kilimanjaro will not be found
attached to this sort of torso...
wrong dog, wrong tree...

some things really do require numbers...
i once had a mathematics teacher in high school
bemoan the origin of modern numbers
and how we once: upon a time used these letters...
but did our arithmetic with visual aids
akin to the abacus... because...
you'd have to "read braille" when counting...
to differentiate the already: lettered numbers
and the letters being letters -
and all arithmetic functions
were "spoken of" but never depicted...
i.e. there was no VII + III = X...
there was no XV - XI = IV...
eh?! arithmetic was cat-intuitive...
not spoken of - done by either the visual
aid of fingers when haggling
in a market place -
or by the abacus aid in a bureucratic office!

i said this was the most perfect friday night...
what did i have to offer?
no clickbait title - some gems of wording
in between?
the patient reader - as ever - most rewarded -

but... oh my god... the sensation of
changing the bed sheets...
it's friday night and you're... changing your bed sheets...
and they are more crisp and clean
than any political event that the journalist leeches
are milking -
and you do it with a saving private ryan precision -
you will sleep in this bed: well into
11am of a today to come...
believe me: that you will...

- in that i am still walking among the germanic people -
if the germans will sing a: bretonisher marsch...
then the two peoples are alligned by
their sentiment for the crow as their godhead:
alles menschen totem...
what could possibly make me feel welcome?
french grammar is polish grammar...
matin de printemps - poranek wiosny -
spring morning in reverse in germanic...
how many more examples would i ever wish
to give?

there was a moment in my life where...
i realised my faults... i should have read
the Pickwick Papers... anything by C. Dickens to be sure...
instead came Stendhal, Voltaire, Balzac...
because if you said to me...
BBC radio 4... the archers...
and... thomas hardy: madding crowd?
you'd accuse me of being ignorant of:
London is a bustling cosmopolitan in-waiting
from the busy-body industrial proto-Beijing
it was of 100 years ago?    
the French had cosmopolitan intellectualism
100 years prior to the english...
100 years later and it's still not much...
is anyone about to cite me william hazlitt?!

the trouble with the english is that they hold dear
to that one old 19th century idea -
this waiting for: awaiting a revival of darwinism...
the "blatantly" obvious needs a resurgence!
because a michael faraday must most surely
be forgotten!
how many times will this already painful reality
need to be emphasised once more:
intellectually - via a darwinism?
no one stresses the copernican "upside-down"...
or what is copernican "west" up in space?
how does acknowledging the sphere
of the earth - ease you reading a flat map -
moving from point A to point B?

earlier this week - for once in my life i was
ashamed of what i wrote -
so i wrote for scribli per se: scribbles for
scribbles themselves -
the darwinian germanic folk who say:
alles von afrika...
how the hebrews debased themselves
in both aushwitz and breaking their bones
on the emoji hieroglyphs -
alles von afrika: ja... so sicher... so wahr!

ask any slavic person among the germanic
peoples...
where from? wir (ar) sind lesen und schreiben
"afrika": i.e. Indu...
if the african challenged the hebrews
with... "the best they had": egyptian emojis...
why would i not stress my birth
with pseudo cedilla Ş / इ... ☦ -
this indo-european is not... at home with
these african-germanoids...
pseudos and quasi -
these chocolate frenzied busy-buddies!

from the caucasian and further still from
that whittle sub-corinthian quote: continent...
somehow, "somehow" this part of this story
is read: south to north... always a grand
marker missing when the people went
east, squinted... learned skeleton existence,
atoms... and the frenzy of letters:
owls and ******* **** flinging beetles
back in the north eastern tip of
africa: in that egyptian haemorrhage of "idea"...

i assure myself... perhaps the form came from
africa... but sure as **** the tongue only arrived
in the lap of the Dalai Lama...
as did the "thinking" and the music
across prior to the Mongol's curiosity
over the tundra of Siberia...
something had to be placed on a loan...
and coming back to the cradle and the crux
had to happen like so...
not this current: ergo: so...
quickened and: what news from Damascus?!

first impressions count...
i made my bed... it's newly washed...
as crisp as falling onto a bed a prawn crackers...
without the crumbs' itch...
like listening to some german:
juggernaut... this will do... i can fall asleep
with this: grab hören zu der winderhall...
mehr flöte - weniger violinekratzen!
schlechtdeutsche? alle deutsche ist gut deutsche...
erwarten etwas isländisch zu sein
gesprochen insel von insel: auf diese inseln?!

to make a crisp bed of freshly washed sheets...
to sleep in them alone...
given the grammar is not that far removed...
are the french even remotely translated
as a germanic "sort of" people?
"they" or "we" share the same grammar...
and there are celtic freedoms that would
never be allowed to exfoliate under
strict anglo-ßaß obligations...

oh sure! great people! steam engine: choo-choo!
newton et al...
shakespeare: when they taught us shakespeare
they should have taught us bernard shaw...
when they forced jane eyre down our throats
we should have been reading
the pickwick papers...
the music will remain german -
because as much as vaughan williams...
holst and händel were "were" english...
esp. latter with his umlaut that spread over
toward i-and-j...

why wouldn't you **** at the pillar of the empire:
a past most assured - dust, books and moths...
like hell will i come to correct my ways
to state the: pish-poor Elgar... this poo'em too...
himmel... sky...
leerenhimmel - empty sky -
nein sonne während der tag:
das englischnebel: bedeckthimmel...
nein mond während der nacht...
nur so...

i of the lesser men of this world duly bow
my presence before the altar of the higher men
of these isles...
and hope and pray that their wisdom
will not bestow upon them any major calamity...
with not irony or ridicule i wish upon
these peoples... the right sort of oars
to turn this rooted island
into the people's imagined langboot...

there are only one british people a people
who will pursue to gloat having been
conquered by the romans...
being raided by the vikings...
integrating the anglo-ßaß...
a second viking coming via the Normans...
the push-over remains of the celts...
that somehow translated itself into
the: empire...
ideal: to compensate...
the islamic fervor for the... resurrected
caliphate...
jokes about the dritte ***** and the vierte *****...
that's pretty much the precursor jokes
surrounding: ein zweite ***** -
auf welche die sonne nimmer setzt -
ever wonder how that translates with the increased
cases of insomnia?!

again: bad german is better than
no german.
judy smith Jun 2016
I’m never quite sure which activity I prefer at a fashion show - spending time backstage or watching the actual show.

Watching a beautiful show is a wonderful, sometimes even uplifting experience but being where all the action is, being able to get up close and personal with all the looks and different pieces, it really does get my adrenaline juices flowing.

At Paris Men’s Fashion Week, I was invited backstage by Mac Cosmetics to two brilliant and colourful shows - Kenzo and Paul Smith.

At Kenzo, both women and men collections were presented, the men’s was the standard spring/summer 2017 collection whilst the women’s was the pre-collection.

The general feel of both collections was a 90s throwback nightlife experience with lots of colourful, eclectic designs. The vibe really did hark back to those 90s clubbing days - the same style of clothes one wore out partying with their friends back then.

Think windbreakers, hoodies, biker jackets, baggy pants and visible male underwear pieces all mixed in with some super bright details. The palette as a general theme was bright but not overly bright - it was a mix of bright blues and greens mixed in with greys and whites and acid yellow but then there were bright details.

There were, for instance, glittery bright pink platform boots and matching little bags which were definite eye catchers. Eye motifs have become an iconic symbol of Kenzo and in fact eyes were once again worked into these pieces - a long-lashed version.

