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Brent Kincaid Feb 2016
Downton Abbey’s going off the air.
I’m not through yet, it’s just not fair.
Nothing before that show ever had
That kind of class, that degree of flair.
Life without my weekly Downton
Is too sad and inordinately scary.
What will I do without my frequent fix
Of the elegantly snarky Lady Mary?

And will the feckless Mister Barrow
Ever develop a true human soul?
I am sure this handsome actor fellow
Will never again get such a meaty role.
And the Dowager Duchess herself,
She is not someone easily done with.
She is, after all, tradition incarnate,
And under all that, she’s Maggie Smith.

Bates and his Anna filled my heart
With alternating sorrow and great joy
Almost as much as a lady of nobility
Marrying the handsome chauffer boy.
Dresses and hair lengths shortened
And nobility began to get real jobs.
All this was before ****** flared up
And turned starving folks into a mob.
I never missed that we were seeing
The transition from ‘la belle epoque’.
That time was running out for that
In the worlds ever-changing clock.

It was a yesterday we never knew
We of the age of electric equality.
We got to look inside and see it
In all its grandly overdressed reality.
I had begun to recognize artwork, in
Lovely strolls through baronial halls
And huge family meals at table.
I am sorry that it is over for us all.
judy smith Apr 2017
So you know you’re looking at two very different styles of dress, here. But precisely what decades? When did that waistline move back down? What details are the defining touches of their era? How long were women actually walking around with bustles on their backsides?

Lydia Edwards’s How to Read a Dress is a detailed, practical, and totally beautiful guide to the history of this particular form of clothing from the 16th to the 20th centuries. It tracks the small changes that pile up over time, gradually ******* until your great-grandmother’s closet looks wildly different than your own. As always, fashion makes for a compelling angle on history—paging through you can see the shifting fortunes of women in the Western world as reflected in the way they got dressed every morning.

Of course, it’ll also ensure that the next lackadaisically costumed period piece you watch gives you agita, but all knowledge has a price.

I spoke to Edwards about how exactly we go about resurrecting the history of an item that’s was typically worn until it fell apart and then recycled for scraps; our conversation has been lightly trimmed and edited for clarity.

The title of the book is How to Read a Dress. What do you mean by “reading” a dress?

Basically what I mean is, when you are looking at a dress in an exhibition or a TV show, reading it in terms of working out where the inspirations or where certain design choices come from. Being able to look at it and recognize key elements. Being able to look at the bodice and say, Oh, the shape of that is 1850s, and the design relates to this part of history, and the patterning comes from here. It’s looking at the dress as an object from the top down and being able to recognize different elements—different historical elements, different design elements, different artistic elements. “Read” is probably the best word to use for that kind of approach, if that makes sense.

It must send you around the bend a little bit, watching costume adaptations where they’re a bit slapdash. The one I think of is the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice, which I actually really enjoy, but I know that one’s supposed to have all over the place costuming-wise.

Yeah, it does. I mean, I love the BBC Pride and Prejudice one, because they kept very specifically to a particular era. But I can see what they did with the Keira Knightley one—they were trying to keep it 1790s, when the book was written, as opposed to when it was published. But they’ve got a lot of kind of modern influences in there and they’ve got a lot of influences from 30, 40 years previously, which is interesting to an audience and gives an audience I suppose more frames of reference, more areas to think about and look at. So I can see why they did that. But it does make it more difficult if you’re trying to accurately decode a garment. It’s harder when you’ve got lots of different eras going on there, but it makes it beautiful and interesting for an audience.

The guide spans the 16th to the 20th century. Why start with the 16th century?

Well, partly because it’s where my own interest starts, in terms of my research and the areas I’ve looked at. But more importantly in terms of audience interest, we get a lot of TV shows, a lot of films in recent years—things like The Tudors—that type of era seems to be something that people are interested in. That time is very colorful and very interesting to people.

And also because in terms of thinking about the dress as garment, obviously people wore dresses in medieval times, but in terms of it being something that specifically women wore, distinct from men’s clothes, I really think we start to see that more in the 15th, 16th century onwards.

Where do you go to get the historical information to put together a book like this? What do you use as your source material? Because obviously the thing about clothing is that it has to stand up to a lot of wear and tear and a lot of it doesn’t survive.

This is the other thing about the 16th century stuff—there’s so little surviving. That’s why that chapter was a lot shorter and also that’s why I used a lot of artworks rather than surviving garments, just because they don’t exist in their entirety.

But wherever possible, you go to the garments themselves in museum collections. And then if that’s proving to be difficult, you go to artworks or images, but always bearing in mind the artist will have had their own agenda, so they won’t necessarily be accurate of what people were actually wearing. So then you have to go and look up written source material from the time—say, diaries. I like using letters that people have written to each other over the centuries, describing dress and what they were wearing on a daily basis. Novels can be good, as well.

Also the scholarship that has come before, the secondary sources, works by people like Janet Arnold, Aileen Ribeiro. Really well researched scholarly books where people have used primary sources themselves and put their own interpretation on it can be really, really helpful. Although you take some of it with a pinch of salt, and you put your own interpretation on there, as well.

But always to the dress itself wherever possible.

What are some of the challenges you face, or the constraints on our ability to learn about the history of fashion?

Well, the very practical issue of trying to see garments—some of them I did see here in Australia, but a lot of them were in the States, in Canada, in New Zealand, so it’s hard to physically get there to see them. And often, even when you can get to the museum, garments are out on loan to other exhibitions or other museums. That’s a practical consideration.

But also, especially when I’m talking about using artworks and things, which can be really helpful when you’re researching, but as I’ve said they do come from a place where there’s more interpretations and more agendas. So if someone’s done a portrait and there’s a beautiful 1880s dress in it, that could have been down to the whims of the person who was wearing it, or the artist could have changed significantly the color or style to suit his own taste. Then you have to do extra research on top of that, to make sure that what you are seeing is representative.

It’s a fascinating area. There’s a lot of challenges, but for me, that’s what makes it really exciting as well. But it’s really that question of being able to trust sources and knowing what to use and what not to use in order to make things clear for the audience.

Obviously many of these dresses were very expensive and took a lot of labor and it wasn’t fast fashion—people didn’t just give it away or toss it when it fell out of season. A lot of times, you did was you remade it. When you’re looking at a dress that’s been remade, how do you extract the information that you need as a historian out of it?

I love it when something like that comes up. I’ve got a couple of examples in the book.

Well, it can be quite challenging, because often when you’re first looking at a piece it’s not obvious that it’s been remade. But if you’re lucky enough to look inside it and actually hold it and turn it round different angles, there’ll be things like the placement of a seam, or you’ll see that the waist has been moved up or down according to the fashion. And that’s often obvious when you’re looking inside. You can see the way the skirt’s been attached. Often you can tell if a skirt’s been taken off and then reattached using different pleats, different gatherings; that can give you a hint that it’s then been remade to fit in with a different fashionable ideal.

One of the key ways is fabric. You can often see, especially in early 19th century dresses when they’ve been made of these beautiful 18th century silks and brocades. That’s nice because it’s the first obvious clue that something’s been remade or that an old dress has been completely taken apart and it’s just the fabric that’s been used. I find it particularly interesting when the waist has been moved or the seams have been taken off or re-sewn in a different shape or something like that. It can be subtle but once your knowledge base grows, that’s one of the most fascinating areas that you can look at.

You page through the book and you watch these trends unfold and there are occasional sea changes will happen fairly quickly, like when the Regency style arises. But how much change year-to-year would a woman have seen? How long would it take, just as a woman getting dressed in the morning, to see styles just radically alter? Would you even notice?

