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"czech" poems
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0
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 11:08 AM UTC
maxneumann
The World NEEDS HelloPoetry (Please Make A Contribution.)
Afghanistan needs hellopoetry Albania needs hellopoetry Algeria needs hellopoetry Andorra needs hellopoetry Angola needs hellopoetry Antigua and Barbuda needs hellopoetry Argentina needs hellopoetry Armenia needs hellopoetry Australia needs hellopoetry Austria needs hellopoetry Azerbaijan needs hellopoetry The Bahamas needs hellopoetry Bahrain needs hellopoetry Bangladesh needs hellopoetry Barbados needs hellopoetry Belarus needs hellopoetry Belgium needs hellopoetry Belize needs hellopoetry Benin needs hellopoetry Bhutan needs hellopoetry Bolivia needs hellopoetry Bosnia and Herzegovina needs hellopoetry Botswana needs hellopoetry Brazil needs hellopoetry Brunei needs hellopoetry Bulgaria needs hellopoetry Burkina Faso needs hellopoetry Burundi needs hellopoetry Cabo Verde needs hellopoetry Cambodia needs hellopoetry Cameroon needs hellopoetry Canada needs hellopoetry Central African Republic needs hellopoetry Chad needs hellopoetry Chile needs hellopoetry China needs hellopoetry Colombia needs hellopoetry Comoros needs hellopoetry Congo, Democratic Republic is in need of hellopoetry Congo, Republic is in need of hellopoetry   Costa Rica needs hellopoetry Côte d’Ivoire needs hellopoetry Croatia needs hellopoetry Cuba needs hellopoetry Cyprus needs hellopoetry Czech Republic needs hellopoetry Denmark needs hellopoetry   Djibouti needs hellopoetry Dominica needs hellopoetry Dominican Republic needs hellopoetry East Timor (Timor-Leste) needs hellopoetry Ecuador needs hellopoetry Egypt needs hellopoetry   El Salvador needs hellopoetry Equatorial Guinea needs hellopoetry Eritrea needs hellopoetry Estonia needs hellopoetry Eswatini needs hellopoetry Ethiopia needs hellopoetry Fiji needs hellopoetry Finland needs hellopoetry France needs hellopoetry Gabon needs hellopoetry The Gambia needs hellopoetry Georgia needs hellopoetry Germany needs hellopoetry Ghana needs hellopoetry Greece needs hellopoetry Grenada needs hellopoetry Guatemala needs hellopoetry Guinea needs 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hellopoetry Malta needs hellopoetry Marshall Islands needs hellopoetry Mauritania needs hellopoetry Mauritius needs hellopoetry Mexico needs hellopoetry Micronesia, Federated States is in need of hellopoetry Moldova needs hellopoetry Monaco needs hellopoetry Mongolia needs hellopoetry Montenegro needs hellopoetry Morocco needs hellopoetry Mozambique needs hellopoetry Myanmar (Burma) needs hellopoetry Namibia needs hellopoetry Nauru needs hellopoetry Nepal needs hellopoetry Netherlands needs hellopoetry New Zealand needs hellopoetry Nicaragua needs hellopoetry Niger needs hellopoetry Nigeria needs hellopoetry North Macedonia needs hellopoetry Norway needs hellopoetry Oman needs hellopoetry Pakistan needs hellopoetry Palau needs hellopoetry Panama needs hellopoetry Papua New Guinea needs hellopoetry Paraguay needs hellopoetry Peru needs hellopoetry Philippines needs hellopoetry Poland needs hellopoetry Portugal needs hellopoetry Qatar needs hellopoetry Romania needs hellopoetry Russia needs hellopoetry Rwanda needs hellopoetry Saint Kitts and Nevis needs hellopoetry Saint Lucia needs hellopoetry Saint Vincent and the Grenadines needs hellopoetry Samoa needs hellopoetry San Marino needs hellopoetry Sao Tome and Principe needs hellopoetry Saudi Arabia needs hellopoetry Senegal needs hellopoetry Serbia needs hellopoetry Seychelles needs hellopoetry Sierra Leone needs hellopoetry Singapore needs hellopoetry Slovakia needs hellopoetry Slovenia needs hellopoetry Solomon Islands needs hellopoetry Somalia needs hellopoetry South Africa needs hellopoetry Spain needs hellopoetry Sri Lanka needs hellopoetry Sudan needs hellopoetry Sudan, South needs hellopoetry Suriname needs hellopoetry Sweden needs hellopoetry Switzerland needs hellopoetry Syria needs hellopoetry Taiwan needs hellopoetry Tajikistan needs hellopoetry Tanzania needs hellopoetry Thailand needs hellopoetry Togo needs hellopoetry Tonga needs hellopoetry Trinidad and Tobago needs hellopoetry Tunisia needs hellopoetry Turkey needs hellopoetry Turkmenistan needs hellopoetry Tuvalu needs hellopoetry Uganda needs hellopoetry Ukraine needs hellopoetry United Arab Emirates needs hellopoetry United Kingdom needs hellopoetry United States needs hellopoetry Uruguay needs hellopoetry Uzbekistan needs hellopoetry Vanuatu needs hellopoetry Vatican City needs hellopoetry Venezuela needs hellopoetry Vietnam needs hellopoetry Yemen needs hellopoetry Zambia needs hellopoetry Zimbabwe needs hellopoetry
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196
Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk. In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing. I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything. I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in. Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.
0
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:28 AM UTC
martin-narrod
swimming. alone.
Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk. In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing. I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything. I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in. Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.
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5
It's not even romantic But I'm going to write a poem of every boy I met.Not romantic, It's not that I had met a lot of men. On that morning you played ukulele, I sang along with the lyrics Creep, Blur,anything The morning light shined through your squinted eyes I can still see the dust swirling, dancing in front of the sun-bathed face of yours. Naive,friendly,happily We were singing to each other The other two are non-existence. You are so warm, comfortable to be around with A Belarusian boy ,aspiring to speak good Chinese. You paint, you cooked and made desserts Always at ease at hitchhiking through Kazakhstan and China I felt that you secretly want to try to escape from what you had from Belarus to Czech, then to this mysterious Eastern world, a bit communist. And then to Taiwan. This is for you Ilya, a friend for only a day and night. You're too delicate for me to handle as you have skin like milk and heart of seven seas Smile like a 5 year old in a swing.
