Sad because you feel too much
Or mad because you can't feel a thing.
Greener grass beckons,
And you wave to it longingly.

Love the rise,
Hate the fall.
Melodramatic monotone of monotony.
Perishable Plateau.
Whisk me away into infinity.

Dead on arrival.
Dead to the world.
Dead as a doornail.

Stuff me back inside my body
Like clothes in a suitcase.
I fit. I promise.

Deep in the screws of his lonely keep,
Waiting for word of a land promised,
Sentinel man watches across the sea
Never knowing faith was so dishonest.
Across the sea of doom lies his joy,
What awe, so spindrift were his days
And what lay behind was no corridor
And all his dreaming has left no ways
Forward, but to sink with hapless sorrow
And flowing to the thirsty ocean seas,
He pours another drink, toasts tomorrow
And all the empty horizons of history.
Spiraling down he leaves his diggs,
Praying, death be not a doornail's rig.

Deep in the screws of his lonely keep,
Waiting for word of a land promised,
Sentinel man watches across the sea
Never knowing faith was so dishonest.
Across the sea of doom lies his joy,
What awe, so spindrift were his days
And what lay behind was no corridor
And all his dreaming has left no ways
Forward, but to sink with hapless sorrow
And flowing to the thirsty ocean seas,
He pours another drink, toasts tomorrow
And all the empty horizons of history.
Spiraling down he leaves his diggs,
Praying, death be not a doornail's rig.

Deep in the screws of his lonely keep,
Waiting for word of a land promised,
Sentinel man watches across the sea
Never knowing faith was so dishonest.
Across the sea of doom lies his joy,
What awe, so spindrift were his days
And what lay behind was no corridor
And all his dreaming has left no ways
Forward, but to sink with hapless sorrow
And flowing to the thirsty ocean seas,
He pours another drink, toasts tomorrow
And all the empty horizons of history.
Spiraling down he leaves his diggs,
Praying, death be not a doornail's rig.

Deep in the screws of his lonely keep,
Waiting for word of a land promised,
Sentinel man watches across the sea
Never knowing faith was so dishonest.
Across the sea of doom lies his joy,
What awe, so spindrift were his days
And what lay behind was no corridor
And all his dreaming has left no ways
Forward, but to sink with hapless sorrow
And flowing to the thirsty ocean seas,
He pours another drink, toasts tomorrow
And all the empty horizons of history.
Spiraling down he leaves his diggs,
Praying, death be not a doornail's rig.

Deep in the screws of his lonely keep,
Waiting for word of a land promised,
Sentinel man watches across the sea
Never knowing faith was so dishonest.
Across the sea of doom lies his joy,
What awe, so spindrift were his days
And what lay behind was no corridor
And all his dreaming has left no ways
Forward, but to sink with hapless sorrow
And flowing to the thirsty ocean seas,
He pours another drink, toasts tomorrow
And all the empty horizons of history.
Spiraling down he leaves his diggs,
Praying, death be not a doornail's rig.

Deep in the screws of his lonely keep,
Waiting for word of a land promised,
Sentinel man watches across the sea
Never knowing faith was so dishonest.
Across the sea of doom lies his joy,
What awe, so spindrift were his days
And what lay behind was no corridor
And all his dreaming has left no ways
Forward, but to sink with hapless sorrow                                                      
And flowing to the thirsty ocean seas,
He pours another drink, toasts tomorrow
And all the empty horizons of history.
Spiraling down he leaves his diggs,
Praying, death be not a doornail's rig.

( Sonnet )*

Deep in the screws of his lonely keep,
Waiting for word of a land promised,
Sentinel man watches across the sea
Never knowing faith was so dishonest.
Across the sea of doom lies his joy,
What awe, so spindrift were his days
And what lay behind was no corridor
And all his dreaming has left no ways
Forward, but to sink with hapless sorrow                                                
And flowing to the thirsty ocean seas,
He pours another drink, toasts tomorrow
And all the empty horizons of history.
Spiraling down he leaves his diggs,
Praying, death be not a doornail's rig.