Well, this is the thing—I think it’s very easy, when we’re looking back, to imagine that in 1810 you’d be wearing this dress and then all the frills and the frouf would have started to come in the late 1810s and the 1820s, and suddenly you would have had a whole new wardrobe. But obviously, unless you were the very wealthiest women and you had access to dressmakers who had the absolute newest patterns and newest fabrics then no, you wouldn’t have seen a massive change. You wouldn’t have afforded to be able to have the newest things as they came in. You would have maybe remade dresses to make them maybe slightly more in line with a fashion plate that you might have seen, but you wouldn’t have had access to new information and new fashion plates as soon as they came. To be realistic, there would have been very little change on a day to day level.

But I think also, for us now—it’s hard to see it without hindsight, but we feel like we’re fairly fluid in wearing the same kind of styles, but obviously when we look back in 20 years, we’ll look at pictures of us and see greater changes than we’re now aware. Because it happens on a slow pace and it happens on such a subconscious level in some ways.

But actually, yeah, it’s to do with economics, it’s to do with availability. People living in towns where they couldn’t easily get to cities—if you were living in a country town a hundred miles away from London, there’s no way that you would have the resources to see the most recent fashion plates, the most recent ideas that were developing in high society. So it was a very slow process in reality.

If you have a lot of money you can change out your wardrobe quicker and wear the latest styles. And so the wealthiest people, their clothes were what in a lot of case stood the best chance of surviving and being in modern collections. So how do we know what working women would have worn or what middle class women would have worn?

Yeah, this is hard. I do have some more middle class examples, because we’re lucky in that we do have quite a few that have survived, especially in smaller museums and historical collections, where people have had clothes sitting in their attics for years and have donated them, just from normal families over the years.

But, working women, that’s much more difficult. We’re lucky from the 19th century because we have photographic evidence. But really a lot of it will come down to written descriptions, mainly letters, diaries, not necessarily that the people themselves would have kept, but there’s examples of people that worked in cotton mills, for instance, and people that ran the mills and their families and wives and friends who had written accounts of what the women there were wearing. Also newspaper accounts, particularly of people who would go and do charity work and help the poor. They often wrote quite detailed descriptions of the people that they were helping.

But in terms of actual garments, yeah, it’s very difficult. Certainly 18th century and before, it’s really, really hard to get hold of anything that gives you a really good idea of what they wore. But in the 18th century—it’s quite interesting, because then we get examples of separate pieces of clothing worn by the upper classes, like a skirt with a jacket, which was actually a lower middle class style initially and then it became appropriated by the upper classes. And then it became much fancier and trimmed and made in silks and things. So then, we can see the inspiration of the working classes on the upper classes. That’s another way of looking at it, although of course that’s much more problematic.

It’s interesting how in several cases you can see broader historical context, or other stories happening through clothes. Like you point out that the rise of the one-piece dresses is due to the rise of mantua makers, who were women who were less formally trained who were suddenly making clothing. Are there any other interesting stories like that, that you noticed and thought were really fascinating?

There’s a dress in the book that a woman made for her wedding. I think she was living on her own, or she was living with a servant and her mother or something. She made the dress and then turned up to her wedding and traveled quite a long way to get there, and when she arrived, the groom and all the guests weren’t there. There was nobody. So she went away and came back again a week later, and everyone was there. And the reason that no one was there before was that a river had flooded in the direction that they were all coming from. She had obviously no way of finding out about this until after the fact, and we have this beautiful dress that she spent ages making and had obviously gone to a lot of effort to try and work out what the latest styles were, to incorporate it into her wedding dress.

Things like that, I find really interesting, because they talk so much about human and social history as well as fashion history, and the garment is the main way we have of keeping these stories alive and remembering them and looking into the kind of life and world these people lived, who made these garments.

Over the centuries, how does technology affect fashion? Obviously, we think of the industrial revolution as really speeding up the pace of fashion. But are there other moments in the history of fashion where technology shapes what women end up wearing?

One example is where I talk about the Balenciaga dress from the early 1950s—with a bubble hem and a hat and she would have worn these beautiful pump shoes with it—with the introduction of the zipper. Which just made such a huge difference, because it suddenly meant you’d have ease and speed of dressing. It meant that you didn’t have to worry about more complicated ways of fastening a garment. I think the zipper made a massive change and also in terms of dressmaking at home, it was a really quick and simple way that people had of being able to create quite fashionable styles on a budget and with ease and speed at home.

Also, of course, once women’s dress started to become simpler and they did away with the corset and underwear became a lot less complicated, that made dressing a lot easier, that made the introduction of the bias cut and things that sit very closely to the natural body much more widely used and much more fashionable.

I would say the introduction of machine-made lace as well, particularly from the late 19th, early 20th century onwards where it was so fashionable on summer dresses and wedding dresses. It just meant that you could so much more easily add this decadent touch to a garment, because lace would have been so much more expensive before then and so time-consuming to make. I think that made a huge difference in ordinary women being able to attain a kind of luxury in their everyday dress.

That actually makes me think of something else I wanted to ask you, which is you point out in your intro the way we casually use this word “vintage.” I think about that with lace. Lace is described as being a “vintage” touch but it’s very much this question of when, where, who, why—it’s a funny term when you think about it, the way we use it so casually to describe so much.

Oh, yes. It’s crazy. I used to work in a wedding dress shop and I used to make historically inspired wedding dresses and things. And brides used to come in and say, “Oh, I want something vintage.” But they didn’t really know what they meant. Usually what they meant is they wanted something with a bit of lace on it, or with some sort of pearls or beading. I think it’s really inspired by whatever is trending at the time. So, you know, Downton Abbey became vintage. I think ‘50s has always been kind of synonymous with the word vintage. But what it means is huge,
judy smith Nov 2015
Chelsy Davy looked slinky in a **** satin dress as she joined a host of celebrities at the VIP premier of Burberry's new Christmas advert tonight.

The 30-year-old braved the November cold with a thigh-high-split dress with a plunging neckline, and halterneck straps, that showed off her toned arms and shoulders.

Prince Harry's old flame joined some of the biggest and best British names including Naomi Campbell, Rosie Huntington-Whitely and Romeo Beckham at the fashion house's flagship store in Regent Street.

Although Chelsey doesn't star in the Burberry ad campaign like many of the other guests, she used the opportunity to show off her style credentials in a silky black dress which showed off her figure.

Accessorising with a gold necklace, rings and charm bracelets, and a chain-mail edged envelope clutch, she did bring a leather jacket, but carried it with her bag despite the winter weather.

Chelsey had stiff competition in the **** stakes though, with Rosie Huntington-Whiteley dazzling in a provocative ensemble.

The model, who does star in Burberry's festive film, showed off her impressive figure in a skimpy satin body, which she teamed with a semi-sheer skirt and a pair of thigh-high suede boots.

Rosie teased her hair into loose waves and sported simple make up, so it didn't detract from her captivating outfit.

Her campaign co-star Naomi Campbell opted for an all-pink outfit - arriving in a rose suede jacket showing off a slither of her berry dress underneath.

And of course the model of the moment Romeo Beckham was on hand to celebrate his appearance in the film too.

The 13-year-old looked incredibly dapper in a navy suit with a matching skirt and tie as well as a polka dot Burberry printed scarf.

Downton Abbey's Michelle Dockery was one of the first of the cast to arrive and made her entrance wearing Burberry of course.

The 33-year-old actress was sporting a chic plum coat, simple black jeans and a pale pink jumper for the evening.

The campaign which was shot by Mario Testino and celebrates the 15th anniversary of Billy Elliot with an all British cast and begins with original footage from the 2000 film, as well as the original soundtrack - ‘Cosmic Dancer’ by T Rex - by permission of Working Title.

World-renowned photographer, Mario, also shot a separate stills campaign featuring Romeo, Naomi, Rosie, and James that will run across print and digital titles.

Speaking about the campaign, Christopher Bailey said: 'Billy Elliot is an incredible film full of so much joy and energy, so it was a real thrill and a great honour to be able to celebrate its 15 year anniversary through our Festive campaign.

'It was also a huge privilege to work with such amazing and iconic British talent – the cast are quite simply some of the biggest names in film, music and fashion and it was so much fun working with them all to make this special film.'

