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Mateuš Conrad Dec 2016
if you can find c. g. jung writing an answer to the biblical Hiob, i can be found writing this... or as the Lad Bible states: be your superficial you... so when she's not her superficial self... you can just play the awkward monotone speaking caveman that you weren't before she played you that superficial card of hers to tone down your interests.

you know why i'm fascinated with schizophrenics?
primarily because they are concerned with
an inorganic medical condition,
there are, absolutely, no reasons to suggests they
are organically prone to premature degeneracy,
they are what the Alzheimer old man calls an angel,
and what the "angel" experiences from time to time...
to cite a non-typical schizoid experience -
a splinter in the mind?
when i wrote my previous poem, i was listening
to the song *the parting glass
throughout,
on and on and on... the rhythm took over...
and when the "poem" was finished i retracted myself
into my room and first played auld lang syne
(with lyrics and English translation)
...
                           and then... the pure instrumental
of knee-deep-bagpie... bagpipes, sure, horrid,
screeching drowning-lungs of magpie
cackling cut short into a carbonated highland water...
     oh don't worry, what this comes down to
is personal experience, such negations of ease
are not like the black plague, or a.i.d.s.,
they don't come into contact with purely-riddle
human incompetence... it takes more than that...
certain conditions are not viral...
you can't interpreted them as political malevolence
akin to a political movement... primarily because
the numbers don't add up...
                    the complexity of thought is
the complexity of regarding the mind as an abstract
of the brain, given the brain has no accuracies
concerning abstraction when stated against being automated
to a pair of kidneys... i too wish for a La La Land sometimes...
but that's not the reason people allow ***** donations...
     but you know, it really gripped me,
i wrote that poem, listening to the parting glass,
and felt nothing, nothing... because i was so
formulated to write what i wrote...
  i wrote the last bit, walked into my room,
and played the second version of auld lang syne...
the royal scots dragoon guards pure instrumental...
   and you get to weep these cold tears
after an insomniac cold shivers getting warmer with whiskey...
              and whimper and bite your bottom lips...
because you're hardly a woman fainting
and the drama isn't in you...
               and it's actual tears...
people laugh and cry saharan tears, meaning: it never
rains over it...   i see Sahara as the ancient version
of the Himalayan mountain range, suddenly reduced
because god is fickle and well, aren't we all?
           if any of us are alive to read or speak such
encodings... there will be a desert made from
the Himalayas that will be called the Himalaya -
but that's really being optimistic.
       there used to be mountains, mountains in
north Africa, Gandalf! but they crumbled in deserts!
where once a mountain range, subsequently a desert...
where now a desert, once a mountain range.
can i please get a taxi to leave this current
history and Darwinistic revisionism of it as telling
us ape Adam had more psychology about him than
Charles XIV? i want to hear the geological version
of Darwinism! but am i hearing any of it? n'ah ah.
       so yes, upon hearing the scotch dragoon guards
pipe a full whiskey sodden breath into the
         bagpi - i heard the word counter to my scrambled
narrative... king... king?!
                   which is what's bewildering about
a medical term deemed premature dementia...
   it's an organic impossibility...
but given society is an inorganic organism
and all our socio-political mechanisms aren't exactly
organic, there might be some sense in this piquant
dabble in an auditory hallucinogenic experience -
which, evidently, people find frightening,
since they occupy defining their thinking with
hearing so much, and when seeing a homeless man
think so little...
                     logic? a particular arrangement of words
that does not provide kind rubrics for the testimony of
the many...
                    i can hallucinate this auditory "addition"
and competently go on my daily business,
or my nightly business finishing a bottle of scottish amber...
some people cannot...
                 what i see it western society predicating
their poor knowledge of Alzheimer's as if searching
for some genius to explain what happens to the abstract
functions of what the brain represents
                 in terms of how the brain and abstraction
can't be cleanly separated, i.e. to treat the degeneracy
of the brain as succumbed to, but not succumbing to
the elaborated foundations of the "brain"
within the trans-physical functions of the "brain"
within a framework of memory, vocabulary, memory.
people first attribute the brain with too much
           concern for abstraction when in fast the driving
force for abstraction is the now-vogue zeitgeist
"psyche does not exist" -
                            and when the brain degenerates like
a heart or a kidney can... people start to freak
out propping out a Frankenstein revival that brain
cannot in-act upon...
                                 they told us the brain is fat...
          then they tell us only 0%, or fat-free yoghurts are
good... isn't the case for the epidemic of dementia
due to the fact that we're censoring fat?
what feeds the brain? fat! what are we censoring from
our diets? fat! fat free ******* yoghurt!
                             where does the modern epidemic
stem from? censoring fat! you anorexic ******* morons!
  you know why i put extra fat in the way i cook
meals, you know what orthodox cooks tend to
like a sizzle of a lump of lard? brain food...
     and yes, some call it eating a lot of nuts...
well then... fry me a ribs-eye steak on a handful of
cashew nuts you crazy *******!
            this is what drives me crazy concerning
auditory hallucinogenic experiences...
there are no drugs that you could ever sell that people
would buy to experience an auditory hallucination...
primarily because people made thought
   an auditory experience...
                  that's the norm, i'm not talking Walt Disney
here... and people enjoy music because it feeds the heart
in a way averse to images that feed the libido
or dreaming...
    the point being, my "hallucinatory" experience lasted
for less than a second... some ***** on l.s.d. trips
for half a day because he finds modern movies boring
and finally gets to appreciate cubist contortion
mechanisations... i can do more damage with a second's
worth of "auditory" hallucination than that little
hippy can do away with 12 hours, and only end up
writing a haiku thinking he can suddenly conjure up
spirits of Shinto like some Gilgamesh *** Bruce Springsteen;
then he shaves his hair and travels to Mongolia
to learn the index against the lips motorboating
harmonica... and i end up saying: thank you;
cos it wouldn't be twangy without that kind of a tranquiliser
to stabilise excitement beyond encoding sounds.
          i can tell you how ******-up my internal
narrative has become, so i'm defeatist,
here's how it looks like when i get agitated...
               writing on a white flag...
      oh look: wavy! wavy! i'm waving it...
going boats full of nuts and bananas!
             you ever hear the story of a psychiatrist
jumping on a table and barking when a conscription
  cadet tried to fake being mad?
      she did what i just wrote and asked H. Clinton
to reiterate on the campaign trail.
                    inauguration 2017:
   i solemnly swear, that H. Clinton barked like a ruffian
poodle on the campaign trail.
  beside the point though, schizophrenia is an inorganic
manifestation of an actual organic degeneracy -
it's a negation-of-ease for dangerous people...
     people who probably have a music taste outside
the top 40 best selling albums (let alone singles)...
                   and they're quick to pick up on this grey area
concerning premature depression...
                it's trendy these days... people who are melancholic
are people who are like Homer, wrote the Odyssey
went blind from making too much heroism from
      the cannibalism at the gates of Troy and couldn't
handle telling a single lie after having written such an epic...
   or as Virgil convened: Paris didn't escape,
Aeneid did... no one knows what happened to Paris,
       probably choked on a raisin or something:
it's ancient history, if you're not going to talk about it
in a callous manner, then be prepared for careless mannerisms:
pout, **** *** cheek, shelfie!
               what i am seeing is this quote:
a butterfly on the Galapagos Islands... a Tornado in
Colorado... the poetics of quantum physics,
or misplaced potentials of counter-quantifiable
simultaneous counter-interpretations...
    the butterfly effect? under the umbrella corporate
otherwise known, from ancient times: a metaphor.
hey, we started reading into hydrocarbons,
there's no way to talk easy for us...
                           for all my love for one inspiration,
i lost my love for him when he said that not tying your
shoelaces (i.e. spelling) was because he thought it was
indoctrination... you know who i mean: Mr. Chow Chewski...
   spelling? that's like tying your shoelaces!
         question is... who would ingest a hallucinogenic
drug that didn't utilise the multi-coloured world to
an excessive amount to be prescribed, say, an U.V.
phosphorescent spectrum of seeing... when, given all
that... sound occupies this realm of b & w?
               who could create an auditory hallucinogenic?
can you imagine it?
                             most people with a weakened cognitive
membrane would go nuts... as the case has been proven
many a times...
        but given the fact that no such hallucinogenic exists,
or that "auditory" / cognitive hallucinations are
disregarded even though Descartes stressed this
   notion of a substance / thought, and an extension /
       sensual disparities with regards to cohesive uniformity,
i.e. regarding over-stressing a particular sense
      and never reaching a former cohesion...
           can only mean a circumstance later described
by Kant within the framework of the noumenon -
    i.e. perhaps you've seen too much, but heard too little...
perhaps you've tasted too much, but had barely a sniff of
                  more...
        the original thought when exposed to a cohesion
of uniformed senses, experiencing a discohesion of
             a presupposed sensual "uniformity",
returns back into a form of thought, i.e. an extension...
                only because the thing in question is a
presupposition, not a supposition that can be countered
with a proposition, i.e. since we all made mistakes
presupposing, we have become prone to propositions to
suppose otherwise... in terse terms: invent politics.
so what i termed "auditory" and "hallucination"
and conflated them in a prefix of cognitive-, in consolidation
i meant to say that: once all presuppositions (thoughts)
disappear by the miraculous ape that man either is
or wishes himself to still be... and we deem to say:
   reality...                 we only have suppositions (extensions)
               that appear...
                         by the miraculous ape that man never
was and wishes himself to nonetheless be:
  in that consolidatory ref. to the last trinity of Cartesian
thought: substance - in the former the formation
of will... in the latter the complete lack of it -
                              to the simpler scenarios,
we already have knowledge of prisons and asylums...
            because internalising such possible scenarios
never leaves the many to be grafting such possibilities
with enough calm as to persevere for the sole purpose
of understanding, as what point can a noumenon-unit
enter the argument if not from a reflex
                       as this continued narration explains...
none of this was reflected upon...
reflection in such circumstances usually means weaving
a machete at your neighbour...
                                  the noumenon-unit
the ping-pong factor in all of this is a reflex action...
         not a reflective action...
               i am no king no more than i am a pauper...
   now imagine if i tripped for 12 hours on l.s.d.,
having extracted so much, from an "auditory" "hallucination",
that, in the realm of the mind, is neither a minute,
nor a second, nor a nanosecond...
               it's unitary equivalent is simply that of: a word.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
the ******* conversation is
worse than no conversation
at all...

point being?

why bother, if lacking all
intricacy?
i hate acronyms...

jess glynne: right here...
or...
hasselhoff you tonight
(hold you tight tonight)...

zoe saldana...
in green?
she's not white...
Latino?
she's not black...
mulatto?!

d'uh...
what's wrong with me...
green skinned and i'm like...
tinges of lesbian feminist
librarian?!

         Ogle...
now why i would prefer
to **** a green girlie
than an Oreo?

              like one girl suggested
to me...
you're of the race that
does not have a protruding
occipital bone...

so...
why do most African
and Asian do not possess
the protruding
nasal bone?
     huh?!

you know... flat at the top,
meaning excess cartilage
at the base?
you know: gorilla sniff?
this is a two way street!

but gamora...
i can ****** well see she's not white...
but...
let's be "racist"...
i'd prefer to **** her green
than in her mulatto origin...
what?!

electric six: she's white!
you know how tremendous
brown eyes look against
a backdrop of green skin?

just like ginger hair dressing
the window-shopping mannequins
of Celtic milk-skin...

the actress is mulatto...
but me, i'm just tired of mixing
chocolates...
i feel like...
green skin... piglet shy pink boy...
let's make an avocado flesh baby!
tinged by canary-green-grape
overtones!

she's so ******* fit green...
disguising her mulatto
cocktail...
and that added feminism
pink tinged hair?
      absolutely no Afro...
you could mistake her
for a Latino...
         but i already knew:
that ***** ain't white...
and even i do not originate
from the white people with
a colonial past...

     i could succumb to
the whole trans-ethnic experiment...
by the way...
as biracial relationships go...
if her papa was a whitey...
she's going to go for a whitey
and reproduce...
guess what happens to her children?
come out from the oven
as white as silk...
and the ones who follow the route
of dating the similar ethnicity
of their mothers?
no children...

             if we're going to be so
******* anti-racial...
let's embrace the already stated
disparities entrusted to making
a post biracial choices...
the days of the originality
of bi-racialism are over...
let's call upon
regressive genes,
that, generations later
are awoken...
                