Deor's Lament

(Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa the 10th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Weland endured the agony of exile:
an indomitable smith wracked by grief.
He suffered countless sorrows;
indeed, such sorrows were his ***** companions
in that frozen island dungeon
where Nithad fettered him:
so many strong-but-supple sinew-bands
binding the better man.
That passed away; this also may.

Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths,
bemoaning also her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She knew nothing good could ever come of it.
That passed away; this also may.

We have heard the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lovely lady, waxed limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
That passed away; this also may.

For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand;
many acknowledged his mastery and moaned.
That passed away; this also may.

We have heard too of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he cruelly ruled the Goths' realms.
That was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his crown might be overthrown.
That passed away; this also may.

If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are limitless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I can say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just king. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors had promised me.
That passed away; this also may.

Footnotes and Translator's Comments
by Michael R. Burch

Summary

"Deor's Lament" appears in the Exeter Book, which has been dated to around 960-990 AD. The poem may be considerably older than the manuscript, since many ancient poems were passed down ****** for generations before they were finally written down. The poem is a lament in which someone named Deor, presumably the poet who composed the poem, compares the loss of his job and prospects to seemingly far greater tragedies of the past. Thus "Deor's Lament" may be an early example of overstatement and/or "special pleading."

Author

The author is unknown but may have been an Anglo-Saxon scop (poet) named Deor. However it is also possible that the poem was written by someone else. We have no knowledge of a poet named "Deor" outside the poem.

Genre

"Deor's Lament" is, as its name indicates, a lament. The poem has also been classified as an Anglo-Saxon elegy or dirge. If the poet's name "was" Deor, does that mean he is no longer alive and is speaking to us from beyond the grave? "Deor" has also been categorized as an ubi sunt ("where are they now?") poem.

Theme

The poem's theme is one common to Anglo-Saxon poetry and literature: that a man cannot escape his fate and thus can only meet it with courage, resolve and fortitude.

Plot

Doer's name means "dear" and the poet puns on his name in the final stanza: "I was dear to my lord. My name was Deor." The name Deor may also has connotations of "noble" and "excellent." The plot of Deor's poem is simple and straightforward: other heroic figures of the past overcame adversity; so Deor may also be able to overcome the injustice done to him when his lord gave his position to a rival. It is even possible that Deor intended the poem to be a spell, incantation, curse or charm of sorts.

Techniques

"Deor's Lament" is an alliterative poem: it uses alliteration rather than meter to "create a flow" of words. This was typical of Anglo-Saxon poetry. “Deor's Lament" is one of the first Old English poems to employ a refrain, which it does quite effectively. What does the refrain "Thaes ofereode, thisses swa maeg" mean? Perhaps something like: "That was overcome, and so this may be overcome also." However, the refrain is ambiguous: perhaps the speaker believes things will work out the same way; or perhaps he is merely suggesting that things might work out for the best; or perhaps he is being ironical, knowing that they won't.

Interpretation

My personal interpretation of the poem is that the poet is employing irony. All the previously-mentioned heroes and heroines are dead. I believe Deor is already dead, or knows that he is an old man soon to also be dead. "Passed away" maybe a euphemism for "dead as a doornail." But I don't "know" this, and you are free to disagree and find your own interpretation of the poem.

Analysis of Characters and References

Weland/Welund is better known today as Wayland the Smith. (Beowulf's armor was said to have been fashioned by Weland.) According to an ancient Norse poem, Völundarkviða, Weland and his two brothers came upon three swan-maidens on a lake's shore, fell in love with them, and lived with them happily for seven years, until the swan-maidens flew away. His brothers left, but Weland stayed and turned to smithing, fashioning beautiful golden rings for the day of his swan-wife's return. King Nithuthr, hearing of this, took Weland captive, hamstrung him to keep him prisoner, and kept him enslaved on an island, forging fine things. Weland took revenge by killing Nithuthr's two sons and getting his daughter Beadohild pregnant. Finally Weland fashioned wings and flew away, sounding a bit like Icarus of Greek myth.