Burberry will no doubt be hoping for a boost thanks to Romeo Beckham.

At the start of the year, it was reported that thanks to his last Burberry Christmas advert, sales of the brand's classic £1,500 trench coats shot up a substantial 10 per cent.

The fashion label credited the then 12-year-old son of David and Victoria Beckham for its rise in sales in the US, Europe and the Middle East after he starred in their Christmas advert last year.

The advert, which was first released in November, was the first ever Christmas campaign for Burberry and starred Romeo alongside 50 dancers all clad in the beige trench coats.

Such was his popularity in the film - called From London With Love - that it was watched nine million times after being released.

The original production of Billy Elliot established a legacy of charitable support for the local community of Easington, County Durham where the film is set.

Inspired by this, Burberry is making a donation of £500,000 to be split between two charities, Place2Be and the County Durham Community Foundation, that have projects focusing on reducing barriers to education, training and employment in the local area. This donation is made in recognition of each artists' participation in the campaign.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/cheap-formal-dresses
Anais Vionet Mar 2022
For the last five hundred years, posh “society,” is where the wealthiest and most influential people in the world mingled, inter-married and conducted business. If you’ve ever watched “Downton Abbey”, “The Gilded Age” or even “Crazy Rich Asians” you’ll know what I mean.

Maslow’s hierarchy of needs - a psychological pyramid that describes human fulfillment - states that part of our human nature (once your basic needs are met) is the desire to attain social position. Having mere wealth is just not enough once you are in the top levels of achievement.

In the 1970’s Arab money started pouring into the west. Arab petro-dollars bought swaths of land in the UK, in London and New York. The Arabs dazzled everyone with their wealth and bling but they never penetrated posh society.

Then in the 90s the second, Asian wave, of new wealth washed eastward and they had a bit more success in society. But starting about 20 years after the fall of the Soviet Union, Russians started coming to the west with new money to invest - in the UK, in particular.

Russia became the billionaire capital of the world, oligarchs were everywhere buying anything not nailed down and eventually trying to insinuate themselves into posh “society”. Tatler (THE magazine of society) even began publishing a Russian version. If you were a wealthy Russian, you were moving up. By 2022, they weren’t too far from the edge of REAL success.

That’s what evaporated three weeks ago - with the invasion of Ukraine - Russia’s luxury infrastructure and their hopes of acceptance into posh society. Gucci, Chanel, Hermès, Dior, Apple and Tatler (just to name a few luxury brands) have left Russia to rot. If you’re Russian now, the chances of being admitted into posh society are gone for the next 20 years - at least.

You may say “so what?” Well, one way a dictator holds onto power is through mercantile largess. The granting of rights within the Russian sphere of influence - to control and distribute goods and services - is how oligarchs are created. The support of these oligarchs is important and transactional.

A man with a 100-million dollar yacht - looking at what chunks of their wealth may well be confiscated in the west - or lost to the Ruble’s collapse - could easily offer life-changing wealth to any henchman willing to end Putin one way or another.

Will this happen? I don’t know. But this is the system they’ve set up for themselves.
BLT word of the day challenge: henchman: a trusted follower who performs illegal tasks for a powerful person.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Jan 2022
At least they roll the credits slowly--
I mean, at the end of DOWNTON ABBEY,
the hundreds who worked their butts off
so you and I could see the stars on screen.
We human beings have been delusional
for millennia. Pharaohs, emperors, kings,
presidents, not to mention tycoons, millionaires--
now billionaires--and "prominent" people
from all walks of life, those who attended
Eton and Andover, the Ivies and Oxbridge
thinking as though they are inherently
better--superior, as it were--to all others
when, in truth, all human beings--indeed,
all creations--share the same divinity.
What a grand illusion it has been, Civilization,
from Sumer to the present! Willl we ever see
truth? Will we ever know that we are all one?
Or will we all perish from catastrophic
climate change or nuclear holocaust before
we achieve enlightenment?

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
drinking warm whiskey... isn't so bad...
it could be much worse:
it could be warm *****:
     not cold enough to reach a gomme syrop
consistency...
life's so tragic... sometimes...
       a warm ***** is like a warm beer...

what am i supposed to say?
i'm just tired of wanting to be in love...
i'm tired of hating...
   i'm tired of being angry...
i'm tired of being preditable and also:
slithering in pickling juices...
i am tired of love because...
               when it was "love"...
it wasn't dog eyes and a leash...
         or: never mind the solipsism of cats
when they still desire to mark your
forehead when sniffing it...
or come up and greet you:
with a "bodzio"... a head-****...

    so much of my cognitive capacity
became a wasteland from having
both woman and love on a peddlestool
of the ideal...
                   it's terrible waking up...
but that "terrible" sometimes becomes
as... exhilarating as taking a cold shower...
or watching a flock of sparrows chirp...

and the ***: cocoon ***... under bed-sheets...
all my one-night stands happened this way...
under the bed-sheets...
i'm happy to give a comparative literature of:
well... at least in the brothel we did it
under dimmed lights...
****-naked on the sheets...
having showered first
and downed a slacker of ms. amber:
oh you know it's bad...
that i have to call whiskey a very personal
investment narrative...
it's not whiskey... it's... ms. amber...

i should have been drinking long ago...
come shoulder to shoulder with
both my paternal and maternal grandfathers...
cocoon ***...
and if you don't think a man can be "*****"...
at the brothel?
  there's the concept of: creaming-up...
if the oyster isn't salivating enough...
yes... "****"... cocoon *** with a sawdust ****...
sanding paper **** more like...
oh the agony: but to my liking...
yeah bud: stick your lesser want of limbs
into a meat-grinder:
is that penetrating enough?
      who would forever suppose...
it's a kangaroo pouch of safety...
the nadir of lucifer's birth:
     free-falling: head first... but not through
a ****... not some floral pattern...

     cesarean... cesarean... are we going to give
births to kaisers or dull-eyed: deer...
i very much like to imagine a band
of mad-laughter hyenas...

               coal-burning black eyes...
      i am tired of giving up my thinking to any
and all ideals of love...
i could have invested my (th)ought i
into... conjuring up an electric bulb...
        a frankestein...
                i became so tired of love...
i had to come across a brothel:
to steal kisses from prostitutes
     and attempt a theft of the halo of st. augustine...
mummify letters in books...

which i have done...
        but love is such a never-dog...
                    one relationship that involved as cooking
together: beside the already necessary
prerequisite of *******-for-free...
her period, the ******, and cooing her
to do it in the bathtub with the water running...

or this: moment when enough ms. amber
is in me... and i turn to...
         the chants of the templars:
            crucem sanctem...
                   dum pater familias...
          da pacem domine...

that clarity of a transaction...
              the growling dog overwhise
teased with food already presented to him
in a bowl...
          count of fingers...
                    
     i'm tired of love... of all of my body...
this nail blunt head from being hammered
too often...
           it escapes me:
why should my libido be compensated
when it requires: exhaustion...
to find the most fanciful thought:
only when the libido is exhausted:
   and if i have to do it myself: so be it...

but of so many people worried:
i am indeed... "worried"... when will it...
subside... die off...
this quills': marquis de sade:
leverage of: to read books using only
one hand...
                        if the acne is so prolonged
to make me...
belzeebub's favourite ***** of:
what precedes ****** / anti-wrinkle creams...
one maggot 'ere... another...

it is simply exhausting to love:
as one is expected to love via fiction...
and it is too costly to love:
poetically... anything but language...
esp. acquired language:
a language learned... most certainly
not passed from a grandmother to a mother
to a son...
some could claim to call these words:
in vitro...
         and on that matter...
which part of me is experimentally "dead":
the mind... or the body?
i am not... a native of these parts...
a native...           a native...

this is the part of the year when
winter is crucified... and reborn as spring! no?
all ******* rose buds and sparrows chirping!
who can love... so... ideally...
idle though: to make the burdens
of the most... boorish matters needing:
stressed concerns for "detail"...

