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Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
.wow, i never thought it would ever be possible,
i'm sorry, i have no empathy for these youtuber "creators",
any idiot can regurgitate the news,
venture into vulture journalism,
  then again: gone are the days of closely associated
with people like Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein...
they are really gone: what the hell was gamer-gate
compared to watergate? gate after gate,
and all i'm hearing is response videos,
it should have never come to this,
whereby journalists are as untrustworthy as politicians,
and of what remains, come the saturday and
the sunday editions, when the petty bourgeoisie
come out of the woodworks of a week,
album reviews, book reviews, t.v. reviews,
restaurant reviews: real, real journalism,
all the grit you'd expect from a warzone...
           journalists forgot they were not kindred spirits
of politicians: but immediacy historians...
the front-line history chroniclers...
i find... these days, esp. these days...
    you know why i like heidegger so much,
and forget the fact that he joined the **** party?
in 1938 he was already disillusioned by it...
so the ad homine fallacy bites the dust...
   even a **** deservers a redemption...
but i find that these days, of all days...
   man, as a historiological creature has to bow
before the unshakeable facets of the biological man,
esp. in the english speaking world...
    in terms of history and biology:
     history has all the fun stories,
and a sensible "concern" for time,
   well... if not "concern" then at least a bearbable
time-frame...
                  after all, i am the one who said:
all the great deserts of the world,
akin to sahara? they were once great
mountain ranges... you already know where
to look between a mountain range akin to the alps
and a desert... bound to h'america...
   monument valley: utah...
  a mountain becomes a rock after a while...
while the desert expands...
    ayers rock (uluru)... but monument valley (utah)
is a transition period between a mountain range
and a desert, if we're going to stand outside
of all space and time, and look back in...
we have plenty of time to catch-up on...
           just like i believe that black holes
are actually 2-dimensional objects:
   that spin really fast, giving an impression
of them being 3-dimensional objects:
as usually represented by a gravity dip associated
with them pulling matter into themselves...
i think that black holes are paradoxes...
since how can a 2-dimensional object
actually exist in a 3-dimensional space?
   that depends on the size of the "3-dimensional"
object / space... the universe is a medium,
it's defined as a "space" but to me...
      it's beyond space... it's only space on the grounds
of isolated time, 365 days,
the time and space it takes for the earth
to orbit the sun... which is an isolated example,
outside? well: there's atmosphere on earth,
outside? vacuum!
who's going to prove my theory wrong?
               not anyone in my lifetime -
besides the point with these youtube content
"creators": where credit is due, credit is due,
but once might have cared for their vulture
journalism... two old farts akin to felix (black pigeon
speaks) and sargon of akaad talking about how:
the youth are congregating to youtube to listen
to music: that's what i've always done...
  i discovered these youtube "creators" by accident,
i just wanted my jukebox back, man,
i wanted my algorithm back, my imprint back,
now that the devil's dozen scenario took hold
of the platform: 1 video playing, 12 back-ups...
and they're all the same, unrelated, *******...
        talk all you want, please, just give back
my algorithm imprint, where i can discover new music...
again... i never thought i'd see another
compilation video, 173 videos bound to one...
and, mind you... after finding about 6 googlewhacks
(googlewhack? when you use the sort of
language that provides you with only one search
result on the behemoth platform of billions
of results, 1 is grand, but 6? it's becoming too
predictable)...
                        so here's what i found
   (band - song):

wooly mammoth - mammoth bones / kyuss - space cadet,
rainbows are free - last supper / grand magus -
                                                mountain of power,
zed - lies / om - cremation chant I & II,
    smoke - hallucination / weird owl - white hidden fire,
orchid - son of misery / witch - seer,
               unida - you wish / black mountain - old fangs,
b.r.m.c. - ain't no easy way /
              jack daniels overdrive - ****** to death,
shrinebuilder - blind for all to see,
                   datura - mantra / the heavy eyes - voytek,
the machine - infinity / clutch - the regulator,
   colour haze - mountain / maligno - son of tlalocan,
dozer - twilight sleep / gomer pyle - albino rattlesnake,
blockback - dead mans blues / greenleaf - witchcraft tonight,
cactus jumper - right way / borracho - bloodsucker,
alabama thunderpussy - motor ready,
                    earthless - sonic power,
my brother the wind - death and beyond,
   zaphire oktalogue - carrion fly / siena root - reverberations,
unida - slaylina / pothead - toxic / sungrazer - mountain dusk,
   rotor - costa verde / blizaro - it's in the lighthouse,
planet of zeus - woke up dead,
     kongh - pushed beyond / ufomammut - smoke,
high on fire - to cross the bridge,
              the secret - bell of urgency,
      unida - wet pussycat / dozer - big sky theory,
cavity - chloride / brutus - swamp city blues,
the grand astoria - something wicked this way comes,
sasquatch - the judge / pharaoh overlord - skyline,
baby woodrose - love comes down / kamni - **** of satan,
lay with me - the flying eyes / cowboys & aliens  -
                                                out of control,
sons of otis - liquid jam / hainloose - recipe,
    ridge - rancho relaxo / bongripper - ****** sutherland,
skraeckoedland - cactus / grails - satori,
    lo-pan - chicken itza / five horse johnson - people's jam,
blind dog - don't ask me where i stand,
     wiht - orderic vitalis / hisko detria - nothing happens,
liquid sound company - leage for spiritual discovery lives,
   goatsnake - black cat bone / gandhi's gunn - rest of the sun,
the egocentrics - wave / propane propane - it's alright,
heliotropes - ribbons / mother mars - price you pay,
che - the knife / annimal machine - condenado,
   earth - tallahassee / the whirlings - delirio,
orchid - heretic / maeth - horse funeral,
siena root - rasayana / graveyard - longing,
           tia carrera - hell / hainloose - recipe,
      burner - five pills (and a bottle of whiskey),
dala sun - guilty for ****** / vulgaari - lie,
        slo burn - muezli / stonehelm - zombie apocalypse,
smallman - evolution / spiders - fraction,
         shakhtyor - e. jaspers / earthmass - lunar dawn,
evoke the lords - dregs / colour haze - silent,
     sutrah - el septimo viaje...

  

