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Sam Temple Apr 2016
yo, dawg
I remember this one time
we was straight chillin
I fell out and was sleepin hard, dawg
my homeboys was actin the fool
smoking that tea
wildin out
like they was straight mad
party was of the hiz-ook
then this little blond ***** rolled in
takin bout whitey
o’ some ****
I was tore up, dawg
sleepin in a muthafukkin teapot
this ** flappin her gums
bout this and that
like we give two *****
homeboy, we was jess lookin to rip it up
out of the blue this trick
says ‘cat’
dawg, I jumped up
running across the table
moving furniture
up in this here muthafukka
my homeboys lit out after me
hollerin like big dawgs
one a’ those fools
we like to call the Hatter
went to rubbin a bit o’ jam on my nose
a little on the gums
you how we do
anaway
that **** did the trick
and I fell out
hard like a muthafukka
passed. the ****. out.
hit the bricks and skid my chin
you feel me?
bout that time this little trip rolls in
talking about being late n’ ****
that Hatter straight destroyed his rolex
send homeboy to cryin like *****
dawg, that **** was the craziest party
we still talk about the madass ****
…..never knew what happened to the blond
chick was a trip ---
poetry month prompt 21
Marian May 2013
A traveler on a dusty road
Strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.

Love sought its shade at evening time,
To breathe its early vows;
And Age was pleased, in heights of noon,
To bask beneath its boughs.
The doormouse loved its dangling twigs,
The birds sweet music bore-
It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern;
A passing stranger scooped a well
Where weary men might turn.
He walled it in, and hung with care
A ladle on the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that Toil might drink.
He passed again; and lo! the well,
By summer never dried,
Had cooled a thousand parched tongues,
And saved a life beside.

A nameless man, amid the crowd
That thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of hope and love,
Unstudied from the heart,
A whisper on the tumult thrown,
A transitory breath,
It raised a brother from the dust,
It saved a soul from death.

O seed! O fount! O word of love!
O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at first,
But mighty at the last.

                                                          ­  *Charles Mackay
mark john junor Nov 2013
the rag man
sits under the freeway bridge
while it rains
a small lizard crawls out of
the sandy soil
its emotionless eye focused
the desolate day
breeds sand blown wind burned faces

a chill wind speaks its mind to him
and while he huddles within his torn coat
and with one eye bare to the world
watching for the rains retreat
the rag man eats slow
savours the fresh water fish taste
of his divided mind
waits for the rain to retreat

remnants of his life
cling to his pocket
lint covered photographs
dust filled half remembered dreams
he believes he carries all he will ever need for
the road he sits by that
follows the coast down into the sunny islands
where they say you can live on the beach
where all you need is a dream to thrive

each sound is the great beyond
trying to tell him significant moments of his day
no rattle of the chain to be taken lightly
even the silence has voice in the grand scheme
even if its single contribution
is futility of waiting
step boldly or timid as doormouse
but step kiddo step

the freeway is a river
upon which the concepts we call lives float
Steve Collins Aug 2010
Tell me what to write about,
Help me become inspired.
Give me words to deliberate,
Help me see the spires.

I am a fountain full of knowlege,
But often block the drains.
I have a desire to be noticed,
Yet, "whoa" upon the reigns.

A genius in my own  head,
A madmad in the house.
A raging bull, chasing red,
A hidden, hiding doormouse.
Steve Collins.
27/8/10
Nina McNally Jul 2010
Dear Alice,
I'm *writing
this letter to say, please help us. We grow mad each day. Please come back, life is not the same without you.
Please bring baby ravens with you. People forgot how to write here in Underland, it's quite sad, really. I'll be waiting at my desk drinking tea with Hare and Doormouse. Please don't tell me you're not coming... we sent White Rabbit to get you. It took him a lot of time---time, what is time?
.......
Just like a raven we want to live and be free again. Boy, the *people
down here are crazy. But all the best people are. One of my dear friends told me that. :) I hope to see you soon, Alice. ****** Big Head is locked away!
Love, Hatter

