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Dante Dec 2016
"Darling Guillaume, grace me with your presence for a quick moment?"

The man beckons, inviting warmly with a graceful tone you've come to recognize as a safe place. "Yes?" you speak before reaching him, the sound of your voice somewhat faint to him as you turn to enter the kitchen, your response lingering in the hallway.
The windows are open. The air is fresh, clean and cool. The breeze is swimming in, tugging ever so gently at a lock of the man's hair, golden strands hovering for a moment before falling back into place.

You are seventeen years young, your skin is tight around your neck and your wrists feel no pain. This is your apartment. There are fruits on the counter, some of them you don't remember buying. That's because you didn't.
The red grapes- next to your preferred white grapes- are his. There are also slices of watermelon in the fridge, along with some strawberries and a small jar of cherries that seems to never empty.
He hardly ever bakes anything and when he does, it's always something that can be eaten cool. Nothing too warm for him, though you've seen that hot chocolate is an exception to that rule. He loves fruit and cold drinks, has a terrible sweet tooth and is absolutely shameless about it. He smiles often and when he laughs, you feel he is the very embodiment of joy.

You brush a lock behind your ear before he turns from the counter quickly to face you. You both have similar hair; his is a few inches longer, curls less than yours, and is a visibly lighter shade than your dark mane. Yours is shorter, curling inwards as it rests on your shoulders.
The man gazes into you; he is never afraid of eye contact. You aren't either, but given that you consider him in many ways a stranger still, it's slightly unnerving, and gives you the impression that he has a certain power that he well knows cannot be subdued. Confidence some would call it.
As for ****** similarities, there are some, not that they're very pronounced. You both have light eyes, but yours are a deep blue with chestnut and chocolate overtones, often appearing emerald green under certain lighting; much more earthly than his- an almost unnatural, true green that shines harlequin under dim lighting, like a cat's eyes glowing under the moonlight.
He seems particularly happy right now, and you can't tell if his cheerful demeanor (though not unusual) is him being in an especially playful mood today or a hint of what's to come. That is to say, another lesson.

"Hold this egg for me, will you?"

You do as you're told, looking around in an attempt to distract yourself while you wait. You don't know what you're waiting for exactly, but you assume it will only take a minute. The kitchen is illuminated completely, very bright. It's a lovely day, sunny and perfect for a walk, you think. Maybe you'll go out later.
You hold the egg for exactly five seconds before realizing the man is staring at you- smiling beautifully with what some might mistake as bedroom eyes; but you know better.

"...What?" you ask, your voice small suddenly. A smile slowly tugs the corners of your lips and you resist, both out of embarrassment and stubbornness; you don't want to submit so easily. It's quite noticeable- you couldn't hide it well, but he isn't offended in the slightest. You are, after all, so very young. He expects you to have this kind of- rather charming- behavior, and accepts it fully.

"Feel it."

He speaks quietly but with sparkling, eager eyes, like he's about to let you in on some grand, fascinating secret, and you are reminded of a dear friend.
Being a memory you visit often, it takes half a second to remember it clearly- your best friend- running towards you, tie bouncing on his chest. He wears his school uniform, it's lunchtime, and he is eager to tell you how he's found the perfect spot to relax (or study, if needed) during this hour. "You both make for a funny sight, you know!" you'd have friends tell you often. You weren't very eager to admit it then, but it's true. You can picture it now- tall, lanky, grinning class president next to short, grumpy, quiet you. Ah, the memories.
You've both been busy, settling into lives completely independent from the help of your parents. You make a mental note to call him when you have the time.

You stroke the egg with your thumb, gazing at it intently. There's something the man wants you to know and he's not going to give you the answer on a silver platter- it's not that easy, you've learned that by now. He's played games like this before where he begins a conversation suddenly- often starting with an odd, seemingly-out-of-place question- with the intention of teaching you something.
He is strict in his belief that answers should not be given but found, and if one wishes to teach something, one should guide the other to help them understand, but never lead the way. Leading would result in the thought that lessons are a destination- and that isn't the case at all. To simply give you an answer is a sin to this man, and maybe this is why you've learned so much with him.
You want your answer to please him. Yes, and that may be difficult- because at this point, there is simply no way for you to know what the correct answer could possibly be.
No matter. You'll have to work with what you have at the moment. That being, not much.

"It's... smooth."

To that, he smiles with his eyes. You don't know it, but he's very happy with your answer. Partly because he never asked a question in the first place, and your attempt to answer something that has yet to be asked is, in his opinion, a sign of a good student- one willing to learn.

"Mm. It is." He takes the egg from your hands, holding it a few inches away from his chin and observing it for the entirety of two seconds before turning his gaze to you.
His face betrays the look of a father determined to put his son on the right path; a look that says "I will not let you go until you have understood".
But he's too gentle for that. You know he'd let you go if you ever spoke of wanting to stop a lesson. Not that that's happened before. He's always so tactful that you never have reason to feel uncomfortable around him. You appreciate it; you're not terribly tolerant of tactless people, even if you do feel quite guilty about it, especially when they do seem to be trying. C'est la vie.

He is silent for a short moment, his voice replaced by the distant laughter of children playing outside. It's then that you notice the cherry.
The single red fruit, small and unassuming, sat just behind him on the counter, closer to the window than him, and you wonder for a moment if he was planning to eat it before calling you to talk. You're vaguely alarmed at the thought, for cherries aren't something he will eat often, and you've noticed that they seem to be reserved for what appear to be private special occasions- he will sometimes eat a single cherry while deep in thought, staring out the window (you've caught him people-watching a few times like this), and you wonder if he was thinking about you this time, and dropped the cherry to have some sort of urgent talk with you.
However, that doesn't seem to be the case, so you push the thought aside, unconsciously replacing it with one of your favorite memories of the man-
"Cherries are dangerous," you recall him explaining one day, "they are toxic in their excessive sweetness. Eat no more than two a week, or you'll be taken by the cherry man!" You never forgot that conversation, although it’s whimsical charm wasn’t the reason why- it drilled itself into your memory the moment you realized two very interesting things.
The first being that by "cherry man", he meant the Devil, and the second being more of a doubt than anything else- cherries are not that sweet. His argument would make more sense if he was talking about cake, for example. Whenever this memory surfaces, there is always a vague sense of confusion and wariness hidden just under the more pleasant feelings you prefer having. Nevertheless, the general sentiment in his words is that excess can be detrimental to the soul. "Greed is a terrible sin, you know." And this is why the cherry jar never empties.

"Hellooo..."
Oh- goodness, he's waving his hand in front of you. You blink a few times, responding with a rather ungraceful 'Huh?', blushing slightly from the embarrassment.

"Where did you go?" He's chuckling as he asks, and you can feel the warmth on your cheeks.

"Ah, nowhere."

He smirks with a small "hmph", before giving you a proper smile, pausing to let you come back to him fully before continuing, egg held up in his hand:

"What is the egg now, Guillaume?"