Maethhild (Matilda) and Geat (or "the Geat") are known to us from Scandianavian ballads. Magnild (Maethhild) was distressed because she foresaw that she would drown in a river. Gauti (Geat) replied that he would build a bridge over the river, but she responded that no one can flee fate. Sure enough, she drowned. Gauti then called for his harp, and, like a Germanic Orpheus, played so well that her body rose out of the waters. In one version she returned alive; in a darker version she returned dead, after which Gauti buried her properly and made harpstrings from her hair.

The Theodoric who ruled the Maerings for thirty years may have to be puzzled out. A ninth-century rune notes that nine generations prior a Theodric, lord of the Maerings, landed in Geatland and was killed there. In the early sixth century there was a Frankish king called Theoderic. But the connections seem tenuous, at best. Perhaps the thirty year rule is a clue to consider the Ostrogoth Theodoric, born around 451. He ruled Italy for around thirty years, until 526. Toward the end of his reign Theodoric, then in his seventies, named his infant grandson heir. There were rumours that members of his court were conspiring against his chosen successor. Furthermore, the Catholic church was opposing the Arian Theodoric. As a result of these tensions, several leading senators were arrested on suspicion of conspiracy, including Boethius. It was while he was imprisoned and awaiting execution that Boethius wrote his famous Consolation of Philosophy. Theodoric's final years were unfortunately marked by suspicion and distrust, so he may be the ruler referred to by Deor.

Eormenric was another king of the Ostrogoths who died in about 375; according to Ammianus Marcellinus, he killed himself out of fear of the invading Huns. According to other Old Norse Eddic poems (Guðrúnarhvöt and Hamðismál, Iormunrekkr), Eormenric had his wife Svannhildr trampled by horses because he suspected her of sleeping with his son. So he might qualify as a "grim king" with "wolfish ways."

Deor has left no trace of himself, other than this poem. Heorrenda appears as Horant in a thirteenth century German epic Kudrun. It was said that Horant sang so sweetly that birds fell silent at his song, and fish and animals in the wood fell motionless. That would indeed make him a formidable opponent for the scop Deor.

Keywords/Tags: Deor, Lament, Old English, Anglo-Saxon, translation, scop, mrbtr, Weland, Wayland, smith, exile, fetters, dungeon

My advice to fellow geezers?
Just say **** it!
“Roll up to the magical mystery tour!”
Just like John & Yoko!
Smoke a big fat doobie each morning.
Step out the Hogan door, just greet
The East and walk in beauty.
After a few weeks you just won’t
Give a **** anymore; just not give a ****
In general, no longer care about what’s
Not important: The Guv’ment.
Politics. The rate of unemployment.
Inflation. Even radical, freaking
Muslim Jihadist TERROR!
Yes.  Just light up, Babaloo,
Do one’s bit for the Decline &
Fall (dropped you, didn’t I?)
Let’s mourn the dying ***** goddess.
America: that shining city on a hill,
Colombia in all her senility, insolvency &
Not even D or I, just Lusions of grandeur.
Let us contemplate the decrepitude,
The crumbling, up-in-smoke spiritual infrastructure,
The USA: the United ****'s-Creek of America,
Going down, down, down . . . ALERT!
NEWS FLASH! It’s Rome & Great Britain,
It’s the update, the demise of Empire all over again.
I remember those sorry-***, pathetic Brits,
Met them all over while hitchhiking around
Europe, an intensive, closely observed tour of duty
Abroad: a gift to myself, in fact a scholarship,
I rigged for myself back in the early ‘70s.
Going abroad: once a reserved right of passage for certain,
Privileged children of the 1890s, lucky spawn from
Families known as the “Well-to-do.” And why not add:
Dubbed the “Mauve Decade" because William Henry Perkin’s
Aniline dye allowed widespread use of that color in fashion.
The "Gay Nineties,” referring to a time not of buggery, but
Merriment & optimism, & lest we forget, Twain’s “Gilded Age.”
Got the time, spare a dime, got the freaking time-frame, Mack?
It was a dark & stormy total eclipse of Jupiter.
Spiritually speaking, I was free-floating.
And what of those same-self, sad-assed &
Sorry, pathetic Brits?
Well, consider the specific years.
Experience in Europe in my early 20s,
Meant 1972, 1973 & 1974.
Surely, a time for English disillusionment,
What with the sun finally setting,
A vague, prismatic twilight time,
A virtual requiem for His or Her Majesty’s Empire,
“Rule, Britannia ... Britannia rule the waves.”
(Cue ruffles & flourishes, fifes & flugelhorns)
This was pre-North Sea Oil Bonanza days.
This was England before Mrs. Thatcher
Gave her good people a long overdue,
Richly deserved kick in the tuchas.
“The Iron Lady” they called her.
Stopped Orwell’s future, doornail dead, she did.
“Maggie’s Miracle” they called it.