who are "these" people,
who: "supposedly" live for the future...
they always cite it,
as the one motivational
momentum of the present -
it's as if they've never seen
a bull itch the ground
with its front hoofs -
   imitating building up momentum
before a charge...
or how a slingshot,
or how a bow works...
   to these people,
the ******* sideways movement
of a bow against a violin...
sometimes...
      you do not retreat into
the past, to hide, to amount
to nostalgia...
     sometimes
the only reason for the reflexive
affirmation, confined to maxims
and aphorism, nay: even poems!
is to look back...
     to reap what was once
sowed, rather than sow blindly,
and reap: what no one wants
to reap...
    drunk? getting there...
       it felt so relaxing paying off
a 100 / 250 part of a debt
i owe her...
            while buying a russian
standard liter,
   asking for a 100 cash-back
of the supermarket cashier,
- the limit is 50,
   but if you buy something else,
i can give you another 50...
- oh... ok...
   so me went to and took a bottle
of shveedish cider...
   rekorderlig...
   mind you? the swedish,
what they perfected fermenting
better than what the the irish claim
to fame is?
    sorry... magners:
               irish? stick to the guinness...
(it's actually the only cerveza
i'd go into an english pub to
drink from the tap... bottled? canned?
not the same)...
     but with such swedish delights
such as the above mentioned,
  ålska and K  ö   nigsberg
                            *œ
?
no competition... the suede(s) just
do one thing grand...
    cider...
- what was i talking about?
  ah... the "dreaded" past...
     the people who say:
  but you can't live out a life,
   holding onto a private past,
a memory...
    so... these other ******* were
allowed to implant a false
past, unrelated to me,
teaching me whether it was
Newton, or Leibniz who first
invented the infinitesimal calculus
method?
                i'm betting on Leibniz...
after all... he took the position
of a ******* librarian...
   and he wasn't buried with pomp
& circumstance at Westminster Abbey...
sometimes...
         one person can't have it all...
but if the education system
is a system that is indicative for
the erosion of memory, esp. private
matters... and juggernauts in
with these selective rubrics of science
and history...
fair enough the basic
implants: numerical arithmetic,
and lettering arithmetic -
    and then... lessons in mental
entertainment... when applied
           to menial labour...
memory is: supreme...
          i can't give my memory up...
that's what: killer proteins
eating the fat tissue of the brain
like starvation in reverse
        of a case of Alzheimer's?
memory is: cameo cinema -
    however distorted it might be,
although i beg to differ on
whether time per se,
  is not the better psychedelic
component
when coupled with memory -
esp. the cinematic aspect of memory...
there was never a "living" in
the past -
      there was a point about memory
to sharpen the edges of
    "dasein"... all speculation and
questions regarding consciousness,
as championed through
a chimpanzee's *** are somehow
pointless:
    given there's a higher tier of
conceptualization -
   working from dasein...
            hierjetzt -
      or in english?             presence...
- because why would i treat
a personal memory,
like some inorganic entity of
a schooling system,
under Catholic measures,
  that made it necessary to include
Pythagoras... but not Horace?
that's inorganic memory...
and unless i turn into some
inorganic entity -
   the organic aspect of my psyche:
my past, my cameo cinema?
   that's going to be a leech,
attached to me...
  and i'm not going to give it up,
just like... when i walk about
my door, and enter the england
that i know on the peripheries...
i'll speak the lingua franca -
     but with my privacy?
    you'd better cut my tongue off
before i stop speaking
my western slavic heritage...
    and it pains me...
when certain groups of immigrants...
don't know the POINT
where immigration becomes
insensible... self-lacerating...
           i once hated their approach...
now i just pity them...
anyone ****** can juggle
     two oranges rather than three...
p.s. old school cure for a cold?
forget the pills...
   glass of warm milk,
  an egg yolk,
     and a good scratch of butter...
  (on the rare occasion,
  milk infused with garlic)

mixed together...
before bedtime...
  if the ****** won't sweat out
the bacteria during the night...
     well... stick to the synthetics...
i'm pretty sure i know why i drink...
certainly not to: PARTY PARTY PARTY...
i always aim for
the one safety net of "pharmacology"...
ssssssssleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

p.s. so much for children loving their
parents...
        in vitro and the whole
m.g.m. debacle:
so, sweet little *******,
       no *******, no chance for your
for a quickie satellite launch date from
Tehran, under all the weight of
monotheism turned secular...
christianity: the only "monotheism"
with overt tinged of polytheism,
lutheran, baptist, catholic, orthodox...
just today i opened my door twice...
once to a confused curry house delivery man:
did you order some food:
i too replied with a confused look
and the word: huh?! no.
then a black woman with a a white ol' granny
came by with a leaflet...
the jehovah's witnesses were on my trail...
lucky of my grandfather,
   the profanity brigade of the hebrew name
i will not dare utter came by...

  and if you have lived a good enough life:
memory? memory beats hollywood
technicolour and CGI...
at least in the cinema of memory i always
get to play the cameo (role)...

oh i get the youtube creators:
   living with his parents... still. aged 33...
funny that i don't mind them,
since they're getting older they're settling
into their solispsism,
        annoying as ****, but i stand them,
thank god the protruding caduceus veins
on my phallus protected me from
a circumcision...
  i can ******* like a girl with a web-cam...
no scented candles:
the no. 1, 2 & 3 on the throne of thrones...
the toilet, simultaneously masaging my ****
and prostate...

men were not exactly supposed to derive
pleasure from ***: they were,
supposed to give pleasure,
and in giving pleasure to one outlet,
they were subscribed to finding out what
best pleases them: ergo?
women would always derive more of
the people from *** than men would ever...
*** is not a story of bragging about
a harem... the woman lies flat...
the man pumps her...
after all... she is the one burdened
to carry a child, why wouldn't she be
the one deriving more pleasure from *** than
a man could ever?
72 virgins! ha ha!
   ah ha ha!
             what's the ratio?
   last time i checked... a 3 hole caravan...
of a woman's worth...
   mouth, ******, ****... and man?
only two points of entry, well...
"entry"...
                    seems that the tomatoe,
really is a fruit, but is treated like a vegetable
nontheless!
homosexuality in the 1960s...
william burroughs in Tangiers...
                    when Islam was quiet radical...

well... i cook, i clean...
                what are my other options of continuing
to write and living the ed gein "lifestyle",
i tried getting social housing in england,
but, i'm not a somali with two wives and a dozen
kids...
              rent, in london?
extortion...
                   housing shortage...
                 well there's me hating my parents,
the outside world just needs to see
an ed gein imitation...
               or there's me living off acorns
in the woods, or rummaging on the streets,
making the N25 bus from oxford st. to ilford
my own personal mobile hotel as a homeless
man in london...

   i think it's time to succumb to your
parents prejudices, if only for the jokes,
no point in making ethical high judgements
to fit into a zeitgeist narrative surrounding
yourself with people: you'd never eat a meal with...
that's how i define the highest form of respect:
if i'll eat with you: implies that i respect you...
i drink alone...
a high school fwend once thought he could
bribe me with his company,
that i "had to" drink with him...
      no... not really...
          i much prefer drinking by myself...
these days you're not expected to honour your
mother and your father,
i.e. make them proud...
               honour is a double-edged sword...
just don't be ashamed of having
a mother or a father...
not that hard: given western divorce rates...
i.v.f., frozen eggs... yadda yadda yadda...
lucky me in having went to university...
oh... really? so much cooler in a cosmopolitan
environment with your contemporary
flat-mates?
               get the picture?
                 paying rent while literally living
in a diguised cardboard box?
i can't help the fact that poetry doesn't pay...
that there are economic factors beyond
my control in play...
   maybe if i was the grandson of my parents,
born in england, and not elsewhere,
there would be some sort of + leverage...
for a bricks and mortar start-up...
plus... i hoard...
         books and music...
                     mind you:
neither of my parents spoke english as their
mother tongue...
  neither did i...
they didn't teach me this tongue:
i had to teach this language by myself:
for myself...
           aged 8: thrown into the deep end
of the pool: now swim ******, swim!

i just feel sorry for the immigrant parents
who gave birth to their children into the *****
of the land they immigrated to...

two days ago i found a heartbreak,
a romanian couple, with a child...
the father was stubborn in teach his daughter
his / her native sprechen...
romanian... but she was already speaking
perfect antithesis of accent kindergarten english...
and almost non-responsive to her tongue
alligned to her biology...
    clearly she was born in england,
but her parents were both romanian...
i've had that conundrum in my head
for a long time...
   what if i married an english girl...
and i was unable to teach my offspring
my native language,
what if i had to silence my native tongue,
"forget" it, or only speak it by myself,
via reading a book in western slavic?
what if the woman i married:
wouldn't see the benefits of bilingualism,
outside of the mainstream economic
mantra of ensuring your children
learn either german or mandarin or arabic?
that worried me...
          oh believe me, i enjoy my lapses
into english: since i am providing the groundwork...
but in the case of having offspring...
e.g. teaching them the western slavic tongue
so they could speak to their grandparents
(i.e. my parents)...
       even my grandparents lament
the scenarios when a woman would marry
an austrian... and she wouldn't teach
her children her native tongue,
and when the grandchildren would visit their
grandparents... they'd be speaking
a crude variation of braille, morse,
   sign-language: na migi...
               i know that my mother is alive
in me even under this veil of english...
because she's more than the womb,
the genitals of my conception, the breast fed off...
she's also the Atlas of my vocabulary
of the "hiding" tongue beneath this one...