You look at it, held between his middle, index finger and thumb. What is the egg now. What a strange question. Of course, it isn't as strange coming from him; you don't think you'll ever get used to his odd lessons, but his behavior when teaching you things nobody else would is something you've come to expect by now.
What is the egg? It isn't an elephant, it isn't square. There are many things it isn't, sure. You search in your head for a possible answer, one he'll deem correct, 'till you decide on-

"It's nothing."

-a dishonest one.
For someone who's not very tolerant of tactlessness, that sure was, well, tactless. Why did you say that? Insincere and blurted out without any thought. He takes notice immediately, and you wordlessly apologize profusely, combing your fingers through your hair and avoiding eye contact.

He's much older than you. He's also wise- wiser than most people his age, you think. Whatever the man wants to teach you, it's obviously something he already fully understands. The fact that he knows more than you however, does not mean you are below him; he never wants you to do anything for the sake of pleasing him and what you've done just now is exactly that. He can, however, sympathize- he's a perfectionist himself and understands the desire to do things right. There is a time and place for everything though; an order, and what you've shown now is good intention misplaced, which is a potentially dangerous thing.
He has no concerns regarding the acceptance of chaos when it is necessary,
that isn't the problem. The problem is that your dishonesty is chaos in a situation that warrants order.

"I don't want you to try to please me, Guillaume. I welcome incorrect answers so long as they are entirely honest."

There is a pause, and he sighs before remembering just how young you are. He realizes you might have accepted him as a parental figure or mentor of sorts by now, and it's an honor, really- you're a bright boy and he enjoys your company very much.
Your accepting him as a parental figure however, does not give him the right to scold you; no, that would horrible. If you will learn, it'll only be because you will allow him to teach you. He must never force his way into you.

"Look at me." His voice is firm but gentle.
You hesitate for a second, but whatever you were feeling is gone the moment you notice his expression- warm and inviting; "try again" it says. You are willing to now.

"You can see the egg, can you not? Surely it isn't nothing if it's still a part of your reality. You see an egg, and that still makes it one."
He hides it behind his back, and you are confused at the action but eager to understand. You give him a questioning look and he smiles before giving you an answer.

"What is the egg now?"

With a question, anyway.
You think long and hard, silently focusing all your attention on the creases of his shirt. You stare at the man's chest for a full minute and a half, determined not to make the same mistake again. You will answer honestly, yes; but you will also impress him- and possibly yourself- with a good answer.
The subject isn't exactly new or difficult for him, you're sure. He will sometimes leave the house and not return for a day or two and when questioned, responds with an inconclusive "Mm. Studying." You still aren't sure what that means and you feel it's best not to think too much about it, but surely it has something to do with these lessons of his, no?
He's obviously studied this before, you think; you are operating on a much lower level than him and have a vague awareness of this. It just isn't as pronounced because the man insists on treating you as his equal. As far as he's concerned, you are both students capable of learning from each other every day. You hope to one day teach him something, and not by accident, as it tends to happen. Soon, perhaps. Maybe now.
You look up at him with a determined look on your face, satisfied with your conclusion.

"An idea. The egg is an idea-"

"Why?"

You barely finish saying your answer when he's already questioning your reasoning. You'd be nervous if you didn't already know that his bluntness wasn't the result of annoyance, but of curiosity. He is eager to teach, yes, but he is more eager to learn. After all, a good teacher hasn't accomplished much if they haven't learned anything from their student.
New ideas need to exist. In conversation, one should always aim to walk away with new information, a new perspective. Sometimes this information is given to you, other times you must take it; something he's given you is the ability to think more critically. He's all but trained you to do so. It's much easier now to get into this mindset than it was when you first met the man. You're glad to have had the chance to practice this sort of thing at all; you don't think you could have done it with anyone else.

"Because there is ultimately no way for me to know if the egg still exists."

There really is no way to be sure.
The egg isn't a part of you any longer. You can no longer see it, or touch it. You can't hear it, either. It isn't there anymore and having seen it being hidden, all that there is now is the suggestion of it's existence.
Your answer was truthful and concise and you feel nothing else need be explained. When you search the man's face for any signs of contentment, you find none. No, what you find is something quite different. An absolutely luscious smile, and those bedroom eyes.
His voice turns low and he speaks clearer- a calm tone of voice that would make anyone submit if he asked them to.
He's challenging you. Both begging and demanding you to win.

"But I know the egg exists. I am telling you it does. Am I lying?"

His voice could be very seductive sometimes. Especially at times like this, when daring you to step further into his world.
His world. One that was always bright and pleasant and hid something underneath- a barely audible humming that you've managed to ignore until very recently. If there was such a thing as feeling a lack of light despite there physically being none, you felt it every time the man dared you to chase him into his labyrinth.
There was just something very visceral that would bleed through sometimes; in his eyes, his hand gestures, in his voice.

"It doesn't matter." you tell him, your words quick and blunt.
He is amused. Shocked, even. You push away the rising bravado before it fully shows; don't want to jinx it now.
Eyebrows raised, he gives you an impressed "Oh?" and you continue, clarifying to back up your risky (despite yielding good results) answer.

"Assuming you are holding it in your hand right now, it's still an egg to you. By the mere act of touching it, it becomes a part of your realm of understanding; it exists to you, right now, as what it is- an egg."

You can't see it of course, but he's mindlessly stroking it with his thumb now, much like how you did at the start of this conversation. Both his hands are behind his back, resting on the counter he leans on. He listens intently.

"...You tell me it still exists, but that doesn't change what it's become to me. It stopped being an egg the moment you hid it from me. No matter what you know to be true, that reality isn't always going to be a shared one.
You have an egg, I have an idea."

There can be many correct answers, he thinks. He doesn't believe in there being a single, ultimate truth about anything. If the self is all one can know, why is one's understanding of the universe not considered a reality in itself, one separated from what most consider the only reality? Your explanation follows this concept and he's thrilled tha
This is fanfiction, but you don't need to be in any fandom to understand and enjoy this, I've made it accessible enough for everyone to understand; the fandom bits in this aren't crucial to the story, so everyone can enjoy it (although people in the fandom might enjoy it differently, but that goes without saying I guess).

It's daftpunk/label au for anyone who wants to know.
Guy-manuel and Crydamoure are the characters.

-
gotta eat an egg roll

gotta see an egg roll

baby make it ****** roll

yeah it sounds so cool

i like an egg roll

for my breakfast dude

i would try an egg roll

yeah, how cools that, dude

you see if i ate an egg roll

my taste would smell like a chicken pen

and i go out to collect the eggs

i am thinking of making my egg roll

i want to see an egg roll

i will put egg custard in my glass

and add some ***** in it

cause that is what ***** is for

it is to make an egg roll

a beautiful tasty yummy chewey egg roll

i want to have an egg roll

i really want an egg roll

to put it in my gob with a cup of coffee or tea or drinks for me

you see i wanna have an egg roll

a super tasty egg roll

you see my egg roll can be filled with bacon

and it can be a smoking’, i’m not joking

i just want my tasty egg roll, with bacon
you can undercook pork - a little bit of pink
is rather - favourable -
you can undercook beef - a little bit...
let's go full bleu: which has a name... pittsburg
blue...
but please don't slaughter the cow,
send it to the butchers for the cuts...
and then shame it by cooking it well done...
thrice the cow thus dies...
aside from... fish...
well...
i was never a fan of chicken *******...
because whenever someone cooked them:
i.e. my mother - they tended to be... dry...
chicken drum-sticks and the almost grey area
of muscle flesh close to the bone -
these days? the former schnitzel fan has
become a chicken roulade fan...
because the stress for 165°F - and 5 minutes
worth of rest... for the cooked meat...