  am i one of the last ones that still
bought a *****-mag when
the free **** was available online...
                     twitch... i'm an old ****:
in a 34 year old body... because:
keeping up... became synonymous with
being distracted...
                  cam-girl... etc. etc.
            "soz": but there just isn't any bragging
to be minded...
or a:        h'american striptease... d'uh: tease...
the carnival of the wriggling maggot
came to invoke
kissing the eyelids... gently teasing
the tip of the nose with a bite...
                             this body... or that body...
an a sculptor...
   in the brothel i was only robbed... once:
well... "robbed"...
this coke-head distrated me with:
do you want to use this *****...
          the proprietors' henchman...
a little turk by the time: i presume to be:
Osman came up with a bundle of stolen cards
and asked me: which one is yours?

that's a pretty good effort...
        i must have been up to no good...
once we stopped ******* because: she started
seeing downton abbey in an epileptic flicker...
yes: and me ******* her wasn't,
exactly... a ******* chocolate fondant...
          
it seems so... pristine when...
two bodies are allowed to touch...
without all that extra baggage...
that is desired to... "beside" the otherwise...
readily available carnality of the act...

e-girl vidoes: teases...
                                    what can be the best
compliment... one could possibly give to...
byzantine culture / the "modern" greek?
   ah... Αγνή Παρθένε... the singing...
                          
   mulier... no... not a woman or wife...
             hardly a property right...
something to boast and concern oneself for
the rattling of feathers of peacocks...
     mulier... the french playright...
ugh... molière - yes, him!
            molière donning a mullet! yes...
and not one of those charles II wigs...
from one wig alone...
               you could have made...
oh... roughly... an orchestra's demand
for violin and cello bows...

              pissy-pant french of 14 year old
past: one direction fandom...
                            for every male fan of tool...
a declared ownership of a *****...
better still... a screwdriver...
    that would be something...

                                or when stand-up comedy
was communist enough to entertain:
a cabaret form... an **** oddity (bottom)...
can't enough not tire of
stand-up solipsism...
the stand-up solo project of...
back-and-forth with an audience of canned
laughter?
cabaret... doesn't have to be switz
ja herr doktor voltaire...
         but some sort of ping-pong...
a game of squash...
i do not know... of a single concept of
sport... where there's only one...
concept-riddle of engagement...
can comedy... or rather... should comedy
have "evolved" beyond the cabaret...
famously: in theatre-land...
stones in his pockets...
two bodies on stage...
  with a plethora of...
how the sequence went...
   BRONSON...
bronson "vs." or rather:
"nursie" vs. "mr. petersson"...

          two names: Conleth Hill and
             Sean Campion... oh look... capital! letters!
yes: of note... circa 2001...
and that's when...
   this... stand-up... hard-on "comedy"
of stand-ups...
no... no cabaret format...
internal-monologues extending into...
an octopus attempting cliff-skimming:
climbing... failing miserably...
   if it's such a "comedy"...
    where's heidegger's hammer?
last time i heard: even by ol' martin's standards:
you'd require two people to talk
about philosophy as a "side-project"
when hammering in nails...
how can one person tell a joke?
oh but they can...
on special occassion(s)...
         the joke is better translate via a dialogue...
rather than a monologue...
last time i heard...
  
comedy doesn't require these stand-up
geniuses...
imagine... ******* is actually...
a *** act...
taking a **** is actually a...
        get together meal for three...
and that's the loaf... equally spread...
for the devil's dozen...
   ******* will satisfy any champagne socialist
get-together...
      
   i have to become bored of love...
the sort of love that would never come with:
the impetus of darwinism's ideologues...
for: now that i have become a father...
           i'm less and less: a ***** satyr!
               wish me 70+ age and being freed
by dementia to curse like a cobbler
and a seafaring man...

              that overbearing: no room for impromptu:
when solo...
otherwise... no otherwise...
just that strict: regime of... an expectation
for and with: canned laughter...
all that's missing are two tin cans
and a placenta of stiched-up tongues...

... for all the movie buffs...
it's not enough to blunt your eyes on movies...
actors: and their subsequent roles
in 3D... why did up stand-up...
the grand mass-orchestrator of giggles be
allowed to cue the audience...
like any minor dictator might: from
argentina or romania?

                 back toward the ***...
yes... stealing kisses from prostitutes...
this was never going to be one about Wordsworth's
"celibacy"... which you would be expected
to partake in... just having bit into
the forbidden fruit of ****** with your sister...
or so... they might say...

daffodils and that "doris" of the...
will the word ****... somehow prevent
you from seeing ****** ****...
or ******* ****?
then at least there's the hope...
to make minors of ettiquete standards
of the: proper social contract approach:
with civility... or therefore: none...

i am finding a rare occassion for:
an as to why, i would ever do anything to begin
with... grow a beard (1)
grow a beard to stop myself shaving (2)
grow a beard to hide my double-chin (3)...
grow a beard because
growing my hair long became boring (4)...
grow a beard because i wanted
to scratch my ***** on my face rather than
scratch them on my "eden region" (5)...
the other reasons congregate under
the status of... rubric and tally...

(6) to grow a beard is better than growing
the hair long...
no chance of becoming bald...
long hair attracts too much female attention...
last time i heard a woman who grew a beard
became a circus-act...
a beard is the safest territory to mind...
when there's a woman that...
somehow needs to compensate!

         all of a sudden: i have forgotten *****
envy... when i came across
beard envy...
   i am... very much so...
envious of mel gibsons beard...
in general: but esp. so in the role...
of prof. murray... with him donning
a cravate and a top-hat to boot:
the epitome of what all men of the world
could have wished for:
the victorian gentlemen...
fiercer still: an autodidact...
a dog without a leash... eh?

     i pity the tattoo of ethnicity:
given that: i would be english...
an ukranian would be scottish...
or a lithuanian... the tattoo of ethnicty or a past...
that i would be the ******...
and there was this tide of cossacks...
i would be... the ******...
           and there would be some
ingenius pict equivalent...
            in my abode...
                      
    i am tired of love...
the most attired love of idealism...
as i am tired of hate:
and anger...
i am tired of both of these latter:
when there's no boxing match interlude
to match-up with...
i'm tired of love as i am tired
of retribution and of justice...
i am tired of gambling...
what right is there fore me:
to steal from the blind?
           i am tired from: expectations...
i am tired of ideals...
i am tired of hate because:
if i wasn't i'd still find it...
egregious to spot the minor offences
of citing the prefixing n-...
                                        as... nothing short
of an "oops" of b-               and -igger!

i'm tired of being: a civil monkey...
if i'm tired of love...
if i'm tired of hate...
i can never tire of language...
but if i become:
zoologically kept: inept...
                      ha ha! ha ha! ha! ha!
i: dodo: tire: and Tod:
of: ******: improm:     p'tooh!
         savvy or the sinking ship?!