                                 no... too early?
oh, right,
how could i forget?!

these new people require
the bilinguals to be polymaths...
or to be monolingual...
and if they're not?!
well...
             schizophrenics!
schizophrenics!
                schizophrenics!

­you do know that globalization
would have worked...
if and only if...
the general population spoke
their native tongue,
and a lingua franca
was established...
given that the globalists didn't
exactly focus on establishing
a consensus lingua franca...
one year it was english,
another year it was arabic,
another it was mandarin...

hello white boy: she's green!
i'd still prefer to ****
the green ***** than than the mulatto;
what?
i'm tired of chocolate!
of the caramel and the toffee,
and the copper skin debate!
she's green... i'll just think
of a hard-on via a glass of absinthe!

and we'll make sweet avocado
babies!
after all...
i am a shy pink of a pig's skin tinge...
i am sure i can make the green
shy away, into a hints
of canary...

monolingual biracial "peoples"...
as ever... too proud to learn
a second language,
while all the more eager
to label mono-racial people
with a bilingualism trait...
"schizophrenics"...
guess... that there are mongrels
either side...
but that some of us...
abstracted the mongrel stature...
but not like you'd notice.
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2016
perchance an epic was necessary, to consolidate the scattered thinking, and indeed, once a certain life, and was lived with a cherishing heart, the heart broke, and life turned from adventures to a more studious approach, and in here, a comfort was found, never before imagined explorations - of course sometime a tourist in the arts does come, but such tourists quickly fade, and the pursuit becomes more enshrined - to levitated towards epics is perhaps the sole reason for the cherished memory of some - and how quickly all can revolve around a searched for theme, after many incorporations were minded - as one to have travelled the Mediterranean, another to have been eaten by the great mandarin silkworm of the library of Kangxi - heading along the silk route with spices - indeed the great mandarin silkworm of the library of emperor Kangxi; as i too needed a bearing - to inspect the trickster of lore and the godly blacksmith of the north.

by instruction - an accumulation of the the zephyrs
into a vector, headed north,
toward the gluttonous murk of ice, jesting
with aches to the bulging and mesmerised crescendo
of adrift stars captured in the tilting away -
to think of an epic, to keep out-of-time of
spontaneity and thistle like swiftness in the last
days of summer, that Mercury brings the new
tides of the tetravivaldis -
   brought by the λoγος of a γoλας -
for reasons that satisfy the suntan copper of
the ***** - the λoγος of a γoλας - yet not toward
Monte Carlo or any hideout of money well invested
and greedily spent for a charm -
no, north bids me welcome from afar -
this norðri fløkja, this    ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ -
by my estimate, i could not take the nonsense
of numerology of a certain specialisation,
i took what was necessary, i pillaged the temple
of Solomon, perhaps that the dome of the rock
might stand - with its glistening dome and
its sapphire mosaics - i don't belong among
palm trees and date trees - hence i turned to
deciphering and subsequently encrypting -
as i have already with *ᚱᚨᛒᛖ
:
the journey of an Æsir through a birch forest
on a horse.
                    with this method in mind:
(a) ᚾᛟᚱᛞᚱᛁ       (b) ᚠᛚᚢᚲᛃᚨ:

(a)
the need to acquire possessions accumulating
into an estate, is a journey encountered
day by day, although a journey on ice

(b)
cattle only thrive near water,
auruchs did not, and hence illuminated
their way to extinction,
         by way of the Æsirs' harvest
(to eat up diversity of life, and create
a godless world of man).

my escape route came from ᚠ - mirroring שִׂ
although the former standing, the latter sitting
down, although the former fathomable
to my pleasure, the latter unfathomable
to ascribe numbers to letters for patterns -
i seek no patterns, hence my sight turned to
the northern sights, and meanings amplified.
                
the greeks were intended to explore abstracts,
having stated a triangle
they invented the ² symbol and what not,
it was because
they didn't bother extracting a phonetic unit
from something definite,
they classified such endeavours barbarian,
what reasonable greek of 13% reason and
87% reality would extract alpha from
the sound you made when
saying ansur (ᚨᚾᛋᚢᚱ) - i.e. attention -
i.e. deriving a definite sound differentiation
for alphabetical rubrics from a definite thing
(in whatever classification that might be)?
the greeks used the alphabetical rubric of
crafting a definite sound from an indefinite thing,
so they said: acronym, aardvark, assumption,
                       α                 α      α     α,
then they said α² - there are no antonyms -
but indeed there were, hence the Trojan nation
settling in the boot, that's Italy,
the Romans escalated the greek theory
beyond taking out a definite sound distinguished
from other distinguishable sounds,
abstracting what the alphabetic sound assured
a list under alpha: assumption, advantage,
acorn, etc. -
the latins were the first atomist after the greeks,
the greeks believed in atoms, but had no
microscopes to prove atoms existed,
such scientific faith found no parallel;
the latins ensured this was true,
ending with castrato sing-along -
the latins furthered abstracting sounds from
definite orientation which the greeks did
working from ice into iota,
the latins just sang i, i, i -
of course chiral behaviourism of such dissection
emerged - hatch a plan, plan a chisel -
it's very piquant i mind to let you know -
the greeks abstracted nouns in order to create
the alphabet, the barbarians still used
proper nouns to speak proper, the greeks
thus created synonyms and antonyms to add
to the spice of life - after all,
not deriving definite alphas from
cursors that acknowledged points of origins
created diacritical stressing like comma and
semis of colon and macron, not deriving them
from definite things, shunning a helpful
vocabulary bank to an unhelpful vocabulary
banked: synonyms and antonyms the Gemini's
birth of rhetoric;
but the latins were rejected with their atomic theory
of pronunciation, since they became laden
with diacritics - punctuation marks of a different sort,
you can measure a man sprint one hundred metres,
but is that also measuring a man to say
mān or män or mán? i know that the slavic ó = u
given the scalpel opening the ensō to craft a parabola -
but it's not necessarily an accent debate
but a punctuation debate... the emergence of
the diacritic symbols above the letters is due
partly to their joy of the popes listening to
castrato operas and the fact that the romans
went too far... hence the chiral nature of certain
symbols when dittoing - the barbarians used
definite things to assert definite sounds -
the greeks used indefinite things to assert definite
sounds - mind you, if the romans became too
abstract with their little units that became engraved
with punctual accenting, then the greek letters
became laden with scientific constants as necessarily
fathered, unchanging in the pursuit of Heraclitus' flux -
for example... Pythagoras and the hypotenuse:
                            σ / κ² = α² + β² -
           or?
                             c² (ć) = a² (ą) + b² / š (bubble beep
                                                           bop barman backup hop
                                                           of shackled kakah
                                                           or systematic oscillation
                                                           for bzz via burp);
πρ² is still more stable
                                 than what the latin alphabet allows -
hence why greek phonetic encoding was used in
science, and latin phonetic encoding was used in music,
can't be one or the other - added to the fact that
latin encoding had too many spare holes with
the evolution of numbers, and greek didn't have them,
hence β-reduction in lambda calculus and F-dur and A#

the one variant of the grapheme (æ) they didn't include
among expressions: graphite and grapheme
was the variant - gravitating to an entombing
of the excess aesthetic - geresh stress -
somehow the twins match-up to a single womb:
àé vs. áè: V vs. Λ - Copernicus wrote over all
of this with the flat earth uselessness
in terms of navigation - flat earth is useless...
huh? flat earth is the only system that gave
Columbus the chance to explore the new world -
no flat earth no Columbus -
that satellite named Luna was no tool
in navigating across the Atlantic - believe me
i'm sure -
                  or that grapheme (æ) varied like statistics
or like the characters in the book of genesis
that famous adam und eve (kim and kanye):
chances came, chances went:
it was still a draw on the tongue tied decipher:
àè and áé proved another notation for plurality
was necessary, not at the beginning of the word,
but after, hence the possessive article 's,
we could have parallelism, there was a crux,
how once the chiselling of letters came about,
more economic to chisel in a V than a U,
both the same, much easier though...
almost barbaric i might say...
sigma (Σ) enigma rune e (ᛖ) - this compass
is a ******* berserker, god knows if it's
mount Everest or the Bermuda Δ

but one thing is for certain, never you mind how
a language is taught unless you mind it,
not that conversational athenian is really what
i'm aiming at - but a lesson is a lesson nonetheless,
out of interest something new,
richard von Coudenhove-Kalergi,
and what preceded him, namely pan-slavism,
just when the polish-lithuanian commonwealth
did a little Judaic trick of its own,
although snorkelling in the waters of not writing
history for less a time than israel -
you can't beat ~2000 under water - although
you could if your little tribe had an einstein
among them, or proust or spinoza, then
you could effectively become a whale, popping
an individual out from the rubble to say a polite
'hello' and 'when will the dessert be served?'
but indeed, learning a language on your own,
how to learn from scratch, the greek orthography,
and why omicron and not omega,
the give-away? sigma - purely aesthetic reason,
                             νoμισματων

                             nomismaton

omicron                                                 omega

                 you write omicron at the front
                 and omega at the back
                 pivot letter? two: σ     μ &
                 νoμι-                                -ατων
                      ­                     |
                 anything here  
                 will use o            and anything
                                              here uses ω

alike to sigma:
                          χωρας (choras, i.e. country)

sigma (ς) not sigma (σ), i.e. digitalising languages
without a clear connectivity of letters,
block-a-brick-block-a-brick-digit-digit-digit
you learn that handwriting is gone,
two options, your own aesthetic reasons now,
remember, some paired for the ease of handwritten
flow - digitalised language changes the aesthetics,
you make your own rules (considering exceptions
of oh mega mega, ergo revision -

                                       χoρας,

but still the sigma rule, others esp. o mega
you stamp on them like βλαττια, i.e. cockroaches -
κατσαρίδα                 not         κατςαρίδα

all perfectly clear when you explore plato's
dialogue from the book Θηαετητυς (as you might
have noticed, the epsilon-eta project is still
in the storage room of my imagination) -
but indeed in the dialogue, between socrates
and the "hero" of the book theaetetus -
a sample, without an essay on the theory
of knowledge -
socrates: ...'tell me theaetesus, what is Σ O?'
theaetetus: yes, my reply would be that it is
                    Σ and O.
socrates: so there's your account of the syllable,
                isn't it?
theaetetus: yes.
socrates: all right, then: tell me also what your
                  account of Σ is.
                                                             ­   (etc.
or as some might say, a shrug of the shoulders,
a hmmpf huff puff of hot air, impractical interests
and concerns - well, better the impractical
problems than practical problems, less feet
shuffling and nail-biting moments with your
tail between your legs and an army of
intellectuals working out what went wrong
and how history will solve everything by
the practical problems repeating themselves) -
you know that inane reaction - others would just say
Humphrey Bogart and nonetheless get on with it.