Those Brits I met & knew back then,
Those “Used-to-be-Contender” types:
Self-deprecatory, apologetic & cynical,
Mocking the Union Jack,
Shedding salty tears for Lost Empire.
“This blessed plot, this earth,
This realm, this England.”
Ironic & bitter to a man,
“Gulping gin & bitters later,” observes
Current tenant occupier, 221B Baker Street,
Sherlock finding the word at last,
The definitive literary term,
That one precise mot juste, that says it all.
In a word? Sardonic.
The USA is going down, down down—
“And away goes trouble down the drain!”

Roto-Rooter® Plumbing - rotorooter.com‎ Adwww.rotorooter.com/ Yucaipa ‎(909) 500-4188 Call And Make An AppointmentToday. Hurry, $20 Off Coupon Expires Soon! BBB Accredited · Licensed and Insured · Trusted since 1935 · Emergency Service Contact Us RotoGreen Solutions Blog About Us

That’s right: $KA-CHING$!
An ad right in the middle of a ******* poem!
Always the sensible poet, I kept my day job.
But now in my 60’s finally figuring out:
HOW TO MAKE POETRY PAY?
Bow down to Adam Smith & Ricardo—
Not the ‘Splaine me, Cuban bandleader
Of that surname, but David, the classical economist,
The “Iron Law of Wages” guy
It’s time to make money.
Call in the Madmen.
Send in the clowns.

Mad Men – AMC - AMC.com www.amc.com/shows/mad-men Official site for AMC's award-winning series Mad Men: Games, making-of videos, plus episode & character guides.

$KA-CHING$! $KA-CHING$!

And Dan Draper: an alcoholic, chain-smoking,
***** magnet & Korean War ****-up, shifty
Name-changer, last seen at that Big Sur ashram,
The Esalen Retreat & Jingle Inspiration Center,
**** Whitman coming clean, at last:
Hovering a foot off the ground
In the lotus position, receiving **** *** from a
Coke bottle incarnation of Vishnu.

Search Results I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing (In Perfect Harmony ... https://en.wikipedia.org/I'dLiketoTeachtheWorld . . . Wikipedia "I'd Like to teach the World to Sing (In Perfect Harmony)" is a popular song that originated as the jingle "Buy the World a Coke" in the groundbreaking 1971 ... Writer(s)‎ ‎Jon Hamm AKA Dan Draper; ‎Label‎: Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce.

Money: FUNGIBLE GREEN.
$KA-CHING$!

Those once sardonic Brits,
Now have Brooklyn accents.
We’re going down the drain, Babaloo!
The barbarians are at the gates,
A horde of hunger, a ******* rabble,
Green-eyed monsters, envying America’s poor,
Craving what little Uncle Sam’s indigenous poor have left,
Ragtag migrants, short, dark compañeros,
Swarthy Huns & Visigoths,
Whitman's last yawp, the last gasp breath of
Work Ethos, be it Protestant or Papist,
A colossal mélange of famine, hope & prayer,
The usual suspects: “Your tired, your poor,
Your wretched refuse & solid waste,
Your huddled, yearning masses.”
My advice to Emma--Sephardic-Ashkenazi,
Proto-Zionist, years before Herzl:
Get yourself a nightclub act, Ms. Lazarus.