                       RATZ!

better a concern for prostitutes:
seeing that... there's no...
jackie ol' myth to be cooked from my "affairs"...
i thought about:
how about... now was the best time...
to not **** prostitutes...
i stole kisses...
an exercise in making videos...
bring back blockbusters!
             bring back blockbusters!
**** the content creators of youtube!
give, me, back, my, *******, jukebox!
give, me, back, my... thesaurus algorithm!
give, me, back, my, *******, jukebox!
give, me, back, my... thesaurus algorithm!

           once upon a time: dubbed:
paupers... the homeless...
prostitutes... now... eh... one sly loss of calling
these... the... leeches of: welcome tomorrow!
so the price of... being...
astounded... that's it?!
                the magnified statement
of karma-phobia...
there has to be a concept akin to:
karma-phobia when islamophobia is already
too bogus to touch...
there has to be: karma-phobia...

a ******* a canvas:
i went down this alley because...
i just... wanted to show-off...
for myself...
the most better part of myself i could never
show with... a girlfriend...
and showing my best:
armed with merely a dog and a leash:
just wasn't enough:
or a fabergé egg: missing a matryoshka doll
"detail"...

like kicking a dog in the *****...
like... attempting to catch a mosquitos
by the ******* donning boxing gloves...
the lowest of the low:
of picking the "fruit"...
jackie ol' burrow: ripe-kipper...
and that merry-o-round of...

                give me enough upper-body volume
to rummage and ruminate...
to clearly identify the psychopaths
leisuring themselves over a thursday's
afternoon worth of sun-soaking
a metaphor of bath...
         and all those minor grizzly detials
of swathing a mosquito or two...
because we are inclined
to spare the flies...
because: we just, are... thus inclined...
i hear an argument: i will: without a doubt...
also hear a guillotine do us all a favor
of detailing the: "chopper"...

my my: that ripe keeper of a pulsating
neck's worth of a rhubarb...
salmon teriyaki...
                                       n'est ce-pas?!

in between: calling it learning to tie one's
shoelaces...
having no better synonym detail
of comparison other than...
             with depeche...
                                no song to be worth
any particular: sort of... originality...
and or in... detail...
                   there's only a hope for
giving a particular sort of wind:
associated with a month...
and with a month: a sorting-out of a year
within and beyond a decade...
a century...
                    
this had to be forever: and one...
enough for the worth of tonight...
and with it... no other, better, compensation
other than my own input;

ha ha!                          grace?!
sofolo Jul 2023
Towards the end, there was The Good Place inside of The Dying Place.

The raven watches silently.

You were drifting on waves of Ativan while I vaped in the courtyard before I flipped the mouse card. Lotioning your feet—now yellowing.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said to the nurse. “But here, take this” as I handed her the phone I yanked from the wall.

No more distractions, please.

An advance copy on a projector screen. Downton Abbey in The Dying Place. You couldn’t believe it. But you also couldn’t stay awake.

Nowadays when I say “calzone”
I’m actually saying “can I have another year on loan?”

When I think about bourbon in the rainbow-speckled glass, it’s a sip-by-sip plea to get those years back.

Alas…

I hold your hand.
The dolphin returns.
I kiss your head.
The mouse rests.
One last breath.
And the raven's wing lifts.
Sharon Talbot Apr 2020
Choices, so many choices:
Nordic noir or French comedies.
Bluegrass but not country.
Right wing or left wing:
What is useful and what is not?
Random violence doesn't help the plot.
Summer but not autumn
Moss gardens but not lawns.
The grass isn’t always greener,
Or didn’t you know?
British country houses or French chateaux.
Fishing for trout but not bass.
Sailing but no boats with gas.
Cycling but not motorcycles.
So many choices on which to pass.
San Francisco but not Las Vegas.
The Caribbean but not Florida.
Watching films of the desert but not being there.
Admiring the stars but not flying there.
Impressed by the horseman but not the cavalry.
Settling for Ubuntu but too tired for Kali.
Lumping things together is a bad recipe.
Living in Boston but not New York.
Eating peas with a spoon and not a fork.
Living like Dickinson but reading Walt Whitman.
Staying inside is nice; but run outside, shouting if you can.
Watching Downton Abbey on TV but not the screen.
Drinking mocha latte coffee but not tea with cream.
Loving travel round the world but hating the trip.
You can go exploring with your eyes but not your lips.
Deciding what's worthwhile isn't hard; just be resolved.
Critics tell you this or that, but can’t decide what's art or trash.
East or West Coast—why get involved?
Shuttle between them in electric hot rods.
Don't get bogged down with picking a god.
Followers always end up dead and all that matters
Is where they bury or burn you or scatter,
Whether you are declared saint or sinner.

But if I were one of them I would reconsider:
You can be a prophet, the calf that’s golden,
If enough of your votes are stolen.
You can even rule the world
If you ruin lives, steal countries and hurl
Thousands of lies online. These are the stakes.
"Lawyers, guns and money": that's all it takes.
The only real price will be your soul.
But do you believe in it when you get old?
Better make a simple choice.
Speak simply in a honeyed voice.
I read the news today,
Telling me which words to shout,
Make people ignore that time is running out.
Learn to step on them and which crimes to flaunt.
And how to get everything I want,
Then I can enjoy it as the storms rage round,
Live on the mountain as the sea waters drown
Everyone else—do I only need to save myself?
I've got a bombproof mansion underground.
I can hold out fifty years in such a spot....
I would be safe and comfortable,
But then, maybe not...
am i ee Jan 2016
a few hours tucked under
Egyptian cotton white sheets
fluffy duvet
and fur coats
doubling as blankets

waking on a cold, cold
winter night
hot tea for warmth
legs tucked under

crossed in prepaation for
silent reflection
for silence

clouds obscuring the
bright stars and
moon's radiant light
of earlier

always a struggle
stay up with the night?
go to bed with the
stuffed animals?

these night's feel
desperately empty
without the soft breath
the soft snores
the soft padding of
little puppyhead

imbibed waaaaay
too much red vino
the other evening
watching Downton Abbey

drowning sorrow?
or simply quaffing
great red wine at the
pace of a thirsty being,
lapping and gulping
quickly and greedily

my guess is the latter
a bulk of drinking issues
stem from the pace of consumption

later that night,
startled awake by
uncomfortable tummy
sensations

crawled onto the deck
and hurled with
great gusto
wine and food

sweet memories flooding
this mind..
reminded of many a night
the sweet puppyheads
did the same

Ah... the sweet freedom
a good throw up brings

the goddesses and gods
taking pity upon
this suffering sad soul
reprised the moment
again later that night

crawling out onto cold
frozen wood
magnificent stars
the vast heaven above
looking down
smiling and laughing
stars twinkling with delight

hurling away
laughing at it so
in the midst,
feeling so close to
my sweet puppyheads
as i did

funny,
the little things
the quirky things
that make us laugh
that bring great
peace to our soul

what a blessing from
heaven to find myself
out in the yard
on all fours
on a gorgeous winter night
feeling so close to those
i miss so

don't ever stop laughing....
and crying....

you'll short your system out
and then you WILL have real
trouble on your hands.....
later the next day... a fox wandered up to the deck and took to eating the *****... my my what hilarious juxtapositions the divine provides... and that was one skinny little mangy fox that came calling.... i did put out some good left over meat later, not partially predigested this time....
even now peals of laughter ring out... still missing my puppyheads but now it is time to wander off ...to wander out into the night.......
K B May 2020
She creases her forehead in confusion
She wonders what they say as they pass her by
What are they saying, to whom and why?
They murmur, frown, giggle and titter
As if they have no emotional filter
The little she hears almost brings her to tears
Do they dance to the tune of some shadow puppeteer?

Call them rumors, gossip, lies, hearsay or fabrication
Call them improvised news or forged information
Little difference would it make.
Malicious whispers, known to topple empires
Sunder relationships and cause death
Her chest hurts and she can’t seem to take a breath
As her heart tumbles in her chest, her mind is drawn to Wilkinson v. Downton
In that moment, she could almost relate to Miss Wilkinson.