some would claim i was begot a second time,
not in the sixth month period of the aqua-flesh,
how did i actually related to the life aquatic,
for nine months i was taught to hold my breath,
however did this happen?
a miracle of birth? ah indeed the miracle of
a crutch for a woman - spinal deformities -
9 months, sort to speak, in water or some other
fluid - merman - a beastly innovation -
next you'll be telling me beyond this life
we turn into centaurs, given the Koran's promise -
you'd need the appetite of a breeding horse
to satiate the 72 - or thereabouts - martyr or
no martyr - 72? that's pushing it -
or as they say among children - a chance playground
without swings or sandpits, but very careless
gravitational pulling toward a certain direction;
nonetheless, they might have that i did indeed
settle of a sáttmáli                  ᛋᚨᛏᛏᛗᚨᛚᛁ
                  við         ­                  Vᛁᛞ
                  tann                         ᛏᚨᚾᚾ
                  djevul                      ᛞᛃᛖVᚢᛚ -
the hands you see, fidgety -
     hond handa grammur burtur    úr   steðgur
     ᚻᛟᚾᛞ  ᚻᚨᚾᛞᚨ  ᚷᚱᚨᛗᛗᚢᚱ   ᛒᚢᚱᛏᚢᚱ  ᚢᚱ   ᛋᛏᛖᛞᚷᚢᚱ
         the hands give an ardent pursuit
                                                 away from rest -
well not that my poems will ever reach
the islands in question - and indeed an
uneducated guess propels me - what does it matter,
λαλος babbler meant anything, indeed λαλος,
language as my own, is a language that i can
understand - and should anyone omit
disparities - a welcome revision would never tease
nor burn my eyes - but the phonetic omission
peeved me off: woad in water, ventricles in a
variety of entanglements - it's just not there -
and indeed, orthographically, if there are no more
optometric involvements of omicron's twin -
then the stance is with you to use whichever pleases,
i can't tell the difference, unless i was a pedantic
student, aged 70, with a granddaughter i wanted
to be wed teasing a millimetre's worth of
phonetic differentiation between the two -
POTATO PA'H'TAYTOE TOMATO TA'H'MAYTOE -
linguistically one's american and the other
is british, which looks like greek and latin
upside-down and in a mirror: pəˈteɪtəʊ, təˈmɑːtəʊ;
or as the spaghetti gobblers would put it:
the tetragrammaton is working on their
texan drawl (dwah! ripples in china) -
or the high-society new england ******* *******
coo with a cuckoo's load of clocks -
before being sent off to england for a respectable
education, something en route Sylvia Plath -
but not to ol' wee scoot land - ah nay - well
perhaps for a year and then talk of north european
barbarism of a deep friend pizza and mars bar.

and when descartes finished with christina
queen of sweden, she became an animate portrait
of feminine attempts at philosophising,
she was basically ostracised from society,
well, not society per se, she didn't become a stray
dog, but she forgot certain functions of
the upper tier - lazily modern man decides
to hide phenomena from understanding
individual instances, with the kantian guise
of a noumenon, hence cutting his efforts short -
indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by society - only after descartes finished educating her;
and indeed to most people a little bit of sloth
equates to an amputation of some sort -
yet only with the x-files' season 2 episode 2
i've learned of the effects of prolonged alcohol
"misuse", that little boxing match in my liver?
it's not a pain as such, it's actually a hardening
of soft tissue - with prolonged alcohol exposure
soft tissue organs harden, notably the liver -
and it's not a pain, it's a hardening.
but indeed queen christina of sweden was ostracised
by her tier of socialites - i'm glad diogenes
didn't get to her, but then again a bit of cloth
goes a long way this far north -
yet unlike the encounter with napoleon by hegel
diogenes' encounter with alexander lasted longer -
which tells you the old method does no service
to a little bit of material accumulation -
but perhaps the acumen was briefer when you were
ably living in a barrel - and to think, as only
that being the sole expression, not so much
a body without organs as stated in the thesis
of anti-oedipus by deleuze and guattari -
a consideration for a body without limbs - prior
to a footprint an imprint on the mind -
carelessly now, a diarrhoea of narration -
how rare to find it - perhaps this idea of epic
poetry is a default of writing per se -
with this my whatever numbered entry i seize
to find escape in it - a lack of ambition -
a loss of spontaneity that's a demanded mechanisation -
by volume, by inaneness - to reach a single
technique accumulative zenith, and then back
into the ploughing, rustic scenery and the
never-bored animals - i rather forget such escapades -
and there i was dreaming of a grand
runic exploration - some imitable game -
some scenic routes - yet again -
False Poets Feb 2018
complexity bias

how you love to criticize my poems
as too long and overly complex

poor me, I’m no genius, don’t prosper by exploiting
unrecognized simplicities, rather deconstruct the
intricate complexities that I flatter myself are the me-sinews

Writing is a **** temptation -
we focus on the 10% that is complex and ignore the easy 90%

perhaps this once I will surrender my bare bones
put aside the rich, satisfying of cave diving, urban spelunking
word caressing tongue verbiage rich tapestry exploring -

give you the plane of plain where nestles my destiny: nesting near motionless where the couch is my kingdom and cold cereal is
easily digested and there are no consequences

I am a member of a discriminated-against minority
we have no charismatic leader, no marchers anywhere, and government programs say
hey you’re free white and twenty one plus, get the crap out of
our faces,  you useless piece of rhymes with **** and includes dirt, though I shower twice a day to keep myself occupied

25 years old, a high school dropout, of course I’m white,
my occupation is playing video games and making sure
my supply of opioids is adequate in these great United States
where I was born

there are fewer jobs than none that my application survives
a first glance discardation, and now my disability preempts
any demand to pretend there is gainful employment in store in
my future

this reductio ad absurdum is a technique to expose the fallacy,
ah what’s that you say no interest in hanging about,
on your way out, of course, of course,
we are the wrong flavor of downtrodden

my life is simple - simplistic in its a chaotic entropic way,
order slowly declines into disorder

my rituals are a fight against slip sliding down, falling off the
the Herzog continuums
and the poems are desperate hand holds to prevent my
going, gone under

so forgive me if I tax you without possessing not the
requisite taxing authority

you hone in on the obvious disparities and my contradictions

resenting my sending you this bill of extravagant length

compose with me and a mean will be located and to sleep I go,
perhaps to undress my dreams and explicate the wealthy multiples of complexity in the simplicity of a junkies life
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2018
.just search Polish, England, vermin... there clearly is a difference between a racial slur, and a dehumanizing slur... well... it's good that i have a soundtrack, Pearl Jam's rats from the album Vs., and Ghost's rats from the album prequelle...

i get it, the English are sometimes lazy, when speaking... but... there's a difference between a racist slur and a term that dehumanizes a people... i say ******, i say Dr. Dre, i write ****- i forget the suffix... but... you know... being deemed vermin, by ethnicity... that's not called a racial slur, that's called a dehumanizing term... vermin is not a racial slur, it's a dehumanizing precursor of radicalizing an impetus for genocide... so? ****** ****** ****** ****** ******... **** **** **** **** ****... just like greg focker in meet the parents on a plane: bomb bomb bomb bomb bomb... just look up the story, in England... when a bunch of leaflets were posted through the doors of Polak families, calling them vermin... what?! racial slurs are one thing, dehumanizing slurs are another; ******* ******* and their serf pakis.


oh i'm not in England to play
along to whittle Oreo,
whittle Choccie...
  or some uncle Tom...
         i'm about to parade my
Pontius Pilate closure...
i'm here for the cider,
for the ale,
and for ms. amber...
and... for...
   kasabians': club foot...
i can't be a friend to a fellow
European who's embroiled
with his commonwealth...
Rotherham vassal-postcriptum...
see the V?
see the V?
                          here's an I
to clarify...
      dictate your kleinscheißetirade
  (little **** tirade)
on some other continent,
bring back a curry recipe from
India, or something...
but don't expect
me to bow down to non-Europeans....
you... inselvolk
  (island people)...
            i am frothing at
the mouth, and restraining myself
from biting your ***... taub...
numb...
i can respect other cultures...
by your, "standards", of, "respect"...
but i will never be you...
this... this...
this was was the hardest aspect
of me integrating:
i will never be one of you...
Zeppelins are hanging
over the skies,
and i'm, itching for a blitzkrieg...
this, this... is what
precisely makes a man
enroll in supposition the status
of the enemy...
the commonwealth came
before the European stature...
  i've learned the language,
but i didn't relieve myself
of the mutterzunge... ergo?
i'm not fully integrated...
i'm not fully integrated?
integrate the following *****-slap
from Europe...
see how you like your
****- sauce then!
oh i'm praying for no-deal or
a hard-deal.. scenario...
i hate deserters...
and the "British"...
are, in my mind... ethnic-deserters...
punish the *******...
like that song,
a post-colonial power
attacking a post-colonial power...
circus!
applause!
   something much finer than
watching the t.v.....
billy joel... we didn't start
the fire...
lyric in particular?
Belgians in the Congo...
well...
      Brussels in the U.K.
although i speak the natives' tongue...
i should care about their
fate... because?
what?!
                 my ethnicity gets called
vermin...
   and i'm like...
hula hoop around this *******...
because the hope entrusted
to the progressive ontology of humanity
always undermines
the sarcastic undermining in
the current in situ...

   but i don't care...
next thing i'll hear is that i'll
only be "properly" integrated
if i paint my skin copper,
grow my hair into a turban's
worth bundle...
then... i'll be the protected caste.

thank god England is an island...
makes the whole boarders debate...
debate?
an island entertains
a boarders debate?
an island?
an island can have authentic,
clarifying,
serious debates about boarders?!
you're joking, right?
you want to have a, "boarders" debate...
being strapped to an island?
i "said"... are you... ******* joking?
Saul Makabim Jun 2012
Routine tests
failed
Number Four reactor
Walls melt, floor buckles
Gamma disaster
one half million men mill
by the banks of the Dnieper
Level Seven Event
Unprecedented disaster
Flesh sloughed off
Rounding the corner
cellular structure instantly scrambled
eggs toast and jelly
Gaze upon the elephant's foot
Bathe in green glowing brilliant stochastic calculation
Mutant dogs roam the tainted halls of Prypiat
Disparities reflect
true death toll unknown
Concerned Scientists shed their lights
on the encircling environment
Glittering glass carpets coat abandoned streets
Creaking Ferris wheel slowly turns into madness
Toxic twin of Fukushima
Thyroid Leukemia Cellular Damage Tumor
the caustic clouds still settling today
Generation after generation
dead women and children
Global impact particle spread
none have been spared
even into tomorrow.
I have a dream! I have a dream,
To the racial discriminators, said Martin Luther King,
I have a dream! I have a dream!
To the evil-creating economists, I warn and ring.

Globe witness hunger, inequality poverty and unemployment
The world turns out to be bitter,
To all of you, I write this letter.
To create a world relieved from these and turn better.

I am a mad aspiring economist, a fool,
Searching for the right tool,
You turned the world with full of mess,
People are left with nothing less.

To the world, you gave theories,
Pushed us into a vicious cycle of injuries,
About your theories, you boasted,
It has created a few ruling and bloated.
Most of you worked as economic hitmen,
Turned victim laymen to fighting gunmen.

To the realities, your theory is distant,
Served no solution to the dying peasants,
To the few, we remain a psychological slave and servants,
Tuned our lives to a depended migrant.

With your development lecture,
You have killed the entire nature,
In the name of ventures, corporates turned vulture,
Hunted and looted our generations’ future.

We lived a self-reliant community,
You killed us with imposed liability,
Our lives are now placed in intensive casualty,
The word that remains imagination still is equality.



We lost our humanity and identity,
In your eyes, we are just a market and commodity,
Your play with scarcity, was a mere futility,
We finally became a society, filled with atrocity.

Your useless lectures of development,
Put us under frightening & irrecoverable unemployment,
For a few, you got us into a deep-rooted enslavement,
So, now for you instead, we make a replacement.

To my questions, you neglected and ran,
In your eyes, I am foolish stupid common man,
To you short-sighted range,
I say I will bring in a change!

Today, I may remain lower and mere viewer,
A day will come, where you will stand to answer,
Writing a new rule, I would seize your beloved positions,
This will be my lifetime mission and ambition.

I say with all my limited experience,
I will put a test to all your conscience,
Are you just a fat-big corporate’s hand?
With people will you always stand?

I am not an economist,
I am neither an egotist,
I proclaim! I proclaim!
I am a revolutionary economist,

I know you will fit me a label,
I am sure I will be an economic rebel,
A rebellious economist.