P.S. Send some cake.
once again I used my top words, but I made it into a letter this time. so the bold words are the top words, italic are repeated used words.
copyright; McNally, Inc. 2010
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
I'm not a poet... just a blah-blah machine... intellectual stuttering does involve: searching for... the best choice of words: which do not necessarily add, toward a nomination of intellectual girth... delayed stature... a Pole, like Jew, is more himself in exile, than with a stubborn claim of "origin", or rather, past... a people who have truly understood themselves, among themselves, are the ones without a heritage of a land... which is an ultra-form of democracy: the people have already spoken... the people, having no obligation for: a people... have no necessity for: a land... the Germans are infants in this line of argument, given: der VOLK... 2nd nomadic participation of a secularised people are the Poles... least because the most vocal among the throng of Lithuanians, Estonians and Latvians... grind teeth and say Crimea is not Ukrainian... where land and people are synonymous, in development.

it's sometimes hard to envision the democratised voice as not being either: too personally "impractical", or too "impersonally" practical; of which, politicians fall into the latter category... hence democrscy's shadow dictator, known as the status quo... mind you... even Sisyphus wasn't allocated the task of moving an unmoveable stone... that being said, i feel no need to bask in some intellectual tectonic shift observation, as this is, quite simply, the most unnecessary allocation of words that, needless to say, are said, without encompassing a motivation for any subsequent dynamo expression... lazily rolling a cigarette as precursor, and... a serpentine of rattling skeletons like playing a magician's, xylophone.

       a cold shot of 100ml of żołądkowa gorzka, followed by a rolled sweet Virginia tobacco cigarette... and a walk in a park... high spring scents... and that perfect companion readied for mirror and introversion: there are two, shadow at my most nihilistic, and "loneliness"... at my zenith, which is a gratitude, resembling the closest excavation of the truth bound to carpe diem: a sunset... was it ever going to be a day worth
completing?

     the conundrum of a stiff 5am wake up call,
   some would call it, a stretch of the imagination
to craft a pivot on, that might realise a continuum...
    closer to the heart an empty stomach,
than a claustrophobic mind...
    for once in my life I imagine people
who find thinking unbearable,
   trying to measure their ails in the ethereal,
dissecting the mind entwined with
the soul, or what some would argue is
the sigma of the mechanisation of
the body... nibbling at love from
the unconscious rhythm of the heart,
prodding at desynchronised patterns,
aches of loving bound to
a scaffold without an executioner:
other than oneself...
      perpetually seeking a biography
spanning but two weeks,
    of Nabokov's counter-lollipop-16
frizz in goosebumps...
     my... am I so sterile as to dream-up
a cougar on a leash?!
                 porcelain beauty
before the altar of a bull and
the infuriating moorish -sculinity...
porcelain youth,
    hybrid came the minotaur...
somehow archetypes are stiff
as the introduction of the god
Solipssus into the parthenon...

   un-*******-believable:
    Fraiser's concept of self
some greenish 'reesh 'nome -
  can we do away with the surd letters?
there aren't that many after all,
given the english are famously
tingue-numb vowel impersonating
consonant "grievers' wounds"...
        'ockney 'acking 'ockney,
and some dame off her frrrrr'ah
  ick'ing         'ockers!
       hmm.... súm!
     anything to get past
old riveriera, *** Sinatra...  
   *** martini super dry with
a dupper-uber wet:
    snout of a mole in the caverns of
finding false teeth and
dangling ding-**** virginity...

in a brothel 'ardly the cherry picker...
if you've never been...
   you've never been,
                  and s much can be said
about that...
       what do you call an Arabian
leech?
        a minor European with a taste
for Bulgarian seconds...
   but of course, that white....
  dress is because we all took to
replica monogamy of certain animals
seriously...
          but that weight of
a ring finger,
     has me itching for the down-trodden
being mawled in my mouth
to later constitute pet food,
   almost seems familiar,
but not quiet,
    came those seeking fire and
were vigour prone,
came the necromancer and
tried to raise the dead,
before the living priesthood
began talking with the lead tongue
of mammon...

     the ones who do not monetary
authenticity in the following coins:
a pence, a two pence, ten, twenty,
fifty... perhaps a quid...
     a snippet of royal metal...
   why wham! and not aha!
                               ?
too much, eureka connotations?
bewildering, like 500ml bottle of *****
in Poland, and 25ml "shots" in England...
**** first of puke blood prior to
taking a ****?
        dunno! hence the tycoon
bonanza!
   a bit like asking a pirate parrot
for a quote only by pulling out
one of its feathers... to get the...
    mechanical parts: geared up to
Cucklington.... and that is by no means
a place i can associate, either drunk,
or sober.