i already knew the "game" was rigged from
the get-go... i've seen how one hindu woman
suffered being married to a scouser...
she never managed to pass on her language
to her children,
she bought a library, thinking her children
would succumb to learning: however poor
they might end up being...
but she was suffocated by the english
tongue of her husband...
and her children didn't express even the most
vague of desires to learn their mutterzunge...

that's what worried me to begin with,
marrying an english woman i was afraid
of the ignorance that someone bilingualism
was en route toward a psychiatrist disorder
i was diagnosed with: schizophrenia...
this anglophonic ignorance still scares me...
like: everyone is expected to speak the revisionist
globalist lingua franca: this anglo lingua...
if i didn't meet a bilingual / polyglot woman,
i'd return to rearing idiotic children...
anglo lingua was only supposed to be a middle-ground,
a "no man's land"...
             a language of trivial economic transfers...
a language primarily orientated around usage:
rather than an ethno-centric basis for "englishness"...
to **** with: god save the queen...
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
                 old scot dragoons': auld lang syne...
those where my forever anthems...
see...
        what gave birth to a jihadi john?
his mother "forgot", his father "forgot":
his "mother" forgot, his "father" forgot to speak
the "ancient" tongue...
there's a point to integration of the immigrant,
an immigrant is a forgetful creature,
an ever pleasing creature...
never to mind himself as an ex-pat...
you ****** forget your mutterzunge...
you'll be speaking in cockney accents
with broken affairs of arabic beheading people
for zombified reasons of grandeour!
*******...
          you, you: you are to blame!
you were so ashamed of your parents that you
delved on honoring them to the point
of thinking giving pride unto them was very
much akin as keeping shame away from
their girdle of the wedlock of your own existence!
death has not made your a martyr...
i guess you deserve those 72 mishaps,
those 72 annoying voices...
and i pray to god that you receive your reward!
i hope that among the 72 you will never find
a chance a repose to find your: self!

integration is one thing,
pandering to the "elites": plebs who think they
are kings among the plebs,
is quiet another...
plebs who go places and think english
is a universal tongue: just because
uncle sam says so...
of those i respect:

y cymraeg: pwy dal eu tafod...
an gàidhlig: cò fhathast bruidhinn an cuid teanga...
i nawet moim: co ma mówić
to nawet tyle: co znaczy tak niewiele!

there are boundaries... learn the customs
of the natives, but ensure you retain the customs
you were born with...
a child, born in a foreign land,
ought to ensure his parents teach him
the words to speak to his grand overseers...
complete immersion,
this cultural abortion,
this cutting of the umbilical chord
from: i have never met a people so
content at having been subjugated outside
the indian sub-continent,
cricket... for ****'s sake...
       as to demand other europeans
to treat them as superiors,
when sitting alongside an englishman...
****-bud-bud, the **** are you on about?!
once again: england has become the circus
for the grounding of what began
with engels and marx...
   wasn't communism born from
engels and marx observing english society?
sure... first experimented en masse in
mongolia... but its origins?

   so of course i had problems finding a suitable
mating partner... i was afraid that my nativ-zunge
would die a slow but solemn death...
that an english bridge would not consider
the worth of a bilingual child, or a polyglot,
or that she would repress the chance of my
"biological continuum nuance" to respond outside
of the anglo lingua refrain of: beside the english language?
there are quiet a few one might want to learn...

it's not easy being a first generation immigrant,
esp. if you moved aged 8, mute as a wolf
to a domesticated dog's barking...
but hey, no jihadi john in me...
           jihadi john should have been raised
bilingual... i wouldn't be the one speaking broken
tourist arabic while beheading someone...
jihadi john spoke tourist arabic...
the dichotomy of the mind to the biological
reality, beside the current, western,
"biological relativism" debate...
      clearly darwinism was "wrong"...
man is, these days, left with neither a biological
reality, nor a historical reality...
              but there is a historical reality:
but it's so knit-&-picky...
come on... philip augustus of the capetian
dynasty?
                 casimir III...
                        jeremi wiśniowiecki...
konrad I of masovia...
                           kuno von lichtenstein...
alles ist gott: und gott ist alles -
  gott mit, uns!

              mit eine leben wert leben:
    erinnerung ist die nur kino
             wert sehen eine film beim;

hell... could be worse:
   i might have translated some latin
of horace into pig-trough comfort food.
Francie Lynch Dec 2017
You've heard this tale
A thousand times,
Take one more spin,
This version's mine.
And this telling tale
Is its first time.
My theme is fitting,
The message sublime,
For the Season of giving,
And gifting one's time.

For my first Christmas
I was three,
But the warmth on that night
Never cooled,
And indeed,
It was
A cold Christmas Eve.

We stuck branches of pine
In a bucket of sand,
That's the snapshot I've got
Of our Christrmas tree then.
Here's the memory that Eve
Of a lad of three,
Yet this story is true,
It's a family heirloom.

We weren't many then,
There was Mammy and Daddy
And six children, soon seven.
Daddy was an Operator
Of cranes and loaders
Dirt packers and graders.
He was working North,
Far North,
Manning a dozer,
Distant from family
Near the Quebec border.
That's where he was
Days before,
When his pant-leg caught fire,
When the diesel was spilled.

We were only three months
In our chosen homeland,
It was 1958,
And fresh from Ireland.

No way to get to him,
Nor him to get home,
No car,  no friends yet,
Little money, no phone.
Yet somebody knew
We were out on our own.

And the snow started falling,
It was Christmas Eve,
I stood at the window,
Saw the snow fill the trees.
I was still and staring,
At what I don't know,
But I remember quite vividly
All that I saw.

Like a scene from a movie
Starring Barry or Bing,
A fire-engine red no-top
Stopped and parked with high beams,
Highlighting the snow,
On that Christmas Eve.

A big man in a red suit
Slid off of the trunk,
Literally carrying a sack,
And calling, **! **!
The family joined me
At the window to see
The big man's helpers
Carry a big Christmas Tree.

When they entered the house
Kevin, Sean, Gerald and I,
Cowered and crouched
Behind the second-hand couch.
We must have resembled
Three monkeys plus me;
I hadn't a clue,
I was dumb-founded and three.

In through the front door
They clattered and sang,
Unloading their boxes
Of food, clothes and toys,
*****, bats and dolls
For two girls and four boys;
And I'm sure there was something
For the coming bundle of joy.

I don't remember their departure,
Or where he went,
But they called Merry Christmas
And left all else unsaid.

Mammy understood
Some good persons had called,
Who'd heard of our plight
And couldn't be calmed
Til they knew for certain
We'd some peace in our storm.

So, that's my first Christmas,
Since then this my creed:
The gift of giving
Isn't under the Tree
.
Emily Larrabee May 2014
Before I was even born
my dad got a dog
A bull mastiff
He was the sweetest
he wasn't supposed to
live past
8 weeks
but he prevailed
he was my brother
he was my best friend
I put my trust into him
He laid his head on me
I was too young
to understand
why he had to leave
now its been six years
and I still miss him
could you blame me
He sits on my Dad's night
stand
in a gold tin
he lies on my dad's shoulder
in permanent ink
he stands near me
in a picture
actually quite a few
he holds a place
a huge one
in my heart
his name was Dozer
and this is for him
His suit is taggered. Bullet holes and tears but finely pressed and clean. Still recognizable as a cop's beat uniform. He unsnaps his gun holster clip. No one uses the old guns anymore. Electronic laser weapons are the fad in the end times. I got a Desert Eagle .45 that has something these fancy tech-lovers don't. Two point three seconds...

You see, it takes a Lectro two point three seconds to charge-up and that happens to be more time than it takes a 'cowboy-movie-loving' quick draw to end you...