Ciara - another daughter of U Kʼux Kaj -
she can still be felt in the early night
when walking the streets...
some storms never reach essex -
and that's probably why i decided to grow
my beard long - to feel it combed
by the wind... this elongating chin to match
the moon's scythe -

point being... cooking chicken is unlike cooking
beef or pork... because...
well beef is born from blood -
in the body of another -
the mother - the pork is born from blood -
in the body of another - the mother...
you can undercook it... most certainly:
esp. the beef...
trouble with chicken: is the trouble
with undercooking fish...

to perfect the cooking of chicken meat...
is very much like cooking the perfect
soft-boiled egg...
you want the yoke to be runny...
and the white to be a: ścięte białko...
a coagulated white...
it's quiet amazing how chicken meat
behaves like the egg - the protein
in the atom -
how you have to mind cooking chicken:
for that juicy chicken breast roulade -
in the same way as minding a soft-boiled
egg...

i've never noticed this...
apparently that's the glaring obvious...
it always was!
beef you can undercook: cook it perfectly:
overcook it...
pork you can undercook: cook it perfectly:
overcook it...
chicken? you can only cook it perfectly
or overcook it...
undercooked chicken is a bit like...
finding a raw scallop nugget kiev-esque
in your chicken -

perhaps because: we can eat a poultry abortion:
the egg -
that i forgot or never minded to think:
the meat will behave like the egg -
the protein is borderline with seafood...
after all.. the birds are fish with wings...
that we managed to domesticate
a wolf and breed it with a dingo
and give it a bark...
how did we pluck the hawk from the sky
and gave it marching orders among
the strutting gehenna-game of the wehrmacht
with the geese...

i have no "beef" with the british and their past...
how many zulus became slaves?
hot topic...
if only a people were as fortunate -
not to be landlocked -
the last known invasion dates back to
1066 - nothing is spoken about the ottoman
empire or the mongol empire at the gates...
perhaps other people too...
could have their idle -
and been left to their own devices...
their high tea and all sort of *******...
but i'll still bemoan that...
this language does not have any orthography...
but it does have: n'dubz...
and a york-shyre from peckham and the rest...

- you simply can't undercook chicken...
you can either cook it to perfection...
or overcook... anything undercook is not going
to be eaten!
an undercooked chicken breast roulade?
that's scallop nugget in a kiev-esque chicken..
but why didn't i see it sooner...
how chicken meat would behave like
the egg when it was being cooked?
after all... what becomes of the yoke
when translated into the full-grown chicken?
the internal organs? the bones?
i'm pretty sure the egg-white translates into
the skeleton...
and the bones? it's not like the egg-shell
implodes...

in my hand i hold a chicken's egg:
a poultry abortion...
in my hand, also... a babushka doll...
this: little matron... бaбушкa...
because who would have thought that...
cooking the perfect chicken roulade...
would be akin to... 15 minutes extra...
when working from a soft-boiled egg...
oven-baked of course...
prior to the skin needs to be butter-fried...
and you can't enjoy
a chicken's neck... if it's not poached...
too many bones: not enough meat...
the neck of the chicken needs to poached...

again: one feels inclined to stress the importance
of curating the meat: curing it is one "thing"...
but it's almost an art...
as long as you respect the meat...
i find that most vegeterians or vegans
become thus...
because they have not learned to respect
the meat they're about to eat...

beef you can undercook... the sooner you do so...
the less chance that you'll butcher a second time
with a well-done: eating sand...
wishing it was poppy-seeds itching at the gums
between your teeth...

to respect the meat is to also bite off the heads
of the bones... for the over-cooked marrow...
i once held 30 or so poultry hearts in a cusp of hands...
hands prior to romeo & juliet's amen and kiss...
before i imagined what 30 hearts would otherwise
look like: if i was given the remaining body parts...

or 30 poultry stomachs readied for the broth...
with groats...
i too would become a vegeterian...
if the only chicken ******* i ate in my life
were: usually over-cooked...
dry... simulating imitation cheese
and chalk... the sort of meat: overcooked...
whereby your teeth start to experience
protein glue... and it's hard to pull the jaw
from the skull apart...

i have mentioned pittsburg blue, haven't i?
you can undercook beef and pork...
but you can't undercook chicken...
now unless you want to encounter
a pocket of a raw scallop sensation...
a chicken has to be treated as well as an egg...

most of the time you need to undercook
beef and pork...
but chicken requires...
oh glory be to the poached egg on toast...
the scrambled eggs undisturbed fried on
some pork dewlap...
when you can tell the difference between
the yoke and the whites...

such a versitile creature - this domesticated
hawk... this chicken marshal...
this would be cannibal... i've seen how one
becomes butchered with an axe -
one chicken, one axe - on stump of wood...
the rolling eyes of the decapitated...
the other chickens didn't mind...
they'd run up to the altar with the running
blood of rivers making letter markings
on the woody crumble...
and drink the blood... peck at left-over
flesh from the decapitation...

"gender expressions"... and... what's that?
leftover grammar from french...
translated from inanimate objects:
as being either endowed with a phallus
or a floral pattern -
but in english almost all objects of worded
interaction are gender-neutral!

native tongue "endowement"...
słońce - sun - is feminine...
księżyc - moon - is masculine -
krzesło - chair - i'm siding with masculine...
stół - table - that's clearly "gender neutral" /
alias: hermaphrodite... alias for the *******...
son / daughter of Aphrodite...
kamień - stone - masculine...
góra - mountain - feminine...

and so the heavens opened and became:
short on breath and soul...
the groundwork of earth...
the earth itself... started to nibble
on the delicacy of feet - the wind whispered...
and the echo: and the footsteps...
and the dutch clank convened and called it:
marriage!

how grammar transcended casual english
usage... how it bypassed orthography...
how it never attained orthography...
oh yes... the russian have it...
but... who would have expected it...

n'est ce pas?

what was once the gestalt primer...
that became a rorschach test...
i say: it's either a ink-blotch of a pelvis or a moth...
but with regards to the selfie:
i always require two mirrors...
i still remember the days when someone
would take a photograph of you being:
oblivious...
as if god: the narrator...
convened and descended upon the scene
and imposed directions of keen: montage...

the basis of gender neutrality of nouns...
it can't be extended to encompass verbs...
an oak: dąb - is male...
but a pine - sosna - is female...
all fruit bearing trees are female connotations...