America: I am hidden in a high grass savannah,
I watch the hyenas pick your carcass clean.
Adam Smith: he displaced the term greed--
Smacking as it does of deadly sin baggage—
Replaced the term Greed with Self-Interest.
And the only invisible hand I know of is
Down my pants, jerking me off,
Mesmerized by slogans, divine metaphors, like:
“A rising tide lifts all boats,” a Big Lie, for example.
Today’s economists call it “The Multiplier Effect.”
You pay me and I pay him & he pays he or she,
Merry Goes Round, Goes Round & Round the Merry-Ground.
All is just so cool & groovy,
Life is just a copacetic bowl of copacetic until
Some self-interested ****-*** decides to export
Your ******* job right out of the country:
Casus belli? Most certainly. Class warfare,
Always our hitherto history.
It’s not like that fat slob Michael Moore never warned us.

**Roger & Me (1989) - IMDb www.imdb.com/title/tt0098213/ Internet Movie Database  Rating: 7.5/10 - ‎22,470 votes Director Michael Moore pursues GM CEO Roger Smith to confront him about the harm ... Roger & Me -- Michael Moore's controversial but popular film is a highly ... Plot Summary - ‎Quotes - ‎Trivia - ‎Awards

It takes one to know one swift fell swoop
like a bat out of hell and certainly the belfry.
If you've something to prove to the birds and the bees,
I won't bat an eye at your rhinoplasty.

I'll take two hoots, 'cause I sure won't give them.
Find somebody else to get up and go;
I cry like I fly like a carrion crow
and I've two left feet and no time to tango.

It takes three strikes 'til it's not just company
any more — it's a crowd and my agoraphobia
is making this worse, so I might disperse.

If you don't quite care, let's put two and two together;
playing pretend we're birds of a feather.
I could commend, but that's such a no-no;
you're more like a doornail to me, less like a dodo.

And if you don't much mind, I might just take five.
I'm chicken-livered, but at least alive
though I feel like a dead duck, dusted and done.
I won't be there, I'll stay fair and square,
right back at square one.

Now can you see how this is cyclic?
Makes me feel one sandwich short of a picnic,
up the wall, and driving me sick.
Apologies, I don't mean to nitpick,
and I know I've a number of bees in my bonnet,
but I've zero interest in your haiku and sonnets.

So here's one for the road,
turn by the way the devil drives you home,
and one good turn deserves
another.

Apartment recommendations for a city I’ve never smelled
in my mailbox. Empty wine glasses and static electricity
the air, the dust, the heart, the tip, the flotilla----------------
mercy.
me.
mercenary. bible camp.
jacket, jacket, hobble; ****** keys.
You’re a smudge, you doornail, tack.
Tack-- tack, tack. Honey, a floating bungalow========)
Pull off the danger, rose, it’s a time for campaigning.
Awash in grassy knolls, you hidden scavenger.
Grassing, grassing with watering hide, you scrivener!

my inner demons are awaiting to shatter your anima with
cacophonous whispers and shrieks from their bad foul maws

they are lurking into the shrubs as its branches creeps onto the
ground anticipating your arrival on the crepuscular side of the train track

they are lingering into the dark as they rub their hands together,
formulating the perfect crime scheme to strangle your throat with words you've left unspoken

so be aware, my darling, for they are biding their time for your arrival
be careful yourself out there, for they want you to be **as dead as a doornail

Homefield advantage
When we were together
I took you to all of my favorite spots

They became our favorote spots

Then as summer burned

Straight yellow afternoon suns

Began to fade

Until night was quick

And mornings only came after long
Hours of television
And burnt coffee
Until I realized that
"Stepping headlong  into oblivion is the only way to burn the past
From your skin"

I went to our favorite spot on the beach
Where we had our first date first kiss first and third and fifth anniversaries
Not to mention random nights we exhausted young lust right on this spot
I think I asked you to marry me here
Oddly enough I remember you said yes

It hurt so bad to come back right to the heart of things
I could feel the heartbeat on the sand
The pulse of the ocean on my skin
The drift of the sea breeze
I closed my eyes and listened to the call of gulls
As night fell
Ten bottles of red stripe
I only needed six
My dads most expensive bottle of gin
And two marijuana cigarettes

I remember
Screaming at the moon
And running headlong into the black sea

I rembember the sand
Scraping my skin
Stealing my cells
Pushing them softly out to sea

I woke up alone
Lying in the sand
A dog licking my face

My eyes hurt into my head
My mouth was frozen
Swelling and thickening next to the sea