The makeup look for the men by Mac Cosmetics was kept clean and **** but with some shine used to exemplify the out-all-night partying vibe.

The women’s look was an ultra bright look with one look based around bright green and the other bright cyan blue. Again, the party-all-night vibe was present here too.

At Paul Smith, true to his nature, bright colours reigned supreme in his collection which felt like a harmony of retro and bohemian inspirations. Clubbing was a source of inspiration here too but this time the 1960s decade.

Candy stripe shirts, sportswear-themed bright tops and bright striped socks and shoes were all there. This was mixed perfectly with some more conservative, tailored suits.

Backstage, the happy mood was infectious with models dancing along to Bob Marley and the entire team carrying a big smile on their faces as they prepared for the show.

The makeup team again by Mac Cosmetics had an energetic and happy team whose main focus was on getting the male models catwalk and camera ready but without the makeup being in any way obvious.

As one of the makeup artists mentioned, it takes skill to make makeup appear invisible. There was also quite a range of different skin tones present across the different models although curly hair seemed to have been quite a priority during the model selection process.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses
She wears t-shirts of the Beatles

And she loves the Rolling Stones

She wakes up to David Bowie

And she dreams of the Ramones

She goes out to dance clubs nightly

Till her ear drums both get blown

But, she has a deep dark secret

That her friends will never know



At night when she is by herself

When the room is nice and dark

She slips beneath the covers

With Johann Sebastian Bach

She's a closet classic ******

And her name is Amber Clark

She just loves orchestral music

The rock and roll is just a lark

Her friends think something classical

Is something for your folks

They cannot play an instrument

They cannot read the notes

They think that  chamber music is

What people play on boats

But she has a deep dark secret

She loves the stuff that Chopin wrote

At night when she is by herself

And her friends have gotten ******

She slips beneath the covers

And she listens to some Liszt

She listens to it many times

In case there's things she's missed

She's a closet classic ******

She has "Baroque" upon her wrist

She listens to the music

That her friends like to be cool

If she told them what she listens to

They'd laugh her out of school

So, when they go out  clubbing

She will join them as a rule

But...ah that deep dark secret

This girl is no ones fool

She listens to Beethoven

And she knows each piece by heart

She knows where one bar ends

And another one will start

She can play most every instrument

And she knows most every part

She's a classic closet ******

But she still knows Boyce and Hart

She has cds in her library

And most sit there untouched

When her friends are gone they don't get played

She doesn't like them much

She would rather hear a symphony

By a composter who was Dutch

But there's that deep dark secret

And she won't use it a crutch

At night when she is warm in bed

She listens to Mozart

She needs a little Nacht Musique

To open up her heart

It's a piece that sets her mind a blaze

It hits her like a dart

She's a closet classic ******

And she keeps her worlds apart

By day she sings Bruce Springsteen

At night she listens to

Composers that her friends don't know

They're so old they're new

So she keeps her world a secret

For she knows what they would do

If they found she didn't know

Where were you in sixty two

But at night she is a ******

And she listens to Mozart

She needs that piece of music

To shoot an arrow through her heart

Eine Kleine Nachmusic

She conducts every part

She's our Closet Classic ******

shhh.....the song's about to start...
"1)..You take your girlfrend. An go
clubbing,after you marry her you want to
stop her from clubbing.....my brother,you
think a miracle will happen??
2)...You have 8 tribal marks ,stretch marks
scattered all over your body,but you still
want tatoos......aahh my frend,are you a
zebra??
3)...You be 6 feet tall,you still wear 6 inch
high heels..my sister,you want to whisper to
God??
4)....You take pictures inside different types
of cars,yet you go say you are not a
cheater..aunty, are you a mechanic??
5)..You gather different pictures of girls in
your phone and you go expect your girl to
believe you are not cheating..abeg uncle,areyou a photographer??
6)...He gave you an engagement ring for over
5years but he never married you..my
dear,are you lord of the rings?
7)...You claim you ate pizza but you go *****
Polony and vetkoek..my friend,are you. a
magician??
8)...Your girl be licking ice cream but you be
drinking pure water.,.my friend,are you
diabetic??
9)..You are 18 years old and your sugar
daddy be 70 years old and you go call him
baby..aahh my sister,that one should be your
ancestor"
Damaré M Jul 2013
It's like a jungle sometimes it make me wonder 
It's like a Forrest sometimes it help me flourish 
It's like a desert sometimes I find myself exerted 
I don't know how to word it, so I gather up a excerpt 
My momma always used to blurt it but since I always heard it , Things didn't make sense until it hurted 
Unjust situations did a service , I can't remember the last time when I was nervous
I tried my hardest not to become heartless 
In poverty stricken and drug infested apartments 
They raised us in the slums 
So we raisins in the sun 
Get to the league then our fathers come and try to bake us when we're done 
Already came from out the oven 
Already clubbing and already loving
Been making mistakes 
Got seasoned without his marinade
He never made us a plate 
Forced to be a renegade 
He never made us feel safe 
We're out running from everything 
Then don't know what to do when we make it on base 
Flour for the chicken
Flowers in the vase 
Gun powder in the smith &
Baking soda for the base 
I can't stand the rain coming through my window and we never had drapes 
Slim fast was our ******* so fiends never got in shape
Rent was only $50
So we never had space 
Halloween we had the mask but we Couldn't afford the cape 
So it was only fly if you sold super weight 
God's gate or cell 5 gate
Was our only escape
No DNA 
But we had to share a sub sandwich 
Waterfall a club soda
That's why we relate 
Dozens of "cousins" 
Saw each other everyday so that's why we debate 
It's like a ocean sometimes it makes me hopeless 
Marco Polo never get played, it's real
We dying by waves of violence 
It's like a battle field sometimes it keeps us crying 
Retaliation celebration 
10 years of frequent, but temporary triumph 
It's like a jungle that's why today I'm humbled 
Try to stay away from trouble 
Lost a lot of brothers, so the ones thats left I muffle 
It's like a jungle with tigers, apes, and snakes 
We pray everyday not to become prey 
It's like a jungle 
Only enlightened by thunder 
The trees help us breathe 
The trees bring a breeze 
But the trees is like a tease 
Disable us to follow our dreams 
We can't see the nearest sea 
So we just hunch by the tree stomp 
It's like a jungle 
At times it keep me thinking how do I keep from sinking 
It's like a jungle sometimes it makes us a believer that we gotta have fever just to meet our diva 
It's like a jungle sometimes it make me crumble because the crumbs feed the hunger 
It's like a agglomerate sometimes I forget when the last time I ate 
It's like a collage eventually I can't picture if I have a future 
It's like a jungle where
Lumberjacks never stumble 
Allow our dense vegetation 
To cloud our inspirations 
We come from jungles 
Get older and just want a happy huddle 
And a warm cuddle 
And finances to bundle 
When we make it through our rubble 
From a jungle 
We wonder 
That's all we can do is wander 
That's all we can do is juggle
That's all we can do; is hustle?
Fred Wakefield Oct 2012
Walked out on it all, mid-life crisis taken hold,
Done nothing but work, pay tax, time to be bold.
Dyed hair, had an affair, went clubbing once more,
Tried *** in a Maserati but got it caught in the door.
Didn’t think it through.

Did all but one thing on my bucket list,
Travelled, explored and got endlessly ******.
No happier, alone, one half of a whole,
Ruined it all by having no self-control.
Didn’t think it through.