"Hi boys! You've got a Buzz here I see? Well...time to move along and let me buy the next round 'eh?" -I say

"Look, there's a drink shack right about a block up from here. Let me get you." -said with a wink

The three look rough as they all do out here in the runs. That's the wasteland roadways in the inner cities. Least that's what they are known as these days. If you're guessing the futures part of that wasteland you got it right. The last war was the Great War. The one that ended all government. Now we have two realities; the corporations large enough to maintain some order and the publicly disordered nightmare.

You'd a thought systemic breakdown would have released the minds of the many from their company masters but it was quite the opposite. Those left and afraid flocked to join the barons making them even more powerful. I work for one of these new titans; Altria Group.

The three look at each other with queer smirks and grins as if their figurin' on what move to make or perhaps figured it already? The middle one draws his Lectro-gun...bad idea.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Three down. I walk over them to make sure,

BOOM!

...one last slug in the ringleader's face clears this route. These ******* have been hitting our trucks for weeks from this alleyway. My shots draw out more vermin...Chicago is a mecha for filth. Our heavy operators in the dozer-rigs clear the blockages but it's up to me to stop the vagabonds and hijackers. Only losers don't have a job.

"Well boys you had the chance to take this one to the bar and drink it off...instead you got a buzz still ringing in your ears!" -I tell their dead bodies while reloading my clips

That 'buzz' would be me, Buzziah. I'm The last cop in Chicago. Maybe the last one in America, who knows?

BOOM!
BOOM!

Down go two more ****...I hate sneakies. I lean down to make sure my body cam gets a shot of their faces. I get paid by the ****. My bosses at the cigarette company still want to see their faces for some reason. I never ask, I don't care, I'm just a camel cop...

"Sounds like a ***** joke..." -I say out loud

I know it's confusing. Reynold's used to make camel cigarettes. I'll light one up while my brain explains it for you. When it appeared that the U.S. government had lost control...the major multinational players took action on their own. Some of them, like my employer, they literally killed their competition. Thirteen years later they're the only game in town for smokes, jobs, housing, protection and food...and I am the only cop left. I stop a ****** running by,

"Hey you stop!" -I tell him

He freezes and stares at me shaking. I'm a bit of a celebrity in downtown.

"Do you like the uniform or what?" -I ask him

"Uh-uh-uh man, man just let me go I ain't after your loads?"

I chuckle deeply inside. It is a ***** joke after all.

BOOM!

I turn on my Beats-Sat uplink...

"All clear on routes a-go, all routes a-go..."

Switch the channel to the network Apple link...******* rap. I love it. I catch a tune on the heavy guitar riff and backbeat intro...

<Double forty-fives, double forty-fives>

<YO> -chorus

<Jumped out the War like G I JOE!>

<Landed gig/wid Nort Gruman.>

<Patrollin' my beat as-a-GUN MAN>

<Double forty-fives, double forty-fives>

<BLOW> -gunshot sounds

This feels so right. I hop on my motorcycle and tear-off.

Time for my buzz...

I am the Lord's Strength.

Buzziah Willis...remember it.

I run the streets of downtown Chicago.

I am the law here.

"Wanna smoke?"  He says to the air.
The Last Cop short story intro. Buzziah Willis.
Francie Lynch Dec 2018
You've heard this tale
A thousand times,
Take one more spin,
This version's mine.
And this telling tale
Is its first time.
My theme is fitting,
The message sublime,
For the Season of giving,
And gifting one's time.

For my first Christmas
I was three,
But the warmth that night
Didn't freeze,
And indeed it was
A cold Christmas Eve.

We stuck pine branches
In a bucket of sand,
That's the snapshot I've got
Of our Christmas tree then.
Here's my memory that Eve
From a lad who's three;
Yet this story is true,
It's a family heirloom.

We weren't many then,
There was Mammy and Daddy
And six children, soon seven.
Daddy operated cranes and loaders,
Dirt packers, graders, and cable drovers.
He was working Far North,
Manning a DC10 dozer,
Distant from family
Near the French border.
That's where he was
When the diesel caught fire,
When his pant legs lit up,
But the flame grew no higher.

We were only three months
In our chosen homeland,
It was 1958,
And fresh from Ireland.

No way to get to him,
Nor him to get home,
No car,  no friends yet,
Little money, no phone.
Yet somebody knew
We were out on our own.

And the snow started falling,
It was Christmas Eve,
I stood at the window,
Saw the snow fill the trees.
I was still and staring,
At what I don't know,
But I remember quite vividly
All that I saw.

Like a scene from a movie
Starring Barry or Bing,
A fire-engine red no-top
Stopped and parked with high beams,
Highlighting the snow,
On that Christmas Eve.

A big man in a red suit
Slid off of the trunk,
Literally carrying a sack,
And calling, **! **!
The family joined me
At the window to see
The big man's helpers
Carry a big Christmas Tree.

When they entered the house
Kevin, Sean, Gerald and I,
Cowered and crouched
Behind the second-hand couch.
We must have resembled
Three monkeys plus me;
I hadn't a clue,
I was dumb-founded and three.

In through the front door
They clattered and sang,
Unloading their boxes
Of food, clothes and toys,
*****, bats and dolls
For two girls and four boys;
And I'm sure there was something
For the coming bundle of joy.

I don't remember their departure,
Or where he went,
But they called Merry Christmas
And left all else unsaid.

Mammy understood
Some good persons had called,
Who'd heard of our plight
And couldn't be calmed
Til they knew for certain
We'd some peace in our storm.

So, that's my first Christmas,
Since then this my creed:
The gift of giving
Isn't under the Tree.
Repost and a Merry Christmas to all my friends at HP.
Sora Dec 2012
I'm at a road block,
While the clock went tick-tock
This one here is a fighter
He sets fire, easy like a lighter
Grabbed hold of that metal tight,
Not letting go without a fight.
Heavy and heavin'
He lets go to start leavin'
His mind tortures him "Nothing but talk"
Now he's in a head lock
Knees bent, shoulder back
He's a fighter that's back in his groove and sharp as a tack
Bulldozer
He won't go into foreclosure
He never breaks his composure
He'll break through this barrier
Provin to them he ain't no longer a little terrier
But a bull... dozer
And this one here is nothing  but a **fighter
JAM Dec 2019
Down at the local bar, there are two chairs.  
In one is a man named Logus,
Who came from The Desert of Nine Valleys;
In the other is a song-less musician named Sparrow.

Day after day
Alone in the bar
The man with the foolish grin
Is keeping perfectly still.
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool.

He wandered very far,
Very far,
Over land and sea.
A little shy,
And sad of eye,
But very wise was he.
And then one day,
One magic day he looked Logus' way.
And while they spoke of many things,
Fools and kings,
This he said to him:

“Good morrow to thee, brother prisoner!
Do you realize that you have the most beautiful face?
Do you realize we're floating in space,
Do you realize that happiness makes you cry
And
Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die?”

Logus doesn’t want to bother with the bird,
”These are all lies
and jests.”

Sparrow retorts, “Still
A man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest.
Now,
Drop your guard, you don't have to be smart all of the time.
I've got a mind full of blanks, I need to go somewhere new fast.
And don't be shy, oh no,
At least deliberately.

What was I saying?
Oh yeah.
Let me tell you a story that's sad but true,
About someone who just may remind you of you.
Let me tell you a tale that may help you awake a woozy head-
I'll buy you a drink
-It begins long ago on a happy day,
With a fool who was loved, but threw it all away,
Who exchanged a good home for a flophouse, a bar and a plank-“
Sparrow’s eyes begin to glisten--

Logus Interrupts,
“While we're on the subject,
Could we change the subject now?

