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Nat Lipstadt May 2015
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...

that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows the when and why of differing
cuddling styles...

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows when to leave a man alone
alone in his man-mourning time,
distance needed,
letting his ex-rage dissipate or
watching his red and blue football
redefine ignominy...

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift,
she heartily agrees and is
reciprocity rewarded regularly
with hunk alerts of
"hey-check-him-out!"

that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
a tigress in the bedroom
she asking, try this, I'll love it,
served with a desert demo of awkward afterward,
his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who doesn't abhor partner silences,
comforting they are, in their own ways,
lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and
sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who lets the man roar, top of voice,
when imprisoned in car,  
his voice, un enfant terrible,
performs with Creedence Clearwater
a sing-a-long in traffic, asking
"Have you ever seen the rain"
while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt
Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E.

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
when it's pheromones  alternative mode day,
he celebrates Carole King day,
she demonstrates her cuddling abilities,
par excellence, with kisses and tissues

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...

a woman, plain confident in her abilities
no matter the situational status,
when confronted by
less-than-crazy-impetuous,
she smiling says "why not,"
when he proposes,
a movie and dinner in a fav haunt?
"plenty excellent enough" her answer,
spoke in a rising voice
full of unfeigned delight

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
accepting the unexpected airport embrace
on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays
with the aplomb of a well lived life's
long term sustainability perspective

when he kisses her hand for no reason,
while driving 75 miles per hour,
she only winces internally,
the other hand vise-grasping
the other door's handle,
who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie,
celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's
duality of strength and tenderness

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when on second date he proposes
a non-exclusive relationship,
confident enough to high-five respond,
and laugh about it,
seven years on

a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when she reads it,
analyzing the oeuvre as
"too **** personal and
as usual
too **** long"



that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her
cuddling abilities
in everything...
even a little occasional criticism
Entirely fictional, of course.

L.I.E. is the Lomg Island Expressway, a/k/a, the longest parking lot in the world.
Red and blue football team, the NY Giants.
Bathsheba Everdeen from Hardy's "Far From the Madding Crowd."
Alternate song choice, the Eagkes "Take It Easy."

Inspired by this:
http://www.nytimes.com/2015/05/10/style/modern-love-tinder-swiping-right-but-staying-put.html?rref=collection%2Fcolumn%2Fmodern-love&contentCollection;=style&action;=click&module;=NextInCollection®ion;=Footer&pgtype;=article
Ann M Johnson Nov 2013
I went to Justin Ploof and the Throwbacks Creedence Clearwater Reviva Tribute concert it was a lot of fun it made me feel like I was a Fortunate Son even though I'm a lady
I thought of flowers and psychedelic colors or maybe that was the effect of colorful lights on stage
I saw some people Down In The Corner break out in a dance at least it was peaceful not enraged
I think the crowd went a little crazy when the Bad Moon Rising played I was encouraged by some friends to get out of my seat when they pulled on my hands and we raised our hands to the band
The blast from the past took people on a trip to memory lane ending the rockumentary  with Proud Mary, I wish you could have been there my friends!
“Better than working in a factory.”
Truer words were never spoken while
Smoking a big fat *doobie.

For Doug Clifford & John Fogerty
It was a motto; an anthem.
Creedence always respected &
Loved the workingman.
Working stiffs know--
They know in their bellies--
That Republicans are good for the
Proles, here in Oceania,
Good in particular for the building trades.
I recall a distant mob of
Swarthy plumbers & carpenters,
Electricians & masons,
A toolshed parliament & all-purpose
Construction industry trade show;
So many, many Italian family
Weddings & funerals attended . . .
Sometimes my residual blue-collar instincts
Show up during the most inappropriate,
White-collar times. But I digress.

Which brings us down memory lane
This evening, as in “Good-
DEEVE-ning,”
Welcome aboard the Hitchcock Railroad.
(Stage whisper: If I have to explain it,
You’re outside my demographic age cohort,
And a member of a pointless throng of green,
Still-wet-behind-the-ears,
Presumptuous whippersnappers.)

Youthful Endeavors: Liposuction, Botox, Face-Lift - Green Bay WI
Youthful endeavors.com/ Our TEAM of Medical Aesthetics professionals will listen closely to understand your desires and needs while helping to select the best available treatment...($KA-CHING $KA-CHING! This poet refusing to die sick & diseased in the gutter, finally figuring out how to make poetry pay: that’s rightSell ads right in the middle of the frickin’ poem.)

And now that I have your attention:
Consider the current national stage:
A media circus, a minstrel & medicine show,
H.L. Mencken’s last *******,
Give us our daily bread.
It’s August 27th, 2016.
We’ve survived back-to-back
Republican-Democrat Political Party
U.S. Presidential nominating conventions.
I’ve caught you smack yabba-doo-dabba
In the middle of this Trump-Clinton
Full-press, traveling Reality Show Cavalcade.
In short, I’ve caught you at a good time,
Perhaps receptive, somewhat, for a:
Nixon Retrospective.*

I submit that without doubt,
The most stunningly democratic gesture
Of our generation to wit: replacing the
College deferment loophole with a
Blind, dumb-luck Vietnam Draft Lottery.
You can thank Richard Nixon,
Milhous of that name,
Our much maligned 37th President.
The only RESIGNEE in history,
Run outta town on a rail,
Convicted without bail.
Set adrift without sail.
(How you wish I’d **** this
Wretched rhyme scheme.)

Yes, you can thank Tricky **** for
Sticking it to the Bush Family
And their inherited-wealth neighbors--
Riparian souls one & all--along the quaint
Long Island Sound, New England seashore.
Surely my Brooklyn working class roots,
Demand I salute and snap to, attention.
Hail to the Chief, Babaloo!
Mr. Nixon still has my vote.
He tackled big problems: nuclear arms,
Diplomacy with China, Vietnam,
The Economy (can you frickin’ believe a
Republican got away with
Wage Freeze & Price Controls?)
Not to mention The Environment:
Slap! BAM! Soupy Sales:
“I told you not to mention *THAT!