Ware those Whispers
They travel far and wide
But their source is always close to home
Who tattled? Was it a loved one or a close friend?
She may never know.
Ware those whispers.
They may have as little as a kernel or as much as a boatload of truth
At this point, the defence of truth is surely moot
She called them girls, squad, friends and besties
In their company, she was merely lollygagging
Behind her back, their tongues were wagging

A mere misrepresentation can cause complete devastation
They scoff at her frantic utterances of truth
To them, it is no more than mere superstition
She retreats into her Fortress of Solitude
In this bubble of quietude, she lifts her hands in gratitude
Though she knows it is no more than a blanket fort of self-deception

They continue to natter and chatter
She ceases her cries of protest, for it no longer matters
In calm desperation, she starts to twine the hanging rope
But wait, suicide is still a crime under the law
She stands helpless as the whispers sneak past her defences
She grips her head in an effort to drown out their voices
To this they mutter, “look, surely she is non compos mentis”

Dear child, let them run their mouth for God is thy witness
Guard your tongue for the walls have ears
Calm your heart and hear no whispers
Let them speak, they are no more than vipers
Do not be sad, though you may lose some friends
It is only the beginning and not the end
They may think they have you assessed
But they have no idea how much you’re blessed
And at all times, ware those whispers.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2019
perhaps i'm just... tired from making christmas eve
preparations...
the mother is fresh from hospital having had
a hip replacement - and she's only just teasing
being 60... and this sort of thing waits for women...
coming to 70+ and in 15 years or so...
there's a high chance of a second replacement
and that's only one leg and socket...
but christmas eve has to be covered...
whether she's sitting at the table or whether she's
lying in bed...
return of the dutiful son... some son,
some duty... and by no means a return...
i can't remember my 20s...
fog of psychosis or... never quiet allowed
to get a neurological perspective outside of england...
when i had the dough to get an m.r.i. scan...
they sent me with my early-dementia riddled
grandfather for the results...
i said: so, doc, kind herr neurologist...
am i mentally ill?
the doc replies: anyone who says you're mentally
ill is mentally ill themselves...
21... 33... 12 years of some sort of brain damage
and i'm still... typing and minding typos
like a neurotic or some variant on the spectrum
of impulsive-compulsive disorder...
i still want to see the face that ****** saw...
when he gave me... what he said was going to be...
an LSD trip shortened... so much for my naiveness....
friendships... ties to growing up and school...
so much for reading any C Castaneda
for that matter...
christmas eve is coming and i'm doing everything
i can to find an hour of drinking and typing...
it's hardly enough to find the perfect lotus...
i have to lay down twelve dishes for the table
come christmas eve...
christmas day is half sorted...
there's the meat already baked...
and all i'll have to do is the *******...
wrapped in an envelope of skin which will
be filled with butter and fresh thyme...
the baked tatties will be just fine and
the honey glazed carrots and 'snips will also be:
just fine...
and when the 26th of december comes i'll
be... hopefully... left with...
so much anticipation... over a month's worth
of advertising... i haven't bought a single gift...
i offer my time...
grandma calls today and says how...
it's nice that her son (my uncle) is there...
i have missed 4 consequitive christmas celebrations
in england... 4 years and now i see the banality
of christmas... in a catholic nation it's...
slightly different would be a major *******
understatement...
i should question... but...
i have come to understand that...
whatever the truth might be...
esp. if its the coincidental unearthing of
the nag hammadi library, the dead sea scrolls...
the year is 1945 and the great bomb just drops...
and... the gospel of st. thomas is only cited by
psychiatrists akin to r. d. laing in the 1960s
about... make the male female...
make the female male... the innter the outer...
or just your casual invigoration of the transgender
zeitgeist... and medicine catches up to the psychological
whims... and...
i'd just like a cold ms. amber...
perhaps a london derby in football...
a robin on a fence in my garden...
a migrating flock of canadian geese in the sky...
and a frosty morning with a cold azure delight
of a sunny pristine sky...
no pompous summer with her sensual ****
of scents and colours and distractions...
and how: winter is never old...
never somber... lucky for me... winter is always
drunk and readying itself for a birth in death...
or some pseudo-mystical *******...
but i can use a plethora of psychiatric terms...
last time i checked...
i was tested for regression in one instance...
regression being: having false memories being
insinuated for you to believe in...
a ***** trick done by psychiatrists...
i still don't mind...
those 12 dishes will be served...
- a mackerel paste salad
- herrings:
(a) in cream with apples...
(b) classic... oil and ocet
(c) kashubian
- a crab, prawn and smoked salmon pate
(cream cheese and trout caviar, dill)
- oven baked salmon with veg trimmings
- beetroot borscht
- borscht "ears" - dumplings stuffed
with cabbage & 'shrooms... or just 'shrooms
- short-crust pierogi (oven baked dumplings)
filled with pickled cabbage, 'shrooms onions etc.
- a trad con. salad
(cubed... eggs, potatoes, leek, carrots,
celeriac, pickled cucumbers in brine,
etc.)
- racuchy
- an oven baked cheese cake
- a poppyseed roulade
- a keks (fruitcake... very much a...
loan of weihnachtsstollen)... i've been feeding
this ******* 3 tablespoons of ***
every 2 weeks for the past month or so...

how many is that? there needs to be twelve...
****... herrings count as x3...
leftover prawns...
so... a...
- prawn cocktail...

and of course a plate and utensils for that...
un-expected guest...
would i go to the christmas eve mass?
the "shepherds' mass"?
last time i went... i dragged a monkey with me...
250ml of ***** is a monkey...
and i had a swell time...
listening to the nuns pray for the alcoholics...
but not the workoholics...
and playing itchy eyelid and nerve tourettes
with an itchy face with some kid
in the aisle in front of me...
and... then walking out mid-mass
to **** on the church: to ensure... it would...
grow!
but... this is england...
i can't afford to go to a catholic mass...
and not stand out...
not that many catholics around these parts...

i have my twelve dishes+...
christmas day is going to be a doddle...
the roast potatoes have been perfected...
the meat is ready to be sliced
with sour dough bread...
there are no children,
no presents to open...
just enough time to survive this over-hyped
*******... enough time to wait for
the true celebrations,
and these ones... if not in the company
of two people nearing 60...
then... two people nearing 85+...
with easter, in a catholic midst...
walking to church with painted eggs...
to subscribe to this... advent of the castrato choir...
easter and spring...
a crucifixion... that we do indeed pay such
obsolete rigour to tradition:
even if we're not expected...
i guess justifies everyone else being
so hyped-up about the birth and death
of a demigod...

i just imagine: but what if i didn't do all this?
what's the alternative to:
r.i.p. marie fredriksson - god rest your soul:
you beau lass... 'spending my time'?
the t.v. zombie? the internet claustrophobiac?
what alternative?
are you a downton abbey up fan...
or a downton abbey down fan?
up? the sirs and the class distinctions
and what the **** it has to do with
a room's decorum?
or... the staff locum?

all i know is that i'm about 20 minutes away
from a 25mg / 250mg naproxen / 500ml
of ms. amber knock-out sweet dreams goliath
*******...
i'm already thinking about...
postcards from Geneva...

the falling asleep part i never mind...
the waking up part: oh god i do, i do...
and there's nothing worse than apathy:
but of course there is...
there's the truth... and having to have
some secular decency...
in attempting to carry the burden
of disbelief...
a natural consequence of an equilibrium...
to have to have experienced the truth
in some way:
you can only carry disbelief with you...
as you somehow try to cover
a poppy's seed's worth of diameter every
year to a nibble of that once
grand truth...
a disbelief... a negation of:
because if i were to believe in... whatever
i have to disbelieve in order to covert and
tactifully let everyone else a place ahead of me...
what's the alternative? will what then becomes
"the truth" / a truth?

to have truth in your mouth...
in your ears...
in your eyes...
and then... to have to stall...
to carry with you a disbelief...
without a plethora of agnostic doubt...
imagine being...
excused from the thrill of entertaining
the plethora of emotions bound to
agnostic doubt...
i miss those days...
when one could simply "wish away"
a thought...
or a thought would disappear of its own accord...

yes the grand-wise master of a grandmother:
she fell from a chair...
which she stood on...
when a cushion was still on it...
because... she really wanted to change
the curtains in the kitchen...
the epitaph would have run...
i lived my life... but i died:
because i really had to change those curtains
since christmas and ****...

i am burdened with disbelief not because...
i don't believe it...
a marijuana hallucination in central london,
located with me hiding in a church: elevated...
a ******* choir, an iPod check,
a great wind...
polite society would not allow me to...
do much more...
i can't doubt... that's my problem...
i have to... "negate"...
i can't negate outright...
logically... premises, presuppostions...
web of rhetorical angst... etc. -
and i can't believe it either... by believing this:
marijuana auditory hallucination...
what? it's already 12 years "late"...
and by belief: will it?
to what end? my own? its: "its"?!