whatever sheryl crow's debut album was...
wasn't alanaise morissette's jagged little pill -
however the conundrum spins with no
favor for the electric currents passing via
Ariel... give me the wind god...
the daughters and barons of: the lesser involved!

because i'm a far cry the alpha...
kindred of the omega... and all that alphabet
of meaning behind letters...
"self-imposed"... less a ******* and more...
feeble guide of watching others get
pleasured by the mantis
and the black widows of tomorrow...

a cactus would grow in my palm should
i witness germany re-united:
at least that's how the proverb stood its ground...
before common or passed on "wisdom"
learned to gravitate toward...
soap bubbles pop... charcoals smoke...
ms amber becomes a river
when there was no river expected...

the tides are hardly shy: they're buying time...
this one last commodity of the rotten mind
of the gambler...
puny prophet - of fate -
alongside the weathermen of a forgotten
afternoon: come birthday prior to noon...
and the fungus umbrellas chat
among themselves in a premature autumn
cascade...

fungus or just... lungs... devoid of a body?

my god: the kids are going after the grammar
that has already absolved them...
knitting mosquitos and lambasting
gherkins' worth of would-be:
pickled cucumbers...

that herring tartar... with dill and juices...
that baltic sushi never to arrive
at the cusp of the Caspian sea...
Molotov shots;
the Russians will always bring glasses
and ***** with them...
because... they somehow can...

- and that's because...
sheryl crow's debut album wasn't
alanaise morissette's...
but never makes the cards of a...
poker-match-up to better not earn
money if all that money is a gambler's
Eden...

- there are better ways to get away with
cooking an egg...
there's this entire myth of...
no poultry sushi...
mein gott! how the meat agrees with
abortions...
you can undercook beef,
you can undercook pork...
but when there are poultry standards...
they're just as risk-aversive as when...
a soft-boiled egg is required...
same with meat...

this direct translation of the atomised meat
in an egg white...
how it needs to coagulate to pristine juice
and all that perfect *******...
and... ****** via the runny yoke...
because i believe there's a puritanical
aspect of all life in general...
when hard-ons are sold
within the quarantine confines
of a viagara episode of: ***** into a hard-on...

chuckles and whittle charlie chaser says:
no man was ever ***** into a hard-on...
no?!
when charlie met chuckles and chuckie
and charles...
it must be a russian "thing"...
they have them... and hide them better...
there's nothing to hide in english...
just bad grammar and trans-grammar....

i.e. чa-чa-чa
            believe me... they managed to fold...
hide the caron in that alice through the looking-glass
of greek mu: μ - or (h)atches open!
how about hiding...  (letovers: č              č
the caron, in russian?          č č             č č         č)
or the H and the Z in english and polish
respective - whole - attached to the S?

epsilon lying back... the toil
of Sysiphus is a bore: шit...
****... and... шarp...
and... mateuш...
    
maybe people... or so we at least,
have inkling to hope to be receptive of...

щ: twice the hiding caron...
it's not that the russians don't use diacritical
markers - they just hide them differently...
the self-exposed vowels...
last of the reminders...
because there's the carpenter's obligation
to chisel a Y into an I...
or at least a J...

to add this currency of momentum is...
to... leave without a memory spare...
whipped along the trail via
a maine ****'s finicky worship of
air that will never translate itself
as being: breathed...

and yes: i drink... i drink to relax
my lexicon from the everyday strict: rules
and obligation of formal mr and mrs
and what doesn't fit into
a metaphor tuxedo...

over-cook pasta: we'll never talk again...
over-cook beef or pork: ditto...

it's an art to treat cooking poultry meat
with a quasi seafood status of scallops...
to curate a soft-boiled egg -
not quiet the abortion portioned
within the confines of a lost shell when
thrown into the dead-bath of
a lobster's litany when the neither alive
nor dead is cooked...

some bloos is necessary when it comes
to either beef or pork...
but you can't just have undercooked
poultry...
the grounded clipped wing marshall:
the decency of cooking poultry has
to be equated with cooking
a soft-boiled egg...

otherwise the common saying:
one apple a day... keeps the doctor away...
well...
one poem a day... keeps the psychiatrist away...
no? who are the circus freaks
the pseudos and the quasis of what...
has to be compensated by mr. rather dr.
surgeons and... the better half of whatever
becomes the butchering degree:
a degree in: what's not to be eaten...
but what has to be left intact
and reused?

less the homosexual yet still la la land...
not quiet cuck...
but still... every time i visited...
and never managed to peer at
the sort of first-person doom shooter experience
that otherwise third party sources would
allow me when...
the best fallatio is done in third-person...
talk about having someone to sit
on your face like...
never the literal metaphor translation
of ****** acts...
face-grubber from alien and...
performing oral *** on a woman...
no... none of it is true!
******* and winding archaic clocks...

some would even call it electricity should
it come from a burning candle!
MindsPalace Oct 2017
Peter got his very own egg. His had a package of skittles.
Lizzy got her very own egg. Hers had two rolling dice.
Sarah got her very own egg. Hers had a book of riddles.
Landon got his very own egg. His had bean-bags with rice.
Kathy got her very own egg. Hers had a mini clown.
Henry got his very own egg. His had a lock and key
I got my very own egg, and I was jumping up and down
As this was my first egg that was given just for me.
I had reached the age of ten, so now I was allowed
To have my own egg this easter, and boy was I proud.
I took my egg, I tore it open, and what was inside?
What was inside was suddenly something I wanted to hide...
"What's inside?" Asked Peter and Lizzy.
"What'd you get?" Asked Sarah and Landon.
"Is it candy?" Poked Kathy and Henry.
And I ran away, because nothing is a hard companion.
Nothing. My egg had nothing. I tried to let it go...
It really should've been easier as the months went all too slow...
But nothing, good old nothing: It stayed and seemed to grow...
And nothing's now my only friend, and because I made it so.
Sophia Granada May 2016
Of all the many pitfalls in life, I’d have to say the greatest one for me has always been the stipulation that I exist in a corporeal form. Existence itself is no issue, but the added responsibility of feeding and caring for my Fleshcart is often too daunting a task for me. Eating, sleeping, wearing clothes, and going to the bathroom: at twenty years old, these duties are far from second-nature to me. I eat only too much or too little, neglect to sleep, dress like a confused gremlin, and refuse to enter the restroom of a building that looks too “old.” These are the affectations of a child, or a demon unfamiliar with the creature it has taken possession of, and even I am tired of my “eccentricity.”

About a month ago, during a rainstorm, I stopped wearing shoes. I think most people would recognize the inherent dangers of a shoeless lifestyle; broken glass is the most glaringly obvious thing which comes to mind, followed closely by plants that grow thorns, and uneven ground. To be fair to myself, there were reasons that one might conceivably label as justifiable. I had no appropriate shoes, sought not to ruin any good pairs, and realized that no matter what I wore, my feet would be soaking by the end of the day anyway. Realizing these things, I left my dorm to navigate the rain shoeless that morning and when evening arrived, I became aware my feet did not ache as they usually do at the end of the day. April showers bring stupid ideas, and I was soon constantly going shoeless.