But you knee-jerking libs out there,
Must remind yourselves that
President Nixon created the EPA &
Signed the Clean Air Act.
Think about it next time your
Nixon-Watergate gag reflex kicks in.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
thankfully my nostalgia concerning the late
20the century, coincides with my youth,
i mean youth, and that i also mean
****** idealism, when women were phantoms
and could never be girlfriends or
widows, or tears shed at the grave,
or nothing needy, nothing clinging,
nothing resembling mussels...
         i have to admit, i got ***** the moment
i detached myself from thinking about god...
the third partisan of the a priori
implant dictated by time & space...
            i didn't only shove my genitals into
her genitals, i shoved my ego into her
concept of god... and i subsequently became
a dimmed version of st. augustine...
              because that part of me didn't exactly
make confetti from her reasoning....
shoom!
          scalped me and dragged about 1000
tumbleweeds in its travels...
             the grand point? i didn't see
   a hairdresser, for the next never ever...
unless they do trim ***** to coincide with
      funny tattoos...
                     i don't know... maybe i was really
ultra-idealistic about women before i lost
my virginity, that after i lost it, after i lost
the foremost grace, i didn't learn the gorilla
impetus to keep one... let alone a harem...
   women really were fun and beautiful and
mysterious when i had them in my head...
      after the fact that i learned too late that they
also took a ****, i couldn't believe it!
        me, adapting to this? this fog-smeared
creature? yes, i can see my nihilism,
                    i''ve been burning that amber light
of a litre of whiskey per night for quiet some time,
drop by Collier Row's Tesco and look at the c.c.t.v.,
but then i put on some creedance clearwater revival
(not cool, aha, used the whole name, right?
cooler me saying c.c.r.? bukowski, lebowski...
same ****, different cover) -
   but i really did experience love... i know... huh ha...
did i recover from it? i'd probably have
recovered from 20 ****** over-doses...
        she got married, obviously...
  because women, don't idealise men...
  unless they meet the criteria of what men are supposed
to own... man idealising woman is a woman per se...
woman idealising man is a man contra per se...
                     after all, a man idealises
thinking about a temp. storage space for his
*******...
              which later turns into offspring...
   any woman could agree to being part of that phlegm
and being content at housing those "lucky" offshoots
in her kangaroo rucksack...
           it's as ugly as European thinking is going
to get, it can't get more scientific than this...
   i really do need a square on a rectangular canvas
to prompt a generous conversation about redifing
the point: we're not going back to the Milan school of
oil on canvas... or Rembrandt...
      it's not happening.
so creedance clearwater revival and graveyard train...
how we have bass guitar, and it's nibbling,
just nibbling... just grooving...
                  more like stalking but keep in mind
nibbling... and the there's no rhythm guitar,
because the guitar is just making accents,
the guitar is just twitching... i can't believe how
un-jazz comprehensive modern music is...
                   rhythm doesn't belong to the guitar,
there shouldn't be a rhythm guitar...
rhythm is all bass and drums...
          and i say that: because i hate metallica and how
i can never hear the bass guitar when i listen to them...
no wonder the original bassist got scribbled off...
   i love bass, don't you love bass?
something has to overpower the strength of drums
in modern music, something has to restrain
drums... needs to set the soothing rhythm,
rhythm guitar can't do that, you need the bass
guitar... bass guitar is, quiet frankly,
the most underrated instrument in modern composition...
techno techno! bongo bongo parties of
               berlusconi... bongo bongo... hatchet plus!
yes... silvio... we have the guillotine around here
too... choppy waters... plenty of sharks...
   enough to take a bite, though.
   and i thought naked lunch was bad...
well, i didn't, i didn't even want to plagiarise the Tristian
Tzara bound to it, reminiscent of cabaret voltaire.
huh?   ah yes... creedence clearwater revival,
and the bass on graveyard train, like water coming
down from a leaking tap...
  tum dum doom ta dollop... and it sounds nothing
like that... but something to allow the guitar what
it does best, sure, it joins in the rhythm section at
the beginning of the track... but then the guitar
sets up a momentum of creating accents,
  no rhythm = no solo... accents...
   little licks of being there... very ******* jazzy...
my my, so jazzy... and that's the safe ground to have
in music, retaining the jazz...
             otherwise you get into territory akin to
classical music's anithesis... the opposite of classical
music is... earthquakes... techno techno... drum drum...
drum drum... drum, drum... drum drum drum...
classical music was all about breathing...
  césar franck's les éolides (the breezes) -
and the antithesis? techno techno... muffed up techno:
ambient music... refrigerator sounds...
muffer up drums...
               don't get me wrong, i do listen to
e.g. man with no name...
         but it's rare to hear the jazzy side of things...
  it's just such a waste to see the bass guitar
not used as it should be, i.e. being over-powered
by drums... and using so much rhythm with
a guitar... having the rhythm and the solo...
  like squeezing a pair of testicles of a celibate monk...
god, that hush hush: tone down, tone, tone down,
tone, down... down... down...
             pst... kaput....
                                      i really did start talking
about something else, didn't i?
                this is new... digression as a column of
rhetorical perfection... fair enough having the rhetorical
skills, talking persuasively (well, just lying)
    about the same topic... but find me the rhetorician
than utilises digression, and forgets his talking
because he's changing subjects without really
    categorising them as being different....
    it's a trance state akin to eastern meditative practices...
digression as the most pleasing form of rhetoric,
teachers' oratory technique... not politicians' oratory...
   i never understood why digression was
not the foremost element of rhetoric...
                    political rhetoric is always about
ensuring people remember something,
they never do...
                        politicians drill in the points...
   and for some reason, they never talk to rhetorical
perfection, i.e. being able to digress...
                the most persuasive rhetoric is the rhetoric
with digression at its core...
                       or at least that's how i learned
english from a scotsman...
                                just blah blah blah blah
and at some point, there always will come an aha!
which is the next best thing to an eureka.
Sally A Bayan May 2017
(haikus)

eggs aren't done yet,
deep frying oil sizzles loud,
my eyes meet pale red,

i anxiously taste
Korean strawberries......but,
..........eagerly, i sniff,

home smells of....fried rice,
garlic...coffee...petrichor,
sweet scents...wafting 'round.


   (10w)

youTube plays
Moondance by Van Morrison
shoulders sway...fingers tap.

i glow...while singing
with Don Mclean's
Starry Starry Night.


strangers knock, looking for never-heards,
at six AM?
very extraordinary!

then guards
warn us of strangers,
a bit too late!

clatter of china says,
table's ready...
wait...
rain is pouring!

where're you,
Creedence Clearwater?
have you ever seen the rain?

gosh....the dogs again!
...chased away
both cat and kittens :-(


     (14 lines)

the table...now speaks loudly
of perfect sunny-side-ups
mushroom omelet with sliced sausages
there's toasted bread......fried rice,
and fried plantain bananas, too,
all steaming hot......the aroma
......of arabica........brewing...
the many unexpected moments
that keep popping out of the blue
create a palette of bright colors
and moods for this new day...
i await more of these "unexpecteds,"
this  flow of eclectic poetry
really knocks me off my feet :))


Sally


Copyright April 23, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
(one Sunday morning in April)
Geovanni Alfaro Jan 2013
JEFF the Brotherhood, Metric, and Phantogram
FIDLAR, The Broken Social Scene, The Zac Brown Band

King Khan and the Barbeque Show,
Matt and Kim, Vampire Weekend, Creedence Clearwater Revival.
Jimi Hendrix, The Flaming Lips, Artic Monkeys
Florence + the Machine
Death Cab for Cutie, Bon Iver, Band of Horses, Parlovr

Kings of Leon, The Strokes, Yellow Ostrich, Cage the Elephant
*** Pistols, The Ramones, Red Hot Chili Peppers,
Bob Dylan

Young the Giant, The **, Ugly Casanova,
Modest Mouse, The Doors
Coldplay, the Beatles, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones

Nirvana, Foo Fighters, Smashing Pumpkins
Titus Andronicus, Bob Marley
Queens of the Stone Age, Mana, The White Stripes:
all gnarly
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2016
i was eating a pepperoni pizza today,
and took a salty tongue into the night,
£270 on my bank account - great stuff -
took five quid out, felt like buying four
oranjeboom reds at 8.5% each,
instead bought two, and
perrier carbonated glass-bottled water...
god the thirst in this cement sahara...