My name is Logus,
I'm carrying the wheel.
Thanks for all you've shown us,
But this is how we feel.
Come sit next to me.
Pour yourself some tea.
Just like Grandma made,
When we couldn't find sleep.
Things were better then,
Once but never again.
We've all left the den
Let me tell you about it:

I am just a poor boy
Though my story's seldom told.
I have squandered my resistance,
for an existence
In which
Ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for
And why it is here,
It will instantly disappear
And be replaced by something even more bizarre
And inexplicable.”

Sparrow began stirring in his seat,
”You know, there is another theory which states
That this has already happened.
And you lived that,
In exchange for a pocket full of mumbles,
Such are promises."

Logus looks at him,
“And? I am still alive.”

Sparrow rolls his eyes,
“Geez, you know
Somebody once asked, "could I spare some change for gas?"
I need to get myself away from this place."
I said, "yep what a concept,
I could use a little fuel myself,
And we could all use a little change."
Too bad
A fake Jamaican took every last dime with that scam.
It was worth it just to learn some sleight of hand.
Bad news comes, don't you worry even when it lands,
Good news will work its way to all them plans.

But the building's not going as we planned.
The foreman has injured his hand.
The dozer will not clear a path.”

Logus scoffs,
“You talk in maths.
You buzz like a fridge.
You're like a detuned radio.”


Sparrow Laughs, “You'll never be what is in your heart.
Weep little lion man,
You're not as brave as you were at the start.
You have a heart that's full up like a landfill,
A job that slowly kills you,
And bruises that won't heal.
You look so tired, unhappy.
Such pretty houses,
And such pretty gardens:
Green plastic water-cans
For fake Chinese rubber plants
In the fake plastic earth.

There's an empty space inside our hearts
Where the weeds take root.
And now I'll set you free,
I'll set you free.”


They both left right on time,
The Sparrow accosted his mind.
The Sparrow said,
"Hey man, we go all the way"
Of course, they were willing to pay.
Back to the street,
Down to their feet.
Losing the feeling of feeling unique,
Do you know what I mean?

Well on the way,
Head in a cloud,
The bird of a thousand voices
Talking perfectly loud.
But I never heard him
Or the sound he appeared to make.
And he never seemed to notice.
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head
See the world spinning 'round.
Of course, everyone goes crazy
Over such and such and such.
We made ourselves a pillar
We just used it as a crutch.
We were certainly uncertain
At least, I'm pretty sure I am.
Well, we didn't need the water
But we just built that, good *******.

For most have found both freedom and safety in their madness;
The freedom of loneliness
And the safety from being understood,
for those who understand us
Enslave something in us.

But let me not be too proud of my safety.
Even a Thief in a jail is safe from another thief.
And Horses run fastest on the way home.

Logus and Sparrow had just that in mind,
and so, after deciding to take Sparrow’s ride, they left.
After dragging themselves into the car
Logus looked at Sparrow from the passenger seat,
“I keep myself in
To pull myself out.
I'm rising up,
Wish I was sinking down.
And it's not like
There was warning
We were happy.
And it's not like
There was mourning
In the warning.

I guess I am a scout.
So I should find a way out.
So everyone can find a way out.

I know I am a scout.
I should've found a way out.
So everyone can find a way out.

Sparrow starts his car, the ignition doesn’t turn at first,
It’s an older model so it takes a few tries.
Sparrow turns to Logus,
“Well, that is that and this is this.
Will you tell me what you saw and I'll tell you what you missed
when the ocean met the sky. (You missed, you missed)
You wasted life, why wouldn't you waste the afterlife?

Drift all you like,
From ocean to ocean,
Search the whole world.

And you find your destination
With so many different places to call home.
'Cause when you find yourself a villain,
In the story you have written
It's plain to see
That sometimes the best intentions
Are in need of redemption.
Would you agree?
If so, please show me.

These thoughts and the strain you're under
Be a world child, form a circle
Before we all go under
And fade out again and fade out again

Logus starts groveling,
“Turn me on to phantoms,
I follow to the edge of the earth.
And fall off.
Everybody leaves
If they get the chance,
And this is my chance.

My shadow's shedding skin,
I've been picking scabs again,
I'm down, digging through
My old muscles, looking for a clue.

I've been crawling on my belly,
Clearing out what could've been,
I've been wallowing in my own confused
And insecure delusions
For a piece to cross me over
Or a word to guide me in.
I wanna feel the changes coming down.
I wanna know what I've been hiding.”

His eyes are the size of the moon,
He could 'cause he can so he does.
He’s feeling so good,
Just the way that he does
When it's nine in the afternoon.

Logus starts thinking to himself,
“So you think you're a Romeo?
Playing a part in a picture show?
Cause you're the joke of the neighborhood!
Why should you care if you're feeling good?
Take the long way home!
Take the long way home.

His phone starts ringing,
he clumsily pulls it from his pocket
and answers it.
It’s his wife, para.
She’s concerned,
“Hello? Hello? Hello?
Is there anybody in there?
Just nod if you can hear me.
Is there anyone at home?
Come on now,
I hear you're feeling down
Well I can ease your pain,
Get you on your feet again.
Relax.
I'll need some information first,
Just the basic facts,
Can you show me where it hurts?
Please don't
**** yourself for recognition.
**** yourself to never ever stop.
oh no!
You broke another mirror!
You're turning into something you are not.

Come home!
I'll bake you a cake
Made of all their eyes.
Do you see me
Dressed for the ****?”

Logus chuckles and thinks to himself,
“I know she's looking kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb
In the shape of an "L" on her forehead.”

Their eyes are the size of the moon,
she could 'cause she can so she does.
They're feeling so good
Just the way that they do
When it's nine in the afternoon.

Para continues,
“But you'll still
**** yourself for recognition,
**** yourself to never ever stop.
You broke another mirror,
You're turning into something you are not.

And that's okay

I got a box full of all your pity.
We're fresh out of tissues
Because on them I wrote a comedy,
I wrote a comedy.

Logus looking down,
almost as if she’s there in front of him
to see how sad he feels,
“Sorry, but
I'll take a quiet life,
A handshake of carbon monoxide.

With no alarms and no surprises,
No alarms and no surprises,
No alarms and no surprises,
Silent, silent.

Tell me what to do!
Now the tank is dry.
Now, this wheel is flat.
And you know what else?
Guess what I received
In the mail today?
Words of deep concern
From my little brother:

Logus briefly thinks of a letter he received recently,
“Weep for yourself, my man,
You'll never be what is in your heart
Weep little lion man,
You're not as brave as you were at the start.
Rate yourself and rake yourself,
Take all the courage you have left
Wasted on fixing all the problems that you made in your own head,
you'll never settle any of your scores.

I backed my car into a cop car the other day.
Well, he just drove off - sometimes life's okay.
I ran my mouth off a bit too much, ah what did I say?

Well, you'll just laugh it off and it'll be okay.
it'll be okay.
Everybody needs a place to call their home.
Everybody needs someone to call their own.
Even when you're lonely, know you're not alone,
You're one of us.”

Logus' attention turns back to para.

Para begs,
“Please hold on hope, don't choke
On the noose around your neck
And find strength in pain
And change your ways
Know your name as it's called again.”

Logus sighs,
“Phew!
For a minute there
I lost myself, I lost myself
Phew, for a minute there
I lost myself, I lost myself.

Sparrow,
Somewhere on the edge of the conversation,
Begins getting heavy eyed,
Shutting one then the other and then opening both
And says to himself, drifting into an irresistible
road hypnosis induced sleep,  

“And if you could be what you wanted,
If you could be who you wanted
All the time,
All the time.