0
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 11:25 AM UTC
maggieYCW
Skin of Milk and Heart of Seven Seas
It's not even romantic But I'm going to write a poem of every boy I met.Not romantic, It's not that I had met a lot of men. On that morning you played ukulele, I sang along with the lyrics Creep, Blur,anything The morning light shined through your squinted eyes I can still see the dust swirling, dancing in front of the sun-bathed face of yours. Naive,friendly,happily We were singing to each other The other two are non-existence. You are so warm, comfortable to be around with A Belarusian boy ,aspiring to speak good Chinese. You paint, you cooked and made desserts Always at ease at hitchhiking through Kazakhstan and China I felt that you secretly want to try to escape from what you had from Belarus to Czech, then to this mysterious Eastern world, a bit communist. And then to Taiwan. This is for you Ilya, a friend for only a day and night. You're too delicate for me to handle as you have skin like milk and heart of seven seas Smile like a 5 year old in a swing.
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24
I wanna dance the mambo,the cubin cuba mambo, I wanna dance the cha cha,hips movement with the cha cha! or maybe try the salsa, deep ,sensual, is the salsa. I wanna dance the samba,the fun brazilian samba, or maybe the lambada,brazilian hot lambada! My favourite s' the tango,intense ****** tango, Lost in the  flamenco,ardent spanish flamenco. May even try the polka,high energy in polka, the Czech bohemian polka! I wanna go and party,good time ,dancing the rumba, latino americano,cubano, africano. I wanna do the hip hop,hip hop,hip hop,don't stop. Dance reign  in the ballroom, as I dance the Ball Room,under and above, With you ,I dance my last dance,the classic dance of love. Are you ready partner ?
0
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 2:54 AM UTC
flower-scent
Cabaret Show (Shall we dance ?)
I wanna dance the mambo,the cubin cuba mambo, I wanna dance the cha cha,hips movement with the cha cha! or maybe try the salsa, deep ,sensual, is the salsa. I wanna dance the samba,the fun brazilian samba, or maybe the lambada,brazilian hot lambada! My favourite s' the tango,intense ****** tango, Lost in the  flamenco,ardent spanish flamenco. May even try the polka,high energy in polka, the Czech bohemian polka! I wanna go and party,good time ,dancing the rumba, latino americano,cubano, africano. I wanna do the hip hop,hip hop,hip hop,don't stop. Dance reign  in the ballroom, as I dance the Ball Room,under and above, With you ,I dance my last dance,the classic dance of love. Are you ready partner ?
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16
The theater's empty and I can't seem to figure why, The ground feels like a sticky, but hard lie, It's plain with drapes to a darkened heaven, With movie posters that make me nostalgic for when I was 7, Or was it 11? The projector starts to warm up, And the ghosts in the machine show who they wanted to be, This popcorn reminds me of a love that was wearing her favorite leather jacket, Holy **** how did I get popcorn? The screen shows ads for ****** **** But its in Spanish with Czech subtitles , And a weird sense of accomplishment, Seems to give way with the images, now gone, Apparently I have a soda that I have never noticed nor engaged or enraged, Blue stills of ****** knees and beaches unbeknownst to any future, With the credits rolling of names I'll remember, forget and lie remembering A calming anxiety seems to fill in where the smoke creeping oot the vents does not, The teleporting popcorn comes with me, And choose to leave, with the seat, I seem to forget to ask myself, meow so clear, How did I get here?
0
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
the-masked-sleepyz
A Private Showing
The theater's empty and I can't seem to figure why, The ground feels like a sticky, but hard lie, It's plain with drapes to a darkened heaven, With movie posters that make me nostalgic for when I was 7, Or was it 11? The projector starts to warm up, And the ghosts in the machine show who they wanted to be, This popcorn reminds me of a love that was wearing her favorite leather jacket, Holy **** how did I get popcorn? The screen shows ads for ****** **** But its in Spanish with Czech subtitles , And a weird sense of accomplishment, Seems to give way with the images, now gone, Apparently I have a soda that I have never noticed nor engaged or enraged, Blue stills of ****** knees and beaches unbeknownst to any future, With the credits rolling of names I'll remember, forget and lie remembering A calming anxiety seems to fill in where the smoke creeping oot the vents does not, The teleporting popcorn comes with me, And choose to leave, with the seat, I seem to forget to ask myself, meow so clear, How did I get here?
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22
I am ashamed that I am Spanish because of Franco I am ashamed that I am French because of Algeria I am ashamed that I am Algerian because of France I am ashamed that I am American because of Bush, Iraq and the bloodshed once among brothers I am ashamed that I am Russian because of Stalin, Gulag and recently of this and that I am ashamed that I am German because of ****** clearly (Pol *** appears more and more seldom in the lists, but one is horrified, humanly ashamed, remembering) I am ashamed that I am English because of football etc I am ashamed that I am Polish — only when I am not proud I am ashamed that I am Turkish, but then there are Kurds... I am ashamed that I am Czech and allowed myself to be stifled (I am just as ashamed myself — some say, who feel shame in its extremity and hide weapons in pantries, waiting for that moment in which they wash away their shame with the blood of traditional enemies) I am ashamed that I am Orthodox or Catholic and I wedge and split the mountain on which Jesus bled — before others made even smaller pieces out of his Golgotha below I am ashamed that I am Indian because... well, it’s no matter I am ashamed that being Macedonian I let the Greeks be even more I am ashamed that I am Korean and one of Kim Ir Sen’s I am ashamed that I am Korean no matter where, as long as Kim Ir Sen’s Koreans remain I am ashamed that I am Serbian, but... let me think I am ashamed that I am Chinese because: ‘You’re Chinese?’ I am ashamed that I am Romanian because of Ceausescu, Dracula of course and now, God, all these Romanians all over the world... I am ashamed of my nation even when I am not ashamed — but each of us seeks to forget something I am ashamed because .......... [Everyone: fill in the blanks, write yours here!] but you, but you — you, only you you, whose nation filled the desolate earth with life and kindness you are the man who begins the new day today with your first step Ioana Ieronim
0
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
irinia
"To Friends"
I am ashamed that I am Spanish because of Franco I am ashamed that I am French because of Algeria I am ashamed that I am Algerian because of France I am ashamed that I am American because of Bush, Iraq and the bloodshed once among brothers I am ashamed that I am Russian because of Stalin, Gulag and recently of this and that I am ashamed that I am German because of ****** clearly (Pol *** appears more and more seldom in the lists, but one is horrified, humanly ashamed, remembering) I am ashamed that I am English because of football etc I am ashamed that I am Polish — only when I am not proud I am ashamed that I am Turkish, but then there are Kurds... I am ashamed that I am Czech and allowed myself to be stifled (I am just as ashamed myself — some say, who feel shame in its extremity and hide weapons in pantries, waiting for that moment in which they wash away their shame with the blood of traditional enemies) I am ashamed that I am Orthodox or Catholic and I wedge and split the mountain on which Jesus bled — before others made even smaller pieces out of his Golgotha below I am ashamed that I am Indian because... well, it’s no matter I am ashamed that being Macedonian I let the Greeks be even more I am ashamed that I am Korean and one of Kim Ir Sen’s I am ashamed that I am Korean no matter where, as long as Kim Ir Sen’s Koreans remain I am ashamed that I am Serbian, but... let me think I am ashamed that I am Chinese because: ‘You’re Chinese?’ I am ashamed that I am Romanian because of Ceausescu, Dracula of course and now, God, all these Romanians all over the world... I am ashamed of my nation even when I am not ashamed — but each of us seeks to forget something I am ashamed because .......... [Everyone: fill in the blanks, write yours here!] but you, but you — you, only you you, whose nation filled the desolate earth with life and kindness you are the man who begins the new day today with your first step Ioana Ieronim
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37
I wish I had never met ***** ******* mama's boys like Michael Czech and Peter Pans and cheaters like Robert Littlejohn. They prey on innocent women via http://facebook.com and put on pretend face and hurt innocent women who fall them like Elizabeth Stewart Gandy, Emily Warner, and Laura Blackburn. Michael Czech is awould be poet and Robert Littlejohn a would be musician with an impossible dream in Nashville. Check out http://linkedin.com/Robert Littlejohn and see for yourself.