the best transition accompanying drinking
and listening to music comes
from the heights of reggae to creedence clearwater
revival... no, not the eagle, not Leonard the skin-head
with an 'ard on... creedence... lebowski who
was bukowski's posthumous alter-ego...
so i did a galileo while drinking,
the light on my side-table by the bed light
glowed, put my sunglasses on...
the stars disappeared and the planets appeared...
oddly enough, as is usual the case of
counter-intuitive matters when looking
at astronomical geographies...
mars far left... venus in the middle,
and jupiter the biggest and therefore the brightest
far right...
i worked it out against linear tactics...
the distance of the earth from venus doesn't
make a difference with the distance from mars,
but the distance of mars from jupiter is greater,
see you in 100 years to prove the point
and whether it matches up to HARD, NECESSARY,
PROOFS... LIKE MAINTENANCE ***...
******* a girl with a really really exaggerated
libido, having to wear a ****** while she was
on her period, in the toilet and she bewildered
saying: 'most guys don't dig the female bits...'
hell... i'd do necrophilia...
shame the relationship turned to a sour toast with her,
shame, really... really really.
oh yeah, after smashing that £600 martin & co.
guitar to celebrate valentines day
(
chłopiec z gitarą był by dla mnie parą
my grandmother used to sing...
well... sorry to disappoint,
i had her rastafarian shoelaces for
a pin-up belt to walk and play, or simply
stand still and note string twangs...
*była giiitara... ni ma giiitary
...)
and bought myself a drum-kit:
well... just my finger-drumming antics
on my legs;
or as a wise man said: **** her, leave the rest
for a backward trek into life
without maps but only premonitions.
A Four day concert, created by Roberts, Rosenman,  Kornfeld, and Lang
Was originally supposed be a three-day  music festival, and up it sprang

But the citizens of citizens of Wallkill, N.Y. did not want their nice quiet town filled
With drugged up hippies that would overrun, and with this idea they were not thrilled

With many battles and protests, Wallkill passed a law on July 2, 1969 banning
The would be concert from going forward leaving the town quite less enchanting

Almost not getting off the ground, hippies all over demanding refunds for their tickets
Stepping forward, Max Yasgur offered his 600-acre dairy farm so no one would picket

The new location for the Woodstock Festival would be Bethel, New York
No one from the other town would not have complaints or come uncorked

Despite the many problems of people threatening to quit
Woodstock got off the ground despite things still being chit

This concert was poorly planned with two major setbacks, as news spread that it was free
There were congestion of cars that policeman had to turn away, for as far as one could see

Organizers lost huge amounts of money while hippies walked through gates without paying
But it was estimated that 500,000 people made it to the concert and they came in swaying

The music seemed to play non-stop as people sat and listened and some would play
It was very muddy from all the rain of what it did from much of the concert everyday

Listening to greats such as Creedence Clearwater Revival, Santana, Jimi Hendrix, Sweetwater
Can’t forget, Grateful Dead, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, Jefferson Airplane and Ten Years After

The concert ended and picking up the pieces began, that wasn't just the trash that was left behind
It was the lawsuits that many filed against the organizers since beginning to end put many in a bind

The greatest music festival in history later put to a movie that is divine
Something that will forever be talked about from the summer of 1969

Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
oh hell, every time i write some embarrassing a day prior, i turn into honour killing from Pakistan enveloped by shame... 'what the hell did i write last night? i can't remember, but i know for sure that i didn't roll down the stairs or **** in a phonebox'. well, i could sit here romanticising like Marcel Schwob, or just dig into like Marquis the Sade... honestly and oddly enough the latter did give me an *******, and he was half-the-pervert that everyone deemed him to be, flashing his buttocks from the Bastille... his uncle abbé de Sadé (i love to put that accent in on purpose - sounds better to me, less boorish) - and yes, Creedence Clearwater Revival does more justice to the harmonica on graveyard train than Bob Dylan and **** Jagger put together... it's just there, and it ain't it's because it's there that makes it... ha ha... groovy - maybe that's why they spared him from the guillotine, in that he wrote more of his exploits as wished to be done, and of the actual exploits too many were hidden in his blabbering prose undone; ****** is by far his greatest work.

i told you the black and red Oranjeboom is a trip, they used to sell it at 8.5%, now they dropped it to 7.5... that beer can get you crazy in nanoseconds, quicker than a formula 1 crown jewel of a Mercedes-Benz, i'm serious, the ****'s lethal - you drink with me you'll be talking l.s.d., you'll end up a Mongol somewhere in Siberia, stark naked in minus forty saying the words: 'where's my umbrella? where's my umbrella?', indeed on repeat... 'and that yak? i was riding a yak... where's the yak?' we have European bisons to await you colonel... 'about time, i was waiting for a bison... isn't that the place where storks migrate to to make butter over the summer? and the Jews hid when the Black Plague was sweeping across Europe leaving them immune in the vicinity of Cracow?' yes it was, Herr Mascherschtic-Messerschmitt -
'who's on the oboe? and the soloist violinist?' we don't know, working it out, 'you better, because i don't really long for a drum-beat of knocking two stones together to spark anything but fire, rather, a conversation; 40 days in the desert with Jesus trying to relocate the Jews to Goa worked out so splendid that they moved North, started speaking riddle Hebrew that's Yiddish and followed suit with ****** being gassed, but instead of trenches, death chambers - people tend to forget he was himself gassed and dated Eva a Jewess... no far right assimilation, i spoke with a grandpa that asked for sweets from an SS-man and a great-grandmother who fed her daughter opiates to hush her on the eastern front so she wouldn't cry - sometimes stating a self-consciousness detached from thinking (the inhibitor of existence) is as random as a lottery - because it's just that, thought is an inhibitor of existence, being is an exhibitor of the (sic) stated - oh please don't read me if you're into ******, i'm with the bookworms and freaks, premature ejaculators and whatnot, go eat a ******* macaroon in Morocco or something - of all the admirable circumstances worthy a stage thinking isn't really allowed, it's not exactly glorified, in two sentences:
- *i thought about it
             (how two pronouns
                                               interact without Freud,
                                               or meet, or are the proton i
                                               neutrons thought about
                                               and the electrons it)...
it's a permanent duality of expressing something and anything,
we need the first person, the eyes give it away,
but in the end we're either touching an axe to chop
down a tree or attaching ourselves to a detachment of
chopping the tree down for the Freudian third it -
it's no longer a game of 'you're it!' tagging of
the kindergarten game but a work of fiction, transitions
like that must be painful - third person narratives are
generally conceived from being lazy in the first person,
how many people do you actually need to **** the poet off?
film credits: and it's a long list, mind you.
oh yeah, that word: dzwiękać - it's about making 0.1% of
a Mozart symphony with two stones smacked against
each other for what the feet used to do, a drumbeat,
it's not exactly an act of Prometheus' Odyssey into
the first glimpses of chemistry -
alternatively?
- i am it / or some alternative to something even more alternative,
  in the French school of thought dubbed deconstructionism
  that's also a blah blah reduction,
  Bruce Springsteen and Frank Sinclair, a slum-dunk
  by the Lakers - it's still supposed to mean that i intended
  the phonetic encryption, i visualised nothing for
  you to follow-up on, sounds, poetry isn't cartoon,
  the harsh reality of having to read the Mandala of
  mouth expressions without, eye, eyebrows or cheeks
  or chin - ends up being dentistry when you want to
  say a but end up adding a            h     while
  the dentist inserts a blunt object into your mouth for
  an ah (be my guest, macron or umlaut depending
  on the volume of your lungs added to the a for reasons
  of reality's prolonging the seance of rotten teeth).
what i meant was the notion that thought is a different
type of being, or expression of out of every instance -
thinking too much won't grant you access to
people who say: 'are bored with their *** life. especially
gay men, who 'see *** as something you have to do
while on drugs'. so once **** no reassurance with
forever ****? **** it! could have given it a one-over
back when i didn't have a monkish demur.
well i can admit i'm jealous, but i just remember *******
before puberty and feeling the muscle sensation and
seeing no *****, aged 8 - the ******* help, and incubator
for all that raging monotheistic operatic harem wanton -
it's still a balancing act writing a sentence,
you are basically juggling two words, both are pronouns -
you throw a boomerang, you throw it as yourself
and expect it to come back as yourself,
pristine, juvenile, ******, intact with a pride of being
a person not influenced by others... the origin of
Columbus... it doesn't work like that,
the boomerang ends up like a windscreen with
several bugs attacked to it, bugs like Kant, like Heidegger,
whoever... whatever, free-love **** *** is overrated for me,
the ******* build-up and the flashing lights and whatnot,
i approach *** like a lumberjack a tree,
axe, tree, chop chop, tree falls... i'm out after an
hour having paid £110 for the pleasure... so you can take
your little feminism into the annals for these free-love
festivals (burning man in Nevada, killing kittens
in the hamptons etc.), preach there, leave me and my loser
****** high libido crew in the shadow of the crucifix -
judgemental ******* - i never expected so much stigma for
giving an ****** that i paid for to give, it's like an
Albert Camus novel, or worse, his life,
paid for a train ticket but decided to travel to the desired
destination by car, dead in a car-wreck - Irony with an ism.
Jonny Angel Feb 2014
We walk like vapor-genies
in old growth forests,
ghostlike & elegant,
we move
like true fairytales,
gnomes whittle the way
for us
past exploding ferns.