Revenge on her mind she accepted me back,
Wife threatened me with “back, sack and crack”,
Totally livid, intent on harmful litigation,
In the end made me pay for her breast augmentation.
She didn’t think it through.
Julian D Aug 2018
Blinded by the sunlight that shines so brightly,
it proceeds to massage my spectacles,
rinsing the grime away from my eyes,
there lived mankind, buildings, plants, and animals,
but where was I, unaware of the planet I saunter,
I look in amazement, unborn to what to forecast,
but then I distinguished the dark side, somber and bleak,
impoverished skeletons walking hunchbacked, desperately
scrambling for silver, as so to purchase a bottle of liquor and a burger to indulge his vacancy that absents him,
as I trek my way further into this metropolis,
I hear a sudden commotion arising from the right direction,
it begins to steer me that way, luring me in deeply there was a mass of onlookers chanting on, of what seemed to be two individuals pummeling one another into a bloodbath, but then it escalated, the crowd began to all partake in the beating and it caused a mayhem, that was uncontrolled, I bolted the scene, protecting my mask from getting dismantled, as suddenly I hear a very deafening noise, it was a four wheeler wagon, that speedily amtrac it's way towards the locus in which we was in, everyone scattered the scene, as the people who dressed in uniform annihilated the scene, putting an outright stop to the madness that occurred, forestalling future procreation from the participants, my heart shriveled and I gasped for air, I ran aimlessly into a town that was lively and sunny, as I saw mankind playing sports, clubbing, riding nice convertibles, homes were futuristic, plants were vegetated, smiles and giggles were infectious, everyone was cheerful and amused enjoying this utopian I discovered, it was care-free, as folks walked in suit and ties, formal dresses, luggages entering and exiting, dialect as clear as caribbean sea, friendly animals chaperoned by their owner, "where am I?", "what was this strange but yet interesting soil I embark on?", ..... I don't know, but it closes me in like a maze and I'm forced to live as they.
DJ Thomas May 2010
******* -
thoughts sought, taught and wrought,
aggressive games.
Fighting clubbing sick,
Afghanistan camouflage.


.
copyright©DJThomas@inbox.com 2010
L B Sep 2016
...and there’s no one there to hear it,
does it make a sound?
_______

My poetry performed—
before a crowd of johnny-jump-ups
Their faces toward me in unison—
they listen
Intense, motionless energy
Velvet applause of purple and
Yellow yelling!

Encore
of performing in the perfume
with a troop of lilacs
They will remember me
While I— await their return to May
through billowing miles
of drowsing sachet
breathing euphorias
between the lingerie of clouds

What happens after ecstasy?

Grieving in life’s presence?
Loss of mind to self-possession?
____

...and when my sense of smell gives out
I will hold on for a while
to the walker of hearing
trying not to stumble past
the song of thrush
beyond me in the blurring leaves
once so clearly—
crinkled, shiny, and infant green….
___

As a child I held on to nothing
for dear life
I could cup a storm in my hands!
Could run with the rhythm of a horse!
I could fly in my mind’s eye
if the ferns I used were only wings!
If I pretended hard enough
I could eat my own home-baked mud pies!

If only I could be—

more than a fledgling of eight
so earthbound, clumsy  
___

But while the lilacs were out of town
thunder met the flash
and gutted summer!

I ran for dear life!
from the amazing distance of its echoes
pelted by its gentle gift
Snagged by growing things—
the clinging prattle
of their momentous tendrils....  
____

Lovers run off the path
past water lilies
along the swollen veins to the river
toward a grave and pounding heart

The Ancient Flood was jealous....

Now when the wind softens
and rain is tossed
last, and only from the leaves
may their encore be cupped in the hands
of some passer-by
Remembering—
that either because of a trifling wind
or the weight of time...

a tree fell here
clubbing the river’s bank senseless
Of course it makes a sound.
I will always believe this.  Why I still write.
I'm so thankful for HP.
Amelie Feb 2014
I'm the type of person who can either sit by herself under a weeping willow
Reading quietly or writing poetry about life being an inside inferno,
Or who can go clubbing with her friends, get drunk and show up at 5 in the morning.
That's me, I either spend my day being in an immense joy, or spend it mourning.

I'm the type of person who is everything and its contrary,
I can fall in love with the same person whom I hated yesterday,
I can forgive in two seconds someone at whom I've been angry
I can be strongly willing to leave, and then I suddenly decide to stay.

Once I realised I wasn't in love with the person I had been waiting for, two years after
And realised at the same second that I wanted the person I had just lost.
My brain and heart didn't quite agree with each other,
But now it's to late to get back the girl I love the most.

One minute someone's my best friend, then she gets on my nerves
One minute I really want something, then I just change my mind,
One minute I find myself pretty, then I suddenly hate my curves
One minute I wanna open my eyes to the reality of the world, then I wish I was blind.

I suddenly realise why some people can't see me,
I'm so hard to live with, too difficult to stand,
I'm actually working on myself to be the person I want to be,
Because if I don't react, she's not coming back, ya'll understand ?

To all the Lost souls wandering around the Earth,
If you have problems, believe me they all come from you.
You'll have to give your life another chance, a rebirth,
Otherwise you'll be the person you never wanted to.
Wrote this at 4am, when I realised the reason people I love always leave me.
party zone with johnny brown



johnny’ hi dudes and welcome to another party zone

and we did well last week for our celebration to jon english

and tonight we are just being normal and here is olly with his

haiku poems

olly’  we are partying

in and out of cool nite clubs

drink heaps of bourbon



i really like beer

it gets me drunk all the time

i am really blind



johnny’  thanks olly for those poems and now here is robert with his jingle


let’s party right till the end

driving the oldies round the bend

making them really sick of us

you should take them for a ride on the moonlight bus

we sing rock and roll music

if you wanna party like you want to use it

swing your hips babe right to the end, dudes

partying is so much fun

except if your at your parents house

as they play taxi driver because they are drunk

ahhhhhh!  i want to party at every party event

whether it’s out on the lake or beach

to friday night in this classy club

johnny’  thanks robert and i want to party to,,how about tomorrow night at sky fire

robert’  i will be there with my picnic lunch, dude

johnny’   ok here here is fred with haiku about sky fire



sitting in the park

waiting for the fireworks

loud and wonderful


johnny’   thanks fred that was a great haiku poem and now here is roslyn with her jingle


roslyn’   hey, oh hey baby ooh aah ooh aah i want to party with you here every night

you see on my way to this niteclub yeah

i see a lot of people say

hey you cutie, you look so fine

my friends didn’t show up for dinner  and said do you wanna dine

i want to tickle yo baby team oh yeah dude

come on people the nite club is over there and there is no line

he said he wasn’t into clubbing and i called him a yuppee

and then i head straight to the club and i heard this voice

and it was coming from the fire man

i yelled out how much fire can you put in your mouth

he said 15, oops where is my manners, my name is ralph

i said my name was roslyn and then said come to this niteclub

after you finish

he said i won’t finish till 5 in the morning

i said what a shame and went into the nite club to dance pretty wild dance moves

and i feel cool man, cool you

roslyn’  before i go, i have a haiku

johnny’  ok tell us


roslyn’  