As I mentioned before, one encounters many dangers when traversing life barefooted, and the one which I failed to account for is that feet really begin to show their wear after taking very little abuse at all. Only a week or two after swearing off shoes entirely, I noticed that the normal calluses on the bottoms of my feet had grown into monstrosities of a quarter inch thick, as if my foot were striving to become as much like the sole of a shoe as possible. The calluses were *****, yellow, and ragged at the edges of my foot, where they split into cracks and itched like all Hell. Despite these symptoms, I stubbornly persisted in carrying on like Johnny Appleseed’s most misguided disciple.

My no-shoes stunt had to be put on hold indefinitely when the semester ended and I went back home to Jackson, which should really be at the end of a rainbow guarded by a horde of leprechauns, the way the potholes in the street are filled with shards of broken glass like so many cauldrons full of jewels. I may have given up the lifestyle, but I was not free of its consequences, and my feet were by no means pretty to look at, and still burned and itched at the edges of the sole. Finally, I recognized my problem for what it was: yet another failed experiment in the life of a person who simply does not understand how to own a body. Regretting the violence I had done against my feet, I sought the remedy of a Ped-egg and some lotion.

Last week, I used the Ped-egg for the first time in the bath, and I removed so much callus from the bottoms of my feet that the water looked white, and seemed to swirl a little when I moved my hands through it. When I drained the tub, bits of my skin still clung to the bottom in heaps. I would, perhaps, call it a marvel that a human being can survive with so much useless tissue clinging to the bottom of the foot. The Ped-egg has a little compartment built in for trapping the foot shavings, and so it should really impress you that I managed to shave so much crap off of me that the Ped-egg could not hold it. Afterwards, I tried to open the little compartment to clean it out, but I pried at it in vain, and surmised that perhaps, now that I had put the egg together, I was not supposed to take it apart. Comfortable with the reality I had constructed, in which pieces of my flesh were to languish in this little plastic egg thing and nothing disgusting at all would happen, I closed the whole thing up, put it away, and forgot about it. That is how we get to where we are today.

Tonight, thinking that, like all other things related to my physical form, there might be some element of “maintenance” or “upkeep” to all this, I thought to shave the bottoms of my feet once again. I opened the Ped-egg, and noticed some things that seemed off. On the face of the cheese-grater contraption, there was a little bit of greenish brown funk, like mildew or mold. As a Mississippian, I am unperturbed by many kinds of moist growths, as no one really knows what-all might choose to make its home in ninety percent humidity. I dipped the foot-grater in my bath water, and rubbed at the funk to encourage it to relocate. Unfortunately, I had unknowingly scratch-and-sniffed my way into Stankville, and immediately I made the connection in my mind between the pieces of foot I had discarded a week ago, and the stench of rotting flesh which was currently accosting my nose.

I sat in the bath and stared at the amulet of olfactory torture I had just unearthed, thinking of the many paths that lay before me. I could grab a match from the box sitting on the tank of the toilet and just light this ***** on fire right now, or I could pry open the window above the tub and just throw the whole package out there into the world to fend for itself. But, at the back of my mind there nagged one persistent thought: my feet really needed scraping, and this Ped-egg was an obstacle that had to be overcome for that to happen. I rose from the water like the swamp-thing I am and trudged toward the sink with Ped-egg in hand.

First things first: figure out the week-old puzzle of how the **** to open this thing. In the end, I had to use a bobby pin to lock pick my way into the Ped-egg, and then horrible things happened. A small cloud of gas rose up, finally free to cause misery in the world unhindered, and a pile of yellow shavings, pulverized by time and bacteria, resembling sauerkraut, began to stink very deliberately at me like a cartoon pie made of dead things. I rinsed out the egg, but it was not enough, for the smell of rotting flesh still persisted, and reminded me of the pathogens which had had a hand in its creation. I reached for the nearest thing that even slightly resembled a disinfectant, a little spritz-bottle of Bactine, and went to ******* town on that ****. Having won my battle against my own one-week-fermented meat, I returned to the tub to really work on those calluses.

As I scrubbed away, accumulating hunks of Fresh Human in the Ped-egg’s little compartment, I could not shake the recurrent intrusive thought that I had just smelled exactly what my own dead body would give off after my death, and it was more than a little unsettling. It did not help that the plastic form of the Ped-egg locked in smells like old tupperware never even ******* thought about doing, and so every so often I would get another whiff of my own proteins breaking down in nature’s most horrifying miracle. My little blunder with the Ped-egg had earned me a front row seat to the show of my own decay, and I had thus faced myself with my own mortality in a way I really was just completely unprepared for.

I have never been afraid of death. I have been in near-death situations, and thought to myself “oh it looks like this is probably the end,” as if I had lost track of time and suddenly found that it was lunch. The idea of nothingness is not frightening, and is actually more comforting than imagining that I will die and go to any kind of afterlife. Wouldn’t it be a rip-off? To think you were finally free and then wake up in some ****** production of Life 2: The Sequel? My rotting feet have given me a fear of death that is based in my daily fear of inconveniencing people, but on a much grander scale. If one little white capsule of foot is so bad, then what is a room full of girl like? Who has to clean that up? Rotting away after death is just one more stupid part of having a corporeal form, that after I die not only is this shell useless, but actually gross and harmful and diseased and inconvenient. ******* great. That’s exactly what I needed. One more thing I’m gonna have to figure out how to deal with.
I don't know how it started

But it's an annual event

But I don't think that an egg hunt

Is the best way to present

The story of our saviour

Chocolate eggs you go and find

I don't think that's the image

That the church wants in our mind

Every year since I was little

Our family made a choice

Either host the Easter Dinner

Or go hunting for eggs and toys

This year we chose the egg hunt

It was better than the meal

But our egg hunt went all wonky

In fact it all was so surreal

Most years twenty people

Showed to hunt about the yard

so setting out some easter eggs

Didn't seem so hard

But this  year, thanks to facebook

People showed up by the score

When all was done the count was

One hundred twenty four.

With that many people coming

A family meeting then took place

One hundred twenty four people

This was way off base

With Uncles, Aunts and cousins

Grandparents and the rest

some new plans would be needed

to execute this test

I thought about logistics

There was only so much yard

To run an easter egg hunt

Was going to be hard

I checked the list of children

Eighty seven kids or so

But I said that we would host it

So I could not tell them no

I called up all the Uncles

Told them come around to plan

They all showed up as suggested

All fourteen, to a man

We needed eggs and then some

Chocolate, mallow...every kind

We had to hit the stores fast

We had to buy up every kind

Baskets, ribbons, bows and stuff

stuffed rabbits, all they had

We had near ninety children

And we could not have them sad

We drank and set agendas

We all planned out our attack

They would all come out before hand

And the goodies, we'd unpack

The women met as well though

Dying eggs would be their task

They got 100 dozen large eggs

and some colouring to mask

The last time plans were handled

on a scale as big as this

Was on D-Day for the Allies

And we knew that didn't miss

We had crepe paper for streamers

Balloons and chocolate logs

but the one thing we'd forgotten

We also had twelve dogs

We had to keep them busy

While we figured out just how

We were going to hide all of our presents

And we had to figure NOW!