"my prefered genger pronoun is: ITS"...
well hello... ITS...
yes, ITS because it's not it is...
or rather it's because my it's ITS is already
included: so... i-its t t t t t...
have its ****?
em... samuel beckett... watt...
**** up its... etc. -
and grammar is that grand ******* crescendo
moment when all the apes will fall from
Julian Tuwim's opera carousel -
and fall they will: and will immediately
stand-up straight... and figure out...
the blessings of the thumb...
thumbs' up up anyone's ***.

with a thumbs' up like that...
in anyone's ***... you're bound to see
a thumb's peek-a-boo in Beijing...
like: swap-prizes! this one isn't even surreal.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2017
and i walk with a desert
in my brain,
i walk, encapsulating
scorpion,
and the sidewinder snare...
and i walk with a desert
in my brain...
   drunk, labouring,
above the governing concrete...
i've brewed some wine,
and i'll drink it...
   there i am:
             figurative humanity
where subjectivity equals ∞,
and objectivity is an oscillation
between - & ~,
  the numbers don't really matter,
they don't Downton Abbey inspire me
either: to butter some lord's crumpet...
oddly enough...
               it's seeing these gnats
worth of people drop dead in a battlefield
that gets me...  
               runny mascaras of no-man's land
   at Ypres...
     they just drop dead,            dead...
            it might make abortion clinics readied for
  fundamental rights in celebrating Sunday...
         i don't get it,
and each day i am woken into this nightmare....
   this celebration of all things possible...
of a humanity...
               oh but char...
                       semblance to a cynicism...
               it never made any sense to watch, and cultivate
it...
                      forever the jammy doughnut,
  and the life i wish i could have received,
smitten with cool... cradling the wooly jumper...
             why are these people so *******
alien?             so much
the cure's killing an arab with camus' the outsider?
iron maiden did a better egyptian jive...
           to that smitten cowadrice of the the bangles
pepper-shaker dance of a numbed egyptian.
   pyramid ******* cruise-ship of female escapism.
yeah baby, it's war!
scuttling with the jive of powerslave:
abandon ship! abandon ship!
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
i should have never experienced school...
all the best lessons in the "school of life"
have had to come after...
thankfully i'm a thoughtful drunk...
but my extended pedagogy honeymoon
was to my liking since i was in it...
having left it...

i don't even begin to fathom leaving
anything at all, or for that matter: having engaged
with to begin with...
i can almost imagine myself
being the chimney-sweeper...
i hear the name: samir... and i'm reminded:
about my "good old friend"
with a father that sides with my mother...
i'm trying to not rage against a defeatist
ratio of 2 versus 1....

i go into the night and wish to find a variant
of baptism with the cold rain
sprinkling me with aura and demand...
but it's no use... the rain comes the book
is never to be finished...
back into the wall: you brick is all that
is allowed to resonate...
perhaps transcendence is a word mostly used
as a joke for...

and only if you were given
the ability to expand your consciousness...
with an amazonian extract...
or some swiss-CIA-magic puree...
on yer bike and down the hill we go...
i've come to center around the truth
of being less and less welcome...
my friend samir... it's almost as if i was
plotting to keep me in this...
surreal state of: full command of the body...
the mind is still allowed some function,
crossword puzzles and what not...
for some death comes with no sense
of closure... i wait, i wait, for death...
i look for it under the carpet of spontaneity...
i look for it in outright violence and
drenching myself in flammable liquid
and then dancing of the nearing: being extinguished
candle dance...

i see i birdge... i look for: the heights
and the broken neck and spine...
it's better i write these words and not feel inclined
to fathom them with an inclination
of the base of: acted interim...
for negative consequences...
there are jobs! but all the best jobs are passed
verbatim... no one finds jobs via
third party sources...

unless.... well if one is a pariah...
an anathema... whether it's an objective reality
is another matter...
feeling is rather much intuitive...
and if this right-wing celebration of objectivity
and anti-subjectivity is to be found
elsewhere, i.e. "elsewhere" outside of the realm
of psychopathology?
the "old man" was looking for a *****
apparently "lost" to aid his glasses being folded
and kept in an ennui...
the old matriarch sent her bell-boy to figure out...
why the bell-boy managed to serve her
sorrel soup and those dumplings...
for dinner...
her o.c.d. started kicking in...
with one walking stick she pointed at the fridge
being unclean...
how the bell-boy "forgot" to vacuum
the house... a second day coming...
i have a bottle of whiskey for company...
and i'm not going to sentence myself for anything
better to bribe about...
the father sides with the mother
and i have no siblings to conquer the world with...
not sentiment of treating the lateral in transition...
going to school was never my idea...
i should have moved beyond merely
denying myself being confirmed in the catholic
act of: good faith...
but university was no better...
i've learned more on my own that was
i was necessarily prescribed...
even my british citizenship is only a piece of paper
that can done-away with like
a tabloid press release on any given day...
it's a bogus transaction...
for the sins of visiting a ******* i am to be
punished? what of the everyday ordeal
of thse casual fucky-fucky that pass on s.t.d.?
the only reason i believe in a god is that:
he will not speak with a human impertinence...
in that however mild caste hierarchy...
even with a republic in mind...

for ten years i spectated oddities in the night
havens...
stars... moving beside the constellations...
once i witnessed two stars somehow
joint together moving across the sky...
sometimes a delta constellation...
otherwise they were stars...
and they managed to pulsate as if giving birth...
and then hush down and still persist
to move...
for not basis of escaping a constellation...
which they were never a part of to begin with...

and i was naive at first,
then i found the cynic...
and then another... cynic...
and then another cynic... cynic... cynic...
and now i'm looking
for the marriage of the stoic to death...
because i don't look for death
as a mark of despair...
i find it as a reflection on redemption!
i conclude with myself:
happy are those who have...
crossed most falsely a street...
why do i have this spatial awareness
and cross it freely, safely?

oh this cynic will become a stoic...
but only in death...
death... is a marriage i see coming...
death has become a she...
in that she's the other woman:
which is not a poker hand of:
the "other" woman in the pursuit of
adultery... this "other" is no less than
a second mother...
the mother that should have given
life to me...

what theatrical wording:
to be born of death...

- because i'm yet to "feel" - or lack...
for a "better" word for "know"
when it comes to the deciding a better
happenstance of an outlet...

that i am no more than a walking abortion?
the roulette of the housing staff
of Downton Abbey...
i still cook the better half of the meal...
but that's still not never not enough...

the lacklustre of darwinism being
so widespread...
how darwinism is so widespread and common...
and there's no voice of "god"
or a david attenburough narrative to billboard;
how this is never the enlightened age...
since each individual comes and goes
from starters: a priori...
not even with the collective quest of man...
there's no a posteriori status-reality...
there's always an a posteriori starting:
bothersome brick and clown...