walking through civic

people partying in there

get down get down bop


johnny’  ok thanks roslyn and now here harry with his jingle


harry’   once a jolly party dude was going to the club yeah

buying beer and heaps of spirits

then he will show his moves on the dance floor

the foxtrot and disco and rock and roll

mrs fran belle said i love you to bits

i think you are the sexiest man

i said yeah i am fran and would you like to take me by the ****** hand

partying in civic partying in civic

getting heaps of alcohol down ya dude

partying in civic in the nite club

after having a slap up meal

in came the bouncer to see if we are behaving

one person isn’t and out he goes

he said, i didn’t mean it, please let me stay

the bouncer said no and threw him out

as we go

partying in civic partying in civic

getting heaps of alcohol down ya dude

partying in civic with the chicks yeah

every song is played with a good sound

it’s 4 am and last drinks were called

and you have collapsed near the dance floor

the girls say, just one thing to me that really makes sense

and that was come over to our house and sleep it off

as we go

partying in civic partying in civic

just from 11 to 4 am

partying in civic after drinking endless alcohol

now off to your mates house to sleep it off

johnny’ thank you harry that was a great party song, and i hope the copyrighters

don’t zoo you

harry’  they won’t, i hope

johnny’  ok that is it from party zone we will see you here next friday night

but i am going to sky fire tomorrow night, where we can have a lot of fun

CATCH YA LATER DUDES
Connor Thomas Sep 2012
I. Summer pictures litter her walls
Glitter infestations
Second grade yearbook
And a signed portrait of that one indie celebrity.
What’s his name?
Jimi Hendrix?
Or Rob the Bone Crusher?
Was it that guy from New England?
With the Iced Tea, and the apartment?
You know that really, really big condo.

II. in 1995 you were all hot and heavy
******* and bumping in the clubs
Sinking your teeth into whatever
Or whoever you could find
Like ****** and some of that crystal ****
You said you liked the way it felt
When it ran down your veins

III. I remember the nights you cried
You said you’d feel this way forever
And I said well…probably.

IV. 7 AM, you’re still out clubbing.
Out on the streets like a little hoodlum
Looking for your fix in the alleys
Of a suburb of your suburb of Minneapolis.
Anything you can shoot, smoke, snort or swallow
You’re down.
The good girl stays home

The good girl cooks and cleans

The good girl has kids

The good girl watches you go clubbing

The good girl watches you lie and
believes

The good girl sets her life aside to please you

The good girl knows NO better

One thing you don't know about the good girl

SHE GOT SOMETHING PLANNED FOR YOU

For she is now a Women That will no longer except *******
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
got so drunk at their little, ahem, initiation ceremony: drank a bottle of whiskey when i heard we were going clubbing wearing lycra shorts... the man with the biggest bulge and the biggest stick... never understood male group psychology... or any group psychology for that matter... it isn't exactly a throng of noblemen following Henry VIII.*

i joined the lacrosse university team
for a bit,
left it when the time came to buy the
equipment - i didn't think getting
smacked by the defenders' longer sticks
was worth it, to be a striker with the shortest
stick - too physical - i thought i'd seek
some other physicality,
got stuck-up on rock climbing, and mountaineering
for a while, nothing serious,
a bit of easy bouldering on the edinbrugh crag,
the one lining the skyline at holyrood park,
the salisbury crag, just west of arthur's seat -
i'm not going to lie about clinging off the
matterhorn or something -
but i did an expedition with the mountaineering
club near Ben Nevis once...
Glen Coe / Coire nan Lochan...
and i figured, with all this talk of light pollution,
well, "pollution", to think that a bunch of
street lamps can blind away the stars of what
former poets spoke of: about the illumination
of the heavens for the blind eye to see...
we camped outside one bothy (basic shelter)
set off fireworks, drank whiskey, played music,
burnt a fire in the bothy...
but to be honest... i was not amused by this whole
theory of light pollution...
i looked up at the sky, and the number of stars
was no greater than the number seen in a bright
lit city... i know they say all those telescopes
amplify the chance of peering into the heavens
at night and see more stars...
but why cite light pollution, when, in a remote
highland hideout the number of stars didn't
increase in number... i've heard a girl from
australia cite that, in the outback she said
more stars could be seen... even without a telescope...
so the scottish highlands are unlike the australian
outback? is it just me... or is it simply *******,
this whole light pollution argument?
it was dark out there like in an **** after black coffee
and charcoal tablets.
Pluto Oct 2013
I don't think you get how difficult this is for me. Do you?

At home, I can never be alone, always around my family because they are convinced I am a danger to myself and they have to keep constant watch over me. It's more like I'm trapped. I do not feel cared for, or loved (even though they do) but it feels like a prison where privacy and solitude no longer exist.

On campus, I cannot be myself. This writer, poet, loner, silent girl who only speaks to people who seem decent or whom initiates a conversation because she is too scared to do it herself. This insecure girl who must now change to acquire friendship, company. She only wants to be liked, accepted, and to belong. **** on Wednesday, clubbing, flings, shisha. I do not understand why it takes so much to have a friend that would stay. I smoke, and that would be the limit, but my loneliness begs for so much more.

In public, I want to just shout out who I am and who I could really be. I want to walk up to strangers and spark up a conversation of similar interest. Ask how they're doing, or if their family is well. Let them know I could be their friend and allow them to cry on my shoulder about the trauma they've been through. But I cannot. No one smiles when I smile at them, they only walk faster and turn their heads away. Why is it that simple acts of kindness or just friendliness can be such a disgusting and rare thing?

When I'm alone, I can be myself. I can cry and shout and sing and write and dance and do stupid things. I can smoke and laugh and scribble and put on make-up and take selfies while no one's watching. I can be at my worst, and I can be my best when I'm alone. It's a blessing and a curse but it's solitude which I treasure so much.

It's funny how much I crave companionship; a friend, a partner, a love interest. Yet, I wish to be alone. Why is that?
another rant.
I just needed to get it out of my system, sorry.
(will be deleted upon request because this isn't an actual poem anyway)
Happy birthday Yasmin, my precious friend,
My love for you, I wish to extend.
Experiences filled, with joy and laughter,
Special memories, we shall recall after.

From the beginning, you made me smile,
Accepted me, without any trial.
Never judged or jumped to conclusions,
Exciting friendship; random infusions.

I cannot ask, for anything more,
So many things, I simply adore.
Hope this birthday never ends,
In my heart, time transcends.

No more fake I.D, you’re legal to go clubbing at last,
All the worry of getting in, left in the past.
So Happy 18th Birthday, my special friend,
Good times await us, just round the bend.
I wrote this for my old friends 18th
croob Dec 2018
lets go to a club, pleaded dan. no thanks,
i resisted. not my thing. but please, it'll be a good time, he insisted
and anyway you're lonely, i know.
no im not, i told him, but i was, so,
while my pal talked up a pretty gal, i waited
for him to finish, sipping a bit at my drink
and soon enough, i'm loaded. my self esteem's eroded
within the first few minutes
and by the end, when their flirting's spent,
is entirely diminished. no luck? he came back
and asked, as though he ******* cared -
i felt the world folding in on itself
like an hunchback, or a lawnchair. i rose,
to punch him in the nose.
hey, what the ****? he said,
but he didn't even stumble.
then he bashed my head against
the wall and watched me crumble
to the floor, no more, no more, no more
"but what the **** man," he said, again
I'm lonely, i said, i'm lonely, dan
i'm lonely and in need.
he pulls me up by my shirt:
"no, you're just fat
and full of alcohol
and greed."

at first I was hurt
for a long time, for
many years, i disappeared
into myself because i knew
that he was right. and when i go
one day, swiftly into the light
i **** a ****** up in heaven
(as it turns out
there aren't 72
there are 77.)
Tom Balch Jun 2018
Fly so fast the years they do
and my mind is not as once it was,
forgetting things such as dates and names
and going round as though I´m lost,
in every room I stop and wonder
why did I come in here,
what is it, that I´m looking for,
not a clue I fear.