And now I'll set you free,
I'll set you free…”
Before trailing off.
These quotes are taken from various songs and poems.
She's someone who lives in many girls all over the world.
He's someone who lives in many guys all over the world.
The sleeping princess or prince is able to sleep wherever.
They can sit down somewhere and decide to take a nap.
And this has nothing to do with having a sleep disorder.
This is just about someone who just tends to sleep a lot.
Like they can just fall asleep anywhere and at any time.
There are some people who do this and it's not a problem.
They just tend to like taking naps wherever they want to.
Sometimes it might just seem like an interesting moment.
But it doesn't really effect anything because they wake up.
And they are able to be involved in whatever they need to.
I just got this in my head from someone from a group I like.
So I decided that I would just write this so I could say this.
This was just in my head for a while and I thought I'd write it. You can't tell me that there aren't people without sleeping disorders of any kind who do this. Maybe you do it to. I know I kinda start to from time to time. Tell me if you do in the comments. Thanks for reading and doing everything if you did, or at least one of them :) Bye!
Jayme M Yaroch Jul 2013
My home is on a lake
a small thing
almost ordinary
for this part of the world
but my lake is special
it is different
for through my windows
is magic
the sunrise is here
which for here is odd
since we are accustomed
to the sunset of the lake
Michigan, that is
here in the southwest
known for our sunsets
but my house has a secret
we get a sunrise
every day
over our little lake
so much magic
in the colors
the wind
the reflections
my father prizes those days
the mornings where the lake is like glass
so smooth and reflective
it catches every color
as though we had TWO sunrises
and I think it is special too
because of him
but to me
the best part of a sunrise
is that I see it
the colors I could not imagine
stretching as high as I can see
as far as the sky is long
such COLORS!
the clouds of their blue-gray
visible in the earliest light
then the stain of red, like fresh blood
a small, uneven half-circle
where the sun will inevitably rise
it turns to pink
the dawn is coming!
pushing warm colors before it like a dozer
oranges and pinks grace the morning
who needs a silver lining
when the clouds give me wonders?
and when the sky seems to take no more
there is the sun!
bright, warm, glowing, pulsing
full of life, and light, and burning
I can't stare at it, even though it is beautiful
the beams refracting off the water
the light is uncomfortable
as though something were staring
watching me watch the sunrise
so many nights have bled this way
darkness receding as the light takes over
but I never regret it
I know it will not last
one day I will leave here
and never return
and this magic will be lost to me
so I enjoy it
even though no one understands
I do not care
this is my moment
my sunrise
every new day
is MY new day
a gift
the most beautiful gift
and I know it
appreciate it
acknowledge it
because in this life
this short, unbearably minute life
such magic is rare
a mystery
glorious and ephemeral
when it is gone from me
given to someone else
I will miss it
so now I treasure it
so that I have no regrets
because this is my home
the only home I've ever known
a house
on a hill
by the lake
bathed in a sunrise.
Dedicated to my parents, Brian and Suzanne, for giving me the most magical life a kid could ask for.
Jonathan Bell Feb 2014
It's the first time to feel these feelings sober. With no one to confide in, I'm realizing why I was burying them with a dozer. I dig a hole, throw em in and cover em with dirt, each layer slightly ridding me of the hurt, they are buried so deep, I never expected them to show. Time lapses as the layers are swept away, things were goin great, but the hurt begins to grow. Petals of insecurity begin to bloom, leaves of communication begin to die, the light  turns gloom, it makes me wanna cry.
Francie Lynch Dec 2016
You've heard this tale
A thousand times,
Take one more spin,
This version's mine.
And this telling tale
Is its first time.
My theme is fitting,
The message sublime,
For the Season of giving,
And gifting one's time.

For my first Christmas
I was three,
But the warmth on that night
Never cooled,
And indeed,
It was
A cold Christmas Eve.

We stuck branches of pine
In a bucket of sand,
That's the snapshot I've got
Of our Christrmas tree then.
Here's the memory that Eve
Of a lad of three,
Yet this story is true,
It's a family heirloom.

We weren't many then,
There was Mammy and Daddy
And six children, soon seven.
Daddy was an Operator
Of cranes and loaders
Dirt packers and graders.
He was working North,
Far North,
Manning a dozer,
Distant from family
Near the Quebec border.
That's where he was
Days before,
When his pant-leg caught fire,
When the diesel was spilled.

We were only three months
In our chosen homeland,
It was 1958,
And fresh from Ireland.

No way to get to him,
Nor him to get home,
No car,  no friends yet,
Little money, no phone.
Yet somebody knew
We were out on our own.

And the snow started falling,
It was Christmas Eve,
I stood at the window,
Saw the snow fill the trees.
I was still and staring,
At what I don't know,
But I remember quite vividly
All that I saw.

Like a scene from a movie
Starring Barry or Bing,
A fire-engine red no-top
Stopped and parked with high beams,
Highlighting the snow,
On that Christmas Eve.

A big man in a red suit
Slid off of the trunk,
Literally carrying a sack,
And calling, **! **!
The family joined me
At the window to see
The big man's helpers
Carry a big Christmas Tree.

When they entered the house
Kevin, Sean, Gerald and me,
Cowered and crouched
Behind the second-hand couch.
We must have resembled
Three monkeys plus me;
I hadn't a clue,
I was dumb-founded and three.

In through the front door
They clattered and sang,
Unloading their boxes
Of food, clothes and toys,
*****, bats and dolls
For two girls and four boys;
And I'm sure there was something
For the coming bundle of joy.

I don't remember their departure,
Or where he went,
But they called Merry Christmas
And left all else unsaid.

Mammy understood
Some good persons had called,
Who'd heard of our plight
And couldn't be calmed
Til they knew for certain
We'd some peace in our storm.

So, that's my first Christmas,
Since then this my creed:
*The gift of your giving
Isn't under the Tree.
The man in the red suit was the Mayor of my hometown, Sarnia. He was a successful businessman, a fine man, Mr. Ivan Walker.
Mane Omsy Feb 12
Is it cruel to silence a pregnant woman with a dozer
Sold their souls to a war criminal's thirst
Rationalizing every lies with more of them, so kosher
Ask the children died of starvation and thirst
Ever felt threatened by the fire they spit
Lessons never learned, or was it a skit
It's inhuman to take side with criminals, we all learn about our homeland freedom fighters or conflicts against oppression. This is not history, this is happening in front of our eyes, yet we are blind.
Media influenced wars gathering support from logical people filling their lives with lies.
In the end, truth shall prevail
But at what cost??
uv Jun 2018
I knocked on the door,
it was a silent night.
I knocked once more,
there was no one in sight.

The house was locked with the key inside.
I sulked and waited till dawn was to arrive.
Then the birds started chirping
and the hens with their sing
Woke every dozer sleeping, unknown to my sting.

But yet the door remained closed
outside which i strolled
I was sleepy, hungry
And my head spun like a web.
I cursed the person who defened the bell.

It was too late!

I couldnt wait anymore.
I held my head and walked away from the door.
As i did the milk man arrived
and the dear maiden inside
Opened the door to my heavens floor.

She was suprised!  seeing me outside

She began to question me in this mode,
"What on earth was i doing sitting on the road ?"
Now it did not matter to me,
For i was too delighted and at last at ease,
to see my way into a deep bright sleep.
I never knew what life meant,
Never knew where it would take me or what I would do.
Know I know that one persons opinion of you can end it,
Who'd have thought that your words would be the thing that made me realise.
You've been my final release,
you were the dozer that destroyed the walls of deception.
All I know is there was a box of pills and a few cans of cider,
they are the only friends that I have to accompany me on this lonely and cold night.
It's time to sleep now,
My lullaby is over and my head is dropping.
I may have destroyed you for which I am sorry,
But know now that you shall never have to suffer me again.
Seema Sep 2017
A poster of a roller coaster
Gifted to my master
An imposer, a loser
A big fat ******
Who sits to compile
His work yet piles
A hopeless composer
None goes to imply any closer
Ignores his work, coz he's a dozer
In the crowd, stands near girls
Like a model poser
Taken me in, he's my foster
He knows I hate seafood
Yet he orders lunch, oyster
Makes me do all hardwork
He's nothing but a monster
Walks in the alley like a crooked lobster
O' he's a pain in my head
How I've ended up with this aged promstar
Dances on his own compositions, he thinks he's a rockstar!