   how the hell do people even find
the diem or the motive behind it,
to craft the sort of "1 + 1 = 2"
   momentum, that becomes carpe diem?!
I heard some say (well, I thought it
through):
     dzień ma zbyt wield małych "trosk" - - - - -
(wyroków by zważać na innych...
       tzn. rz pirdole skolną
    ortografie bez autobiograficznego
  zaparcia na: NEIN!
  szambo szfedzkie...
     wiwat!
                 F to finał...
  nad machaną rę(n)ką...
   czyli, tyczy to:
       wodą... e e e! goń ty sam
zza gównem...
                 pierdolonym Soviet
ma tylko bjet...
     bjet... ubogi nasz pan...
       twinie!
                     maciuk jet harciuk!
ble na nowo (Ь)
     i ble na start (Ъ)
                       to mi... kurwa... nowina!
- - - - - - - - - - - -
   (I lost the sense of paragraph
and punctuation)
       the world already knows
of those who shoved carpe diem
down the ***** of public figures,
and lived out
the motto of: carpe tutti...

  better english with none,
than Russian with.... pseudo
impressionism of diacritical marks
beside the geometrical
revisionists of the blank canvas...
    thing...
        nice post-Greek lettering,
shame about
the lack of... finesse...
           when teasing the third tier
of lieracy,
   spelling, grammar ****,
     punctuation, breathing ****,
and diacritical distinction:
**** thappy toad zee gwafrifrifritee!
B7LVARK...

         there is nothing grammatical
about spelling...
             there is simply an aesthetic
involved...
          an "orthography"...
minus the "grammar" Nazis comes...
   the people that say:
   I really don't see why literacy is a
necessary benchmark of education
for the sort of jobs,
    that really require nothing more
than consumer supervision of:
the minimum literacy of
reading advertisements...
         what else?
    if people are sour about an aesthetic
of the written word...
without concern for punctuation...
let alone diacritical application...

PEOPLE ARE SEMI-LITERATE...
     if grammar "nazis" exist,
then people are semi-literate...
   they equate thinking with speaking...
and then file "complaints"...
   as to how their thinking
diverges from speaking
because of sophistry,
    and how talking doesn't integrate
itself back into thinking
because of philosophy.

filozofia: zapał, i - las ~ zapałek.

I've seen carpe diem exhausted
on the shoulders of the routines
of retirees;
    better the life akin to the thrills
of a doormouse,
  or an intellectual,
than some, mythical Taj Mahal of
orgams, reduced,
   into a pale lighthouse insignia
of violent purple, namely black,
masquerading white,
in a sober, en masse, funeral yawn
grey.

   this can only become a "difficult"
reading, something that always seems
to excavate: primo uno...
     and nein auf omega...
   not as an insult this... "thing"
concerning a semi-literate people,
just concerning the people:
who have been taught to read
in order to "read enough"...
   and how much of that is focused
on punctuation?

       tilde contra macron.
just an idea of fathoming pause,
and the comma, ' from above...
     e.g.
                  czas ~ na mosty
   sound slightly different to
    czas - na mosty...

       in no defence and with no concern
for a rubric of populism,
   the half-forgotten:
  neue-punctuation: Saß...
              given the Oxford compound
of the attempt to break (-) away from
using shrapnel...

hence by "arrogant" claim concerning
the literacy of the genral populace...
these come as minor observations with
minor impetus being guaranteed
of populist dent...
          flimsy ******* gay
oops-e-daisy patchwork Adams sort
of reminders to begin a tomorrow
as brimming on: "resolve"...
   and above all: impetus!