We called up to the kennel

To book them all in for the night

But, they didn't have the space so

We'd have to make do with our plight

Two days before Good Friday

All the parents showed to meet

We would plan and hide the goodies

We would all be so discreet

We would hide the eggs on Friday

While the kids all went to pray

Then we'd come back here  for dinner

And we'd finish Saturday

It was easy, a no brainer

We would pull it off....with ease

It would take great execution

And the children would be pleased

On Friday night they all arrived

And were given tasks we all could handle

We all went out to the yard to hide

The eggs, by lighted candle

We stuck them up in trees and then

In bushes by our gnomes

We hid them in the veggie patch

We hid them in our home

When finished we'd put eggs and toys

Of every shape and size

We were all so ****** tired

We could barely blink our eyes

The next day all our work  was shot

When we went outside to see

That night after we'd finished

Some raccoons came out of the tree

twelve hundred eggs and four raccoons

Two skunks and nineteen rats

Decided that they like out smorgasbord

And to them then...that was that

Hard boiled eggs of every size

For them to come and eat

After surveying the damage

We vowed we'd not be beat

We set to work and dyed more eggs

another nine hundred in all

We sent all of the mothers out

To buy gifts at the mall

We'd lay them out before the hunt

We didn't care when they got hid

We had to have an easter game

For eighty seven kids

We strung the streamers through the house

We wrapped the willow tree

It looked just like "The Party Place"

Had blown up...just for me

We put balloons up everywhere

The kids would be surprised

Uncle Jack would wear a bunny suit

It was a good disguise

With lots of work and alcohol

We'd get this egg hunt done

And come hell or come high water

The children would have fun

On Sunday they came back from Church

And I want you all to know

That we had a real nice dinner

For we overlooked the snow

While sitting in the church pews

Hearing tales of Easters Past

A storm came in so vicious

And it came in really fast

By the time we'd reached the garden

There was one foot on the ground

It had snuck up on us quickly

And it didn't make a sound

So the egg hunt never came about

We took them out for lunch

It'll be our last time trying this

At least that is my hunch

If it comes down to a choice now

To ever utilize my home

For an egg hunt here at Easter

I won't answer the phone!
Poach me not
I'm not your egg
I'm not your world!

Oh! Your world is your egg
Don't fry it
Don't boil it
Hatch it to a noble bird!

Your world is a fragile egg!

Come knowledge
Come understanding
Come wisdom
To make the sentience choice.

Poach me not
I'm not your egg
Your world is your egg
Your egg is your world
Let your egg multiply!
SøułSurvivør Aug 2016
~~<♢>~~

moon egg glistening
in nest of cloud
unsuspecting
it's lain in shroud

the egg is symbolic
of the soul
the clouds devour
the moon egg
whole

but this egg
won't be undone
it is lighted by the sun

so the cloud's belly
dark as night
shows an eerie
ethereal
light

the moon egg glows
and softly sings
so the cloud's
edges
wear a ring

moon egg coming
from the girth
gives the
impression

of

REBIRTH!



SoulSurvivor
(C) 8/10/2016
Another poem in my moon series. The half moon really looks like an egg. And it was up in the sky in a cloud that looked like a nest. That very Cloud devoured it. But it poured out such light that the entire edges of the clouds were backlit. Truly a beautiful sight!

Time for me to go to bed now.
I'll read more tomorrow
I’d thought that they were extinct until
I found one in the coop,
A genuine Jersey Giant, strutting
Up on the henhouse roof,
Twice the size of the other hens
As I said to my sister, Faye,
‘Where did it come from?’ She replied,
‘Not there yesterday!’

‘I go to collect the eggs each day,
Do you think that could be missed?
That bird is a giant,’ she declared,
‘So don’t blame me, desist!’
I calmed her down, for she used to flare
At the slightest hint of crit.,
‘Whatever it is, it’s here to stay,
Perhaps we can breed from it?’

There wasn’t a cockerel near the size
Of this random Jersey Black,
‘It must have come visiting overnight,
I joked, ‘from a neighbour’s shack.’
She wandered into the henhouse and
From behind an empty keg,
She said, ‘You’d better come look at this,’
And showed me a giant egg.

An egg so big that you wouldn’t think
That a chicken could let it pass,
Tall and brown with a pointed crown
And a shell as thick as glass,
‘Are we going to let it hatch it out,’
Said Faye, ‘or crack it yet?
I wonder how many that would feed
As a giant omelette?’

‘We’ll leave her be, and we’ll wait and see
If a monster’s there inside,
We might as well, if a cockerel
It can be the henhouse pride.’
So we let her sit on the giant egg
For a week, or maybe more,
Then Faye came running inside one day,
‘You’ve not seen this before!’

The egg emitted a humming noise
And rocked a bit on its base,
While through the shell there were coloured lights
That would fade then grow apace,
And as we stood it began to crack
Then pieces would fall away,
It almost gave me a heart attack
For what I saw that day.

For spinning inside the egg we saw
A tiny universe,
With a sun-like star at the centre and
Our planets, in reverse,
And as we watched it began to grow
To float out the henhouse door,
Swelling constantly as it rose
To the skies, with a mighty roar.

I don’t know what it has done to us,
The sky doesn’t look the same,
There are three moons now in the evening sky
Since the Jersey rooster came,
I lopped the chicken that laid the egg
And I wait for the slightest sight,
With an axe for the Jersey cockerel
That Faye prays to at night.

David Lewis Paget
Karen Hamilton Jan 2016
I do love my little egg cup,
His brother much the same,
He holds my egg so perfectly;
Boiled eggs are not a game.

They bounce about for 4 minutes
Before they take their test,
They need a place to hold them straight;
My egg cups are the best.

When the soldiers are awaiting,
Those buttered friends of mine,
I need my little egg cups
To keep them all in line.

They come with little cosy hats
To hide their eggy heads,
I take it off and just like that;
Prepare for eggy bread!