Have you seen my reading glasses
Yes! she says, you´ve got them on your head,
and what about my car keys
I´ve looked everywhere, including in the shed,
and when I bend, why is it
that I always grunt and groan,
and my back today, is not the best of backs
I am so racked with aches and pains.

My eyesight´s not as sharp these days
and my hearing, Sorry, what d´you say,
no longer do I walk upright
and my thinning hair is turning grey,
but although the body´s ageing
and the memory´s fading fast,
my brain still thinks I´m eighteen
and I can do things, as I did in the past.

So I´m off to run a marathon
and the channel I shall swim
and when I get home from clubbing
I´ll be heading for the gym,
I´ve parked my zimmer in the corner
and my pillows I have plumped,
the douvet I have pulled up tight
as I start to snore and dream, and trump.
Aaron LaLux Sep 2019
an excerpt from THHT3: The Hollywood Hearts Trilogy Vol. 3

...See she says if we have *** she’ll feel guilty & regret it,
I don’t want to be one of her regrets, so I get gone to prevent it,
apparently she associates *** with trauma from her past,
& I don’t want to open old wounds because I’m sensitive,

still my sentiment makes me ask this,
since when, did our past begin to define us,
when it’s always been our present destiny that we manifest,
I don’t know I guess sometimes we forget & have to remind us,
that we angels albeit fallen & all of us are Heaven sent,
& sometimes only moments like this are where we truly find us,

that scent, on your skin, mixes with the wind,
sending signals, to my brain, to release serotonin,
sea breeze, coconut trees, please jeez I’m on my knees,
I’m ready, & willing to start when you are, just say when,

still, my sentiment makes me ask this,
since when, since were names so inappropriate,
Scarlet’s a darling sure, but far from a harlot that’s my word,
so far that actually she abstains, resisting like a soviet,

since when,
were you so absent from class that,
you forgot the basic fact that,
all women are divine even when abstinent,

honestly I’d rather be,
laying in this hammock with a Goddess that’s abstinent,
than rubbing while clubbing,
getting used by a drunken **** that will soon be a has been,
a has been that can’t get a reaction not even a fraction,
nope I want a genuine artist, not a bad act with bad actin’,

I want laughter I want rushes,
I want her because with her all of that comes in bunches,
her inner instinct is distinct,
& is much more than just what a hunch is,

a hunger for wonder, what’s for lunch kid?

Let’s have a picnic this instant & then get down to business,
actually let’s scrap the deal & forget all about business,
let’s get up let’s rise like the tides & ride like the winds,
let’s make some magic & let God be our witness,
we’re in this, no limits, no gimmicks, no scrimmage,
no cynics, no stupids, no skeptics, no septic, no sewage,
no sadness, no losers, no handcuffs, so tragic, the truth is,
that abusers, abuse but, their tactics, are average,
so when, they attempt it, we just shut down, that madness,
make them, step back, back track, & send them packin’,
& once they realize what’s happened,
they retract & shoot back with,

“I’m so sorry, jeez, please accept my apologies,
I didn’t mean, to try to take all of your Light Energy!”,
ok we hear them plead,  but don’t accept their pleases,
we tell these fickle fleas, “I think it’s time for you all to flee!”,

peace, & their gone, along with the whispers in the wind,
& we’re in the hammock again,
Scarlet & I still off our mark & still high as ever,
gone like the wind our world continues to spin,
distracted by our addictions which is apparent,
from the scars we’re wearin’ in the body we’re currently in,

with red eyes, no bullseyes, no bullsh!t, just straight facts,
think about the best thing you could ever do in your life,
& rest assured we’ve been there & done that,
all true in all ways in other words this’s all correct,

from Venus to Mars with,
a darling named Scarlet,
she leaves an imprint on my soul,
though with no crayon nor marker, she uses her armor,

no mark, no start, no finish,
no gimmicks, just livin’ this life we live that we live to the limit,
with words that are true in all ways in other words all fact,
we progress in order to obtain a peaceful coexistence,...

∆ LaLux ∆

THHT3: The Hollywood Hearts Trilogy vol 3
available worldwide 9/9/19
a part of poem 15 of 99 from THHT3: The Hollywood Hearts Trilogy vol 3
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
i couldn't stand the heat,
spent most of the time in the shade,
everyone made fun
of the guy standing by the pool
reading a book, pretending to
be a sundial;
i was called the whiskey-man;
one night i slept outside
and by the time i woke up my glass
of brandy disappeared;
mingled with the "auctioneers"
of a good time; boy one of those
kenyan girls was hot... oomph,
she looked like oiled coal, slimy bits
and raw ***...
i know i was a tourist...
played a stupid drinking game with
two english girls, snogged one
at the end of the game, wasn't invited
back to the room for a *******,
spent hours at night looking at the tide
splashing the shore, cried at the painting
so alive all the museums and galleries
became graveyards of appreciation;
it was a holiday resort, i admit,
although one bartender asked me to do
a local tour of the place, go clubbing,
supposedly a colonial ******* i was
upon first reading;
but the heat though! god almighty, couldn't
stand the temperature,
i was literally an ice-cream cone most
of the time, took to the shades,
wrote a short story for my grandfather
about an elephant dunking his trunk into
a bottle of brandy...
one day got chatting to a scottish pair
and a russian couple,
told the scottish guy about travis' 12 memories
album,
i was originally asking for a cigarette,
so we drank and chatted about mickey mouse
politics of america...
the scottish guy eventually ran off and jumped
into the kids' shallow pool veering
on blind-drunk-happy...
another time i too jumped into a pool
with my clothes on...
god-**** this heat...
ha, hmm, those kenyan macaques were funny
esp. on prompt of being fed on the balcony...
but boy that baboon was a menace,
a real anarchist, charged in like a donkey
with meningitis and stole food...
although one baboon had massive haemorrhoids...
and given his fat pinky ***... it was even funnier to watch.
oh yeah, and this guy muhammad wanted
to take me to a crocodile sanctuary of his...
i sort of refused the invitation,
and no, i didn't go on the zoological escapade
of a safari to see the Masai tribesmen...
just gave c. g. jung's modern man in search of soul
to one of the caretakers of the resort.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
long before the Greeks started applying diacritical stresses to their letters, the English should have applied them, following their European counterparts in the use of the Latin α-β sabbatical - but of course, they wouldn't, the English poker hand had a royal flush compared with the Greek pair of tens - the reigning delusion given the British Empire? we are the Romans reincarnate - sure, it worked to produce us the Canadian, the American and the Australian accents - but they really, really have to dress-up for the occasion - it just won't do leaving the alphabet naked without stresses that invoke a spirit of universal pronunciations, leaving it a mongolian steppe instead, a wild-west you might add, adding to the social hierarchies established when the hierarchy rests with someone seeing the invisible standards of elocution in that numerous number of examples ready on hand... this is a second English Revision, the first one was economic with Marx... this is another altogether different revision... to appropriate English into what other European nations have done prior... of course, not appropriating the stresses to the fall of the Roman Empire gave them the delusion as successors of the power established - but only for so long... they're not looking over at America with admiration anymore... they're wondering: what the hell is going on?! but i deem this project a half-failure in waiting - given that establishing a universal pronunciation system will not work miracles - Silesian Polish is one example in the making, but if you at least add necessary invocations to stress certain letters, you wouldn't write poetry using the word blah from time to time - it's still bewildering in the Copernican sense that English, out of all the European languages hasn't bothered to wear a cravat of acute vowel or a belt's worth of umlaut - straight out of Eden these people are, stark naked in the moonlight - obviously because of this lack of addition the power balance rests with them, but the English know that they were once occupied by Romans, the Americans can have the naked Latin... the English aren't so sure as to why not join the exercise of additional-revision... the polygamy of accents wouldn't disappear - but the orthographic revisions would aid the less concerned with saying certain words right... but then again, it might be too late, given that because no diacritics were ever ascribed to how the English encoded sounds leveraging toward a poly-phonetic-diversity on these isles alone (let alone North America and Australia) - adding stresses to these 26 popes will have no effect at all... but still! why did the Greeks decide to add stress and eloquence and the reincarnate delusional Romans didn't follow Greek suite?! one thing is for sure... start adding them... and acronym English / ugly English will disappear - people simply need quickly-identifiable stresses, they want linguistic calculus, to ably differentiate and integrate.