0
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
karissa-elizabeth-ann-lowell
Peter Pans and Cheaters
I wish I had never met ***** ******* mama's boys like Michael Czech and Peter Pans and cheaters like Robert Littlejohn. They prey on innocent women via http://facebook.com and put on pretend face and hurt innocent women who fall them like Elizabeth Stewart Gandy, Emily Warner, and Laura Blackburn. Michael Czech is awould be poet and Robert Littlejohn a would be musician with an impossible dream in Nashville. Check out http://linkedin.com/Robert Littlejohn and see for yourself.
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1
I fell in love with a girl again, at a bar My friend said she was Czech Hard to say I didn't ask for her passport, and she had nowhere to carry one She smiled when she glanced my way eyes glazed, speaking my language The Czech girl, making love to a pole. r ~ 8/9/14
0
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 4:19 PM UTC
r-2
Czech girl
I fell in love with a girl again, at a bar My friend said she was Czech Hard to say I didn't ask for her passport, and she had nowhere to carry one She smiled when she glanced my way eyes glazed, speaking my language The Czech girl, making love to a pole. r ~ 8/9/14
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10
I'm so ashamed For my mom not being wise For always judging me, and giving me bad advice, rather lose a crazy lover, than waste your time, Cause girl u should ur feelings cover, don't listen to him: ,, U're just mine". He's not good for u cause he ain't czech, plus he's a soldier he'll break ur heart and then ur neck .. I hated my mom and wanted him back. For my cousin dating a racist, Homophobe, who'd be a doctor. How even he can be one?!? A Doctor should take care for every one!!! I can't even talk with my cuz, who was like my sister, For dating this irritating mister. I'd like to have my dear sis back, Who I thought was openminded With good heart, what a heck. Now considers me as a stranger, Who's in a danger, just for dating a black.. ranger, But he's my major. How easily u can see who's friend And who **** Who goes with brand And who doesn't mind not a bit. I'm ashamed for all those people full of hate, none of them can be my mate.. who are scared to step out of crowd and be brave, They should stay in cave Learn how to behave go for truth and common good. **** them all, I mean it. God sees you, **** it! Please change y'all, people. Who really strong.. noo.. hate exists., we above it. So y'all be kind, better life without judging, make up ur mind, u'll love it!
0
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 3:12 PM UTC
yuli-rob
Understand?!
I'm so ashamed For my mom not being wise For always judging me, and giving me bad advice, rather lose a crazy lover, than waste your time, Cause girl u should ur feelings cover, don't listen to him: ,, U're just mine". He's not good for u cause he ain't czech, plus he's a soldier he'll break ur heart and then ur neck .. I hated my mom and wanted him back. For my cousin dating a racist, Homophobe, who'd be a doctor. How even he can be one?!? A Doctor should take care for every one!!! I can't even talk with my cuz, who was like my sister, For dating this irritating mister. I'd like to have my dear sis back, Who I thought was openminded With good heart, what a heck. Now considers me as a stranger, Who's in a danger, just for dating a black.. ranger, But he's my major. How easily u can see who's friend And who **** Who goes with brand And who doesn't mind not a bit. I'm ashamed for all those people full of hate, none of them can be my mate.. who are scared to step out of crowd and be brave, They should stay in cave Learn how to behave go for truth and common good. **** them all, I mean it. God sees you, **** it! Please change y'all, people. Who really strong.. noo.. hate exists., we above it. So y'all be kind, better life without judging, make up ur mind, u'll love it!
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39
"Two bee oar knot two bee..." Seams knot too bee well honed Wen awl ewe knead four align too fail Is won to many homophones
0
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 3:35 PM UTC
vernon-waring
Spell Czech
"Two bee oar knot two bee..." Seams knot too bee well honed Wen awl ewe knead four align too fail Is won to many homophones
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4
.*of course i dream i fame, who doesn't dream of either fame or fortune... but... i'm sane enough to want to achieve that sort of stature, postmortem... what? with all the celebrity culture big brother ******** who the hell seeks fame while still alive? oh... well... there are the countless examples...* and why would i take an ancestry test of my D.N.A. make-up? i remember the first conversation i had with the father of my first girlfriend... how many famous Poles (Polaks... do i look like something akin to an anorexic waving a ******* flag?) there were... i forgot Copernicus... i forgot Marie Curie... i forgot Chopin... **** i forgot my own name when i saw my first girlfriend's sister walk down the stairs... why would i do D.N.A. testing? i just looked at what we eat... and i mean we, truly, it's called haggis in Scotland, it's called black pudding in England, and it's also called czarna kiszka (black intestines) in Poland... the Vikings founded Kiev after all... i like Nordic music, take a guess... take a while... my maternal surname is Batuk... which is a Bohemian variant of the Polak Batóg... so a mix of Czech and...   Viking? the Goths... if i had the time, and also the time reference to reply to my first girlfriend's father... while i was rudely interrupted by the nymph that was her sister... it's still a dream to me... or what's called an arranged marriage in India... well... i would reply... and how many Nobel literature laureates... came from... England? deathly silence... you're right... you're importing all this ****** post empire post colonial perspectives and you have... 0 Nobel laureates in the category of literature... none! zero! nil! oh! yeah...        oh... really?                                    yes! zilch... so zip-it-up, shrimpy. i take certain words to heart... sharpens my memory, i'm not offended... i just remember better... you sometimes require certain rubrics that are exclusive and do not include the rubrics of formal education... this memory? oh...       2003.