It’s true,
we have seen the rain
coming down in torrents
along blue ridge trails,
fallen logs strewn about
like matchsticks,
fungi licks our shins
while lightning cracks
thunder like bullwhips.
I love moments like that…….
I hear Creedence every time we go.

And didn’t you know dear friends,
it’s spiritual medicine
for restless souls,
like my fellow companions & me.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
talking exhaust writing, talking leaves no impetus to write,
talking is like staring into a closet or a boiler room,
there are fumes of missed chances, or of shadowy skeletons
asking for a revision of the social etiquette no made:
what is the quasi-dialectics modern society prescribes
nudging in a lie with a lie followed by another lie?
whatever the defining term, it only prescribes a loss of furthering
discussion, empowering this etiquette with solipsism;
or there this overly psychologised parent thesis,
this morbidity of the lost beauty of language, fixated
on guarantees of never being undermined - it stinks of
excluding all other uses of language, or it simply tries to
incorporate them under the banner that history, poetry, philosophy,
physics can be psychologised into one affordable use of language,
which is why when i write psychological words i am greatly pained,
e.g.:

a bit like probing someone’s subconscious for a quick
memory stimulant: in a shop two friends
passed the isles,
the music shop was blasting creedence clearwater revival...
with the song cotton fields being used
as the adequate prop for the experiment...
when i was a little bitty baby
my mama would rock me in the cradle,
in them old cotton fields back home;
it was down in louisiana
just about a mile from texarkana,
in them old cotton fields back home -*
buzzing, looking for dvds of gone girl and some science fiction
movie...
the music in the background wasn’t discussed...
but the revival of the vinyls in a corner was admired...
34 quid for the beatles’ white album... *******...
and cornershops’ brimful of asha lazy instrument at 70£...
then some tea and café awkward flirtation...
then to the pub!
two pints down the gob and the quizzical stutter gone...
the sort that means you thought for very long
and didn’t speak to someone for a long time...
nerves of caffeine and nicotine with the boogie wagon...
so yeah... prodding memory in the subconscious
as short-term, meaning long-term in the waking hour defines
the personality among other faculties of the membered brain,
whether that’s liver, kidney or lung... the brain troops
them into the body on the northern korean march sport of the army...
some say the chinese will come with a pigeon or a crane strut...
no geese in pseudo-hindu affiliations of order...
memory and the third party from sleep to wake?
how many dreams could you actually remember with the alarm clock ringing?
about none...
i wake without the alarm clock... and when waking i have a strange
dream in the 5 minutes of the snooze button imaginarily pressed...
the general anaesthetic isn’t death... because under general anaesthetic
you don’t actually dream... it’s chemical not even remotely natural.
so that part where i exclaimed: to the pub!
some landscapist on the wall with full biography lamenting
the curses of the french revolution and how the aristocracy suffered
with the new aristocracy of the newly rich... the merchants
the shoelace tiers... the cobblers and the chieftains of the cooking ***,
‘yeah, chicken hearts in onion sauce have the consistency of squid rings,’
and so... in the olden thou art a battered beetroot cheek...
this landscapist wrote four clauses about ol’ *** village known today
as gidea park... he swore that he noticed chalky graffiti
of vituperativeness... he said: no chore of violence was revealed,
since the graffiti was sworn as an oath to dig into the coal mines of melancholic bile
and simply vandalise the new aristocrats’ possessions
with words of cursing chiseled in by chalk, of the newly rich
who never passed their gains through blood but rather through molten iron or sporty leather - but you know what they say:
the merchant of mecca dies... the blood heirs become assassinated
and the four caliphs (the rashidun) emerge.
only poets have the courage to return to the beginnings
of language acquisition - they dare to mishandle language
and by mishandling it dare to usurp prosaic grammar structures,
only poets have the courage to return to the beginnings
of language acquisition, singing the alphabet:
a b c d e f g... h i j... k... el em en l o p... q r s... t u v... w x blah blah z (
with a quasi incy wincy spider timing).
that's what i mean! i hate psychologism and psychological
words in general, they literally domineer people,
it's like the jungian theory of the collective unconscious...
it's like we're supposed to remember the archetypes...
but the unconscious has no memory-content...
given the fact that the unconscious is pure imagination...
since we dream... i don't know how we remember dreams...
but it's hardly in our sleep but upon waking...
a thin red line though... 'tshh... mayday mayday...
boeing 747 flight no. 209zt is going to crash...
black box on the ready, over and out... tshh,'
unless the memory function in the unconscious is to
remember the image sequence that are dreams
upon waking... thin red line though...
oh no... how did i get tangled in this psychology *******
once again?!
unwind! i walked home in the cool autumn
wearing just a shirt...
down a very english road of haunted houses of satiated
materialism... the colour patterns of flowers
still not stampeded by winter in blush violet and indigo...
amorous chequers of flamingos and oranges...
and the sunset with a 10 - 1 bet against it...
with the moon just behind the corner of the sky
looming hazes of cloudy cider sky of the northern dark.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
like... flappy flappy pigeon imitate penguin go shoeshine your ***? like that? i don't even know whether pigeons find penguins to be more pathetic, or whether penguins find pigeons more pathetic... so one has the sky, the other the ocean... it's hardly an argument for either to be staged with a mediator; let alone a matador.