after your required reading - *what did i miss?!

with the classics - you look at your contemporaries
and become slightly peeved off -
what ontology can't explain is the instinct
criticising the coal-miners of words -
you rarely see awe when the obscure nugget
of some precious metal is chiselled out -
like the αρκενστoνε - but tmesis will not be
akin to a precious stone (tmēsis - why did the Greeks
insert necessary diacritics and the Anglophiles
were so lazy reducing Aphrodite to Prostodite?
it means e.g. ex-*******-aggeration of something) -
with such a paradise some of us become
coal-miners of words, precious vocalisations -
20 carat with that ontology of yours;
poetry ought to make philosophers like heroes
of Homer's day - give the battlefields shifted to
libraries rather than pecking menus of crows
in muddy Ypres - after reading the book reviews
comparing Saturday reviews with Sunday reviews
i get the picture - it's not a beauty, it's just there -
money is not the dirt people speak of hoping for
a win on the lottery and an escape -
money invoked a necessary loss of tribalism -
of excess labour when no labour in what area was
prescribed earning was necessary -
offices hoovered like hospitals, but then hospitals
incubating super-bugs, resistant to antibiotics ***** -
a baby held captive in a cupboard -
since Hippocrates' times sadism crept in -
people are so sane they perform it automatically without
knowing - until their time comes;
every time i read Bukowski i feel i'm at home,
the latter Bukowski, the posthumous writings -
i too wish i wrote with the sensibility of philosophers,
limited vocabulary, the so called systematic approach -
they simply said: 100 words, written to the volume of
1000 pages - systematisation in philosophy involves
a limitation on vocabulary - they want to see how
far their stressed limit of vocabulary eats away at
the potential sigma of potential - poets on the other hand
rarely systematise - they'd rather jump in with
as many words as possible, and leave anyone reading
their word bewildered, because their vocabulary is
not drilled in, it's not perfected, it almost looks like
a prosthetic limb - the moment when you see a dictionary
in action, the odd word from them all, breaking
the fluidity of a poem that could have been a waterfall -
there are plenty of dictionary moments in almost all
poetry - there's no ticking clock event in them, there's
pause, reflection, revision.
for me this poem started in thinking how ridiculous
using certain words can be - Roman Empire, pseudo-Christ -
i mean, in poetry at least, such words and compounds
look ridiculous in poetry, there's no dogmatism in poetry
to allow such words a serious use - esp. when
compared with what philosophy practices -
a systematisation / containment of a particular vocabulary,
stretched to its limit, dismissive of synonyms of words -
(variations of particulars), i.e. the founding principle
of establishing universal meanings to words:
on that rainbow canvas: red is red, blue is blue,
green is green... all together they're white / mirage of paper
and sclera - the so called invisible -
systematisation in philosophy is a rejection of multiple
meanings of words (deviating 2nd through to 6th meanings
for lying / ambiguity) - and limitation of what can be expressed
with a border on tongue - after all borders exist in
landmasses and in seas -
yet i still don't think poetry is all about music -
those days are long gone - poetry started nibbling at
philosophy - they are heroes to me, i mean, Francis Bacon
died after trying to invent a refrigerator (hypothermia -
hyper-thermal? perhaps a variant of hippo or the trait
of the lizard - the lizard disease - below thermal acceptability
for mammal, true indeed) -
yet after reading the crunch (2), mahler, sometimes even
putting a nickel into a parking meter feels good-,
and esp. am i the only one who suffers thus?
i just
think of C. G. Jung - i don't know why - that little
book of his i have: the undiscovered self -
i really don't know what there is to discover -
when you start writing you never actually think from
the beginning that you have it in you -
you never do! it's a lazy beast, writing is -
even a poem a day can be a welcome presence -
for me it was never something undiscovered,
discovering that i started to smoke cigarettes aged
21 after being so anti-cigarettes coming from clubbing
stinking of tobacco - the self i discovered was a bit like
a portrait of Dorian Grey (great book by the way,
better than an adaptation on screen) - that self i didn't
expect - although less ****** and definitely less
fetish spandex clubs - i don't know why i'd mingle
the abstract simplicity opening doors and corridors
to walk on that poetry is (however mutilated due to
a lack of respectable technique like some English teacher
telling you to coordinate yourself with metaphor, pun
or imagery vectors - modern painters can paint
******* and their expression is still art, but when it
comes to poetry... everyone suddenly needs old
Chaucer dungeons or Shakespeare with whip to tell
you it's poetry - a ******* black square on canvas isn't
Raphael!) - i just realised that it's not about discovery -
this is going to sound ridiculous, but it's how it goes,
i don't attack too much significance in examples as these,
i know the meaning of such example, but the meaning
is shallow due to the peddle-stool that C. G. Jung
ascribed the compound: the undiscovered self -
with poetry it's always the inner self that introverts
and shuts up when the world never bothers -
the crucial moment comes when that basic unit of life
(of course, vary it with existence or reality and the matrix,
whatever) reacts to a world it can no longer understand -
poetry then enters the realm of the individual,
the undiscovered self is found, once a healthy individual
weighing 75kg, now a drunkard at 115kg and somehow
still content (the invisibility shroud from back in school,
as with Plato: 18 through to 21 - beauty is a short-lived
tyranny
- and 3 years is enough) - and the self begins
digging, and digging and digging (yes, i know, it's
how pronouns interact with each other, the ~self is never
self said - old Germanic - the telegram technique -
self said that self would - funny how all psychiatric theory
or psychology is so ****** obsessed with pronouns and
no other category of words - that's where the sharks swim
sniffing out a drop of blood from a cubic mile of sea water) -
and by digging there is no actual stasis of an undiscovered
self - there's only the continuum of perpetuated inner
and more inner; but what is discovered is not what
is necessarily categorised as zenith, an undiscovered potential,
for that's motivational speech - that little book is
about motivational talk, therapy to craft an illusion of
self-assurance... never mind... after reading
the book reviews from Sunday, most notably the biography
of Philip K. ****... i found that English is a language most
beautiful, but also a language most dismissive -
as with the late acceptance of existentialism -
the slow nibbling at the walls of English utilitarianism -
for that could only be an English product of thought -
and the results? well, teenage suicides and too much
pill-dropping to cure depression: nothing that hurts.
it was hanging in the air, like a guillotine blade -
too much faith in English sensibility and that bloodied
doctrine that utilitarianism is, it's not about big words
these days, when behind those big words there are crude
actions - talk about really inventing a blanket to cover
the crude actions behind what was said in variation of
the supposed vaccine program to make people immune toward
crude actions.
Emoni Jenkins Sep 2013
The vibration
The pacing
The loving
The hating
The spending
Never ending
The thoughts they keep racing
The drinking
The drugging
The 5am clubbing
The meaningless sexing
The endless regretting
The lying
The cheating
The I hate this feeling
The panic
No sleeping
Anxiety streaming
The shaking
The fright
The continuous night
The struggle with words
I just want to be heard
The thoughts they're racing
The thoughts they're racing
The thoughts they're racing
Paranoia
Hallucinations
It's been weeks since I've slept
The walls seem to be screaming from the secrets they've kept
I'm over the edge
I've lost all control
This madness is driving me off of the road
But maybe down there I'll find some peace
All I really wanted
Was to go to sleep
Sierra R May 2010
you are my sister
despite the lack of blood relation
mi hermana de una otra mama
ok, so it doesn't rhyme
but so what?
remember the time
we went clubbing in new cal?
i felt like cinderella
on the stroke of midnight...*