0
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
a dream of a nymph
.*of course i dream i fame, who doesn't dream of either fame or fortune... but... i'm sane enough to want to achieve that sort of stature, postmortem... what? with all the celebrity culture big brother ******** who the hell seeks fame while still alive? oh... well... there are the countless examples...* and why would i take an ancestry test of my D.N.A. make-up? i remember the first conversation i had with the father of my first girlfriend... how many famous Poles (Polaks... do i look like something akin to an anorexic waving a ******* flag?) there were... i forgot Copernicus... i forgot Marie Curie... i forgot Chopin... **** i forgot my own name when i saw my first girlfriend's sister walk down the stairs... why would i do D.N.A. testing? i just looked at what we eat... and i mean we, truly, it's called haggis in Scotland, it's called black pudding in England, and it's also called czarna kiszka (black intestines) in Poland... the Vikings founded Kiev after all... i like Nordic music, take a guess... take a while... my maternal surname is Batuk... which is a Bohemian variant of the Polak Batóg... so a mix of Czech and...   Viking? the Goths... if i had the time, and also the time reference to reply to my first girlfriend's father... while i was rudely interrupted by the nymph that was her sister... it's still a dream to me... or what's called an arranged marriage in India... well... i would reply... and how many Nobel literature laureates... came from... England? deathly silence... you're right... you're importing all this ****** post empire post colonial perspectives and you have... 0 Nobel laureates in the category of literature... none! zero! nil! oh! yeah...        oh... really?                                    yes! zilch... so zip-it-up, shrimpy. i take certain words to heart... sharpens my memory, i'm not offended... i just remember better... you sometimes require certain rubrics that are exclusive and do not include the rubrics of formal education... this memory? oh...       2003.
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68
I woke up this morning at nine am and traveled through all of Switzerland, it was breathtaking. Snow painted the mountains white while the trees tops colored the hills   with speckles of gold. Ground level, the grass glistened in neon green hues. Everything was stunning, everything was chilled. I thought of you again today. I saw the color of your eyes Flickering through the sunlit trees. I'm exhausted. But the colors of maroon and umber Dance by my vessel. Unaware of their angles and curves. Be weary of those who adore The spirit of Autumn. The frosted noses, Or hot cinnamon flavored wine. I climbed the astrological clock. I spray painted the Lennon Wall. I fell in love with you, Actually I always was. Pieces of me are ripped And scattered across the globe. I'm a paper plane, Calculated to the pressure point. I miss the feel of the cold air, And the skin on your stomach. Move forward free spirit, **** the dysphoria, And learn to be alive for once.
0
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 6:46 AM UTC
abellakai
Excerpts from the Czech Republic
I woke up this morning at nine am and traveled through all of Switzerland, it was breathtaking. Snow painted the mountains white while the trees tops colored the hills   with speckles of gold. Ground level, the grass glistened in neon green hues. Everything was stunning, everything was chilled. I thought of you again today. I saw the color of your eyes Flickering through the sunlit trees. I'm exhausted. But the colors of maroon and umber Dance by my vessel. Unaware of their angles and curves. Be weary of those who adore The spirit of Autumn. The frosted noses, Or hot cinnamon flavored wine. I climbed the astrological clock. I spray painted the Lennon Wall. I fell in love with you, Actually I always was. Pieces of me are ripped And scattered across the globe. I'm a paper plane, Calculated to the pressure point. I miss the feel of the cold air, And the skin on your stomach. Move forward free spirit, **** the dysphoria, And learn to be alive for once.
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32
d'harga'h! urn! and sung clemency with the sign of the cross - Mr. Longinus - a baptism awaits... in the Turkish shop buying my beers - politics talk, gone Razza - Tahir - talk of politics - deciphered a word: Erdoğan (Erdoghan, Edrogrzan, what was it - macabre radish to taste - niechmaj sto Vlad'a reka na tle kiwnieniem  raz! i krok poza 'sztem! bogiem byka wybryk szto?! - the crowds descended, and the kestrels and the pigeons, and the swans, and the migratory storks, and the seagulls - for the Winged-Hussar Polonaise. fluff of the wings -                                    the Mongol stench reinterpreted - i rather be picking ethnic mushrooms - kropki polka - and koniewki - łopieniek & canary - grünling in German, gąska zielonka - Pan Kleks - or Chanterelle Mushroom - pepper shakerz - kurki, tzn. te słynne grzyby. the deviating kurka - or chickpea foetal variant of fungus - or alias chick. each time they pithy my assertion to claim the ethnic brothel of Europe that Poland is for the noble families - each time they undermine the worker testifying the fuck-worthy **** prior sleep - pride settles in - and a long forgotten assertive builds up to architectural proportions - it just ends up being a game of throwing copper coins into Scotland, potatoes into Ireland... and dinosaur bones into Wales... and post-colonial subjects into England, lazily packed with the labels **** and Hindu; Karzimierz Dębski could have said: it was never supposed to come to this; shame that it did; the safety option was exacted.
0
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
Winged-Hussar Polonaise / Dutch spits at a Polish girl's face - apparently i'm speaking Czech when angry
d'harga'h! urn! and sung clemency with the sign of the cross - Mr. Longinus - a baptism awaits... in the Turkish shop buying my beers - politics talk, gone Razza - Tahir - talk of politics - deciphered a word: Erdoğan (Erdoghan, Edrogrzan, what was it - macabre radish to taste - niechmaj sto Vlad'a reka na tle kiwnieniem  raz! i krok poza 'sztem! bogiem byka wybryk szto?! - the crowds descended, and the kestrels and the pigeons, and the swans, and the migratory storks, and the seagulls - for the Winged-Hussar Polonaise. fluff of the wings -                                    the Mongol stench reinterpreted - i rather be picking ethnic mushrooms - kropki polka - and koniewki - łopieniek & canary - grünling in German, gąska zielonka - Pan Kleks - or Chanterelle Mushroom - pepper shakerz - kurki, tzn. te słynne grzyby. the deviating kurka - or chickpea foetal variant of fungus - or alias chick. each time they pithy my assertion to claim the ethnic brothel of Europe that Poland is for the noble families - each time they undermine the worker testifying the fuck-worthy **** prior sleep - pride settles in - and a long forgotten assertive builds up to architectural proportions - it just ends up being a game of throwing copper coins into Scotland, potatoes into Ireland... and dinosaur bones into Wales... and post-colonial subjects into England, lazily packed with the labels **** and Hindu; Karzimierz Dębski could have said: it was never supposed to come to this; shame that it did; the safety option was exacted.