pokraka... (singular),
pokraki* (plural)...
             don't know, i'm not exactly
baby-faced pristine...
         but i don't even know where
that word comes from,
perhaps the riddle of the crow and
the writing desk... why is it that
the crow is writing desk?
          the crow stoops on earth hunched?
almost hunchback?
       maybe that?
     don't know, these fellas are doing
my slating (roof) and i'm autistic imitating
cat tactics of hidig, because i like the drunk
that i am to be hidden, and only seen
in between walls that can hear...
   or apparently but not really so...
    metaphysical question...
why is it that when you encode scratched compact
discs into mp3 form on an iPod
the product breaks? too much l.s.d.?
                 i swear to god, but you trasnslaste
a compact disk into software (it is hardware,
however you think about it; with no alternatives)
         it can **** up the hardware...
                 you have a scratched c.d.,
you translate it into a software package to your
computer, then your translate the "malware",
o.k. a scratched c.d. is literally malware,
                 on the topic of iPods...
                you can **** up your iPod if you include
scratched c.d. material... like itchy-itchy vinyl guys
doing hip-hop...
        but i have this sansa mp3 player,
and i have scratched c.d. on it, and it keeps working...
but the iPod i once owned? broken...
or should i say "broken"?
     no, literally broken...
          i picture prefect a cat's face and then
disappear when the builders arrive...
most of the time i'm a person that doesn't require
the chance exposure of my own face...
    here's to looking at brick walls, and clouds,
and drainage depots on the pave...
      to be writing poetry will eventually drive
your sorry *** into the ground and tell you:
why couldn't you become a crane-driver?
          as a fraction of a billion exemplum similis?
i don't know;
               why did you get plastic surgery?
i know... similis exemplar... that's a variant on the whole
topic.
                 why marvin gaye and the creedence clearwater
revival cover?
           i apparently don't know any latin,
and i find that stating this fact: i'm no big fan of
some grammar school rubric of "correct": toward
the status of ontologically proof riddled,
   correct.
                      *****'s here, coca is here,
sunshine (ugh) is here...
                            what else could you want?
only the etymological disinterest of the word pokraka,
derivative? krók (crow)...
         given the prefix po- (after) -
            well... imitating crow, or after the crow...
                           unto the priest... after all: crows are
symbolic of the priestly-caste in europe...
      also the opposite of onomatopoeic strain toward exactnes:
kra kra... what the crow breathes...
hardly a kraken, but almost... thus po- + -krók:
     i.e. after the crow... inherently so.
I thought I was beaten,
deflated, despised
as words left me wounded
and kicked at my pride
I will not give creedence
to cruel, callous lies
and bold as a phoenix
from your ashes I'll rise.
Thankyou all for your support today, it has meant so much to me and has buoyed me up from the depths. To realise I have such wonderful friends here is truly a gift. You are my blessings, each of you....... Loghain who??? **
Attacking the blaze with a 'Texaco Fire Truck'
Tonka Tractors with plastic Soldiers on guard
Hippie high schoolers heading for home with -
Creedence Clearwater Revival on their car radios
Running through Da Nang with a stick , drinking Tang
with my heroes , adjusting the rabbit ears for Captain
Kangaroo* ...
Copyright July 5 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i never understood why people have to treat all
writing as raw: crude oil, for example,
and never the refined product -
far from championing several books,
i like the pendulum of power having read them
reside with me, like any literary critic:
who primarily dissuades someone from
grabbing the ******* / reins, as it were -
there's a problem, but thinking about it
gives no solution, because, as most people realise
that thinking is, essentially, a luxury,
a comfort zone, mostly eradicated by
quasi-Buddhism of the west: mindfulness,
tech detox, you name it... i treat thinking
like i might do sitting on a sofa - it's not that
we're not thinking, it's the notion that thinking
somehow solves all the awkward verb ventures
by primarily being occupied with nouns -
apparently no one has heard of day-dreaming
and said: thinking coagulates all the cognitive
faculties together, and if you can escape daydreaming
Freud will catch you - thus said:
never trust an Egyptian with a triangle and a square...
bad move... you have to realise the audaciousness
of man to bring forth a wrath of that magnitude
that you end up either lying about it,
putting on the glove of Coptic Christianity and
later Islam... or accepting it as, well: given
the timescale and 24 hour north east west south
relevance of being hooked like on ******
the back-burner (sort of speak) and imitate
******* strokes standing-up beside the wailing wall...
   usher in the time-bomb - spatially we're
used to the hydrogen mushroom, now the advent
of the time-bomb of ageing Japan and ****-soaked
Brits gagging for some humanity -
             as of now, the state robs... it doesn't provide,
it robs.
              there are problems and i have no solution,
the **** it attitude works, if your hero is
some *** by the name of Diogenes:
                oddly enough the Nazarene did nothing
spectacular - this Greek *** was bothered by
fashionable ladies sitting in his kennel urn with dogs,
that Jewish guy? a *** that bothers others,
well... wayward fro, toward'e Golgotha -
or how English was written ridiculously without
diacritic marks, perpetuated, oddly enough,
by trademark grammaclasm (oh sure,
they still bend their knees at the sight of an icon,
sharing indulgence with the cardinals accordingly
in Russian, rev. simony and i too think
Ezra was justifiably a grand economist at heart) -
i just don't understand how people expect
all written material to be based upon easy arithmetic,
there's more arithmetic involved in putting
a      r     i     θ      m     e       t      i      c
together than it is putting
1     18    9     6    13      5      20    9      3
and he ****** them for gematria -
oddly a ridiculous gematria result, let's say
$6,000,000,000 doesn't translate as Napoleon,
a rich chum of a chimp cross-dressing in a shopping-mall...
so they should have been looking at grammar
than inventing this "magic" calculator -
anything to do with the above in bold?
   both θ (theta)    and φ (phi) have the numerical
value of 6 - using the PLAIN LATIN TEXT.
anyone can reach up to this level of bog stench -
          what, the, hell, is, going, on?!
oh, i assure you, i'm actually aware of myself
writing this, i'm not that (much) hooked on the topic,
i can retract and tell you: just a passing fancy -
topically a rainbow, silver for the magpie's jealousy,
the myth goes: magpies are the werewolves of the sky,
although they ****** a greedy glee sparkle at
a silver spoon: i might as well have written
a Persian proverb having written that...
with me there this... as already written,
and a whiskey sharpshooter and creedence clearwater
revival... i'm not bothered about someone claiming
this to be theirs... all i see is puppet strings attached
to their tongues... waggle waggle yeah,
       waggle waggle blah...
                                               lies have short legs,
or let's say: stumps for legs...
                                                   lying
is the moral equivalent of dwarfism - short
tempered asking(s) for wants of similar literary
gifts / curses - assuredly - i don't know why people
want most of anyone's writing output to not lick
something akin to J. Joyce's Finnegans Wake -
and not expect someone having read such a feast
to not feel inclined to remember it, in turn,
by fleeing from conventional blockbuster
ex narrator - i wasn't even planning to write
a self-help book, or instruction manuals for Ikea
to assemble a table... you got the map,
but you don't have a compass... well... better sit it out
till sunset to know where the west is...
                          any help from Copernican imagery,
         i wouldn't expect... having an image of
our gentle blue orb will not save you from the 2 dimensional
representation of where you need to go;
conclusively? con ex narrator? ex personae: thespian
                                                                         dabbling.
If you were a fish,
I'd want you to swim,
if you were a dish,
I'd want to serve you to him,
If you were a cat,
I'd want you to be free
and if you're life is sad,
I'd want you to be me,

It's like cascading falls,
the way life does go
we're there for a moment,
then we go with the flow,

And if I could be there waiting
To throw you a rope,
I'd wait outside your work
to bring you free cigarettes and dope,

And if I could say everything,
in one little poem,
I'd really want to stress,
that you should never give up hope,

'Cause it's pretty evident,
when seeing the end,
that most get what they want,
and the other's wants tend to bend,

Even if your intentions
are frowned upon by other people,
dope heads still get dope,
even though it is illegal,

I hope those who try
to stop people from doing what they want,
figure out over time,
why they don't have what they want,

and the whole world learns
what you do is what you get,
then moves on,
now knowing how to be peaceful,

Politics,
Polite *****,
standing in a circle-
-****-ing out a ****
****-a-doodle, thinking they all rock

Hopefully they learn
that when you work for the people,
people look back in respect,
and sometimes give what they've been wanting
trying to get by being crooked being evil,

Can I give my sentiments for the right wing?
made up of so many people?
What harm does it do to you?
if people gather under trees or steeple?
do you have to be so feeble?
closed-minded, accidentally evil?