©sim
Dedicated to my ex employer, yes you were a pain ;-)
Gina Mar 2019
The city is all around us
I hear sirens and horns of ambulances...the police and firetrucks
While herons across the street peck their beaks into the green grass
They are not moved by the sounds.
I see palm trees  reflect the sun while cars race through our non thru  street,
Arbor Way.

Cool winds swirl grape leaves from my neighbor's yard.  It's hot. Standing in the doorway I left my chin up. Rewarding breezes soothe me. I can't wait for the air conditioning to be fixed. That's just the one thing out of everything gone wrong.

A dozen red roses stand in a vase, a gift from the twins and my daughter, her boyfriend too, looking beautiful. There's an unknown leak we've had for years in the ceiling and underneath the sink.   A Bull dozer is on the bank of our canal.

The city is here.

They're dredging all the water and stock piling rocks. The fish are dead and the turtles are gone. Even the alligator's song is lost among the grinding of machinery.

The city will stay until tomorrow. When the herons have flown and the water is high the taxes are blown and the lights are nigh.

The city is all around us.
Amidst rich foliage and a canal streaming behind my home are thunderous jets high above.... train horns in the distance and a constant hum of the freeway that only abates in the 3 am;  yet birds chirp away, lizards flicker everywhere and the palm tree fronds gently sway and whisper in the wind. Maybe its nature that pervades the city all around us.
Andrew Rueter Dec 2018
While I am innocently driving
Headlights approach behind me
That are totally blinding
Here nobody will find me
So I have to keep riding

I can barely see the road
Because the scary glow
Only seems to grow
As it gets closer
To bringing me closure
In what could be a bull dozer

Sweat falls down my cheek
Because times are bleak
When I can’t see the street
The lights and my car meet
Yet I continue moving
As the lights go through me
They illuminate my cabin
Like a luminescent dragon
Disorienting my brain
With blinding pain
On this winding lane
During hazardous rain

The headlights float through my car
While shining like an exploding star
I’m having difficulty seeing very far
The headlights are my vision’s guard
Because my eyes start burning
While my wheels keep turning
I reluctantly resume learning
Shining pain on this journey

Well this isn’t good
The lights went through my hood
Violently twisting metal
But not the gas pedal
So my car won’t settle
As the blinding lights replace my own
Now blinding others feels like home
For I want the light’s pain to be known
So I won’t feel so alone
In this blinding zone
A heart,
A soul,
A troubled heart,
A wounded soul,
A bleeding heart,
A wandering soul,
My heart,
My soul,
My hardened heart,
My battered soul,
The heart of a lion,
The soul of a bull-dozer,
The heart of a survivor,
The soul of a fighter
The heart of a guerrilla,
The soul of a gorilla,
I have seen it all,
I am a freedom fighter,
I am a Zimbabwean,
At heart and soul.
Paper paper
When you read the paper
There is a bit of news you don’t see and that is the fact that this paper meant we get rid of trees
Trees are nice to look at and
Will be used for the birds to nest in and then some bull dozer knocks them down
So we can get our daily news
I know it is part of life
But overall it isn’t good
Leave the trees alone and
Use the online news
At least then you can read what you want
You could see the stories and
If you click on them
You can hear the story as well
But on the paper is publishers
Writing articles on a substance which was once a tree
Paper paper
Do we need our paper. It really drives us crazy yeah
I read the chronicle online buddy because it is better than
Killing trees for news
Yes, paper is cool paper is weird
But then I use drawing paper
Well it is bad but the world ain’t ready to completely digital just yet but I even write on the phone and one day I might draw here too
Don’t spoil the trees for unnecessary paper
Little bit for art is fine
anthony Brady Apr 2018
A  limo parks up in a silent street:
moonlight filters into a hotel suite,
naked a form lies under a flimsy sheet.
A door opens and quickly closes,
furtively to the bed a figure moseys.
Slipping in beside the dozer,
snuggled up, ever closer,
He whispers “Julia, I need you,
You waited. I love you.”
Suddenly the tryst is broken
as deep voiced words are spoken:
“Whose Julia?”
“I’m Julian”.

TOBIAS
Filomena Mar 2022
Your pitter patter doesn't matter
The maddest hatter's just a quack.

If you can stand her, take a gander
In your stranger's candy sack.

No-one knows her; lazy dozer
Hangs her clothes up on a rack.

Tired of betting, now regretting
Never getting chances back.
Mateuš Conrad May 2021
come to "think" of it... it's not what i write about... it's how "best" i might punctuate... puncture the blinking death... my life is so most lived that it's impossible to detour into topics of holidays or... well... death's a teasing adventure ploy... isn't it? but it's hardly suspect of... blinking. it's still my most incorruptible variation of: "bride"... that death herself: is... from womb toward womb... i see no cradle... i see no grave... what was her name? the name i was in love with? KIN-GA... yeah... that one... nice to know: Darwinism is counter-intuitive to the man who conjured it... the Nimrods reproduce en-masse... the Newton(s) come by ridicule... divine intervention... chance... unlikely for Darwinism to side with those who procreate to do so... for a chance at breeding geniuses... cogs... machinery: simple pleasures demand simple rules... i loved once... now i love no more. not like i used to... i'm exhausted to have the same sort of love i had: anew. i almost want to be fed that lie of meandering utopic love... prior to the needs of biological stressors...*******... prior to "responsibility"... authority of the brick-wall... the amassing greyness of a brick-wall.

i'm not keen on giving out money...
then again: i'm also less willing to give spare
change... coins...
i'm not keen on giving out money
to... "beggars"? the "homeless"...
stray cats, lost dogs...

it would be much easier with dogs though...
although i'm no Diogenes...
companionship with stray dogs...
we might huddle together and have us
a "think"... or a bark-woof-bark...
a woof-wow! something to agitate
the cosmopolitan ladies...
giving money to... those big issue "outlets"...
however many times i walked into
the supermarket for my usual "dose"
of feeling fine: just fine...
when i could "cower" back into
my cobweb and drizzle some words
onto a blank canvas blinking at me:
although - i were the blinker
the canvas remaining static...

so i would walk past her with an air
of... no not superiority... that's beside
the point... with an air:
jeez... the weight of the world...
upon my shoulder... i truly have my problems
too... and i would never look at her...
(the) masquerade of the past year...
call it what you like...
the niqab of secularism...
advent of conspiracy... or just plain sailing
reality of: we're not talking communism...
otherwise: i just don't want to hassle
with a confrontation concerning:
why aren't you wearing a surgical-prop
in an otherwise non-sterile environment...

blah blah... 2nd jab in is when i'll make
my "point" about... whatever's left...
but she's not a ******* slot machine...
i put coins in a slot machine...
but it's not like i could give her...
companionship...
once or twice or whenever i felt like it:
i'd scoop up interactions with
these "lost souls"...
there was this one memorable talk i had
with... oh i see him still... almost 10 years later...
he moved from occupying the vicinity of
Romford train station...
having dragged his *** about 5 miles toward
the A406, and now occupies a spot
around an Irish pub formerly known
as O'Grady's...
he said these words like...
i don't know: it was enlightening akin
to a maxim... 'my mother told me to never lie'...
make sense of that however much you like...
the brain-dozer broke down
whatever...

      here: the penitent man...
i hate giving money away for no reason...
today i had a reason...
came to 25 quid...
5 quid cashback...
what else... throw money at someone...
is like throwing them a fish
instead of a fishing-rod...
god... that old chestnut line of argumentation...
today i felt... benevolent...
the end...