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37
GOD **** THIS CZECH SHAPESHIFTING lost in Praha lost in Kafka losing myself careful making deals with old Nick I said 'Beatle' not 'beetle' *** WHEN FRANZ MET DÓNALL 'When Dónall Dempsey woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous version of a certain F. Kafka. Someone must have been telling lies about Dónall Dempsey, he knew he had done nothing wrong but, one morning, he was arrested to find out he had been turned into this F. Kafka. Where had his Dónall Dempsey-ness gone and why -  Kafka? He knew of but had never actually read any - Kafka He had knowledge of the tropes...what Kafka could be reduced to in terms of general knowledge that could possibly clinch a pub quiz victory so that people would nod sagely and say "I knew...you being a poet and all...that you would know the answer to that." I found that what had happened to me...whatever had happened to me...was more extensive that I had thought so that even my initial "D" become the 11th letter of the alphabet instead of the usual fourth. I was now merely a  "K." I realised I would have to go to Prague to bring some semblance of sense to this transformation. And when I did so...hiding myself among the many tourists...I discovered that Kafka had become me and that we had somehow traded places. So that now there was a Dónall Dempsey cafe and postcards bearing my features and other such touristy attractions that would be sure to be a sure fire attraction to the traveller with a literary bent of mind. I visited the grave...his grave...and sure enough...it was my name that was chiseled into the stone. Meanwhile Kafka was enjoying my life and strolling around Guildford as if it was his own. He appeared to be enjoying being Dónall Dempsey. "Ha ha..!" I thought. "Give it time...give it time!" And Franz would surely find that being Dónall Dempsey wasn't such a good thing. And myself being a literary tourist attraction? I ****** well hated it  I wanted to crawl away and die or be trampled to a pulp by a frightened child who had discovered a cockroach in her cornflakes.
0
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 8:01 AM UTC
donall-dempsey
GOD **** THIS CZECH SHAPESHIFTING
GOD **** THIS CZECH SHAPESHIFTING lost in Praha lost in Kafka losing myself careful making deals with old Nick I said 'Beatle' not 'beetle' *** WHEN FRANZ MET DÓNALL 'When Dónall Dempsey woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous version of a certain F. Kafka. Someone must have been telling lies about Dónall Dempsey, he knew he had done nothing wrong but, one morning, he was arrested to find out he had been turned into this F. Kafka. Where had his Dónall Dempsey-ness gone and why -  Kafka? He knew of but had never actually read any - Kafka He had knowledge of the tropes...what Kafka could be reduced to in terms of general knowledge that could possibly clinch a pub quiz victory so that people would nod sagely and say "I knew...you being a poet and all...that you would know the answer to that." I found that what had happened to me...whatever had happened to me...was more extensive that I had thought so that even my initial "D" become the 11th letter of the alphabet instead of the usual fourth. I was now merely a  "K." I realised I would have to go to Prague to bring some semblance of sense to this transformation. And when I did so...hiding myself among the many tourists...I discovered that Kafka had become me and that we had somehow traded places. So that now there was a Dónall Dempsey cafe and postcards bearing my features and other such touristy attractions that would be sure to be a sure fire attraction to the traveller with a literary bent of mind. I visited the grave...his grave...and sure enough...it was my name that was chiseled into the stone. Meanwhile Kafka was enjoying my life and strolling around Guildford as if it was his own. He appeared to be enjoying being Dónall Dempsey. "Ha ha..!" I thought. "Give it time...give it time!" And Franz would surely find that being Dónall Dempsey wasn't such a good thing. And myself being a literary tourist attraction? I ****** well hated it  I wanted to crawl away and die or be trampled to a pulp by a frightened child who had discovered a cockroach in her cornflakes.
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19
you never realise how little time you have. I was late that day, and had to be rushed into a tiny theatre, where two old ladies occupied the front row, and, in the back row, exasperated and whispered apologies, I took my place, next to her. we sat, intent, gazing at the projection's motion, hands slipping into embrace and retreat, every five minutes or so, under the lightsoaked linen, thrown over us, thread count in french or czech, I would turn, unnoticed, to gaze at her cheek, the fine glimmering reflection; I'd understood that even less. I hadn't realised that it was the last hour, 'til she grasped my hand with both of hers, as we walked to the carpark, wordlessly. in that silence, it was clear. I felt every passing minute, each a fresh wound, blossoming within the last, and, in late revelation that we'd naively spent up so many sun or moon's passages; to think this was the devil's purse, finally running dry. outside of the scattered lights of my building, as we sat, in some stranger's station wagon, bound to our respective seats, those fleeting moments crumbled, those minutes, those waning seconds, if only to have had one single instant more, to never have seen the end. but, it's never that easy. *I hadn't noticed that she was wearing makeup, until I saw her mascara run, through my own bleary eyelids.* And, in that moment, amidst that grand crescendo, one kiss on the cheek, another, clumsily strewn across lips, a bank of regret, and I had already closed the door, walking, silently leaking, out of her life.
0
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 8:54 AM UTC
tom-mccone
dedication to an eighty-sixth page, read by streetlight
you never realise how little time you have. I was late that day, and had to be rushed into a tiny theatre, where two old ladies occupied the front row, and, in the back row, exasperated and whispered apologies, I took my place, next to her. we sat, intent, gazing at the projection's motion, hands slipping into embrace and retreat, every five minutes or so, under the lightsoaked linen, thrown over us, thread count in french or czech, I would turn, unnoticed, to gaze at her cheek, the fine glimmering reflection; I'd understood that even less. I hadn't realised that it was the last hour, 'til she grasped my hand with both of hers, as we walked to the carpark, wordlessly. in that silence, it was clear. I felt every passing minute, each a fresh wound, blossoming within the last, and, in late revelation that we'd naively spent up so many sun or moon's passages; to think this was the devil's purse, finally running dry. outside of the scattered lights of my building, as we sat, in some stranger's station wagon, bound to our respective seats, those fleeting moments crumbled, those minutes, those waning seconds, if only to have had one single instant more, to never have seen the end. but, it's never that easy. *I hadn't noticed that she was wearing makeup, until I saw her mascara run, through my own bleary eyelids.* And, in that moment, amidst that grand crescendo, one kiss on the cheek, another, clumsily strewn across lips, a bank of regret, and I had already closed the door, walking, silently leaking, out of her life.