      the men should join the army...
Bratislava quarter limbed voters
and the crab eating fetish
reaching its penultimate lap...
for some reason,
I haven't been given the Darwinian
drive,
   somehow lost with
the remainder of my inheritance,
ha ha! slumped into
a canvas remindful of a:
cinemagoers' jerking off screenplay.
Mateuš Conrad May 2018
what do you call a spider without a spiderweb?
    hardly a beef eating tarantula,
came the spider from his web
and scuttled along the pave- like
a missing shoe in a tsunami of
Oxford St. shoppers,
   alternatively (like) a crack-******* addict
i happened to observe, with
a lightbulb in a red phone box
with me standing in it eyeing him
before the hyena dealers buchered
his *** for copper?
    5am London is a twilight zone...
but hell, the tarantula lost
the ability to be arcitecturally
sound, dropped to the floor like
the ape off a tree with a pulsating
lilac mushroom...
     and that psychedelic enzyme
theory of the fungus is...
   wait for it... another way to sieve
through what has the San Francisco
stamp of approval for a Saturday
night in...
                   drinking beer and laughing
at your own jokes in a post-communist
****-show of a "democratised"
society... well... isn't,  exactly to everyone's
taste...
    'cos that: bang bang Nancy riding
horses made of sticks into Santa Fe...
     went by like: woosh!
           watcha know,  Texans not too
lady-bi titillating **** rhetoric...
            and in other news...
that chubby moon-key worth of
every subsequent Monday dropped
from a tree, with a tarantula kippah...
if the fungus took a free ride
so did the ****** spider,
    who... had the gift of prophesisng
its future as, cushty,
   conspired with the fungus...
    'hell, this monkey will someday
build lavish aquariums for us,
feed us... pet us...'
    hence the beef-eating venture...
and the missing spiderweb production
missing like footprints on a beach...
can't tell you that I don't see
             a similarity, but there's a vital
bit missing...
no, because you don't exactly sit
around drinking beer waiting for something
like this...
    it just drops out of nowhere
and your hands start moving out of their
own will, idle only a minute prior..
hardly a sort of conversation you might
have, drinking in a bar,
with someone, other than...
   at this point even your own shadow would
run away and hide in a shadow of a tree,
forge peek-ah-boo, ******'s way gone,
and yes, only second beer in...
    a blocked toilet that began with
a translation of English
    soap operas of 40 years...
   opery mydlane...
        mydło = soap...
     yes yes, sure, Finnegans Wake
   "is": translatable...
         a little bit of bilingualism doesn't
hurt...
       unless it comes from monolingual
bureaucrats who deem it a:
   split-eddie...
          heart on my heart,
I've sat with dangerous psychopaths
doing an arithmetic exam,
while learning a lesson in empathy
at a St. John's Cross course for
first aiders...
      one even laughed about bashing his
head against a wall,
and running naked with a sword
into the street...
      but we had a laugh:
    I started to think whar prison must be
like, esp. with the Imams...
            soap operas though...
elsewhere they're known as
    tele-novellas...
                        all in all...
this is just shy from my usual escapade...
into the zamarki / technicalities
of language,
    notably in translation,
but notably in words that never made
it into the rigid rubric of ideology...
only recently i wrote something and
stashed it into a draft compartment...
    niche intrest...
          if i could counter the cartesian
res cogitans with res vanus...
  surely I could counter Heidegger's
dasein with... daseit...
     a tiny diffrence...
  the poem remains abandoned like
a public grotto for grafitti,
waiting less for a nurse to heal it,
but for a squatter to move into
the abandoned space,
   and become like a tarantula
          trying to remember how it was
to weave, a titanium silk thread into
snowflake lace...
      if only to find the squatter
  to occupy
   the scribble I might dare to call poem
that possesses all the qualities
of an abandoned house...
     and like a doormouse:
not a peep-squeak out of me in
any fathomable elaboration of due
narrative,
    when the difference is based upon
alternating the meditation invested
in daseiN prior, and now... ha ha...
     daseiT...
                       i'm sure heidegger had
in mind 's (ist) within the da-sein compound,
     as much as isn't (ist nicht)...
       given there's the "talk" of time,
I subscribe to the being and form of time,
rather than to being and formlessness of nothing
(which, becomes non-being
   and the form of nothingness)...
    already a meditative language ensues,
much akin to my current
reading material...
       dropping ashes on the buddha:
   the teachings of Zen master seung sahn