I dream a world without huge inequalities,
I dream a world free from imposed liabilities,
I dream a world without poverty and disparities,
I finally dream for becoming an economist with no ambiguities.
The whole world is staring at new difficulties. It is still riddled with poverty, inequality, unemployment and illiteracy. The economists who dictated these rulebooks are the main culprits behind these. I am an aspiring economist. The economists mostly don’t stand with people’s welfare. Mostly they are ambiguous. They know only theories. They work as economic hitmen for many corporates. They are just a bookworm. Without understanding the pain and situation, they put forward new theories. Their theories sometimes serve good for the western world. One food or one dress or even one house cannot suit every person in the world. I have written this poem to the economists. It is better that all economist stay with people and find a solution that is most suitable for their enhancement. Else, people would reject their presence. In short, I say economist should be from the people, for the people, by the people, of the people.
Michael Marchese Jul 2018
If I could simply overcome
Possessive nouns and vowel sounds
I would not need to study ******
Heavy lies’ beheaded crowns
But you make martyrs with your charter
School exclusive service sector
To systemically condemn me
To the destitution nectar
Of the corner story *****’s
Potential Cinderella caged in
The statistics of the mathematic
Overdose equation
Comatose’n like a Holy Ghost
Of tranquil ranking party skanks
Whose tanks plan out the projects
For the boys still shootin’ blanks
And then the slavers liberate
Some nation-state of god forsaken
Oil barons salivate
To taste the poison Apple’s stake in
Stock in stuffer markets takin’
All the products people makin’
Privatizing profit-docket lawless
Mother Nature rapin’
For some scarcity disparities
In wealth I can’t attain
You keep me feeding on the bottom
From the top, you make it rain
So as the brains continue drainin’
In amenity dependency
I tinker with the inner-machinations
Now the enemy
You’ve made me out to be you see
My generation’s future’s bleaker
Than the past in full HD
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i should be handling a champagne flute by now,
i don't know, maybe it's the laughter
that's curbing me from doing so... oh the fizzling
of my shizzle: or whatever's the trend in Campton.

now i'm watching videos on the pros and cons
and i'm thinking: it's really out of my hands -
i can do what Pontius Pilate did, back when
everything political required things to be hygiene prone
- and when there were literate fishermen who
miraculously broke from physical toils
       and wrote anti-Pharisee booklets.
forget Socrates defiling the youth:
it's me and a few old men -
will i become martyred because of it,
am i deluded with an invasion of
Shoreditch coolio across the depth and breadth
of London: who cares?!
       i like a good film, and this one is
always going to be good -
it only takes one word (well, two): the queen;
mainly the logic stuck true to the end
result: it would have been too good to be true...
take that logic and make it into a motto -
        wholeheartedly honestly,
      i have not an inch of my own wet *****
dipped into your ear: that's what
being independent means -
it also means that Copernicus ruined
   all things nautical, sunrise, sunset,
                  and thank **** the earth is
3D, now the problem, what shape is the universe?
   as it goes we're in a fudge swamp -
we aren't going anywhere, we think we are,
but people forgot to twin thought and doubt together,
   instead we have thinking and denial twinned,
which means: no matter how many facts are
spewed and later picked up as golden nuggets
we're not going anywhere.
       that's the beauty of a niche armchair,
      you get to bypass the comforts of crowd and airing concerns -
i'd never miss those emotional reactions
of people slyly: for the world!
    i love how they think that spying is masquerading
and not stating the obvious: which it usually is,
spying is stating that: the opposite has a tradition
built upon using sharpened knives:
                    me and my blunt knives:
i'm tearing into the meat like a vulcher -
what the hell can you do?
   sell the truth for 30 quid, buy it back for 20.
  that's a Homeric certainty -
    no, not the jokey Springfield variety:
the serious Grecian 2000 year old (if not more)
one - and i already asked:
what are you here for?
  me? i'm into writing a 2000 year old chapter
ranging from monkey, neanderthal and man -
     given the obvious disparities
and image issues and ****** favours considering
the pale anorexic Parisian modelling skeletors.
     you know what i found distinct in that story:
Slavs among the Germanic tribalism?
i concentrated on the eyes, rather than admit
a less pronounced *occipital bone
: yeah,
that's almost a tail in evolutionary sprechen.
       all thanks to a girl in school who noted
that "defect".
     i just looked at the eyes and found they were
more ****, and subsequently quasi-Mongolian
and less Germanic fish-eyed fixative of ogling
out as if about to be gouged out, or simply
popping out with a reference to helium.
    once again: a stick has two ends.
         it's the historiological (why the iota in that
i'll never know) demand:
the pendulum simply said: too good to be true -
and it was:
  i'll go one better, better than black and female?
how about native?
   now that would be a game-changer -
      anything less than a native american is
as about as revolutionary or a status quo disciple
or a hamburger for breakfast:
hence the reason why sarcasm and apathy mingle
        and look down at the doormat:
  oh right, only wiping my shoes does it? hell,
i'll wipe my shoes: come in and take a ****.
     thus the misrepresentation of writing on
pixel-paper (or what's called:
       drunk, but still in want of having a chance to
revise, because we're all sloppy when
      staging what the original transgression was);
   i never write with a want to say the things i write,
i just think the misrepresentation comes
when i treat the internet as a punching-bag to think
things through: a voyeuristic-reversal,
        as such a great medium to think things out:
the new ****.
   nonetheless, it's hard not to laugh within
the framework of defending the freedom to sprechen
and leave the defence of the freedom to denken
  within a socialism that never manufactures
    anything: apart from protest marches -
the F. Gumps amid broken vocal chords.
                  you get suspicious about deaf people
hearing more than those able...
                                 to hear a crackpot mantra
and subsequently diffuse it.
                     i wish we lived in world summarised
by the words: all eyes on Mongolia...
            but that's what happens when you popularise
**** and industrialise it:
    a. China and India beat you in terms of industrialising
             it (over a billion buggers by my count, each!)
and b. it's a litmus test of youngsters in the future
              suffering from depression -
now that's really obscure - i don't really have a b.
     point to make... pornographic industrialisation
got me...            come to think of it:
if america didn't industrialise *** i'd be in a transgender
clinic trying to figure out whether i had
    any ego in my phallus - completely bewildered
whether i should accept my ******* as if a dog
accepting its canine extension...
        given women these days
and the fact that i had to pay for the pleasure tells me
a lot...
            i either pay for it and play the genteel role
or i go mad from ****** frustration and ****:
at least we're talking a contract,
like that bubbly Puerto Rican woman in Amsterdam:
                                         **** it... Freud!
so we solved the whole "earth is not flat" debate,
           even though we still require the n.e.w.s.
to go about our daily business... tragic: we now have
to encapsulate the universe as having a shape -
  milestones have been conquered,
  from a 2D earth into a 3D earth
      we now have an infinitely 1D universe -
                because it couldn't have been: a box
within a box, within a box: without an actual box,
or as the people said: hence we having the sport of boxing /
dentistry.
            the Russians put a man and a dog into
space: fair enough...
      we go a step further and end all fairytales
  and turn our children into ambitious astronauts
breakdancing on the moon -
                              then comes Mars...
if we're going with that sort of escapist route then we're done:
   these traditional capitalistic endeavours for
mere competition have turned into a variation of
simple escapism - as i was taught in a catholic school -
imagine yourself in a world, then leaving it -
always imagining the earth from afar, from the moon, say;
all that really was said was the Taoist motto
about not engaging with the world on terms of
rounding up, rabble talking and ******* whatever needed
******* (pervert, i know the slang in the engagement
     of the cultish excesses of skin; rough ***?).
   but that's what it is: escapism -
                         as they said: a message from former
communist countries -
                           a sprouting vogue in western
           societies: with their beards, and chequered shirts,
social conforming hippies know as hipsters:
i don a beard because it's cold around here:
plus i look less of a fat person -
alcohol fat ain't cutie pie fat: it's called being bloated.
       only among an obese population would you
get anorexia - again: historiological logic (the pendulum,
or the Newtonian impression) -
         once Newton was told he was less than accurate
people decided everything was relative:
the Greeks abhorred moral relativism -
   it's not that god died - cause & effect died
in what's modern, and reliably crescendo.          
sure, humanity will go on in any other argumentative suite,
      it's the one thing humanity can't be, i.e.: undermined.
*** is (after all), an existential variant of ******* -
you'd be daft to think that it was or could / would be
  otherwise.
Classy J Feb 2020
Hook:
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Poisoning how we think.
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Gotta be careful what ya drink.

Verse 1:
Uh, Seems like we always in a state of emergency,
In a land of democracy,
Things don’t seem free to me.
It’s like trying to wash our hands in ***** water, g.
Everything has a cost, so tell who going to pay the fee?
It certainly not going to be the dominant society.
For the system was build by and for white people to have superiority.
That demonizes anyone that doesn’t conform to their authority.
Spreading a sense of inferiority over natives and minorities.
And I’m not just talking historically, because these issues persist presently.
Change can’t happen unless one is willing to **** the teet of the majority.
For we live in world that separates based off of hierarchy.
That strips down and overgeneralizes our identities.
Then when one overcomes these disparities they are seen as the unordinary.
The exception to the rule,
Like *** is that supposed to mean?
Think I’m about to lose my sanity, dealing with an uneducated narrow minded humanity.
In a state bombarded with atrocity after atrocity,
Yet people have the audacity to tell us to get over it instantly.
Living in a democracy that doesn’t have time to listen to me,
Living in a world where history repeats,
Perhaps I guess we just can’t get enough of insanity.
It just doesn’t make sense to me?
I thought we were supposed to be evolved,
Yet be so devolved mentally.
Like how can indigenous people asking for clean water cause so much controversy?
For if your province or city didn’t have access to clean water, wouldn’t you worry?
Wouldn’t you start protesting firmly?
All I ask is that yawl start checking your privilege homie.

Hook:
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Poisoning how we think.
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Gotta be careful what ya drink.

Verse 2:
Water is the foundation to survival,
Water can also be a philosophical symbol,
For we all thirst for something,
It’s like we are cursed or something.
Being immersed into desensitization,
Becoming numb to everything.
Needing to wash away what is obstructing.
Blocking the path towards transformation.
As established norms perpetuates discrimination.
Whilst also justifying racism and condemnation.
I didn’t choose to born,
But yet that some how qualifies me for damnation.
Because my skin colour is seen as being sinful, that needs to be put through sanitation.
Becoming guilty on the basis of association.
Which makes it harder to find the equation.
As everyone has different values, beliefs and expectations for how to fix this situation.
***** water sure is a contamination,
Thats been leaking out since creation.
That has divided not just people but also nations.
If only people could be mature when having these debates and conversations.
Instead of suffocating on our offence,
Or wallowing within a sense of victimization.
****, this ***** water sure has damaged how we function.

Hook:
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Poisoning how we think.
***** water all through these streets,
***** water poisoning what we eat,
***** water flooding the mind,
Gotta be careful what ya drink.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2013
In the Poet's Nook: Perhaps I should write less

Surrounded by a movie set of waves,
A just stiff enough, warm-to the-wet-finger breeze,
Temperature just touches 80 Fahrenheit,
Our shirts wind-ripple, the sun rays tipple
Our minds into a clarity of euphoria dots of surreal stipple,  
One would never think to drink or smoke again.
Surround-sounded by waves rapping,
Pushed~pulled by the gusts, delivery messengers of
Air bearing, air aborning, of every flavored life's seedling needed,
We would freeze life as is, forever, unhesitatingly.

A cool woman from whom I sip, rip, and to her,
Tender my life, comes to kiss-visit me in the nookery,
Feeds me peaches, cherries, and a fruit as yet unnamed.
Called by some my muse, I call her my fuse,
For the disparities, the troubles I but hint at,
And all that is life-good under her roof,
Comes together here where there is only
Cerebral and sensual, for there is nothing else of import,
Even the not-good, tempered gently, and put aside.

You and I,
We know but small of each other,
Yet we reveal so much -
If I could summon you here right now,
All would be clarified,
No request denied,
Yes, every tear, every tear, would dry itself,
Promise.  From experience, promise.

Wish we could compose side by side.
My perfection would be made more perfect
By its sharing, especially with those
So hurting-pained, suffering, I cannot all absorb it,
No longer stand this influenza wave of affliction,
Especially when I.Am.Blessed.

Come here, where I can promise slow and steady healing.

How can I make you understand what I write,
Where,  here, I write, all comes so easy,
Every glance a poem formed,
Every phrase a title to a poem to be served,
Every conversation overheard, wind-lifted brought,
A seed, a germ, a word~worm hooked to the pole crook of
My finger saying,
See man, time to get more
Rod and reel, ink and paper,
Go, and catch us a few poems for dinner.