I read the dogs collar
His name was Biscuit
And a telephone number
My phone was in the car
As dead as a doornail

So I walked barefoot and asphalt
To the jetty
and found a payphone

It rang once
And she answered


Ten minutes later me and Biscuit were on your doorstep

"You look like you could use some coffee"
"You look like a towheaded red lipped angel of light"
You think it would have been strange
To let a ***** stranger like me in but I think you understood when I said
I had stepped headlong into oblivion to burn the past from my skin






from your. Skin

Egotistic *****
You're that and nothing more
Malice towards other
Fondness for you
and your little friends
Let this end
Be known to all
Ill-bred
Ill-fed
Ill-read
Dumb as a doornail
All hail
To the witless
******
Insolet
Teenage Queen

raining, gloomy streets
all alone in a thin road
storm wants my soul
not easy to forget
this glorious jail
why always in the dark
dead as a doornail
thus memories can ****
faithless, arrogant but virtuous
a lightning against me
you tell me Mephistopheles

Now I will be ******
If I ***** this up again
I like your pretty words
You ignore it like you havent heard
You've got to know what you're doing
But you like to play the dumb doornail
Coming over to me, your voice washes up
Always, never, your plastic words can't fail

I don't know if we're meant for this
But I think I'm ready to try it
Sorry I got so ******
Over such trivial ****
I'll keep my head on straight
If you promise not to be late

I can only hope that (my) life
doesn't wind out of control
or wind up killing me dead
(er) than a doornail to a door
to someplace better than anyplace
but here.
I have to keep the faith.
(in myself and my fellow humans)
We don't know any better
so we judge those
who don't know
any better.
(Anyone can do better.)

III

A Wizard stumbled on a sea

a sea froze by Winter's lung,

blowing all Winter long.

Beneath the ice, decayed

it was a great giant Whale,

as dead as a giant doornail.

The Wizard swallowed him whole

and coughed him up into a bowl

of warm creamy oatmeal.

Inside he writhed, simply alive,

revived, he was, of all his death

the whole oats returned life's breath.

"The sea is not your home, Whale"

The Wizard then kindly said:

"A giant tank was where you were bred."

Looking the Whale in the eye, he continued:

"I will place you here, my friend, instead..."

and he stuffed him into his library head.

smoky white diamonds

in the canticle-crest of

a wet sun, sudden with

bursts of moon.

enmeshed sound...

slowly rewound

to the oracular mouth

of a ******* moan.

rankly blotted out, by

doornail-stiff hibernations.

fleshed out by a ******

wilderness to lay low in.

again.

to become affianced to the grim reaper,
who never promised me a rose garden
nor crystal clear pool of fragrant delight
to accompany last living breath
before succumbing into black hole sun
re: the void of nothingness
with absolute zero remembrance of things past.

Suicidal ideation in tandem
with purposelessness
(nihilistic existentialism exponentially
increasing since my halflife ago),
and most importantly
cursed with flat limp hair,
which serious crisis undermines reason
to write reasonable poetic expression
spurs the notion to traverse consciousness,
and painlessly segway
into the hereafter
(and maybe reincarnated into a heifer)
on a broken wing and a prayer.

No glorious notion of heaven
(nor belief in some omnipotent supreme creator,
who will be instrumental
uniting those meeting their demise)
with dead souls doth explain
zealousness toward what happens to human body
very soon after they – give up the ghost
(second person singular) and die,
yet intimation fostered
linkedin to dulling senses of mine,

that allow, enable,
and provide means to see or hear,
cuz already at threescore and five
revolutions clocked around the sun
post January thirteenth
two thousand and twenty four
increased insightfulness brings to mind,
a quickening uptick courtesy senescence
whereby aural and visual deterioration occur
at what appear faster clip

than when I happened to be younger
within the lovely bones of this sensate being,
who finds himself sensitive to loud sounds
discovered audiological test administered
hearing loss at extreme high and low ranges
similarly recognizing even the largest sized letters
on the Snellen eye chart
fraught with greater difficulty
particularly without wearing corrective eyewear.