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48
A Czech? Not to worry Yet Murray groaned a lot and went from Brit to Scot in a frightful hurry
0
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 2:24 PM UTC
tim-t
Andy Murray
A Czech? Not to worry Yet Murray groaned a lot and went from Brit to Scot in a frightful hurry
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4
*summer's here;    and so's my ****** poetry.* custard on skin, sweat, ******** while others peacock around, basking in the sun, to the trance of Ibiza or perhaps sloth in St. James' park feeding mandrakes and geese and swans these sun worshippers and their hotdog selfies on beaches, sunglasses, molasses and ice-cream - i'm sitting among blank stairs, like an alcoholic Aboriginal in some desert town in Australia - blank, nothing coming in, nothing coming out - the usual traffic of poetry in me exhausted by summer, the one season i'm like Mr. Grinch - the loathing of the heat - with Sahara blowing more than sand these days - fruitless season: oh, but of course i can eat a strawberry, a grape a watermelon and whatever i wish, a kiwi a mango, whatever, but i just can't dig my teeth into the page, like i can in winter - with it's gloom and frost and grey cold. like in Scandinavia - where they treat their melancholic aura as the last happiness, or a hidden happiness, where it's not a medical condition worthy of a chemical concoction - much more than just        pill after pill after pill - the next pinch of airy salt that the cold is: pinch after pinch on the face and the hands as if plucking out feathers of a chicken. summer's here, and so the first summer thunderstorms, yesterday the great stomach of Ethiopia and Sudan descended over my house, the rumbling of a stomach of a thousand starving - thunder - the great voice -                              summer's here,                              and so's my ****** poetry - torden: stemme av eldgammel hvisking, etymological observation working from the Norwegian hvisking (whisper), although similar, in Polish - obviously a letter or two more, but the prefix hvis- according to alexander brückner (Cracow, 1927):  chwist, chwistać, chwis(t)nąć, ‘orzech próżny’, chwist w 15. i 16. wieku, jeszcze u Reja, ‘błazen’, właściwie ‘aktor, komedjant’, ‘mimus’; jak świstek (papieru), ‘orzech próżny’ nazywa się r. 1472 gwiżdżem i malikiem (p.); u czechów chwiszt, ‘świstak’; tylko u nas i u Czechów istnieje to chwist, chwistati, por. gwizdać             i świstać u innych słowian; my concern however is stressed in italicised form, he supposed that chwist- only exists among poles and czech - well it doesn't, it also exists among norwegians - as already shown, with hvisk-.
0
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
june thunderstorm
*summer's here;    and so's my ****** poetry.* custard on skin, sweat, ******** while others peacock around, basking in the sun, to the trance of Ibiza or perhaps sloth in St. James' park feeding mandrakes and geese and swans these sun worshippers and their hotdog selfies on beaches, sunglasses, molasses and ice-cream - i'm sitting among blank stairs, like an alcoholic Aboriginal in some desert town in Australia - blank, nothing coming in, nothing coming out - the usual traffic of poetry in me exhausted by summer, the one season i'm like Mr. Grinch - the loathing of the heat - with Sahara blowing more than sand these days - fruitless season: oh, but of course i can eat a strawberry, a grape a watermelon and whatever i wish, a kiwi a mango, whatever, but i just can't dig my teeth into the page, like i can in winter - with it's gloom and frost and grey cold. like in Scandinavia - where they treat their melancholic aura as the last happiness, or a hidden happiness, where it's not a medical condition worthy of a chemical concoction - much more than just        pill after pill after pill - the next pinch of airy salt that the cold is: pinch after pinch on the face and the hands as if plucking out feathers of a chicken. summer's here, and so the first summer thunderstorms, yesterday the great stomach of Ethiopia and Sudan descended over my house, the rumbling of a stomach of a thousand starving - thunder - the great voice -                              summer's here,                              and so's my ****** poetry - torden: stemme av eldgammel hvisking, etymological observation working from the Norwegian hvisking (whisper), although similar, in Polish - obviously a letter or two more, but the prefix hvis- according to alexander brückner (Cracow, 1927):  chwist, chwistać, chwis(t)nąć, ‘orzech próżny’, chwist w 15. i 16. wieku, jeszcze u Reja, ‘błazen’, właściwie ‘aktor, komedjant’, ‘mimus’; jak świstek (papieru), ‘orzech próżny’ nazywa się r. 1472 gwiżdżem i malikiem (p.); u czechów chwiszt, ‘świstak’; tylko u nas i u Czechów istnieje to chwist, chwistati, por. gwizdać             i świstać u innych słowian; my concern however is stressed in italicised form, he supposed that chwist- only exists among poles and czech - well it doesn't, it also exists among norwegians - as already shown, with hvisk-.
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71
2 Who Am I You ask me who I am, I suppose I should start with my name. Leah Lizbeth Magliari, a Biblical derived name. You ask me who I am, Italian, Puerto Rican, Czech and Irish is what I’ll say. A descendant of all who endured hardships, to get me where I am today. You ask me who I am, a good Christian who always tries to obey, but often does stray, from the rules and the morals of the old testaments days. Who grew up in Sunday school, and read devotions with her Grandma everyday. Who holds onto her faith, because she knows no other way. You ask me who I am, my Mothers daughter I will say. Strong, beautiful and fierce in every single way. Who lives to make mom proud, to somehow repay all the obstacles she shoved away. You ask me who I am, my weaknesses I do not outright display I am the epitome of too empathetic, who does not just listen to your pain, I try and take it away. Who believes in justice and always doing the right thing. Who believes in charity, and taking care of those who need help. Who believes in the greater good, and always lending a hand. You ask me who I am, a being with a soul I will say. Who will live each day, trying to make the best decisions I can. Who thinks we all have to have a little faith, to get down this road of life. Who has seen struggles, and lost the ones I love. Who has seen the beauty of all the little things. Who never takes life for granted and tries to be grateful everyday. You ask me who I am, a masterpiece of my upbringing I should say. Who has been made tougher with each day, who took a little bit of others along my journey, and pieced them together to find myself here today.
0
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
leah-m
Who Am I
2 Who Am I You ask me who I am, I suppose I should start with my name. Leah Lizbeth Magliari, a Biblical derived name. You ask me who I am, Italian, Puerto Rican, Czech and Irish is what I’ll say. A descendant of all who endured hardships, to get me where I am today. You ask me who I am, a good Christian who always tries to obey, but often does stray, from the rules and the morals of the old testaments days. Who grew up in Sunday school, and read devotions with her Grandma everyday. Who holds onto her faith, because she knows no other way. You ask me who I am, my Mothers daughter I will say. Strong, beautiful and fierce in every single way. Who lives to make mom proud, to somehow repay all the obstacles she shoved away. You ask me who I am, my weaknesses I do not outright display I am the epitome of too empathetic, who does not just listen to your pain, I try and take it away. Who believes in justice and always doing the right thing. Who believes in charity, and taking care of those who need help. Who believes in the greater good, and always lending a hand. You ask me who I am, a being with a soul I will say. Who will live each day, trying to make the best decisions I can. Who thinks we all have to have a little faith, to get down this road of life. Who has seen struggles, and lost the ones I love. Who has seen the beauty of all the little things. Who never takes life for granted and tries to be grateful everyday. You ask me who I am, a masterpiece of my upbringing I should say. Who has been made tougher with each day, who took a little bit of others along my journey, and pieced them together to find myself here today.