© Karen L Hamilton, 2013
I love boiled eggs all year round but especially on Christmas morning following family tradition, so here's a playful poem showing my love for my little Egg cups!!
Rowan Darcy Apr 2016
There was an egg who dreamed a dream,
Of life in light,
A life of flight,
Some world of sight,
The egg did shiver in delight,
And lo,
Behold,
A crack was formed,
And through the rend,
The sunlight stormed,
SCRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEE
The egg abhorred the feel,
Of air flow through the shattered seal,
It bucked and jumped,
It smashed and pumped,
Till it was no more an egg.
labyrinth Apr 2015
I am a caged bird, my song is calm
my master lets me sleep in his palm
I am a caged bird, my song is weak
my master likes to kiss my beak
I am a caged bird, my wings are useless, they're clipped
my master thinks I'll leave with every drink he sipped
I am a caged bird, my eyes are dark and brooding
my master thinks its his fate to which I'm alluding

I am a caged bird, my master broke my cage
Because my song changed after seeing his rage

I am an injured bird, my song is calm
my master lets me sleep in his palm
I am an injured bird, my song is weak
my Master likes to kiss my beak
I am an injured bird, my wing is pierced
my Master only hurt me because I hurt him first
I am an injured bird, my eyes are hopeless
my Master says he misses my caress
I am a happy bird, I cannot fly
but with my Master I need not try
I am a Happy bird, I cannot sing
for my Master, my sweet king
I am a Happy Bird, I laid an egg one day
it seems like master will let me stay

Master doesn't want another bird, he says
I am a content bird, I take my egg and part ways.

Master is looking for me, he looks insane
I hold my egg and cry, I need not explain

I am a hiding bird, I do not sing
for fear that through the forest my song will ring
I am a hiding bird, I dropped my egg and it died
for fear that this baby would know the reasons I cried

I am an injured bird, wont you please come see?
I won't even take off the ring he put on me
I am an injured bird, wont you **** me now?
He's hurt me too much to break my vow

I am an injured bird, I miss my Master
the one before his blows came faster
to be continued
Mel Williams Mar 2019
I am being made new.
The egg, cracked in half.
Taped together with scotch tape and super glue.
The yolk entirely devoid of its once-consistant home.

This is emptiness.
This is being renewed.
This is what it is to feel and not feel.
To be and not be.

The hand dips me.
Reaches for me.
Dunks me in a solvent of cement and tissue paper.

I am rock.
I am eggshell.
I am tissue paper.
I am two parts vulnerable,
one part entirely indestructible.

I weigh 1000 tons.

I would sink in a river.

I miss the yolk that once inhabited me.
Golden yellow:
So much promise. So much desire.

A gray mallet cracks me open.
It ecavates me.

I miss my terrible weight.

A hot glue gun binds me back together.
I am neither egg nor rock nor air nor yolk.
I am all and none at all.
I am egg soup.
Egg solid.
Egg squared and solidified.
Egg smashed and built again.
        ...The limitless persistance of life.
howard brace Feb 2012
Inconspicuous, his presence noted only by the obscurity and the ever growing number of spent cigarette stubs that littered the ground.  It had been a long day and the rain, relentless in its tenacity had little intention of stopping, baleful clouds still  hung heavy, dominating the lateness of the afternoon sky, a rain laden skyline broken only by smoke filled chimney pots and the tangled snarl of corroded television aerials.

     The once busy street was fast emptying now, the lure of shop windows no longer enticed the casual browser as local traders closed their premises to the oncoming night, solitary lampposts curved hazily into the distance, casting little more than insipid pools mirrored in the gutter below, only the occasional stranger scurrying home on a bleak, rain swept afternoon, the hurried slap of wet leather soles on the pavement, the sightless umbrellas, the infrequent rumble of a half filled bus, hell-bent on its way to oblivion.

     In the near distance as the working day ended, a sudden emergence of factory workers told Beamish it was 5-o'clock, most would be hurrying home to a hot meal, while others, for a quick drink perhaps before making the same old sorry excuse... for Jack, the greasy spoon would be closing about now, denying him the comfort of a badly needed cuppa' and stale cheese sandwich.  A subtle legacy of lunchtime fish and chips still lingered in the air, Jack's stomach rumbled, there was little chance of a fish supper for Beamish tonight, it protested again... louder.

     From beneath the eaves of the building opposite several pigeons broke cover, startled by the rattle as a shopkeeper struggled to close the canvas awning above his shop window.  Narrowly missing Beamish they flew anxiously over the rooftops, memories of the blitz sprang to mind as Jack stepped smartly to one side, he stamped his feet... it dashed a little of the weather from his raincoat, just as the rain dashed a little of the pigeons' anxiety from the pavement... the day couldn't get much worse if it tried.  Shielding his face, Jack struck the Ronson one more time and cupped the freshly lit cigarette between his hands, it was the only source of heat to be had that day... and still it rained.

     'By Appointment to Certain Personages...' the letter heading rang out loudly... 'Jack Beamish ~ Private Investigator...' a throat choking mouthful by any stretch of the imagination, thought Jack and shot every vestige of credulity plummeting straight through the office window and amidst a fanfare of trumpet voluntary, nominate itself for a prodigious award in the New Year Honours list.   Having formally served in a professional capacity for a well known purveyor of pickled condiments, who  incidentally, brandished the same patronage emblazoned upon their extensive range of relish as the one Jack had more recently purloined from them... a paid commission no less, which by Jack's certain understanding had made him, albeit fleeting in nature, a professional consultant of said company... and consequently, if they could flaunt the auspicious emblem, then according to Jack's infallible logic, so could Jack.  

     The recently appropriated letterhead possessed certain distinction... in much the same way, Jack reasoned, that a blank piece of paper did not... and whereas correspondence bearing the heading 'By Appointment' may not exactly strike terror into the hearts of man... unlike a really strong pickled onion, it nevertheless made people think twice before playing him for the fool, which sadly, Jack had to concede, they still invariably did... and he would often catch them wagging an accusing finger or two in his direction with such platitudes as... "watch where you put your foot", they'd whisper, "that Jack's a right Shamus...", and when you'd misplaced your footing as many times as Jack had, then he reasoned, that by default the celebrated Shamus must have landed himself in more piles of indiscretion than he would readily care to admit, but that wouldn't be quite accurate either, in Jack's line of work it was the malefactor that actually dropped him in them more often than not.

     A cold shiver suddenly ran down his spine, another quickly followed as a spurt of icy water from a broken rain spout spattered across the back of his neck, he grimaced... Jack's expression spoke volumes as he took one final pull from his half soaked cigarette and flicked it, amid an eruption of sparks against the adjacent brick wall.  Sinking further into the shadow he tipped his fedora against the oncoming rain, then, digging both hands deep within his pockets, he huddled behind the upturned collar of his gabardine... watching.

     It was times such as these when Jack's mind would slip back, in much the same way you might slip back on a discarded banana peel, when a matter of some consequence, or in particular this case the pavement, would suddenly leap up from behind and give the back of Jack's head a resoundingly good slapping and tell him to "stop loafing around in office hours... or else", then drag him, albeit kicking and screaming back into the 20th century.  This intellectual assault and battery re-focused Jack's mind wonderfully as he whiled away the long weary hours until his next cigarette; cup of tea, or the last bus home, his capacity to endure such mind boggling tedium called for nothing less than sheer ******-mindedness and very little else... Beamish had long suspected that he possessed all the necessary qualifications.  