After querying Google concerning a medical term for hearing loss of high and low frequencies, the closest response came back as follows.

While there isn't a single, universally accepted term for hearing loss affecting both high and low frequencies, it would typically be described as a "mixed frequency hearing loss" or "broadband hearing loss" on an audiogram, indicating significant hearing loss across a wide range of frequencies, including both high and low tones.

Before acquiescing to the afterlife,
I bolster maximum body, mind and spirit triage
aware declining senescence
affects physical, mental and spiritual well being
what fluke roll of the genetic dice throw
wrought yours truly (me),
whose latent potential
hijacked (to Cuba) thyself,
an anomaly sexagenarian

forever stunted socially courtesy
courting The Pale Horseman
when just a lad
of approximately a dozen years
of longevity since being born
thirteen days into
the first month of nineteen fifty nine,
when according
to most Western cultural interpretations,

being born on January 13, 1959,
would not be considered
particularly auspicious or unlucky;
it's simply a regular birthdate
with no inherent positive
or negative connotations
associated with it in mainstream beliefs.

Perhaps, cuz I (the male offspring
from both deceased parents,
especially my father –
the renown Chemist B.B. Harris,
and to a slightly lesser extent
the late culinary cuisine queen
Harmit Harms Kuritsky -
the gal whose troth he pledged
while holding some
bubbling sinister looking flask in hand
on their first guinea pig type date
encouraged incurred genetic yen
that burned from without the buns of this son)
possesses a pyromaniacal streak,
no surprise cremation would be my choice
of post life treatment videlicet
mine grateful dead as a doornail
cadaver formerly yours truly.

Believe it or not, a dead doornail is actually a thing. It's a medieval carpentry term for a nail that's been “clinched” — hammered into a door with any protruding part hammered flat. It wasn't going anywhere, making the doornail “dead” and unfit for future use.

growing inside of me, void of not being alive
eating me up like a worm
leaving no bliss to thrive
as a doornail lying six feet under
mastered by my own germs
curled up like a baby already surrendered
my inside frondeur
fed upon by the scavengers
spending days in my darken shed
don't feel like moving
don't feel like breaking bread
on hands, deep wrinkles keep on grooving
the put up face seems to crumble
as if darkness working inside out
my being is like that of a puzzle
shattered to the ground
but lost beyond the shadow of a doubt
the only thing keeping me sane
the promised land and pleasure in pain

Hmm... on second thought
lemme join anorexic club
until rib cage protrudes taut and visible
doubling as drum to drub
synchronized within heart of darkness,
especially when electrocardiogram exhibits
absolute zero vital sign,
cardiac arrest translates
as cessation to lub dub,
hence yours truly

declared dead as doornail,
coroner report deems arrhythmia
directly linkedin to deliberate Machiavellian flub
courtesy the missus attempt to poison me
actually aborted cuz nanobots
loosed upon body gripped with rigor mortis,
a minor inconvenient truth
cuz odorless and tasteless deadly toxins
rendered me convalescing
from bout with death, an oxymoronic
former slenderman gourmand.

temporarily deceased
until said microscopic robots
avidly analogous to frenzied
figuratively hogtied pigs
buzzfeeding at a trough
creating porcine hubbub
invisible nanoids (0.1-10 micrometres)
accomplished programmed task
whereby fatal microbes they did scrub
away leaving me fit as a fiddle.

No matter she thoroughly, painstakingly
and lovingly didst strew
haphazardly she threw
leftovers together,
this blustery march like
November twenty six figuratively view
wing the remaining thirty plus days
of two thousand twenty one
thoroughly cooked in microwave until...
poor excuse for my meal appeared
with consistency of shoe leather.

Think the missus not afraid
of Virginia Woolf keen to experiment
treating me like the Gingerbread Hag would
questionable resultant glop pantomimed
for my guessing pleasure
never in bajillion years
as amateurish Marcel Marceau charade
performance courtesy the spouse,

an entrée she gave - yours truly
immediately sought to evade
me subsequently evincing
horrific puckered mealy mouth
as though I swallowed hand grenade
figurative exploding oral cavity
feeble futile gesticulation inveighed.