  as i was walking in (thank you soulless,
sunglasses)... i noticed this smile...
oh she's still in her 20s...
i'm guessing Roma... there's something eerie
about the allure of a gypsy woman...
i'm guessing because it hasn't been
fiddled with the Indian caste prejudice...
looks like Genghis... did Genghis ever make
it to Delhi... one might bemoan the sacking
of Baghdad like the Christians torching
the library of Alexandria...
but thoughtless automatons of
the Holocaust... that's what's really happening,
isn't it?
oh don't get me wrong...
i'm sorry too for the poor matchstick maker
who was industrially butchered...
not enough bullets for the gas...
i'm not... joking...
but the torching of the library of Alexandria?!
you know what was... seized by the Nazis...
gold-teeth... shoes... briefcases...
no mention of personal memoirs...
thought didn't die within the confines
of the Holocaust...
well... at the book burning it died...
but when the library of Alexandria was
torched... writing materials weren't
exactly... ha ha...          ah ha ha...
which prompted me to think about...
the whole idea of how the new testament
arose... beside, later, selling it to the northern
barbarians... pacifying them...
well... up to 1410 there was still
a paganism in Europe... Lithuania...
hardly east concerning what constitutes
the end of Europe with the Ural mountains...
by then... Islam was already circa 800 years old...
so...
no... i wondered... people always cite that
the new testament was written in Greek...
right... and the 'ebrews didn't have a problem
with the Roman occupation?
oh... they did... josephus ben matthias wrote
a book about it...
so here's me thinking...
in the age of Aesop... Spartacus... too many years
apart?
Greek pride... and the nature of
the 'ebrew as: SPEZZIAL...

well... what do you get?
oh... i'm pretty sure there was a greco-hebrew pact
worthwhile in spreading the new testament
as propaganda...
it's almost as if... the Greeks disliked the Romans
for plagiarising their polytheism...
Jupiter is... Zeus...
Pluto is... Hades... etc.

      i think it was just a massive Greco-'ebrew
conspiracy to undermine Roman authority...
after all... every time i would kneel in
a catholic mass...
i'd imagine the monstrosity of
******* off a crucified man...
          it's so... demeaning: hyper-sexualised...
kudos to the Islamic
  "gesticulating with the body in a religious context"
then again: what's wrong with
dancing... or what's wrong with
thinking about... pushing a cul-de-sac
vector into the garbage heap of "god":
or blah-lah?

but on my knees armed with
a metaphor for cannibalism?
the ****'s not wrong with that?!

i have built a fetish for the deutsche-zunge
and gypsy girls...
and as i was walking into the supermarket
for my usual dosage
and all things concerning Atlas...
in the corner of my eye i saw
this labouring extension of
post-scriptum prosthetics...
it seemed so genuine...
i was pretending to rummage through
the isles thinking about what not to buy:
rather what was available...
stringy cheese... canned horseshit...
trolley traffic of demanding buyers...
v.i.p. / solipsist types, typos...
you name them... glaciers' worth of people...
could sink a Titanic on a ******* whim...

walking out she shifted her position
while eating crisps...
you can almost tell when giving someone
a banknote rather than a coin...
she's not a ******* slot machine...
you can almost tense a sense of a handshake...
a fiver's a fiver...
i wasn't going to stretch it beyond
the words i uttered to her:

'that's for your beautiful smile...'
i probably was envious of her skin...
her complexion...
mine? mine is... like Beelzebub just took
a massive maggot-dump on it...
remnants of teenage hormones...
that's what i heard... apparently...
acne is what happens to too many
dead white-blood cells...
acne is dead white-blood cells...
what's Alzheimer's? killer proteins...
given the brain is mostly fat...
counter-intuitive...
given the common expression surrounding
the Great Cranium Pickle: flex the mental
muscles...
misnomer "propaganda": no... just plain
misnomer-ism...
to ease the fluidity of common parlance...

sooner rather than later the heavens
opened and rain came... baptismally...
i felt utterly refreshed...
how often doesn't it feel authentic to pay
for a compliment?
i'm personally used to ******* prostitutes
to believe myself: as giving pleasure...
perhaps that's this archaic male...
"innuendo"... of what ***'s about...
i heard it mentioned...
she would either say: not all men...
blah blah... yu haven't changed... blah blah...

i'd brag about a ******* Lamborghini:
if i had one... although i'd sooner brag about
owning a horse: if i had one...
i have a bicycle... which implies:
it isn't a wheelchair...
so i can experience the most out of a dual-carriageway
at speeds of, circa... 30mph...
without lycra or 'elment...

she just had this beautiful smile and i
felt inclined to give her
something for the many times i "ignored" her...
grifting or paying a "slum-rent":
who is, these days, to give out money
in banknotes on a whim?
this was a whim...

by mid-afternoon having cycled toward
Stratford i turned back before reaching
Bow... sniffing out a precipitation
% while watching the gloomy clouds...
i might have checked the weather forewarning...
but when speed's invoked...
and i'm merely peddling...
i conjure up the compound...
in deutsche:
          STURMÜBERBRINGER
how doesn't that sound majestic...
forthcoming... para-socially mythological...
no Canadian could 'elp me with that...
however pop. and psychiatric "he"
might be a worth of his own spew...

she just had these cheekbones of every
hyena's laugh an envy...
5 quid for a smile...
or 120 quie for a ****-off?
eyes that forever tease
and a tongue that's forever undermining
the whole freedom, ha ha...
"freedom" of thought...
there's not much of "it" these days...
IXNAY ON TNE HOMBRE...

tease the quill... dust the feathers:
start looking for a broomstick...
much later: persists discouraging oneself for
a worth of it... doesn't one bother...
the royalty... oh... right...
not yet forthcoming spaghetti-quizzing...
just all the... *******... pandering...

the african slaves.... picked... cotton...
so... ahem... they we're not... coalminers?
oh ugh oh **** me i'm about to choke!
those rebellious cotton-pickers...
i see ***** Goliaths 9ft tall...
and i'm worried about... my use of:
"language"?
******* before i **** someone off...
to hell with black history moonth...

            thank god i'm not a father, either...
the stress of what otherwise relaxes my "complaints":
did the gorilla ever "think" twice about *******
a macaque?
i'm just asking: the elephant ****
a giraffe?
karma sutra suite:
    the phallus of a horse inside
a ****** of a rabbit...
just watching these inter-racial themes...
you'd imagine an x-ray might be... allowed
culmination posits... then again...
why am i not dating an English "bride"?
the... Rotherham... petty tease leftovers?

i love to recycle... it's hardly important for me to...
"ergo" this... diabolical heap...
of... ugh... ugly **** gin & tonic...
i hate gin, though...
this enforced ownership of whatever freedom
is gravitated towards...
like i'm the "father"...

she's a gypsy smile...
i'm a solid 5 quid handshake...
that's the end of the story...
there's not even so much as a 'the end'
to mind... i'm still here... the soft-core continues:
beside any leftover concern for
cinema.
T R S Dec 2020
My crush made me a stupid house made out of cardboard.

Because she is so stupid, she rushed her feelings, and made a made up world that she stole from frenetic fantasies and little xanax pills.


I was stupid too, and cooled her off with *** and comfy mattress pad because I felt like a badass for having such a badbitch in my comfy covers just because she liked my ****, and was too thick to think about how radical it was do spend all of her love with a crazy bull dozer like me.

I thought with all four of her welfare made eyes she could see just how beautiful and disastrous you have to be to get on the hilt of god's golden sword.

It's not beautiful.

It's dead.

and it's morbid.
cmp Jun 2021
ole school dozer
bring dah noise
dont listen for it
awe just as i thought
bunk *** sheep again
yo def ever come
for me or mine
i'll sleep on it
jest-step-up- just step forward

— The End —