- because you never visit russia and get slapped
in the face by a girlfriend...
for not lying...
visit your dementia riddled grandfather to be
is not you having the ******* attitude
and having a beta-******* the side...
if ever that's a conversation starter...
but i didn't back i just ****** harder...
until the 300 Spartans would appear...

and for all that the sun has to offer...
the night the moon and the stars...
not being ****-brick-built
for the affair of the goliath gorilla
versus the lion... in a match-up...

i much appreciate the phrase:
to be born of death...
i see life and a second coming as an arrival...
the rotting corpse doesn't bother me...
i will be forgotten and a month will pass
and the flies will become
all fidgety class A...

some + + + to mind afterwards...
you can never wake up from a mother:
sort of loving you...
it's no movies honey...
it's the basic tricklets of mantis...
and you finally arrive at death:
death your second mother:
your real mother...
who is not part of the nitty-gritty
aspect of *** as both a pleasure...
and a procreation "tool"...

the only reason as to why i abhor darwinism
is not that it's wrong...
it's right... but... i "like" i "dislike" has nothing to
do with this... no one begins anew:
with some social engineering focus
and only cites this one theory:
darwinism... "confusing" the circumstances
of the crows, the lions...
the bears for god's sake...
even the heliocentric model does how as far
as what making an geocentric model exit
allowed with the discovery of gravity!

to me darwinism is a plague on all manner
of thinking... whether that be
bow-tie-and-towing thinking
or, quiet simply... puppet that *******
***** gag of a mouthful...
and let's see her...
spit teeth and lecture us on...
"forgotten" basics...

i'm either simply tired... or quiet simply:
enough!
tired or sad...
funny... the better part of "madness"
is better associated with
a seance of lethargy...
the mad are "lazy"...
or perhaps they're "lazy"...
because the collective money is spent...
un-collectively...
even in capitalism...

i play Igor the Ignorant...
harry and meghan markle...
***** 'arry?!
are supported by... tax-payers?!
really?! oh wow!
there's that argument of:
shut the **** up...
and there's the argument...
which i majestically prefer...

walk into a field in the depth
of night... find some horses...
then pretend to be holding
a cube of sugar...
or a slice of apple...
then... manoeuvre your head
dislocated from your body...
jack-in-a-box style...
when the horse falsely nibbles
on your skin...
and retorts with a gallop while
standing...
luckily missing your ******* 'ed...
because the horse "thinks" you're
playing stupid...
no... just the roulette...
i'm looking for my mother death:
have you seen her?
i want to impregnate her
with a makeshift ***** consciousness...

i'm going places...
i've been to st. petersburg... that should
be worth enough... stamps...
but i have had these "adventures"...

a herd of them! in a field!
two albino stags and a litany of the elders
standing watch...
me them the night the moon
and the field...
and... the horse is mad!
i didn't extend my hand to pretend
i was holding an apple!
or a cube of sugar!
horse's mad!
sir john the squire!
i said 'ave 'ee!
no the horses said:
the buckle do-better pretended his arm was
the apple of concern...

oh sure sure...
the never mind the 'ed that was about
to be kicked in by the buckling hoof...
my most n'est-ce pas kind sir!
like i said:
i'm a walking abortion...
and thank god that i'm to be excused
from moral, fatherhood, status...
character flaws...
the lest of me is... the best of me...
esp. anti replica stature...

but i do love my mother...
never mind i want to be this premature
freak of her's in having the privvy of
dying before her...
that would be, most, lovely...
i always fathom a life worth living as also
having the chance to die before one's own
parents...

as i love my second in coming to fruition
mother... namely death...
and whether a heaven or a hell...
i am assured a nap...
a kipper for the better part of...
acquiring some, Velsh!

yn coch, coch?! flacid.... bunker baron thereof!
mild instructions of the oxford bunch
with their chief sermon-writer...
hardly a Knox when a Wittgenstein would suffice!

is red, red?
i only ask... since i'm an acquired body
to a most fulfilling mind of concern...
looking for "converts"...
among the welsh...
the scots? hardly the gaelic bunch are they?
they prefer to stress their:
accents of speaking the lesser
Westminster & Eton bra... brachhhhh...
loch! not lodge of cheao:
and no "N" either...

i spent three years in Edinburgh...
and 10 years in vicinity of London...
and all this time... i should have taken
a ***** in the centre of Caerdydd!
eh... funny simples and symbols...
you never know who to side
with on these islands...

gorllewin neu na gw...
close proximty to gw? zło - evil...
but there's no... coming back with:
friends, romans, countrymen...
lend us a ****-bag of lemonade non-fizzy!
syrian or lebanese intellectuals...
starve for this sort of base,
content... or none do...
perhaps we're the porky-pie starving:
Glasgow holocaust ready...

cornwall... of south wales...
the white cross on a black canvas...
korn-walia... cornwall...
walia - wales...
siding with the picts was a mistake
concerning this already...
troubled heart...

cushion savvy - always accessible Velsh...
drwg yma... drwg yma...
na pentref ynteu na ddinas ddiogel...
or some other "monstrosity"...
esp. when the Lebanese french speakers
come! and... they've already come!

but i was expecting to learn some
gaelic from the scots...
unlucky for me...
that i still find the welsh as outsiders...
and retaining their: tafod!
there can only be one...
proud people of these isles...
and that's the welsh... the Cymraeg...
eh... opaque petty englishmen...
call it a Kymraeg...
i call it via zee fwench cedilla avenue:
Çymraeg!

blah blah mon petite cherie!
**** a fwanchmon mon je sui allias: non?!
learn some welsh of 'ebrew... no brou?
no velsh b'woo?

a mishtaken identity cry-oh! asis?!
cwy... oh... asist... this T is a
monsieur tapisseriesourd...

vell 'ear all better left "off":
mistaken-hier or hum ha or otherwise...
the inquisitive nuance of the wording...
plus the spanish queer-position..
of the  levitating wheelchair bound?

the horse the "fake apple"...
the nibbled on hand...
the near-miss kick on the head
hoof imprint and...
that god awful beauty of a full *****
of a moon! to leave a feeling
of crescendo... had i died...
i'm always looking for premature
death...
this sort of luck?
is no luck at all...
no wonder i find the gods
reticent of an existence...
this comedy of i...
given this pronoun injustices of
the freed peoples republic of the congo...
grammar lessons! chop chop!

faking a handshake with a boa constrictor...
the snake i don't mind...
the chimp pretending to fake fwendsqueeze-it
is bothersome...
some of us remain idiotic till the end...
i would rather the reality of a tiger...
than poker-mind a fellow ape...

darwinism quote: so so...
here's to finding the right sort of tapeworm
infestation... a barrage of eggs
in a single slice of dodgy bacon...
i just can't stand...
pretending... when what i'm eating with...
i much rather prefer to eat...
and not talk...
because... m'ah curiosity and...
the chicken drumstick aesthetic appeal...
and the mostly assured lanky
extension of the human arm...
which equates itself to the lanky
almost meat-free representation of the duck's...
"leftover"...

how else was this not to be conjured from?
everything i say is disbelieved...
i say red: it's "blue"...
i say blue: i'm a better renown of a safeguard
cabbie matching up to my Lebanese status
of: doctor...
i'm also drunk... i'm tired...
i know that Tahir means little bird
in Pakistani... or little pigeon or at least that's
also a synonym of...
the bird that got away...
probably a sparrow...

2am looms and i have no worth of a woolen shirt
on my body...

english people exploring grammar school
*******...
the pronouns and otherwise...
the "gender neutrality" of the ROYAL:
ONE ought to...
and WE should think so...
hello! the leftoever crown of the guillotined
head?! for all the coom'on'R's?!

stealth theiving of common...
chemistry's prefixes...
trans-...
cis-...
the sort of prefixes mostly associated
with studying chemistry!

- i can be expected to least fathom the...
unpredictabikity of any sort of..
forthcoming: how, ever,
to diguise this coming onslaught and
monstrosity...
this wing clipped...
this lip purged from kissing...
this ear to listen,
this eye to see...
these fingers becoming
dexterity prone via a simple task of attempting
the tirade of a piano...

one was expected,
we were all so hopeful...
gender neutrality of pronouns
for god's sake!
no mongol would think twice
to call it a cheap-steal....
even if poland was named: crown...
and lithuania was....
lithuania... the "left-over"!

mam marwolaeth!
pwy e gobaith darganfyddiad!
JoJo Nguyen Oct 2022
(As a great wizard said, "a journey is done solo; an adventure is shared")

So many Mickey Mouse wizards
And I'm just a magical broom

bringing buckets and buckets of CO2
down our yellow Brick Road

in a Submarine
crossing Downton Abbey

to reach Emerald City
to find no One
in Das Schloss

I bid u peace or pence
for there will be no Trial
only execution

— The End —