and "our" boys
funny that we called them that
they were never looking to be owned
but we had good times together
nonetheless
ConnectHook Sep 2015
The ranch-bound bovines, in dehydration,
yet wary of Kool-aid, declined to drink.
They grazed in wonder, cowed rumination:
where does “beef” come from?  A herd tends to think

of pasturage, water, and basic needs.
Ranch-hands assured them all was in order;
privileged guests enjoy the finest  feeds.
Cows, content on this side of the border

try Buddhism, yoga – or simply gaze…
though things in the distance loomed ominous
(those lots at the edge of the well-hoofed ways)
– and a stench wafted into their consciousness.

Yet calves frolicked on while the bulls mounted heifers –
dreamed vegan dreams as they nibbled grasses
some earned doctorates, others went clubbing;
all loosed sustainable methane gases.

Soothing their calves with fables and stories
where cows are the measure of pastured life
they deflected the gist of the young ones’ queries,
affirming that Truth means avoidance of strife.

“It’s best to just graze. Don’t ask questions dear.
We’re on this planet without any clue.
We evolved. From just what is a little unclear –
but Cow Science has proved that it’s true.”
Bruising,kicking,clubbing,
chanting,ranting,yelling,
from afar their judgement is pronounced,
scourging,ravaging,encompassed,
their foes enmassed,
as their woes crawles to them.
Ensnared in rageous mobbing.

No attention given,
Brutally abased at fraternities delight,
Blood splitting,
Blood gushing,
sands soaks in blood,
as of mud from heavy downpour,
fraternities yelling,mobs cheering.
As their lynching delights them all.

No saviour!
No mercy!
Woe!
Woe!
Woe!
They rants in accord,
from their chamber miserable voices screams.
Only but whispers heard,
in cold fatique voices.
One said i am
not guilty!
another said we
only came
to collect what
he owed me!
Another said i
live in heaven
where milk and
honey flows
i lack nothing,i
am innocent
another said
yesterday
i paid my
tuition,i paid my
dues i am
innocent.

In cold blooded,
lynched them
all.

their hell fire
came to them
alive
they were burnt
they were
wasted
as of unwanted
beasts!
oh! Aluu what
have you done?!
Who were those
innocent 4 you
killed??
Don't you know
the pain of
mothers labour
at birth?!
They are not
different from
you
they feel pain!
they feel torture!
they feel torment!
wont you
scream if i club
you?
won't you flee if
i burn you fire?!

They sought to
flee
they sought to
hide
they pled for
mercy
but you were
their miserable
nightmares!
You were there
foes ragging in
woes massacre!!!
The boys were
your children
they were your
brothers
oh! Merciless
Aluu!!!
What have you
done to the
futures untold?
Attention Wal-Mart Shoppers..
You know them
You've seen them
I hope you aren't one of them...

I don't drink
Not anymore
For my entertainment
I go to the store
I go out after dinner
That's when the show will start
I go and watch the people
Who shop at Wal-Mart

Cowboy boots, a tutu, and yoga pants with "***"
with a muscle shirt and top hat
worn by a man named REX
a pair of pants just hanging
a pair of crocs and leather vest
with "she loves me for my money"
emblazoned on the chest

These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes

I don't go clubbing
There's no fun in that
Late night trips to Wal-Mart
That, is where it's at

A woman dressed in plastic
a man all painted blue
and how many people have you seen
that look like escapees from the zoo


These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes



Underpants, and stockings
garters and blue jeans
size 50 denim jumpers
Stretched like skinny jeans

Men wearing high heels
Women wearing...well
Use your imaginations
From a distance you can't tell

These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
In their finest shopping clothes
These are the people
Yes, you know the people
We've all seen the people
At Wal-Mart, so it goes



Body parts free to see
******* and legs and butts
And people with their little dogs
The ugly, squeaky mutts

We know them
and we watch them
Take their photos
Yes....we do.
dress right when you go shopping
Or we may take one of you!!!
Daan Jun 2019
Your wikipedia page is as boring
as you playing mage and adoring
the exploring of maps and falling for traps
without fighting the wight
in the dungeon at night.
Your life is climbing a hill
with no path in sight, no
one who will respond to you begging to bond
so you're rubbing your wand
while I'm clubbing with your blonde
b*tch, which I ditch, leave behind, beyond
cheeky I grind before the eyes you crave
as you drop to your demise from the eye sore,
pink in the stink, so vile, I smile
because you didn't make a save file.
Ouchie, owie, yikes, the skyrim rap = bars.

extra, didn't make the cut:

Don't rush your fingers to your eye
when you die in a game, don't claim
you didn't, cause I saw the digits disappear,
going near your rear and clearly you came,
lacking class, from the tension in your *ss.
Julie Grenness Apr 2016
Old soldiers in the firing line,
Community clubbing time,
Let's honour them in rhymes,
Now in the vault of the unleashed,
Their courage released,
For the job, they were the right men,
The flower of past generations,
People to treasure, through the ages,
In theatres of combat, such stages,
Designer beers wanted here,
On Anzac Day, we give them silent cheers.
Feedback welcome.
ConnectHook Apr 2016
∅⚢☢⚧☯✰⚩✿⚥∅☢⚧☯✰⚢✿⚥☠⚩☯⚧✰

We paint your breeding world as queer
and every man a closet queen.
Your days like Noah’s now appear…
our King arrives to crown the scene.

Oh Father of progressive souls
whose neo-pagan mercy reigns,
bring union to fragmented wholes
as lovers rattle rainbow-chains.

We’re clubbing with the scribes of ***
(our fairy-dusted lying press)
who pay out cash for background checks
while prying more and praying less.

The starry heavens twinkle gay
and rainbows end in gold, you know).
To see it any other way
would harsh our high and end the show…

Your family paradigm descends
upon the Roman road to hell
where reproductive reason ends
in demographic show-and-tell.

God’s wisdom pleads in vain. What’s life
when mobs are primed for anarchy –
assaulting yet again Lot’s wife
in *****’s dead democracy.
∅⚢☢⚧☯✰⚩✿⚥∅☢⚧☯✰⚢✿⚥☠⚩☯⚧✰

a  poem a day for NaPoWriMo2016

www.connecthook.wordpress.com
Johnny Nilsson Jun 2016
Hey Guys

I'm way past half time
I passed
The great divide of 30
More than 20 years ago
I had like AIDS for decades
I'm a narcoleptic
And I have raving ADHD
So excuse me
Please
If I need one or two
PickMeUps
Before
Breakfast
Brunch
Lunch
Dinner and
Bedtime
Or a man
PickMeUp
From the
Dance floor
If I go night clubbing
From
Ha Ha Alcoholic
Aaron LaLux Sep 2016
Scarlet

Red eyes no bullseye,
high off our mark,
distracted by addictions,
it’s apparent from our scars,

scars,
lit,
far,
in,
tense,
don’t know where the day went,
intense so I escape in a tent,
camp out just to lamp out without any ill intent.