Left wing seems alright,
they sound good to a certain point
but if it was true don't you think
they'd vote no on certain points?

And the Ch*istians moan and cringe,
At perceived evil we have within,
but if they were usually right,
come and show us all the light,

The stoners and they're ***,
stuff they like quite a lot,
when do we admit they're right
when they say "What's so important
that we can't get ****** tonight?"

And the drug users,
though some are stereotype,
when do the rest of us realize
eating anything is a right?

When would we give creedence?
to de-regulation which could free us
which is halted by those who want to defeat us
saying fear each other's freedom

And when will we realize
that when two conflicting views collide
there's another place, another time,
where they both could work just fine

Boiled to generalizations
when you react to the sins of other nations,
people or their relations,
when you apply regulations,
to discourage a practice
and show dispatience,
you usually have to hurt the other person
to get this "justice" type sensation
causing you to "sin"
tempting others to lost their patience
sin against you
pyramid scheme
there's a better way
if you say no
and leave people alone
you don't have to get your hands *****
forgive and you'd be worthy
of forgiveness of yourself
and you won't pass on this disease that's *****
and a small portion of the world moves on
even if it's only you,
and says "I saw sin"
"and I let it die so it didn't get to you"
wordvango Jul 2015
make it to 2060
I can't get there so
can I perchance feel free to play the
hell out of cream,
Steppenwolf makes me
as does Creedence and Who
along with Ms. Janis,
give my blues inspired
hallucinations, Youtube,
Light my Fire with my brother Jim
Play the **** outta the star spangled banner
the KING of guitar,
echo loudly :
If life is eternal the sixties best are
Allison Baxter Jul 2017
She wore a weak leg,
two hands of grievance
That would often beg
Baptists bowl creedence

Slept with the sons,
whispered to the daughters
Voices like kitchen crumbs
Mumbles I never bothered

Her voice carried
In a clammy palm
That at once buried
An ancestor embalmed

Many spectators to this
This great deterioration
Out of her mouth a hiss
I hold none, no adoration

To her I owe
Many things unsaid
We live in a shivered home
In hallways she treads

But none the less
She is my lady
My skull hers to caress
My only, lovely baby
KV Srikanth Apr 2021
CCR
Fogerty brothers
Join together
Rhythm Guitar the elder
Lyrics Voice and Lead the other

7 albums
Lyrics and tune
Not dated till date
When lonely  your comfort mate

Cook and Clifford
Bass and Drums
Joined the band
When they were very young


Blues and Country
Vocal and Political
Rivers Bayous and Wars
They sang em all


Every song a classic
Orchestration simplistic
Consistent pattern of their music
Path of the band highly individualistic
Simplicity the key to brilliance
No one followed it more than Creedence

Creedence named after a friend
Clearwater a commercial for Olympia Beer
Revival the 4 band members oath of  renewal

Songs about the war
Fought at Vietnam
Got them name and fame
International Rock band they became

Played at Woodstock

Hall of famers
Influenced future players

Differences cropped
Regarding the direction
Of the bands path
John carried the band
Others wanted their hand

Uneasy truce
Kept them glued
Mardi Gras
Lacked the class

Sign off album
Failed audience expectation
Bad blood broke the band
Never to perform again

Record company
All about the money
Label fantasy
Brought them to reality

5 songs to hit number 2
Album placed 500 weeks on the charts
Added more to their records
Reached the position
Aspired by everyone
Biggest Band in the World
Alone at the top
Next step downfall


Albums of the century
Every Album included
Songs of the Century
Also picked by many

Most DJed band in history
Playing as Soundtrack
In Hollywood films compulsory
Playing across Colleges and Universities
Mystic in their music
Reason for their longevity


Self titled album
Sold Platinum
Bayou Country
With Proud Mary
Record stores went dry
Green River
Second in the same year
Critical and commercial success
Churning out hits now just a process
Willie and the poor boys
Did the trick with a Hatrick
No one more prolific
In music & lyric
Cosmo's Factory
Anti Vietnam war battle cry
Sales skyrocketing
Platinums no more limiting
Pendulum a few months later
Last performance together
All original no cover
Goodbye CCR forever
KV Srikanth Mar 2021
The Beatles
with their Staple
Abbey road and Apple
Took the world by storm
Listening to them became a norm

Allman brothers
With or without Duanne
Greatest guitarist of all time
Second In that line
Every chord and riff
Rock music bliss

Jethrotull farmers name
Century later adopted the same
Progressive rock band
From England
Worldwide name and fame

Grateful dead a lifestyle
Following them a matter of pride
Defenition of Counterculture
Ken Kesey and Acid trips
Different music  at different gigs
Live concerts filled the year
From the Vaults into the Hearts

Every fans first doorway
Plant and Page gifted
Song of the century
Rendered with no hurry
The Stairway to heaven
Rock music destination
Nine Albums of Led Zeppelin

Music band called
Themselves The Band
Cover of Time Magazine
Represented  of the Rock Scene
Last Waltz on Thanksgiving
Their Music still ringing

Santana name and Band
Guitar his magic wand
Black magic woman
The world fell for that one
Added the Mexican blend
Helped create A legend

John Mayall ear for music
Matched ear for talent
Godfather of future legends
In his line up at the same time

Walt Becker and Donald Fagen
Rock and Jazz band
Steely Dan
Used Sessions musicians
A  musical revolution
Antiheroes of the Seventies
Christened by the Rolling stone magazine
Two against nature
Album of the year
Grammy in Order

Slow hand and Eric Clapton
Names dont go hand in hand
Greatest guitarist of the generation
Clapton is God
Phrase invented
Headlined many a group
Blind Faith Cream to name a few

Traffic Quatret
Band dissolved
Music evolved
Break up in line up
No low in music flow
Winwood and Capaldi in tow

Emerson lake and Palmer
Formerly of The Nice King Crimson and Atomic Rooster
Isle of Wight
Showcased their might
Together for the decade
Their albums  the most bootlegged

No Record collection devoid
The Albums of Pink Floyd
Every Studio Albums sold
Multiple platinum to behold
Live Concerts and Lighting
Divine in music and vision
Most popular in Music history
Their position in the charts
Tells the story
Made their date with history
Berlin wall a sign of division
Their song the Anthem of Unification
Popularity and longevity
A very few can hope
Change of tastes in
Generations fewer can cope

Creedence clearwater revival
John Fogerty and his brother
Joined hands with two other
War in Vietnam
Protesting in Album form
Words mightier than Swords
Lyrics heightened Crisis
Washington's biggest
Musical nemesis

Crosby Stills Nash and Young
All star team of talents
That sung
Dallas Taylor on the Drums
Dream team of Music
Created Classics

Justin Hayward and his Flute
Together formed the Moody blues
Anyone in love and suffering
Found their feelings expressed in
Nights in white Satin
Played in every household
Across the Globe

Best Drummer seated
Difference between two beats
The fastest
Keith Moon and The Who
Loudest Band in history
Equipment destroyed after
A new legacy
Greatest singer in Daltery
Greatest Bassist in Entwhistle
Lost Moon lost their muscle

Rainbow theater Concert
Earned them the Guinness record
Globes loudest band
Psychedelic and Progressive
For decades active
100 million records worldwide
Gods of heavy metal
The pride for any record label
The music of Deep Purple

The power trio
Formed in Ontario
Rush the band
Complex and fantasy
Hand in hand
Every member A winner
Every poll on Every Book
Proficient with Instrument
Volume of their talent
Topped the charts
Captured hearts
Active for  years
Till tragedy stuck Peart