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47
*actually, the only home i have are the muddy fields of belgium during world war i, or among the jews, but given the jews are settled, i guess i better daydream: i mean i never got the cultural imprint of the english idea of dating... put me in the Czech Republic and i'd be freely participating in ****** any day... this stiffening date-culture never appealed to me, it always felt like a divorce before a marriage: so no amorous fun with body but fun in making out in cordiality of being fully dressed and lapping palettes up with tongue rather than the ******** as if throwing a coconut at Robinson Crusoe? yes?! ah crap... point towards the Zulu clan, i just feel the need to strip naked.* yeah, i believe in meow-meow land, that's the country next to la-la-land... where you're trying to sterilise yourself in terms of organic historicity and integrate yourself in terms of inorganic sterilisation via importing alien values to hush the monogamy crescendo of failure. with the irish telling you: ain't no english... and with scots you shout back: there's no thing as to be treated impossible whether in thought about or moved! the irish want you to have a coarse enough accent as them so you can be belittled... i always favoured the scots, warm-hearted ******** and i too the first hairy-shinned trans-gender kilt loving twirly girl of a music box of cherry tree cheaply picked Muzak for the thrills of shopping for cardigans and pineapples.
0
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
removed.polaroid-scrabble
change of tactic
*actually, the only home i have are the muddy fields of belgium during world war i, or among the jews, but given the jews are settled, i guess i better daydream: i mean i never got the cultural imprint of the english idea of dating... put me in the Czech Republic and i'd be freely participating in ****** any day... this stiffening date-culture never appealed to me, it always felt like a divorce before a marriage: so no amorous fun with body but fun in making out in cordiality of being fully dressed and lapping palettes up with tongue rather than the ******** as if throwing a coconut at Robinson Crusoe? yes?! ah crap... point towards the Zulu clan, i just feel the need to strip naked.* yeah, i believe in meow-meow land, that's the country next to la-la-land... where you're trying to sterilise yourself in terms of organic historicity and integrate yourself in terms of inorganic sterilisation via importing alien values to hush the monogamy crescendo of failure. with the irish telling you: ain't no english... and with scots you shout back: there's no thing as to be treated impossible whether in thought about or moved! the irish want you to have a coarse enough accent as them so you can be belittled... i always favoured the scots, warm-hearted ******** and i too the first hairy-shinned trans-gender kilt loving twirly girl of a music box of cherry tree cheaply picked Muzak for the thrills of shopping for cardigans and pineapples.
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21
Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk. In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing. I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything. I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in. Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.
0
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
martin-narrod
swimming alone.
Maybe you're the colosseum. The code to get through the glass doors is actually just '1954'. You could put up the painting of me at auction, or I could take a cruise from London to the Islands North of Siberia, a stop in a department store in Northern Greece. I stop and take a ride in the middle front-third seat of a older friend's younger brother's car, and force all of them to come outside and see the spider's eggs at Bob-o-Link. Massive cornucopias of cotton walls entwined with silk. In the department store I ask to be introduced to someone who can take me by the hand and recognize me by my number, show me everything I'll need to shoot a full-length feature, even how I can get to Prague so I can do a little shopping. But the horror of seeing is so frightening, and the girl that I came with wants to do nothing. I find a little shop selling Czech candies, music, and newspapers, so I try to buy everything but the horror is getting closer. I'm in a lazy Susan, how often does that happen? One more turn and I'll lose my stomach contents and then I won't need anything. I take a climb up a street that says "Smrzlinu Ahead," but the houses on the street are all either empty or boarded up. I drift in the soccer field, watching my legs, looking over my shoulder. I fall for a pile of clothes that can hide me but are also very soft to lay in. Another cruise- tropical, perhaps? Somewhere for coy adults, who shed their skin in Winter when their eyes start molting off. Someday I will place both hands into the ocean, I'll dream huge, and go swimming until I start to laugh. One day I'll sink to the floor of the bourn, maybe the same day I wake up and I'm not swimming alone.
Continue reading...
5
The Czech travel guide slumped in his chair, hair disheveled, eyes distracted, sipping a beer, then coffee at the Ostia Antica bar and bistro just past the tiny railway stop. He was tired, he said, of leading groups through the maze of Europe’s famous sights, explaining history, significance, value. His 42-member entourage would soon return from dissecting the massive ruins of the excavated Roman city — avenues, therma, fast-food kitchens, masks. We needed no guide to make our way along the brick-lined streets, stopping to stare at frescoes, mosaics, the sprawling theater. Ostia dwarfed Pompeii in size, if not drama. No contorted bodies, no brothels or sewers. Only a meticulously gridded urban sprawl. Headless sculptures heralded the humanity of history. Crumbling sarcophagi held water like broken baths. Few others like us tread the slick-stone path: The grimy chaos of Roma replaced by Ostia’s bucolic Pax. Its stone-masked ghosts, spent from wandering, embraced the resurrected statues in the stately museum. Peace in Apollonian beauty. New life springs from eroding stone. We needed no guide to show us where the tired spirit rests. Here, in the shadows of Ostia Antica, brick by brick, history was explained.
0
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 6:18 PM UTC
arliced
Pax Ostiana
The Czech travel guide slumped in his chair, hair disheveled, eyes distracted, sipping a beer, then coffee at the Ostia Antica bar and bistro just past the tiny railway stop. He was tired, he said, of leading groups through the maze of Europe’s famous sights, explaining history, significance, value. His 42-member entourage would soon return from dissecting the massive ruins of the excavated Roman city — avenues, therma, fast-food kitchens, masks. We needed no guide to make our way along the brick-lined streets, stopping to stare at frescoes, mosaics, the sprawling theater. Ostia dwarfed Pompeii in size, if not drama. No contorted bodies, no brothels or sewers. Only a meticulously gridded urban sprawl. Headless sculptures heralded the humanity of history. Crumbling sarcophagi held water like broken baths. Few others like us tread the slick-stone path: The grimy chaos of Roma replaced by Ostia’s bucolic Pax. Its stone-masked ghosts, spent from wandering, embraced the resurrected statues in the stately museum. Peace in Apollonian beauty. New life springs from eroding stone. We needed no guide to show us where the tired spirit rests. Here, in the shadows of Ostia Antica, brick by brick, history was explained.
Continue reading...
1
You took it all away from me. The girl I mean to be. You took the faith I loved so and my poetry. You broke my heart and you broke my spirit, however a metaporhosis you will see Robert Littlejohn and Michael Czech when this ugly duckling becomes a beautiful swan once more with a dazzing smile, sparking eyes, but my heart no man will get because I am sick and tired of cheaters and Peter Pans. I am tired catertering to ***** ******* mama's boys who live their impossible dreams I want to be a musican or I want to be a poet when neither one of you have the skill to be. I am content to be solitude and with my computer by side because I am a real poet and writer and this is my chosen life.