The snapper weakfish word colors are
Running past my-by the thousands,
We will need a woven basket to catch but a fraction,
Of what you see, more than more enough to share,
Only Happy Poems for all.

It is in this rhyming way, I view the world,
That is my freedom, my-present essence,
How the poems come, how thy flow,
Peaking, I cannot berate, rarely eat,
Sleep a thing of the past (as you be aware, beware)
There is poetry in simply everything.
                                                     ­     
A long time ago, I wrote a long poem that began like this:

Excited utterances, acerbic witticisms, utter stupidities,
elegant inanities, can and most assuredly will be used,
both evidentially, and eventually, about you
in the court of poetic justice,
as inspiration, original source material,
proofs of our collaboration with the enemy,
whom Pogo fathomed long ago is...Us

As I drink in my good fortune,
The enemy is clearly just me, overwhelmed,
Unable to choose, unable to distinguish,
Unable stop, out of control, I need perspective,
Both the scars and the successes, scar-e me

Perhaps I should write less,
Or take a mental rest,
Is not brevity what's in this year?*

But in this *not-half-but-all-the-way
house by the bay,
Where lying about, in the Poets Nook, is the souls cure,
There is inspiration ammunition galore,
Brevity is but a demoted D list celebrity.

I need you to be at ease,
So my happy days can be full completed,
Meantime the pen is grounded,
I should put-poetry-writing aside and just think,
Read~Rocking the writs those little babies you send to me,
For my mouth to mouth inhaltion and
Return to them, children, the elements of a
Nook's Recitation of Resuscitation.

June 2013
To better understand this poem, see: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/390340/time-to-get-serious-in-the-poets-nook and also,
https://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=a+man+in+search+of+his+style..

early poems on HP when I knew how to write. As many of your know, the Poet's Nook is a real place;  three old and weathered Adirondack Chairs, overlooking the
bay, the beach, and serenity;
All invited to compose alongside, even the old grouchies who complain correctly, I wright too long(ly)
Shruti Atri Aug 2014
"As the same fire assumes different shapes
When it consumes objects differing in shape,
So does the one Self take the shape
Of every creature in whom he is present."
(Katha Upanishad II.2.9)

"As the rivers flowing east and west
Merge in the sea and become one with it,
Forgetting they were separate rivers,
So do all creatures lose their separateness
When they merge at last into pure Being.
There is nothing that does not come from him.
Of everything he is the inmost Self.
He is the truth; he is the Self supreme.
You are that Shvetaketu, you are that."
(Chandogya Upanishad IV.10.1-3)

I don't understand,
Why, in this land,
Where these sacred
scriptures were written,
Were so many religions born--

I don't understand,
How, in this land,
Were differences encouraged,
When the backbone of all life
Always was recognized as liberation--

The acknowledgement
Of all different religions, castes, creeds,
Really broke the deal you know...

Imagine, if all the cultures were mixed
Instead of being *separated, unconnected, segregated;

And churned into a liberal philosophy
The Philosophy of Liberation (read: Moksha)
We'd have prevented so many wars,
All fought under the cloak of differences and disparities;
We could have averted
So much bloodshed,
So many innocent screams--

And these shudders down your spine right now?
They would be the product of fiction;
Not the echoes of cruel reality...
It really is a conundrum...when did we start refusing the uniformity of the soul? Why were another's thoughts disputed, when at the core, we are all pieces of the same fabric? Why were beliefs so cruelly championed, that punishments were distributed for 'noncompliance'?
I see that the world is tolerant today...I wrote these words to fully understand my unease on something that history had me thinking...
From where I stand, I see a backward progress...and a small part of me hopes that I've got it wrong...
Gary Feb 2015
My soul use to be open
But now is closed.
Like some detour, on a dirt road
You'll never know
Where these thoughts, could go.

Once open, like an all night diner
Was where you could find my mind
But now, the light is out
And closed,  is the sign.

Once this soul had glistened
With trust
Shimmered all it's thoughts
Like gold
Now it is shriveled and dry
Not worth a cent
With thoughts too old.

A day late, a dollar short
Once people were proud of me
Now they just set me on fire
To light their stogie.

This old soul, use to be good
Like this old bottle of gin
Now they're both empty and useless
You got what you wanted
Now go buy some fascist label to replace us
We know our place,
Upon the dusty shelve
Next to the roses, you bought last year
Wilted, dry and deteriorating
From lack of interest.
Nick Durbin May 2013
Muddled endings,
Eliminated by overwhelming intrigue -
Bridge disparities between depression and happiness,
Giving guidance and allowance for virtuous new begninnings.
Inspired by Into the Wild, my friends Angel and Lacus Crystalthorn.
Poetoftheway May 2018
wooing/seducing: the where of the first kiss always

~for Robin Carretti, who loved it best~

‘tis true my battlefield tactical brought me  
many victories
when that was fool-desired

no chain mail, walled armaments, arms crossing,
all failed

to the single softest siege engine in my possession



and the passing passionately poems read
back ‘n forth, non-negotiable demands,
vicious but viscous
red lines,
day remainders of the contusions of night's angry passions
and the
disputed but muted disparities of both

nothing, no, never broke the spell of:

the first kiss, always upon the neck
May 20 2018
Snehith Kumbla Sep 2016
while you were sleeping,
stars stepped out to dance,
trees whistled a tune with the wind,

river shimmered a firefly glow,
sheet of grass blades spread cool,
street mongrels howled a love ballad,

cat clawed a tune on the guitar,
the late Ravi Shankar plucked
divine on his ghostly sitar...

while you were sleeping,
world made a blanket of clouds,
crown of a dozen sunflowers

ii

while you were sleeping
I delved out of this dream
and finally opened my eyes,

saw illusions on angel wings,
mermaids celestially sing of
beauty's imprisoning knots,

dazed world of impossibilities,
eternal bewitchment, disparities,
all afire in new unbiased light,

it is the puzzle that binds you,
not its swab drab culmination,
a loop threading in forever land,

iii

while you were sleeping
I fled the valley, the valley
of hatred, fear, the blind,

while you were sleeping
while you were sleeping
while you were sleeping
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2017
any reading of a philosophy book, outside of university, is mapped without the sort of strategy to receive a grade, for a "correct" interpretation (rather a regurgitation) of said work (mentioned below); to say it in simpler terms: i do not ever think that understanding a concept - in concreto - is worth some sort of "passing on the genes" (memes) of one individual to another - given that a meme has become pop culture, and as the french would put it:
        ce crasse et petit irritante chiotte valeur de merde
                                                                ­                        (i.e. un cliché) -
truly written like and englishman -
   a meme is that crass and small irritant bog's worth of ****
                                                            ­                                           ( " ),
   at least that's peckham french, del boy french,
                         i was well informed about this french dialect.

- and to even "think" why there are so many blue
indians, and so few piggies; perhaps it boils down
to the fact that the blue indians believe in
   burial within fire, rather than earth,
  and they prefer to surround themselves with the living,
rather than with the dead; and piggies do,
  graveyard upon graveyard,
    and that constant "nostalgia", idol-worship
of the past, where nothing greater can come again;
for those who surround themselves with the living,
their existence rages akin to the elemental
tomb of their burial... but for those who surround
themselves with the dead,
   their existences decompases akin to the elemental
tomb of their burial, a heart-broken: nightmarish
earth. -

for some reason, i always get these
"revelations" (for lack of a better word) -
as one might receive a signature
of a thunderstorm in the form of
lightning upon the sky -
           and it usually predicated by
listening to a few pop songs -
   and then listening to the
    *cantos of templar knights
-
            but then again, you sometimes
really need extremes,
     as the canadian sayings goes -
we only have two seasons,
    one's winter, the other is construction.

but this is about technicalities,
one could even cite the following as
the part of any contract, the terms & conditions
written in the smallest possible print,
   lodged in hardbacks worth over 30 quid -
not your cheap bestseller paperbacks -
   those too could be appreciated,
   but akin to pressure to keep a worth's of
expression in sanctum of a hardback?
   take the year 1996 for the cantos 1st
on toilet-paper (paperback) - but in brick?
take the year 1970...
  and where do the technicalities come in?

   - heidegger's ponderings V, aphorism 41 -
technicalities akin to the rules of
a game of cricket, or at least the pointing system.

but count it nonetheless, half an hour to scroll...
12,700+... till i got to april the 8th
  and resurrect a memory?

.  ע   ‎
יהוה ‎‎‎
א‎
                  sighs from on high...
      and laughter into the depths.


let us just say, that digital is
the new hardback edition -
    to condense my works into toilet-paper
till take more years and more pushy-pushy
tactics, to transform
     a hardback into something affordable...
but in reverse...
               what comical inversion,
   30 years will become 300 years to come
  about for someone to wipe-their-***-to-mouth
fathom of what went on at the genesis
of the birth of the internet,
   in some obscure location,
                  like a catholic school in england.

now the germanic pilot-plotline (regarding
aphorism 41, ponderings V):

    promo enigma-alchimia in vivo lingua,
             anti ipse (dixit) in lingua vitro.


(we're not in posh-boy grammar school,
the language is dead, it's become play-dough,
a malagrammaton-monœgo:
for a man's tongue is to his befitting desire
to state the terms of play).

da / ein-da / die-da          vs.                hier   vs.
                                      die-hier / ein-da


( there / a there / the there        vs.
                                                ­                 here    vs.
  the here / a there    -
                                
                               ­ atheistic scissors of
definite/indefinite articles/articulation of
    what's near, and what's far away,
     the dualistic-dichotomy of here&there,
  then&now...
           as far as i am concerned i cannot narrate
this akin to a vampire romance page-turner
bestseller... too many organic chemistry diagrams
concerning electron migration, sorry) -

   but given the "blank" slate genesis, starting
with articles... they go beyond being categorised
as definite or indefinite...
    namely... am i, or can i be assured that
      there's no X variations?
    i.e.
                da     ein da
                      X
       die hier     hier            ???????????????

               isn't ein hier merely "being"?
imagine being forced into a there -
                  without being the there,
akin to a zeitgeist, akin less!
      zeitgeist = a there (communism),
  but the there? that's what hegel
said of napoleon entering jena:
       "das ist ein weltgeist!" (capitalism).

and who are the anglophones?
  i cannot respect these "peoples" -
they constantly stutter when it comes to
  their lack of diacritical application,
they stutter... i might as well call them
the strabismus race...
    and if darwinism is to be the vector-catalyst
(hollywood was thrashing american cities
for decades, what damage could this
observation could possibly do?) -
  if darwinism is to be the prime historian,
that darwinism replaces actual history
and becomes neither in vitro, nor in vivo,
but in situ? why do scientists wonder why
universities are undermined in their
humanities, when scientific populism of
biology (i.e. darwinism) has undermined
papa historia? am i... missing something?!
     if you undermine a credible study within
the humanities with enough darwnism?
what do you get? inertia...
     you can burn crosses, but you can also
burn an image of a monkey into a man's mind,
the same result occurs!
      personally, i'd rather burn crosses,
i might end up drinking beer and joking with
a few skin-heads around an unsual campfire.

the other side just... "debates" loud-mouth
******* who haven't learned the gymnastics
of looking up those grandiose black-holes
of blah blah.... blah blah blah... blah...
     i'd like to ask them... does your **** of talk
ooze a perfume of.... strawberries?
   and the punk-fist fields... forever! ooh...
****** *******' salsa! shwing yir hips
ya bunch of conclaves (p.j.w.) - privacy
                     justice warriors).