Jefferson Airplane
Before name change
Summer of love
Defined by
Surrealistic Pillow
Headlined Woodstock
And Montery pop
Every list by Rolling Stone magazine
Names carved for eternity

Uriah Heep
Fictional in Copperfield
Written by Dickens
Real in music
Formed in England
5 decades and 24 Albums
Strived for originality
Showcased their capability
Arena sized stadiums
Still filled to capacity
45 million records
Enduring popularity

Eagles from California
Critical and Commercial
Success in their formula
Top of the Charts and Grammy Awards
Back to back
Very few can hope for

Drummer and Bassist
Names combined
To name the band
Fleetwood Mac
Albums and Singles
Topped the Charts
Both sides of the Atlantic
Covers of their songs
Made many Superstars
Performed together on the occasion
Of the inauguration of
President Bill Clinton


Jim Morrison the lizard king
freedom for humanity his dream
Voice and rendition a class apart
Every song an anthem
Kindred spirit at the very core
With Ray Robbie and John formed The Doors
Richard Grahn Apr 2017
A subtle breeze both gentle and clean
Wafts across the chimney peaks
A sweet wet mist fills the humid air
Sporadic clouds grow in stately fair
Little drizzles in blue sky and sun
This casual dance is all the fun
I'm a dancing fool, you can be too
We can play that game
Just swimming in the rain

*“I want to know, have you ever seen the rain comin’ down on a sunny day?” –  Creedence Clearwater Revival
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
having studied chemistry, i was already predisposed to write in the vein of philosophy, i could never manage to retain a pure humanism, of, say, a novel; how can one truly return to pure humanism of a novel once the shackles of science have been thrown onto a mind? at least philosophy allows a buffer zone between the sciences and the humanities; yet only in poetry is the most perfect depiction of man, in that poetry for all its woes, is but a pristine self-portrait of man: man, ex impromptu; and to add to this: lyricists are paupers in the poetry community, ever rigidity to write identifiable "poetry", as taught by english teachers, mindful of techniques and an arithmetic rigidity is a waste of time... a stake tartar is not a stake tartar if the meat has been cooked... the only poetry that is worth is seemingly mindless (madness, indeed, but there's method to it analogy), yet what it isn't is a rigid rubric; let us not be so predictable as to orientate our writing to be recited / studied in an english class, filled with 16 year olds.

it is strange to keep a memory of a thought,
but i have this most pristine bloom of
memory from a mere thought -
a question, what will be the last song i will
listen to, before i die?
  it was autumn, i just returned from
Ypres, and had just finished reading
dostoevsky's crime & punishment -
it was autumn, the fallen leaves were
scribbling themselves onto the pavement
with a rustic shuffle, while the wind played
the hand holding a quill -
          and that internalised question has
stuck with me, ever since,
i must have been in my teens.
          it must be noted, though,
he was right... art is degraded
                while science is overestimated -
which shows in pop culture -
           the popularisation of science is
abhorring, it's actually sickly -
a ******* gangrene on common sense...
        because these days,
no one will cite a milton, or an ezra pound,
what will be cited is
             a theory, without a name of
origin. i fear that the people who cite science
the most, who have to lean on
the crutch of science, are the least read
people in the world, i.e.
pompous barons of reading a blank page,
and now they want applause and
the word: encore! encore!
                  sure, they'll get an encore,
a baboon's **** and a camel spitting in their
faces.
           it would seem that when you
truly love, you only truly love:
               because you hate, with a passion.
- and a catholic apostate i am,
a catholic apostate i am, i am...
given the bureaucracy of the religion,
         i made my mind up,
confirmation? nope.
                      reading that book about
the gnostics (**** me i wish i stole that book
from the school library like i stole the quran)...
now we're into shrapnel talk, jiggy-jiggy,
        random noise, don't ask, don't know
where it came from...
           back in school we'd have trivia games,
who could name bands in rotation...
       then one day i was playing some music
and a friend asked: who's that?
   guess who.
               deep purple.
  no, guess who.
    creedence clearwater revival.
  no! guess who!
d'uh... american woman...
                 if there ever was a modern
movie i've fallen in with, it had to be
american beauty.
                       or take yesterday -
(by the way, i'm not in cabaret voltaire
pulling lines out of my *** and a white
rabbit from a top hat)
     all i said was:
well, at least he had a conscience -
unlike some sociopaths
         (cf. carl sargeant / weenershteen
an employer for former mossad spooks).
         - see, i don't like this idea,
the idea of a res cogitans,
it's too mathematical for me,
      it has a mathematician conceptualised
it, written all over it.
   to me: that's a ****** coordinate!
  - god? that's just a nudging to think...
i can't stress it enough,
praying feeds the vanity project of a god
in religion, his reply? probably a ****.
i rather think than pray,
less ornamental ******* and lying to yourself.
atheists? they prefer the talking version
of theism, whereby theism is the thinking
version of atheism.
   me? can't be bothered to talk,
talking means i have to engage in the outside
world, where, in the outside world
i'm met cold-shouldered by a res per se
(thing in itself) -
             or to put it technically in kantian
verbiage: noumenon.
               which is like a noun but it's non
   oscillating in M (sine)...
                            d'uh, W (cosine) -
                allah hell almighty -
                  one apostle two apostle three apostle
neunzig-neun luftballoooons...
                                hey, the fetish remains;
so soft, ooh, so soft, the german tongue
is silk, mmmm... i could almost wipe my ***
with it!
               (the degradation of art
and the over estimation of science?
   heidegger, he was right)
                so i propose an aversion of
the whole "thing" and "thought" -
i prefer the idea of movement, rather than
a cartesian fixation...
               after all *sum
and cogito are
quantum aspects,
              one precipitates into an outside
world, the other is invited into an inside world -
     i still fail to see how there's a ergo "continuum",
rainfall,
        how one materialises from the nether regions
into a conversation about the weather
over coffee...
                   i simply can't see an ergo
connection, akin to a +, x -, ÷...
                   worded, that's what is implied...
ok, ok...  let's go all fancy dress,
sleepover pyjama party mad: √.
                                i prefer the notion of
a continuum rather than a fixed posit,
    a coordinate -
                    after all no man ever was
considering a genesis, original,
within an "unoriginal" continuum -
   hey, buddy, you were born on a carousel,
it was moving before you were born,
it's going to move, and it will continue to
move after you're... what's that... "dead"?
         talk to the gene therapist -
    don't worry: you're recyclable material.
                       unless you have a different fetish
for a cul de sac existence?
                i do mind the res cogitans approach,
of a graph representation with coordinates
(0, 0, 0) -
                yes, i mind it...
  it's a static point of reference -
                    it's a existentia in stasis -
        an immovable "object" this cartesian
observation...
                              trust a frenchman to conjure
up an existential dead end trap...
     banging my ******* head against the wall...
when i should be headbanging at a heavy
metal concert with all the other meat-heads!
  how can cogito ergo sum ever reach
   a stasis?
                    a static point where everything
is simply ergo?
                          ah... the merging point
of the triad continuum:
                   ergo = the world
cogito = -1
                            sum = +1
      can't think of anything else,
the -1? ~catatonia.
                                      +1?
                                         the boring
   necessity of the cordial affairs of
                               yap yap yap
        in a supermarket.
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
Drowning like a fair Kafka in air, with some self-esteem
Writing and reflection turned out on the locks of a dead door
Creating and lending Creedence, to the top floor that reflects on the day
Veritable trust and doubts are broken, trusting that this will the day I die
Riding on a mirror reflection, collecting and toiling
Approving and oleaginous oceans, broken oil and water
Painted like the pinned skies, reds and blues are the reasons that I cannot go on
The thunder and lightning  tautological to Zeus, and the Greek hermaphrodites can take more
These virgins of blossoming breaths that burst like the fireballs of chasing the wind
Calling up and the thespians in the actor studios
And the remnants of stages, broken by the masked Venetian
Ceilings and reconnoitering the convict's dream
He lay in his bed like an insect that had learned to dream, but, learned to spread it's wing first
Breaking his boredom with some mirages and middle ages to read
Occult screams, "Eat cake!"
Recurrent suicidal thoughts
vaingloriously wend along winding road
within windmills of my mind
(o'er a death cab for cutie weeknd)
yakking, yanking, and yawking zeal
becalming this crash test dummy rolling
stone temple pilot inxs
of maroon 5 plus decades long
perdition hellaciously slogging
slow as adam and the ants,
thru fifty shades of gray's