Since when,

did our past define us,
our destiny we manifest,
sometimes we have to remind us,
that we angels were Heaven sent,

that scent,
mixes with the wind,
sea breeze and coconut knees,
I’m ready when you are just say when,

since when,
were names so appropriate,
Scarlet’s a darling far from a harlot,
actually she’s abstaining,

since when,
were you so absent from class that,
you forgot the facts that,
all women are divine even when abstinent,

honestly,
I’d rather be,
laying in this hammock with a Goddess that’s abstinent,
than rubbing,
when clubbing,
wasting time with a drunken **** that will soon be a has been,

not even a faction,
not even a fact,
I want the real artist,
I don’t want a bad act,

I want laughter,
I want rushes,
and with her we get all that,
it all comes in bunches,

her inner instinct is distinct,
and much more than just what a hunch is,

what’s for lunch kid?

Let’s have a pic-nic this instant and then get down to business,
actually let’s scrap the deal and forget all about business,

let’s get up let’s get up let’s get up and ride like the wind,
let’s let God be our witness,

we’re in this,
no limits,
no gimmicks,
no scrimmage,
no sewage,
no sadness,
no losers,
so tragic,
the truth is,
abusers,
abuse but,
their tactics are madness,
so when they step,
we make them back track with,
apologies “So sorry please,
I didn’t mean to try to take,
all of your Light Energy.”,
ok I accept their pleas,
then tell the fickle fleas “Peace,
I think it’s time for you all to flee.”,

And their gone,
along the whispers in the wind,
and we’re in the hammock again,
Scarlet and I off the mark and still high,
gone like the wind our world continues to spin,
distracted by our addictions,
which is apparent from the scars we wear on the body we’re currently in,

with red eyes,
no bullseye,
no bullSh!t,
just true facts,

think about the best thing you could ever do in your life,
and rest assured we’ve done are doing or will do that.

All true in other words,
all true facts,

from Venus to Mars with,
a darling named Scarlet,
she leaves a print on my soul,
no crayon or marker,

no mark,
no start,
no finish,
no gimmicks,
just this,
life we live that we live to the limit,

with words that are all true,
in other words all true facts.

Vague,
yet exact,
we rush forward,
then step back,
heartbeats and feelings,
all part of our lives’ soundtrack,

Sounds rap,
upon the windows of my soul,
in the form of the flicker in her eyes,
which is a response to the moon’s glow,

and it is then that I know,

that she is a magical creature,
that I could write about on pages for ages,
but then I feel her beauty is so pure,
that I don’t even wish to display it on literary stages,

so I just stop writing,
and give one last look at her by candlelight,
I give thanks for her in this moment,
then I finish my rhyme and go outside into the tropical moon night…

∆ Aaron La Lux ∆
this girl got me high...
When I heard about it I was hurt, saddened, mortified.
I couldn't believe someone I remembered to be so full of life had died.
I remember playing D&D; for hours at a time.
I remember our characters always doing something out of line.
I remember your brother (as our DM) playing a little frog to help us get back on track.
I remember stealing only pens and that same little frog eraser at walmart, just to have security stop us outside and ask me for the nail polish back.
I remember our photo shoot, and the picture of us standing back to back.
And the one that looked like you were staring at my shirt, we all had a big laugh about that.
I remember when you and I became close, and were together almost everyday.
I remember how reckless we were, but wasn't that always our way?
I remember karaoke nights, going clubbing, parties at Casey's, and trips to Niagara Falls.
I remember through everything what a good friend you were to me, I remember that most of all.
I love you and miss you Jon.
I will always remember you.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
an old dream of mine
was to hit the
rave scene / clubbing
scene in ibiza...
never done so, i look at it
now like a massive sack
of *****, with little
white tadpoles swarming
around to a rhythmic
wanking.
Dear Johnny was a crazy guy
we used to have threesomes
with all his ***** girlfriends

We used to go clubbing nearly every night
we had all the drugs inside us we'd need
when out there we were like march hares on speed

We would fall into clubs
you know outers
like tripping *****
dance on the dance floor
like spasticated fools

Dancing crazy with the crazies
kicking out the beats
moving our leather clad feet

We had some cool times
making love and not war
yet now my friend is dead
and we don't do that anymore
I miss my dear mad march hare


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Drunk I can honestly say it has been rare
for me to be in this condition.
Enjoying a social drink causing no trouble
in moderation should be the rule.
There are those where ***** is an addiction
for them drink has no restriction!

Going out each week clubbing a regular ritual
start drinking before they leave.
Alcohol on board before they get to the clubs
already unsteady on their feet!
Some it would take little to start any trouble
many ending in dirt and rubble!

Unable to control emotions more likely the fist
as they cause injury and damage!
Inhibitions self respect are now long forgotten
vomiting and urinating on the streets.
Police are busy as their numbers ever deplete
every week it's the same repeat!

Many are drunk and oblivious of those around
in a deep unconsciousness mode.
Far too many ready to cause extreme violence
others die on their night out!
Casualty units are overflowing with drunks
who act no better than punks!

Liquor one of the most addictive potions
causing misery for all who succumb!
A social problem for the nation to confront
as young people see no harm!
Drinking more now than their parents do
that's the indicator things are blue.

Everything in moderation is my own motto
but life today has become a lotto!

The Foureyed Poet
Rebecca Rocker May 2017
I miss:
Daytime drinking and
Lazy mornings and
Student loans and
Living with friends and
Lecture theatres and
Essay deadlines and
Empty weekends and
Fancy dress and
Coffee on campus and
Weeknight clubbing and
Petty arguments and
Academic writing and
Walking into town and
****** TV and
A queue for the shower and
Un-ironed clothes and
Library fines and
Simpler times.
Khushi Charan Jun 2014
I'm alone
All alone
In this big gigantic world.
I'm afraid - whose gonna help me ?
In the world full of atrocious souls.

Alone I transverse all the way ,
But being contemplated seeing the horizon's play.
Even walking through the dark or a vale profound ,
Never got the ending neither diverged found.

There thought I and I conjectured ,
If started as a traveller ,
Destination was far ahead ,
As it was the starting of my  nature's 1st chapter.

Trees , Birds , Animals , Water
Screamed at me to get attuned with nature .
So , charismatic felt I ,
Having something in my pie.
But , with a sigh ,
Questioned I ,
" How will I ? "
As very much destroyer of nature was I.

Answered the nature -
" There's always a new start ,
Forget about the past ,
Enjoy till you last ."

In the laps of mother earth ,
Like family I began to feel.
Born again in a new birth ,
Like home in which I began to heel.

Enchanted was the air ,
Which I sensed there.
Filled with the essence of love  and harmony ,
Inspite of the world who played monopoly.

Laughing  , giggling , loving and caring,
Was so much fascinating to see the emotions clubbing.
Sharing what they thought was little extra ,
Living in harmony was their secret mantra.

Something magical went on and on ,
As I stayed there long and long.
Ever longing will be our bond ,
And will remain for ever long.

— The End —