        taoist's foregetfulness

grounded in maxim primus -
  to allow the world a breath, allow the world
to let you breathe as you deem fit,
   never too soon to be bound to genealogy,
esp. that of the genesis bound to
the new testament -
  for if the old testament begins with poetry,
and if truly metaphorically chained,
then how pitiful is the genesis of
the new testament, which begins with
  something as sorrowful as the nadir
of greek culture, the expired logos,
   a genealogy, with the greeks ransacking
the jews under roman rule,
  just like the ransacking of constantinople
by the venetians in 1204 (4th crusade)...
who'd start a "holy" book without poetry,
but a ******* geneaology?!
          no wonder poetry these days isn't
a rare appreciation...
    but cheap and as tsunami natured
   in its "production" as tabloid press,
  toothbrushes, toilet paper,
                        toothpicks, among other
                                               paraphernalia;
the new testament is such a massive turn-off...
if you don't begin with poetry,
esp. that of metaphor translated into imagery,
and instead begin with a branch of logic
that the new testament begins with, i.e.
genealogy... and then expect latter poetics
in the text to be taken literally?!
          clue the keen me into the clamours
of the poly-schismatic version of events...
    sure, christianity is a "polytheism",
                           in that it's poly-schismatic.

and of the garden, should adam have approached
first, as he would have done in asia -
         he would have talked with
the serpent sæwelō -
           perhaps that same serpent of
   caucasus - first, to have a thirst of
knowledge tamed - although never really -
  for the serpent sæwelō would have
tempted adam: eat of this tree, its fruit,
  and your thirst for knowledge will be
forever satiated!
   so said the serpent of order
   so said sæwelō (ᛋ), the sun-snake...
the serpent of illumination -
                            the golden serpent.
and so adam bit into the fruit,
   and such thirst as never before filled him,
a thirst for knowledge that hasn't
as of yet seized -
     for the fruit, which adam imagined
would be sweet - was actually filled with salt.

  and we are initiated into the myth
of how the other scenario took place with regards
to a woman approaching the serpent first,
       yes?
                and for the woman, the serpent
of chaos, known as ansuz (ᚨ) - the siamese -
who said both truth and lie simulatenously
  also known as the god who's name begins with
yod, in the roman tongue (Y),
                          and he said:
  you will know the difference between
good and evil -
    ah indeed he said so, but that said, it would
imply acts being simulatenously both,
rather than either / or -
he continued: you'll be like the æsir (gods)!
      knowing such distinctions,
                   and will know the meaning of fate,
and justice, and due recompense!

as etymological mutations occur,
   and translations into other tongues
go, let's begin with:

sieg heil - old english - sigel - hail sun!
       if ever a führer (the few, the rarer),
                        so too the sun's eclipse -
   louis xiv wouldn't have minded,
    but at least he ****** to his
         cockerel's content to praise sunrise -
but as it stands, an etymological
           "mutation" in translation: hail sun!

-------------------------- p.s. p.p.s. p.p.p.s. p.p.p.p.s.
    f(p.s.) ad infinitum: borrowing from
mathematics, i.e. f(x) - heidegger
invented the algebra of writing in a certain style
that's only worth a neurotic / autistic pedant's
worth of bother...

   let's just say, in terms of style,
                                        it's purely hellish,
   you can only go as far with a text
when the variations
  range from dasein, to da-sein
   to da-sein to da-sein (i.e. da-ßein) -
    to whatever else is enclosed in the book...
i haven't got the time to write
an expansion of these milimetres
            and a litre of *** waiting for me...

   inverse stress on being
              detached from a "there": da-ßein:

   with regard to the world and its being
   constituting beings (heidegger's style
of expression, i know, can be a muddle)...

all i wanted was an antonym:
   rather than the world and its there,
   i wanted the world and its nowhere,
or rather, a pure form of being: a here,
      being detached from beings,
   the infinite dance of "solipsism",
    mono-direct articulation /
   plural-direct articulation (a march) /
mono-indirect articulation (a thought) /
plural-indirect articulation (a commute home)...

in terms of dictionary ref. to oppose da (there):

ist da - is here
                hier - here
komm her! - come here!
           hier & da - here & there
                  auf der stelle - here & now

stelle:
       schnellen - quickly
   schwellen (ich bin) - i am swelling
schelle - bell
   bruchstelle - break

                            da-ßien = hiersien

i.e. stressor on being,
             which morphs into a reconstruction
of the original equation:

     i.e. "da"-ßien = hier-"sien" ≠ nichtsein...

    and the point being?
    the simple f(x) translation into philosophical
jargon... f(p.s.) ad infinitum...
                      this had to run into a cul de sac
at some point, given all the technicalities
and stylistic disparities between existentialists,
if any remained to live into the 21st century...
but the buggers ****** off
              let's just say the new wave
of concerning italics remains the still
unexplored territory of missing diacritical marks
in the english language...
    as much can be said about writing
            chair    as can be said about
   writing                  krzesło...
           (yes, a consonant grapheme, err-zed)...
funny, in grapheme terms...
   that the german grapheme ß
  never became a replacement of -sch-
     in english -sh- in slavic -sz-,
             seems to be more t'ss... wet snare...
          another example?
    (choo-choo) train / pociąg -
  and yes, that's not implying choo-choo,
   since it's obvious, the verb ćwiczyć:
to train.
Aaron LaLux Sep 2018
Was told we’re not supposed to call it The 3rd World anymore,
that the politically correct term is “Developing World”,
It’s not 1st and 2nd World,
it’s Developed and Developing world,

I thought,
what difference does it make,
the same disparities still exist,
regardless of if the names change the problems remain,

we’re quick to look down on a 3rd world mob boss,
because he executes a few troops to make a statement to say,
but who are we to judge if you ask me all humans are fckt up,
and at the end of the day nothing really matters anyways,

we’re all Lethargic Aggressively Passive Agitators,
we’d all rather get lost in an Instagram Timeline,
than get found in our Real Life Timeline,
where the Beast of Burden are disgusted as Beauties that are benign,

anyways whatever where am I I’m flying through the sky on an Air New Zealand flight,
watching a documentary about Spielberg,
his phenomenal rise in the film industry,
and how some critics pointed to his rise as the demise real cinematographic art,

but critics are critics and that’s just it,
they get paid to criticize,
when in fact most of us artists types would argue,
that everything is art every scene on screen and in real life,

only difference is with real life it feels like there’s no break time,
that everyone’s forgot their lines & there’s no script,
the camera is always rolling the director never yells cut,
and even when you get frustrated you can’t walk of the set and call it quits,

what the heck is this,
what kind of sick joke is someone playing,
I mean don’t get me wrong I’ve got a great life,
I’m not complaining at all I’m just saying,

this mind of ours has some dark places,
everyone scared of sacred water because of Jaws,
it sparked a fear that lead to the slaughter,
of the majestic prehistoric fish known as the shark,

and that’s just the tip of the iceberg with Spielberg,
think how many other ways he altered all our perceptions,
think about his films about aliens,
think about her portrayals of various villains,

either that or don’t think about it at all,
just turn on a screen and watch a show,
and try to seize the moments,
because most of us don’t realize the movie’s over until the credits begin to roll,

oh,
here we go,
another poem about nothing that we find important,
like life and disparities and re-programming of soul,

but what does it matter anyways,
if life is but a dream and we are lost at sea on a boat,
I mean we’re all gonna die at least in the physical sense,
and I don’t know if that’s true but that’s what I’ve been told,

then again I’ve been told a lot of things,
got me thinking that someone isn’t necessarily wise just because they’re old,
so I take all food for my soul with a grain of salt,
because something isn’t true just because it was told,

Was told we’re not supposed to call it The 3rd World anymore,
that the politically correct term is “Developing World”,
It’s not 1st and 2nd World,
it’s Developed and Developing world…

∆ LaLux ∆
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
i shouldn't be saying this, give that i was
born in the 1980s,
but to hear the words in a telegraph style:
- - - - the cure - - - - - - the most underrated - -
band in our times - - - - - - - - -
can i have that in Morse or the NATO
alphabet: א, bravado, cumin -
(make it up as you go along,
never was Rome less then Romeo,
or Jackal anymore than the blatant
influence of Shakespeare) - please?
the most underrated band?
i think the bubble burst,
you won't have the same anglophile
Renaissance in the English speaking
world, for quiet some time,
not as it happened in the latter
part of the 20th century...
it won't happen, hence the reason
that nostalgia is actually a convenient
component of any if all historical endeavours...
nostalgia is a collective memory,
like the Jungian collective alter:
where a plumber doesn't know he's a plumber,
purely on the basis that he should be more:
"creative", even if he's really good at his trade...
it won't happen... not in musical terms
at least, not when the cure is seen as
underrated - **** into a chair -
but those who listened to the band
in their youth are too busy
with their drinking, their smoking
and the purposed squashing-bias of
the light-bulb that flicks alight without
eureka to mind... with their
toilet that doesn't leak...
we're picking up the pieces of what
their generation's artists produced,
and it's a harsh reality to be in...
picking up such beauty, when it's at its
frailest ever - what we're picking up
soon disintegrates into nothing,
even if Satan tempted us with the fruit
of differentiating the knowledge of
good and evil, we pick it up,
and as Milton suggested:
whatever Satanic victory on earth,
is soon ashen in hell -
as with us, we were promised the ability
to tell good and evil apart,
the fruit of differentiating the knowledge of
good and evil... when, in fact...
we plucked the fruit of integrating
the knowledge of good and evil...
hence the disparities of law...
          hence the notion of compensation
when an eye-for-an-eye would suffice:
when Newton lost his place in jurisprudence
is the day i wept, not because Einstein
interpreted gravity better, but because
at Newton made more sense in the realm
of jurisprudence than Einstein ever will...
                                                  and never will:
from the ancient Greeks, the stance was,
that pillar of ethics: to abhor moral relativism...
instead to encourage moral causality,
hence the Newtonian asking of due cause & effect,
or in hebrew: ע unto ע -
                  or indeed to see unto seeing -
  not as what relativism does,
making a simple ע = ע (ayin)
into ע = א (an ox's head is all you were in need to see...
   perhaps א invokes: to hear?)
                                Newton is much missed
in the realm of jurisprudence...
       as Einstein is least welcome, given the
ancient Greek accordance of: no moral relativism:
   a straight line! 1 for 1! we do not need a parabola!
fesojaiye atanle Jun 2012
Listen-look at me
i was born free,
life entrails on my will,
finding a path for my laughter
underneath the motif of all circumstance,
but if i should fall
the world should bestow on me
the benevolence of every tears

listen-look at me
i lived free,
enduring all frail conception
like the prophet at the beach
while ringing false immunity
to the dust of my aching feet,
and if i should fall
then may my creed abide with me

listen-look at me
i die free
sprawling at the labyrinth of time,
my life,renewed on virtures breath,
and chosen among the disparities of man,
my wraith was seen smiling at the sun,
then if i should fall
the dust of the earth should not wait.

All right reserved
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
If a poem or essay can end with a conclusion or its opposite, either one,
Can it be of any use to anyone?

Do the discrepancies and disparities, dualities and densities, reflect only
      the dementia
Of the bearer of the pencil?

First entertain, then enlighten if you can. One stretches truth in order
      to pretend,
Another leavens with levity one's inevitable end.

Most days it's not possible to bring your life into an expressible state.
Disparate hopes, arduous chores, word choices. And, of course, the  
      state of the state.

Driven by ideas rather than rhymes, for it is not metres, but a
      metre-making argument,
That makes a poem. Convenience store or university English
      department

The day's disputes, down to the meaning of the weather, leave you
      indisposed
To share your heart of zero and your inner rose.

It is the strong force, the energy of the loved ones combined with
      cooperation for good or war.
Dad's years in New Guinea fighting ****, he said, were his best by far.

The best that can be said or done is Be where you are. Love the one
      you're with
Not necessarily an adult of the opposite ***, perhaps just a kid who
      hates math

And school, dresses goth, reads rarely but learns a lot from movies
      and YouTube,
Has the presence of mind to say I am who I am, deal with it. That's
      who I want to be

And have always been. Today clean the house, again. Woke up this
      morning to two thoughts:
How sweet to be alive! Life is tough.
--Emerson, Ralph Waldo, "The Poet"

--Stills, Stephen, "Love the One You're With"

www.ronnowpoetry.com
Edward Coles Sep 2016
The line of freedom was drawn,
fortunate passports found
amongst the rubble of Ground Zero.