Thus, methinks himself wise
to don cooking apron
please do not ask why
trumpeting self as master chef boyardee
so move over wife and allow husband to try
his hand (using skill - let) me prepare Thai
and/or other Asian cuisine dish,
cuz when free to potschke

(To fuss or "mess around"
inefficiently and inexpertly), I haint shy
to blend (indiscriminately) ingredients
ofttimes yours truly barley able to ply
boiling water since significant other
does not give this garden variety
and generic, gimlet eyed
gourmandizing guilt free
Earth friendly gumption goaded guy.

Every so often yours truly
gets so hungry, he could eat a horse
(yours truly jest kidding hoof course)
truth be told, I only eat one meal per day
all day from son up to son down, me a force
tubby reckoned with,
who if he gives way to vice
event chew wooly experiences remorse.

Hum glad to share mine reasonably rhyming hook
twenty six letters linkedin amidst
various combinations, formations, permutations,...
allows, enables, and provides a look
into the mindscape of Matthew Scott Harris
doth show himself with steely dangling
nonsense with sense and sensibility he forsook.

(a poetic partial fiction
blended, diced, fricaseed,
marinated, mixed, pureed, sautéed,
stewed... with fact)

Hmm... on second thought
lemme join anorexic club
until rib cage protrudes taut and visible
doubling as drum to drub
synchronized within heart of darkness,
especially when electrocardiogram exhibits
absolute zero vital sign,
cardiac arrest translates
as cessation to lub dub,
hence yours truly
declared dead as doornail,
coroner report deems arrhythmia

directly linkedin
to deliberate Machiavellian flub
courtesy the missus attempt to poison me
actually aborted cuz nanobots
loosed upon body gripped with rigor mortis,
a minor inconvenient truth
with earthling in the balance
cuz odorless and tasteless deadly toxins
rendered me convalescing
from bout with death, an oxymoronic
former slenderman gourmand.

Temporarily deceased
until said microscopic robots
avidly analogous to frenzied
figuratively hogtied pigs
buzzfeeding at a trough
creating porcine hubbub
invisible nanoids (0.1-10 micrometres)
accomplished programmed task,
whereby fatal microbes they did scrub
away leaving me fit as a fiddle.

No matter she thoroughly, painstakingly
and lovingly didst strew
haphazardly she threw
leftovers together,
this blustery march like
November twenty fourth figuratively view
wing the remaining thirty plus days
of two thousand twenty three
thoroughly cooked in microwave until...
poor excuse for my meal appeared
with consistency of shoe leather.

Think the missus not afraid
of Virginia Woolf keen to experiment
treating me like the Gingerbread Hag would:
questionable resultant glop pantomimed
for my guessing pleasure,
never figure out in bajillion years
as amateurish Marcel Marceau charade
performance courtesy the spouse,

an entrée she gave - yours truly
immediately sought to evade
me subsequently evincing
horrific puckered mealy mouth
as though I swallowed hand grenade
figurative exploding oral cavity
feeble futile gesticulation inveighed.

Thus, methinks himself wise
to don cooking apron
please do not ask why
trumpeting self as master chef boyardee
so move over wife and allow husband to try
his hand (using skill - let) me prepare Thai
and/or other Asian cuisine dish,
cuz when free to potschke

(To fuss or "mess around"
inefficiently and inexpertly), I haint shy
to blend (indiscriminately) ingredients
ofttimes yours truly barley able to ply
boiling water since significant other
does not give opportunity
to this garden variety
and generic, gimlet eyed
gourmandizing guilt free
Earth friendly gumption
generic goaded guy.

Every so often yours truly
gets so hungry, he could eat a horse
(yours truly jest kidding hoof course)
truth be told, I only eat one meal per day
all day from sunup to sundown, me a force
tubby reckoned with,
who if he gives way to vice
event chew wooly experiences remorse.

Hum glad to share mine reasonably rhyming hook
line and sink cup hated
twenty six letters linkedin amidst
various combinations, formations, permutations,...
allows, enables, and provides a look
into the mindscape of Matthew Scott Harris
doth show himself with steely dangling
nonsense with sense and sensibility he forsook.