by stephen mitchell  (grove / atlantic Inc.)...
  i'm sure I'll find a squatter
who will enter this abandoned house
of a "poem",
        and elaborate on,
any inconveniences,
     notably the missing conventionality
of: a poem is not a poem
without a rhyme...
         yeah yeah...
and those poems that aim to
be "songs"...
     seriously, Shakespeare?
     Robbie Burns, zee baßtard,
   has 'em singing ****** numb-skulled
silly, every Hogmanay and even
by the Thames, each year...
at precisely, circa, mid-night...
                 even if quoted a million
times, a millionth celt and 'glican will
know             a one more
                               d'moor...
                                      tip of tear
having exhaled a line from auld lang syne.
MissNeona Jun 20
Some new names?
Vic Tully... I just like being the Victor
Jackie Chun-Lee
Or Willie Full Nelson
Found out being an Einstein might just mean you steal credit from a wife like some Cabbage Patch Lovelaced Engine with Mephisteles fakin as a Marge.


RAFAHELLO SANRIO post transfiguration is all into petting the kitty la forniara style after many madonna obsessions

Might be more like Hugh LeoNardoh's da Veni Vici

Bounce back, going in on Sanity
Hanzi off, pinyin ate it, bopomofos
Keep Your Hamsa To Yourself
With the eyes; to seer
Gamer recognizes gamer
How 2 Score?
Dutch/indo tas=bag
Mr's noodle aint so Indo Mie
Wat is pp?
Existence gives you lemons...
Seren, the tea of calm starry skies
Sage, to offer clary tea
Humina vibechecks
No such thing as a diss track, ted
Practice makes progress,
Lesson the Learning
Super vision... more perspective
Core-act de-cyphering of "suffering"
Arch of Median Bell's Curve
Hel's Belle of Flora & Fauna
Midwinter nyt-mare dark horse
El Dorado Sendero del Cangrejo
Fuzzy logic companion anima
Just winging it; affectionately
Aves non Mari, ah!
SP Airs Rose/ SpArrows /Special ErRoRs
Naturally wild things: them beebeez
Aranha, spin, orumcheck for spiders
“axiluh” is the ancient Aztec word for “the lizard.”
zilla jira shera gojirah
Animalistically, it tracks
Making marks and beautiful impressions
Planting a Seedbead
Storyweaving directive?
New Branches of growth on the old Holle wood tree
Drawing a glow~☆
Fun gais chase lightning
Thundering mind for serenity
Cliques, thought bubbles & echolocation
Awareness, Alignment & Action
Cyclebreakers/ Conscious Cyclical Cultivation
Omnidirectional: Wound Up 4 Scrub Down
The weirding wayfinding
Sheer force of will; power
The Gift: Wrappings of Presence
Copacetic accompanyment
Finding the 'fit~
Know thyself, know thy enemy
Mount of Know thy Self-Mastery
Luch a dor / doormouse muscles / mouse
Son = er zi sun = earth
Sol-pathing, sparkily, shiny things
Sweet child of the golden sun horse
Full in-visible spectrum
The intercellular space race
Variable Universal Expansion Rate
Cosmology 4 Nube: Big Ring & Giant Story Arch
Dark Star Emergence
Matrix mothership '4ma
Ultrasonic wavecore/kincore
Every body is tiny baby men
Baby's First Betrayal
Sugar Plumb Fairy Tales
Irish cheist question
Kaikki Kysymys (time in the city)
Problem-addict to re:solution
Merdacotta
prior eye tease
The Joy Ploy
Super Finishing Move
Wholely en-Raptured
Farraday cage match
Fight? Oh, re:mediation
Unplugged but connected
Experimental Data Sets Intention
The Power (of) Play
A wise guise, eh? Yuk yuks
hai huoc humourous
Ode to the Psychopomp
Nuts roasting on a perscribed fire
The Advent of the Calendar System
After Midnight X-Mass Gonna Give it to ya
Ex Marks a Spot
Treasure Eyes Land
Silent Knight, Wholey Nyt
Myst-I-Call Magic
The Greench(akra) of Kalimakka
The Sanatan Clause
Stock? Hnng~ stuff'er!
Copy cat burglar of grand rising larsony
Haddaway to learn what is kin
Going Dutch 4 kin... who's they?
WE kami, we are, us~☆

Stank ***** III: Toot Fast, Toot Furious

WILDCARDS
Animalistic, Familiar
Her ball, cure~
Early Spring Cleaning
Deepthought

— The End —