The future was not a boot,
more, groping hands through
intimate pockets
and blue light that decimates
the privacy of dreams.

No concentration camps,
Bernays fuelled the fire­
in a wolf's disguise
until the crowd would herd itself.

No Aryan prophecy-
hatred more efficient
when its hands are untied.
Small disparities linger
the stem of deception:

the bottom-feeders are sterilised,
benefits withdrawn, foundations exposed
as ******* palms gather the loot
they lifted through the ceiling.

Sensory comfort provides
the leisure of a clouded mind,
a blood sugar spike,
the Soma of our time.
Under halogen lights
they make love in the high-rise

then labour in sleep
for what love cannot afford.

Continents divide.
Africa: the cold shoulder.
Asia: the factory line.

Oceans swell in neoprene heat
as sling-shots are drawn
beneath a dying star.
Old skull of Palestine,
cross-hairs on the White House
and a contusion in Pakistan.

Doors of perception only open to addiction.
Separate from G-d ,
draw more blood from the ground
like a smoker in the inexhaustible
process of quitting.

A belief in infinity
that will last until the world's end.

The line of freedom was drawn.
Everyone believed that they were on the right side.
C
Edward Coles Nov 2013
Love is not the scrawl of notes

left on the bedside, whilst

the alarm clock suffers to clouts

and rings, awakening her.



Neither is love the aperture

between silhouettes

as they embrace so readily

against the walls. Some clinch

of absence, the antiptosis

of the you and I.



Love is not the spaces between

the ‘I miss you’s’ and the

‘here we are once more’s.’



Neither is love the separation

between our wants and needs,

to the disparities in the world.

It is not the defiance of obligation,

nor some holy rest-house

to the ills of the modern world.



Love is not some shared novel,

a story born out over a communal

conjecture of where humanity shall

rest upon the end of everything.



Neither is love the offering of a rose,

or any other bouquet of severed

life, strangled for the nourishment

of her; the justification of your

placement in her life. These are just

condescending gestures,



weak offerings to the Lord

of all you claim to be divine.



Love is not a life to be feasted upon,

nor is it the self-satisfied glance

in the mirror, as you finally decide

on your definition of ‘I’.



Neither is love this malformation

of words, this attempt of veritas,

this hollowed pursuit of whiskey-fuelled

longing, longing, longing for

some great hand to deliver life

upon my doorstep, upon our’s.



Love is simply the eternal rite

of Gaia; the motes of existence

that tumble with great devotion

and all-cause to their eventual demise,



their inevitable return

to the spiral that created them.



Love is the spaces between my breath,

between your’s.

Those pockets of meditation,

and the realisation of union

between all that was,

and ever will be.



Love is the acknowledgement

of power between us. Our previous

lives, blades of grass wilting together

under the footfalls of the now-trees,

the now-governors of our lives.



Love is in the ‘I know you’s’

and the ‘what would I do

without you’s’ that we have so struggled

to forsake in the day-to-day

tumble of our lives.



And to this, I say, that love is

these spaces that you may

no longer occupy. The barren stretches

of grey matter that no being either

mortal or otherwise,

could ever reclaim.



Love is the birth of bespoke experience,

and the knowledge

that nothing can erase us

from the archives of

everything that should ever matter.



Love is us.
BlakOps Feb 2012
Stand up
Stand up
Stand up proud on the soapbox
U got something to say?
Say it
Say it
Say it proud on the soapbox
U ready now?
Get up
Get up
Get up on that soapbox
(Speaker crackles)

Hi.
Crowd: hi!

My name is Prince L and I'm here to offend you.

Crowd: gasp!!!(Murmurs)

so settle down. it seems I can't reach your standards of presentation. is my hair to *****? are my clothes to cheap, hell anyone can see, I wear my **** proudly,

Crowd: gasp harder!!! He did not!

I did, oh **** I forgot I'm not supposed to cuss, o well too late, watch it unfold, my fate. this is my first time on the soapbox, let's talk about that, the box, is it needed? People use it as a trough to feed these stagnant ideas of life and how to live it. Why does everyone need to be categorized and seeded?

Crowd: hmmmmm....

The disparities between race in class are magnified cause we are gentrified, so we all feel polar to the other, opposite the fact we are born from another, check me I have love for you because you are you no matter your crew. O you have a conflict of view, don't matter unless u mad hatter tryin to riddle your way through the middle, cause in reality most of us are in this middle group, are you following? You're a regular sleuth.

Crowd: huh? We want truth.

Try this on for size. I think you might find, the separation between elite and u is a lot, spot the differences?  if you were part of the one you wouldn't be arguin with everyone. They got lawyers for that, they mouths stay strapped ready to ****** from you, so don't worry boo keep jaw jackin while the keep straight jackin, stealin, thievin, everything you see, reapin, the earth of its resources slowly turning it to hell. Its not a perception its a perpetual. why you think they always gathering, resources, yea they planning it, to own the world, don't be a fool.
Crowd: no way!!

I'm tellin you pray.  Appreciate the ppl who stand upon the soapbox, why? Cause they be fightin for every ones freedom. No matter the cause, no matter the fight,
Accepting thoughts and criticism
fesojaiye atanle Jun 2012
Listen-look at me
i was born free,
life entrails on my will,
finding a path for my laughter
underneath the motif of all circumstance,
but if i should fall
the world should bestow on me
the benevolence of every tears

listen-look at me
i lived free,
enduring all frail conception
like the prophet at the beach
while ringing false immunity
to the dust of my aching feet,
and if i should fall
then may my creed abide with me

listen-look at me
i die free
sprawling at the labyrinth of time,
my life,renewed on virtures breath,
and chosen among the disparities of man,
my wraith was seen smiling at the sun,
then if i should fall
the dust of the earth should not wait.

All right reserved
Jordan Frances Feb 2014
i
You stand at your alter
All repentant and holy
Praising the Lord to cleanse you white.
You will talk their ears off about being "saved"
With some melodrama of a testimony
Yet, you leave that place with a deceptive heart
Knowing you will sin again
And planning when and where to get your next fix.

ii
Hypocrisy, hypocrisy, hypocrisy.
You condemn those who are different than you are
Who transgress in other various manners.
If you have ever actually *read
the Bible
It specifically states that
No one sin is worse than another.

iii
Some churches call themselves "a family"
Well, I can honestly tell you
That members of this stated clan have
Judged me
Betrayed me
Attempted to violate my body
Succeeded in violating my mind.
And others simply did nothing to stop it.
Some big happy family.

iv
Crusty white men
Telling me what to wear
How to act
And what to believe.
It's almost as bad as the government.

v
Baptist camps, although I have always enjoyed going,
Telling me I will go to Hell if I do not do
This, this and that.
Telling me that virtually, I mean nothing.
But if God put us onto this Earth
How can mankind be responsible
For all of its problems?
Something has to give.

vi
All of the interpretations of the Holy Bible
That have been integrated into the Church.
These are human interpretations of God's word.
And I find it shameful that
Many people pick and choose which passages to follow
And which to throw to the wayside.
If a man lies with another man he goes to Hell
Oh yes, that's perfectly literal and true
But women being subservient to their husbands?
I'll just overlook that one.

Is the view of many Christians today.

vii
Force it down their throats before they get a chance to chew
Is that really the goal that God has in mind?
And if they do not follow every biblical order
They're bad?
No, this is the human error that causes many
To run away, fast
In the opposite direction.
Never even giving it a second thought.

viii
The muddled confusion of the afterlife.
When babies die, are they sentenced to an eternity
With the Evil One?
If a person has never been exposed to Christianity
Will they serve Satan?
Is there even a distinct and tangible distance
Between Heaven and Hell
Or is it all just one murky space?
And who is to answer these questions?
People need to stop trying to
Stop playing God
Stop holding themselves to that high a standard.
As you can see,
It's worked so well so far.

P.S.
I don't believe in religion
I don't believe in the politics of anything organized
It all seems too cult-like to me.
I wouldn't say I'm the cliche
"Spiritual but not religious" type that my pastor jokes about
But I don't believe in this controversy, negativity, and often times hate.

I believe in God, and I believe He meant for us to love each other
But I don't waste my time pondering this inquiry
Because I am not Him, as many people try to be.
And honestly, that is how I intend to live my life
Finding good in everyone
Loving the supposed lepers
Showing acceptance to unlikely faces, despite their disparities.
If it is not what He intends for me
Then I'd rather have no part in His plan.
Lin Cava Mar 2013
To you…

In the dark dreams that have become my life
you are sunshine and starlight.

For the unreasonable, the unfathomable, the disparities
surmounting daily, you are sanity and reason.

For my silence, you are song.
In my lack of expression, you are music.

My words fade, my world diminishes
and focus affords me only darkness.
You are there, ever aware.
When my world ties me tightly into knots
you see how to loosen them, and weave me fabric.

My heart beats to stale metaphor and abused imagery,
though your words softly sigh, touched with fresh breezes.

I have seen sandy shores, and known the scent of fresh loam,
bursting with the seeds of spring; gentle rains, and the flight of seabirds,
through your eyes - there, within your words.

And when my world falls apart and crumbles beneath my feet
I am caught upon your open palm, within your caring touch.

I am relieved, refreshed, and comfortably happy
in the darkest of times, for you, whose care lifts me up.

There will never be a way to thank you, as I would want.
It is there, in my heart, in the blood that courses through me
All that I am, is all I can give, and I will ever give it willingly
to you.

©Lin Cava
15th March, 2013
Asmitha Satesh Apr 2019
She was a woman ,not great as he
but there hid a caliber which she couldn't see.
An unknown talent that lay hidden ,
which she has stuffed and pushed within .
A coy face,
and a masquerade.
Slender shape
and a pretty face.
He , a bloke of high reverence,
his eyes so glittering and dense .
Has become a man of fame and pride ,
from a mere boy who struggled for life.
Modern charm,
generous and calm.
beguiling smile
and a high profile.
Both pose some similarities,
maybe their talent or their great disparities.
both ignored for being different
and, maybe that's what made them both friends.
They've been together for years now,
both clung onto true love.
Both have laid all the plans for tomorrow,
Every joy and every sorrow.
mi Mar 2017
I am a lover of all things dark and brooding
the somber ambiance, for me, is quite soothing            
don't get me wrong, it's not all black and white;
my opinions and clothes alike.

I've actually come to like mustard yellow
And would totally rock a look that's pastel and mellow.
But this section of the spectrum
That will never have my affection
Is the color orange;
I cant even rhyme it with anything.
                                      
Red and yellow looked daunting at first;
Each color, the embodiment of an ouburst.
Wearing these colors that are so luminscent
To appear as though my soul is effervescent,
To appear as though i am an image of thrill;
Faking it 'til I make it, if you will.
Contrastingly, its combination's thrill and effervescence
Is rather shrill and of terrible essence

There's not much that I can compare it to
Other than your tangerine-scented shampoo
And falling leaves in autumn:
Like how I fall when you hum.
Seemingly soft sincerities
Have become dazing disparities.
What was once easy on my eyes
Now is a hue that I despise.
d.j.
MLK described his hope to live in a colour blind world,
What he meant, was to acknowledge race and colour first, and be concerned,
Concerned what privilege we were born into, and what was not earned
Not disregard the differences or how inequalities are preserved.
you’re supposed to see colour first and understand the struggles people face,
face for having different skin colour or being a minority race.

Call out racist jokes when you hear them with your friends and family
Because these micro aggressions need to be addressed for their brutality
Brutality with its unimaginable gravity and tragedy
On people who have worked so hard to fight grim actuality.

When tragedies occur
do your research and infer,
with plenty of resources online to educate ourselves
on the history and the issues that present themselves.
As communities, we should take a moment to think
Think of the frustration, limitation and the unimaginable disintegration
of wealth disparities, justice bias, education and housing discrimination
That the colour of our skin gave us different experiences and oppressions
So no, we aren’t ready to call ourselves colour blind because we just cannot be.
The colour of our skin was an agency of   prejudice, power, and prosperity.
At a time like this, when its hardest to fight, fight for what’s fair and right and ask as many questions as you’d like
Or racism will continue to blight humanity at its sight.
Aile Sep 2016
The words are gone, the parties cracked glowsticks spilling their blood on the sidewalk.
The minutes that felt all mine, personal, a glove around space-time that I dictated -

now they’re standardized to measure the effects of real disparities in theoretical constructs.