anatomy common weal
masterly baiting this motley crue (cutting),
beatles browed, beastie boy,
foo fighters kickstart new edition
quickening reo speedwagon treadwheel
outre gee (bee) us, grateful dead,
mailer daemons inhabit
cavernous fist size vastness steel
via herbie hancock (hermans hermits)
cheesy munster trap doors that steal,

deep purple swiftly tailored
culture club members squeal
hosted by megadeath
pack rat boston for real
venue at tokyo hotel,
via en grave invitation
signed by alice in chains poison huss kiss
sing, which will spellbind
once contents unveiled,
an instant jane's addiction peal

immediately choking off air supply
then alice cooper egging bad company
to hypnotize the guess who sacrificial meal
supplanting raw
primal scream from spinal tap
acquiescing self to abandon all hope,
especially if black sabbath joins
creedence clearwater revival
dark shadows would demand one
(to take a knee) and kneel

before sacrificing oneself
at the beck and call
of evanescent nirvana
experiencing permanent relief,
sans soul (twisted) sister riding a hansom
off phish hull heart shaped coffin
ample room enough for blind
melon collie 10,000 maniacs,
their healing powers profusely emanating
via m&m shaped talking heads

methinks averring obeisance
to judas priest and *******
with coldplay feel
ling of eternal sleep,
where quiet ***** riot
joins carpenters, whose underground
bunker with golden arches
resembles empyreal
heavenly vault wreathed
with electric light orchestra

sepulchral crowded house indicative
cynthesis iz a done
dizzy gillespie afterlife deal
and you bet your sweet bippy meme,
an extra bonus for orthodox believers
(absent myself - a skeptic),
whose karma credit Suisse
with long deceased meatloaf
with soul asylum and heart to anele!
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
Mendaciousness amiss, my teenage
Fillibuster, towards my frescoed haired fray

Etude and capricious aria fawning in veritable aversion
Casting aspersions, with much alacrity

Surreptitiously digresses whilst crescendoing sucre sedulousness
Aspirations forced with petulance and force Carpe Omnia, rather jejune

Creedence clearwater crepuscular Crimean wars, perfunctory indeed
Katydids antediluvian lintels limit ospreys that fly across desires of frost

Dry dreary doth dubious dolorous dunes do much, take me too
Destined to dream beyond dimly lit dimes that count as time
Desired ecosystem
Not Creedence Clearwater Revival
Have heard nothing through the grapevine,
I am dreaming white sands
The jewel in the crown.
I want to wake up at the Hyatt Regency
With nothing to worry about
And be the first down
To the lounge chairs and beach umbrellas.
As long as the lizards don't get me.

I want to wake up with nothing to worry about,
Head out for some paddle boarding and swimming,
As long as the jellyfish don't get me.

I want to wake up with nothing to worry about,
Go across to Honeymoon Island
For some hiking and shelling,
As long as the lightning doesn't get me.

I want to try out all this marvelous food,
Eat my fill on the beach
As long as the ants and cockroaches don't get me.

I want to go on a beach walk,
As long as the alligators don't get me.

I want to go dolphin watching,
Take a trip on the pirate boat,
Try some skiing and scuba diving,
Anything to take a break from the spiders
If not the snakes.

I want to visit the marina
And marine aquarium
As long as the mosquitoes and double headed bugs
Don't get me.

I want to be the last person with you
On the pier
And hope the sunset gets us.
Ryan O'Leary Dec 2018
This title is not pertaining
to the river that flows through
my town, nor is it a metaphor
for Guinness ™ both of which
are tranquilly intoxicating.

No, unfortunately, this is the
mercenary army proposal of
Donald Trump, just like the
Légion étrangère in France.

The French Foreign Legion is
composed of 100% foreigners,
usually criminals, ex convicts
and psychopaths, just like the
Black & Tans (Brits in Ireland).

The antonym of Blackwater is,
               Clearwater.


        Creedence Revival?
CJ Sutherland Aug 13
What would you do?
When you did not prepare
You lived in a bubble, unaware
Would you watch your family die?
Hunger, pain in your family’s eye

What would you do?
Would you pillage rob steal
Knowing another life you’ll ****
Food needed for the other to survive

They prepared they knew how to stay alive
A life for a life you’re willing to trade
A deal with the Devil nonchalantly made

What would you do?
Kick in your neighbors door
grandmother, the children dead on the floor
So your family need not cry today
Godly, kind people are, easy prey
When you cross that moral line
Breaking God’s Law the ultimate crime

What would you do?
Would you sacrifice one of your own?
For the sake of your existence

Inspired Songs;
1) I am in a hurry by Alabama

2)Too much time on my hands by Styx

3) Fortunate son, by
Creedence Clearwater revival
Aditya Roy Jul 2019
Arriving with the time waiting
For revival
The time is for China to take its socialist shame
Turn the times to the populace was the same
Truncheon tanks, and the whole shebang, the guy who died
Mao Zedong, Tiananmen Square, Creedence clearly an atom bomb
Away from a bunch of lies, dealing with slaves and something inside them died
Tangled up in memory, tangled up in the blood
Tangled up in a truant sundry, I'm unaware of the inchoate
But, the bloodshed reminds me, of the battleground that hasn't heard from the crying dead
We nurtured the poor, to feed the roads with our public money
Reconnaissance of every remnant individual, timbre, and everything, in an ephemeral second
We blew up in silent thought, without knowing of attacking and arresting atrocities all in the name of a thousand cuts
Cradling civilization, there will be blood, the sun's up on the wrong end of the pursuit of happiness
Numbed by the pain, the sun's up on the wrong of the pursuit of happiness
Tampering the evidence, conclusively ending my progress
Tanks rolled over the ****** corpse, mangling it beyond solidarity
None of us could recognize him
Things were difficult before easy.
The man was a genius when he was dreaming.
Michael Perry Jul 2020
OUR TIME OF NEED

its always been about the words
with us-what we said
how we said them- in what form ; in which
way- to love, using words to hurt, with words to shame
how words give creedence- lay blame,we used
words to bolster our claim, we used them to prop us up
to make us feel better, when we needed it when-
and now -
it's about the words unsaid; in this our here and now
being altogether inappropropriate, for us-in this
our time of need, they are meaningless, they carry no weight
in this, our time of need, nothing else seems to matter, as
we  come to understand-that we have other senses- unused
unrecognized- hardly ever-thought of, till now
ready to reciprocate- in this-         our time of need.

by Michael Perry

— The End —