0
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 5:08 PM UTC
karissa-elizabeth-ann-lowell
Spiritual Awaken
You took it all away from me. The girl I mean to be. You took the faith I loved so and my poetry. You broke my heart and you broke my spirit, however a metaporhosis you will see Robert Littlejohn and Michael Czech when this ugly duckling becomes a beautiful swan once more with a dazzing smile, sparking eyes, but my heart no man will get because I am sick and tired of cheaters and Peter Pans. I am tired catertering to ***** ******* mama's boys who live their impossible dreams I want to be a musican or I want to be a poet when neither one of you have the skill to be. I am content to be solitude and with my computer by side because I am a real poet and writer and this is my chosen life.
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1
This is my body. You know it. You touch my teeth with your fingers, my imperfect teeth. The teeth I brought home from the Czech Republic after pulling off my braces with pliers, after not having a toothbrush or fluoridated water for half of a year, you tell me that you love me and my teeth. You know they make me so uncomfortable. You lay beside me in bed. You put your right hand in my left hand, your right leg over my left leg, and you tell me that your boyfriend is only your boyfriend because he was the opposite of your ex. He's not the one you want to be with, he's the one you just happen to be with. I tell you we shouldn't kiss until it's over between the two of you. This is my body, it's driving the car you're in. I fill up the gas tank and ask you where you'd like to go. You say you'd like to go anywhere. I drive us through Chicago, we go up one street and then down the next. I drive us downtown on Lake Shore Drive, across the city on Grand Avenue and over to Ohio, then I put us on the highway and then I take us off. We take North Avenue from I-94 to Wells to Lincoln and then North again until the car runs out of gas again. I fill up the car with gas, again. I look at your face, your hair, your hands and your legs, I love your legs, your face, your lips, and the words coming out of your mouth. I didn't know I could be happy like this again. I didn't know I could be so attracted to someone's body and so attracted to someone's mind- at the same time. I tell you that you should break up with him before we kiss, even though I just want to kiss you now. I want to kiss you now and now and now and now, and we start making promises, we start telling each other that there are rules for how to live life by understanding it. You understand your life and you understand me in it. I understand you and trust everything you say. You're right, brave, brilliant, and beautiful. I love the sound of your voice and the words you choose to use. I'm sure we've known each other for over a decade. This is my body. This is your body. We are perfect and animated towards one another, and I like it, I love it. And I'm so ******* lucky. I never have been as brave nor as bold as you've shown me I can be. I could be so brave and full of grace and excitement, and enchanted immensely by every gesture and breath that comes from you. I had previously been riddled with immense insanity before we met. I was sworn towards unmistakeable insanity, and doomed to a life of solitude and sadness, I had lived in a wash of thick melancholy, and I knew, and my friends agreed that my body and I would never know happiness, pleasure, or awesomeness anymore. You're driving me happily crazy. Fueled by unmistakeable excitement, and on the way towards a future of wildly enticing momentus togetherness. You and your little dog too.
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Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 2:39 AM UTC
martin-narrod
Happen Chance
This is my body. You know it. You touch my teeth with your fingers, my imperfect teeth. The teeth I brought home from the Czech Republic after pulling off my braces with pliers, after not having a toothbrush or fluoridated water for half of a year, you tell me that you love me and my teeth. You know they make me so uncomfortable. You lay beside me in bed. You put your right hand in my left hand, your right leg over my left leg, and you tell me that your boyfriend is only your boyfriend because he was the opposite of your ex. He's not the one you want to be with, he's the one you just happen to be with. I tell you we shouldn't kiss until it's over between the two of you. This is my body, it's driving the car you're in. I fill up the gas tank and ask you where you'd like to go. You say you'd like to go anywhere. I drive us through Chicago, we go up one street and then down the next. I drive us downtown on Lake Shore Drive, across the city on Grand Avenue and over to Ohio, then I put us on the highway and then I take us off. We take North Avenue from I-94 to Wells to Lincoln and then North again until the car runs out of gas again. I fill up the car with gas, again. I look at your face, your hair, your hands and your legs, I love your legs, your face, your lips, and the words coming out of your mouth. I didn't know I could be happy like this again. I didn't know I could be so attracted to someone's body and so attracted to someone's mind- at the same time. I tell you that you should break up with him before we kiss, even though I just want to kiss you now. I want to kiss you now and now and now and now, and we start making promises, we start telling each other that there are rules for how to live life by understanding it. You understand your life and you understand me in it. I understand you and trust everything you say. You're right, brave, brilliant, and beautiful. I love the sound of your voice and the words you choose to use. I'm sure we've known each other for over a decade. This is my body. This is your body. We are perfect and animated towards one another, and I like it, I love it. And I'm so ******* lucky. I never have been as brave nor as bold as you've shown me I can be. I could be so brave and full of grace and excitement, and enchanted immensely by every gesture and breath that comes from you. I had previously been riddled with immense insanity before we met. I was sworn towards unmistakeable insanity, and doomed to a life of solitude and sadness, I had lived in a wash of thick melancholy, and I knew, and my friends agreed that my body and I would never know happiness, pleasure, or awesomeness anymore. You're driving me happily crazy. Fueled by unmistakeable excitement, and on the way towards a future of wildly enticing momentus togetherness. You and your little dog too.
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11
~I too have a dream Oh, what a beautiful morning, I wonder what's going to happen to spoil it, what's going to befall me. There are so many possibilities of things going wrong, not going my way, I don't even want to imagine. Why cannot I just sit quietly enjoying the sunshiny day? The phone may ring bringing bad news, I may lose my beloved to the the world. An unexpected invoice I forgot to pay might appear in my mail box, the weather may change and out of the blue day a thunderstorm and rain. Will I pay dearly for seeing everything only in shades of grey? Then the tones of "The New World Symphony" with motifs of Bohemian village dances, the hustle and bustle of American cities, native Indian drums drumming bring the image of peace; of pursuit of happiness on both of my continents. Impossible dream, you say? Author Notes *~Largo from the 'New World' Symphony (1893) by the Czech composer Antonin Dvorak; and is probably the most famous piece of the composition played at all American state funerals.*
0
Oct 14, 2010
Oct 14, 2010 at 2:12 PM UTC
milushka
New World Symphony
~I too have a dream Oh, what a beautiful morning, I wonder what's going to happen to spoil it, what's going to befall me. There are so many possibilities of things going wrong, not going my way, I don't even want to imagine. Why cannot I just sit quietly enjoying the sunshiny day? The phone may ring bringing bad news, I may lose my beloved to the the world. An unexpected invoice I forgot to pay might appear in my mail box, the weather may change and out of the blue day a thunderstorm and rain. Will I pay dearly for seeing everything only in shades of grey? Then the tones of "The New World Symphony" with motifs of Bohemian village dances, the hustle and bustle of American cities, native Indian drums drumming bring the image of peace; of pursuit of happiness on both of my continents. Impossible dream, you say? Author Notes *~Largo from the 'New World' Symphony (1893) by the Czech composer Antonin Dvorak; and is probably the most famous piece of the composition played at all American state funerals.*
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