But my fingers twitch, my teeth find skin, the coffee keeps coming but the world doesn’t slow.
And someday I’ll LOSE IT and bike naked through my new streets and claim it all back, the dark spangled world I used to inhabit, that evaporated in the false lights of the city.

Give me back the yellowed bricks and the pensive dizzy walks home. Running through the forest with the vultures up ahead and the cracked pavement underfoot, woods rising like spectres, autumn crackling on all sides, loneliness lifting up my steps and fog curling around my neck. The songs all say the cities are exciting but the outskirts are alive, the outer places plead, they love you with a desperation those glutted urbanities won’t understand.

They’ll call us home someday. That dark earth, the gnarled tree. Empty fields and brick-husk-buildings will welcome us with fireflies and curving mist and the quiet dramatics lost to the souls beating their spreadsheet hearts, with space budgeted x for family and y for ******* and the bullet-to-the-heart z (complacence). They’ll call us home, remind us the world is made of ghosts, the bones of trees, the bodies of clay, and the dust of flowers. That bluebird chirping is the only true sound you’ll ever hear. The pine needles and the wind are saying something important, and I live in a world of windowpanes! The fog is lifting, the sun is rising, and all the ghosts are going home. The waterfalls keep falling, but they fade from memory. The rocks jut towards the heavens, just as always, but my appreciation fades. Now I’m left -
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2016
i only have a limited budget of expenses,
most i prescribe on the stimulant tobacco,
the rest goes into alcohol that i
use to make sleeping pills effective
(they're not effective otherwise,
adding some generic painkiller to increase
the potency of the two, that makes three);
always the interesting articles in the Saturday
newspapers - a privatisation of a branch
of the N.H.S., concerning mental health:
after all, there's so much thinking you can do,
so many measurements of nano-metre disparities
you can take before you get to see
a gorilla spanking its Johnny -
look too much into an ape's *** and you'll
start thinking science was only there
to enforce subtle dogmatism into you -
nothing deviating mandatory scruples to argue drunk,
precisely non-deviating mandates to
then feel scruples for drinking, the hungover's:
i don't remember... write something before
the K.O., i'm sure writing something at the end
of the night will give you something resembling
hallucinogenic flashbacks, i get them,
i end the day by writing looking at sound
encoding and get an arnold schwarzenegger
action movie upon waking: do i remember what
i last thought, what i last ate, or... why did i put
that alarm clock in the fridge? i never said i was
abducted by aliens, i can tell you i saw a u.f.o.,
and a lightning strike without subsequent thunder,
i guess i overcame the sons of thunders
(loud mouth mobs that desecrated the Library of
Alexandria with their crucifix), to only find that
father thunder was blind... thunderous voice
on the mount of olives but hardly any illumination,
seen more illumination fro Buddha curbing thinking
and simply being, the reverse grammatical timing
of the same statement - by not thinking, simply being.
so as you know sleep regenerates the connectivity
of brain cells, not dreaming does even more miracles,
it doesn't exhaust the imagination, in honesty
the imagination gets lost, along with telepathy and
telekinetic susceptibility that ~needs proof -
or as one might say: write something so incomprehensible
that even if someone attempted plagiarism
they'd sound like some market stall seller of fish
or bananas... i forgot when the ditto meant as above
or as inherited, if not simply: that's ambiguity, that is.
but sometimes i get a sober night, and pause,
watch a few x-files (latter part of season 4, what a bomb!)
and pretend until 2 in the afternoon that i'm
not tired, then i experiment in shallow-grave somnia -
and when i dream, interjecting Saturday football results
and music by my uncles who do not share my
generation's woes, or those in the realm of Hades,
oddly enough, never utopia, once all the physical
ailments are cured, the mental ones comes,
primarily thanks to the atheist argument about
how we're all destroyed at the end of things, and
nothing about us is indestructible... well... fancy
remembering St. Augustine in the 21st century,
with all its sensibility, all its hoaxes, all its pride,
all of its immunity to the future... well... i'd
believe Fukuyama if his first name wasn't Francis,
but a Gaku or a Hironiri would still be worried
about perfecting his green tea brew or eating enough
nocturnally to become a sumo wrestler... not some
******* Francis birdie-talker of Assisi.
so yeah, i have my nights when the sleeping pills
and the alcohol isn't drank... i end up going beyond
the threshold of the waking hours, stretch the rubber
band and write a cascade...
we're living in terms where we have to sorta stop
idealising the mythical travels of Don Née χ Xi **,
and stick to our little scrap of Konigsberg land -
or as i thought it out, give my first volume
would be entitled (lovely vanity narrative, what the hell,
what do you think cognitive behavioural therapy
is that it isn't a walk in a zoo? they flip out cards
with words: happy, sad, nauseated, irritated...
and they don't even bother to teach you crosswords
to rebuild your cognitive narrative, for you still
have it as a manuscript, and not the script actors might
read... don't worry, they won't... manuscript short
of mono, enveloped in alone... and a thought for
good company) - πoη (pi omicron eta -
the polish word for poet is: poeta -
so you do some plastic surgery as to how and why we
age gracefully or disgracefully, like we appropriate spelling
of words, when already given spelling to sounds,
why π has an iota added to it, why it ***** off and
omicron comes along, while the micron ***** off,
and then comes fully **** η: πoη / poeta (never mind the silent
H... it gets a rebound with the other twin whenever you
hark or hiccup).
Perveiz Ali Mar 2016
A poet's disposition is happy,
No time for those moods so ******.
Sighting the good each tedious day,
Even as others for peace earnestly pray.

Joining hands with torch bearers,
Guidance of the steps of pallbearers.
Watering thoughts of verse weavers,
They are messengers of burden relievers.

Abhor bloodshed but love the ink,
To foster the ground with  green and pink,
Full of wisdom and  free from  double think,
To promote the love,  peace and soulful drink

"Live and let live" a poetic theme,
In and around each color scheme,
To eradicate the disparities in eye beam,
Conquer all strife with Love's cream.
©Perveiz Ali
Grace Jordan Dec 2016
If I close my eyes I smell the butter of fresh popcorn and hear the whirring of a laptop powerful and bright. Can taste the dichotomy of the crisp melting of the popped kernel in my mouth, feel the happiness of being in a desk chair in front of a screen and surrounded by books.

Then I open my eyes and see I have to edit everything I've written to be even vaguely coherent.

Happiness is hard when you're never satisfied. When the childhood curiosity stapled to your youthful lips never unpinned as you aged. Neither did the idealistic expectations. Couple that with a pessimistic anxiety disorder and a mood disorder to swing things between the two disparities and it gets a little more complicated.

I've been my most relieved and anxious in this place of empty, of nowhere, that I've settled myself into for the next three weeks. A piece of me enjoys the rest and possibilities. The other hates it for those exact reasons.

I need to breathe, I tell myself. Being so separate is my fault, I insist.

But another voice in my head pipes up quietly, offering a new idea. I'm demonizing myself for not being ideas, for not being normal, for not being one.

But perhaps be bipolar, in more ways than just disorder, is exactly what concocts the human I like being.

Perhaps the great empathetic thoughtfulness yet great introspection work so well in tandem.

Maybe the assertive extroversion yet pleasured isolation balance in their own, special way.

In a way, I might just need to look back on the old Sunday afternoon specials and speak to myself the lessons of their half-hour programs. In particular, admit maybe its ok if I'm weird. perhaps its ok I just be the own odd balance that is me.

The Nowhere, the empty, can be itchy with the possibilities sometimes. Yet these moments, that help me breathe through my own neurotics and idiosyncrasies, may just be the best kind of nothing.

Maybe the bothersome nowhere can also be something grand and great for me as well.

There perhaps is another side of nowhere, and perhaps it is my favorite.
Tashyana Handy Oct 2016
He looks at me for the first time in years

And tells me I’ve changed

And I can’t help looking at him

Completely enraged

But I convince myself that it is not his fault

I must have done something to provoke

The appall

The disgust

And though I know that it is my turn to apologize

I stand there in silence

For the first time in years

I stood there in silence

Allowing the thunderous noise of

Nothing being said

Question my intention

Of calling him brother

Defiance

I am in so much trouble now.

I can see the cracks between his skin

Where his beard masks the frown

Of doubt and denial

But he doesn’t tell anyone

He doesn’t ask God to restrain the trials that he must now go through

Knowing that his little sister is not like what she once was

She is sixteen now

And fierce

Outspoken

Frank

Not gentle

Ruthless in her ways

And yet silent when she truly speaks

He tells me he misses me

I tell him that

That makes two of us

He begs for the stories that have radicalized my behavior

But I tell him that I have lost my trust

Not in the way that most poets

Tend to romanticize so that they appear profound

This is what is truly raw and reeling

You won’t understand the feeling

When the sanctuary of your mind is ripped apart

Like a **** victim

And everything you are

And everything hidden away in your heart is taken away from you

Yet you are expected to rise from the ashes

And be strong and courageous

Because the men in your life have taught you how

Your femininity is never glorified only hidden

Never respected only acknowledged

He tells me that he believes in feminism

And I ask him what kind

Because the only sense of feminism in this society

Is the acceptance you get when you are badass

Or Emma Watson

It’s the approval you receive when you are able to compartmentalize

And not bring your emotions to work

The only feminism I see is rights given to women for the sake of equality, and not of justice

He tells me that I am wrong

That the game is changing

But how on earth can the game change when the rules of the game

Are set by those who define the word oppression.

I anticipate his disappointment

A practice I know all too well

A practice of which I have mastered

When people ask me if my older brothers were rugger players

And eventually I have to let them know that I paint

Write poetry and can’t even punch people in the face for dishonesty

Haven’t they taught you anything?

I should be ashamed of myself for not being able to

Control the gut wrenching things that I feel

Cause apparently a male spoken word poet has so much depth

While the rest of us just talk about our feelings

Feelings that we should be ashamed of

Feelings that we should put away

So that we can become so much more

Self-aware and apologize for all our naturally provoked disparities

He asks me to be gentle

And I tell him that I don’t know how

Cause for the years he wasn’t here

They’ve awarded me for insensitivity

And I’ve just grown numb

You see

I was given two options

To be way too pretty to understand things or

To understand things the way someone else did

And not how I perceived it

And now I am an artist in deceiving

For even though I feel things

The way I feel them

They remain dead inside

Until my brother see them.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
thoughts when walking down the perfect christmas lane of upper-middle class houses with victorian street-lights, and a muzak of in the imaginary elevator: we don't need no water, let the ******* burn, burn ******* burn.*

to associate old age with wisdom, instead of a coward's:
you wouldn't hit a man wearing glasses in the face,
would you? (no, but i'd make a pizza of it down papa hannibal's).
although it makes me allow the debates
of platonic perceptions and disparities,
for then youth is slaughtered
upon the altar of rising house prices,
rich old men stealing possible mates,
youth becomes easily disposed of
ready for warring in a square of
the battlefield without any corners...
old age has nothing to do with wisdom,
it simply appears like it's wise,
but it allows its own mistakes to
be replicated... if wisdom doesn't arise
from youth, then youth is simply
that segment of society that can be easily
duped... the middle always wins...
they provide the friction fiction of movies...
e.g. a well established journalist
with a secure job, a home, a family
becomes undermined, loses something...
then the fiction begins... oh the tragedy...
kids' yachting lessons will disappear...
touch the soft spot, i'm about to turn into
a mollusk and burp NaClCO2... salty breath...
me? all i have to lose is a certain number of books
and a few compact disks of the trendy 80s consumerism;
ye ha! and jimmy savile ended up old and wise
with a grave that was consecrated with theft for recycled marble!
**** out! someone is about to seal-clap
the righteous ***-**** when embracing mickey mouse
for the tourists' picture of a family holiday,
and then it's all **** a doris for the turkey fat dribbles
to keep the sabbath tradition of the 100m sprint
on escalators.

— The End —