     Jack had come a long way since the early days, it had been a long haul but he'd finally arrived there in the end... and managed to pick up quite a few ***** looks along the way.  Whilst he was with the Police Constabulary... and it was only fair to stress the word 'with', as opposed to the word 'in'... although the more Jack considered, he had been 'with' the arresting officer, held 'in' the local Bridewell... detained at Her Majesties pleasure while assisting the boys in blue with their enquiries over a minor infringement of some local by-law that currently had quite slipped his mind at that moment.  Throughout this enforced leisure period he'd managed to read the entire abridged editions of Kilroy and other expansive works of graffiti exhibited in what passed locally as the next best thing to the Tate Gallery, whereupon it hadn't taken Jack very long to realise that it was always a good place to start if you wanted free breakfast, in fact the weeks bill of fare was tastefully displayed in vivid, polychromatic colour on the wall opposite... you just had to be au-fait with braille.
                            
     No matter how industrious Beamish laboured to rake the dirt there always appeared to be a dire shortage of gullible clients for Jack to squeeze, what would roughly translate as an honest crust out of, and although his financial retainer was highly competitive he understood that potential clients found it bewildering when grappling with the unplumbed depths of his monthly expense account, which would tend to fluctuate with the same unpredictability as the British weather, the rest of Jack's agenda revolved around a little shady moonlighting... in fact he'd happily consider anything to offset the remotest possibility of financial delinquency... short of extortion... which by the strangest twist was the very word prospective clients would cry while Jack beavered around the office with dust-pan and brush sweeping any concerns they may have had frantically under the carpet regarding all culpability of his extra-curricular monthly stipend... and they should remain assured at all times... as they dug deep and fished for their cheque books, and simply look upon it as kneading dough, which eerily enough was exactly the thick wedge of buttered granary that Jack had every intention of carving.

     Were there ever the slightest possibility that a day could be so utterly wretched, then today was that day, Jack felt a certain empathy as he merged with his surroundings... at one with nature as it were.  The rain, a timpani on the metal dustbin lids, by the side of which Beamish had taken up vigil, also taking up vigil and in search of a morsel was the stray mongrel, this was the third time now that he'd returned, the same apprehensive wag, yet still the same hopeful look of expectation in his eyes, a brief but friendly companion who paid more attention to Jack's left trouser leg than anything that could be had from nosing around the dustbins that day... some days you're the dog, scowled Beamish as he shook his trouser leg... and some days the lamppost, Jack's foot swung out playfully, keeping his new friend's incontinence at a safe distance, feigning indignance  the scruffy mongrel shook himself defiantly from nose to tail, a distinct odour of wet dog filled the air as an abundance of spent rainwater flew in all directions.   Pricking one ear he looked accusingly at Jack before turning and snuffled off, his nose resolutely to the pavement and diligently, picking out the few diluted scents still remaining, the poor little stalwart renewed its search for scraps, or making his way perhaps to some dry seclusion known only to itself.
  
     Two hours later and... SPLOSH, a puddle poured itself through the front door of the nearest Public House... SPLOSH, the puddle squelched over to the payphone... SPLOSH, then, fumbling for small change dialled and pressed button 'A'..., then button 'B'... then started all over again amid a flurry of precipitation... SPLASH.  The puddle floundered to the bar and ordered itself a drink, then ebbed back to the payphone again... the local taxi company doggedly refused to answer... finally, wallowing over to the window the puddle drifted up against a warm radiator amidst a cloud of humidity and came to rest... flotsam, cast upon the shore of contentment, the puddle sighed contentedly... the Landlady watched this anomaly... suspiciously.

     The puddle's finely tuned perception soon got to grips with the unhurried banter and muffled gossip drifting along the bar, having little else to loose, other than what could still be wrung from his clothing... Beamish, working on the principle that a little eavesdropping was his stock-in-trade engaged instinct into overdrive and casually rippled in their general direction...  They were clearly regulars by the way one of them belched in a well rehearsed, taken-a-back sort of way as Jack took stock of the situation and was now at some pains to ingratiate himself into their exclusive midst and attempt several friendly, yet relevant questions pertinent to his enquiries... all of which were skillfully deflected with more than friendly, yet totally irrelevant answers pertinent to theirs'... and would Jack care for a game of dominoes', they enquired... if so, would he be good enough to pay the refundable deposit, as by common consent it just so happened to be his turn...  Jack graciously declined this generous offer, as the obliging Landlady, just as graciously, cancelled the one shilling returnable deposit from the cash register, such was the flow of light conversation that evening... they didn't call him Lucky Jack for nothing... discouraged, Beamish turned back to the bar and reached for his glass... to which one of his recent companions, and yet again just as graciously, had taken the trouble to drink for him... the Landlady gave Jack a knowing look, Beamish returned the heartfelt sentiment and ordered one more pint.

     From the licenced premises opposite, a myriad of jostling customers plied through the door, business was picking up... the sudden influx of punters rapidly persuaded Beamish to retire from the bar and find a vacant table.  Sitting, he removed several discarded crisp packets from the centre of the table only to discover a freshly vacated ashtray below... by sleight of hand Jack's Ronson appeared... as he lit the cigarette the fragile smoke curled blue as it rose... influenced by subtle caprice, it joined others and formed a horizontal curtain dividing the room, a delicate, undulating layer held between two conflicting forces.

     The possibility of a free drink soon attracted the attention of a local bar fly, who, hovering in the near vicinity promptly landed in Jack's beer, Beamish declined this generous offer as being far too nutritious and with the corner of yesterdays beer mat, flipped the offending organism from the top of his glass, carefully inspecting his drink for debris as he did so.

     A sudden draught and clip of stiletto heels as the side door opened caused Beamish to turn as a double shadow slipped discreetly into the friendly Snug... a little adulterous intimacy on an otherwise cheerless evening.  The faceless man, concealed beneath a fedora and the upturned collar of his overcoat, the surreptitious lady friend, decked out in damp cony, cheap perfume and a surfeit of bling proclaimed a not too infrequent assignation, he'd seen it all before... the over attentive manner and the band of white, Sun-starved skin recently hidden behind a now absent wedding token, ordinarily it was the sort of assignment Jack didn't much care for... the discreet tail, the candid snapshot through half drawn curtains... and the all too familiar steak tartare... for the all too familiar black eye.

     To the untrained eye, the prospect of Jack's long anticipated supper was rapidly dwindling, when it suddenly focused with renewed vigour upon the contents of a pickled egg jar he'd observed earlier that evening, lurking on the back counter, his enthusiasm swiftly diminished however as the belching customer procured the final two specimens from the jar and proceeded to demolish them.  Who, Jack reflected, after being stood out in the rain all day, had egg all over his face now... and who, he reflected deeper, still had an empty stomach.  Disillusioned, Jack tipped back his glass and considered a further sortie with the taxicab company.

     "FIVE-BOB"!!! Jack screamed... you could have shredded the air with a cheese grater... hurtling into the kerb like a fairground attraction came flying past the chequered flag at a record breaking 99 in Jack's top 100 most not wanted list of things to do that day... and that the cabby should think himself fortunate they weren't both stretched flat on a marble slab, "exploding tyres" Jack spluttered, dribbling down his chin, were enough to give anyone a coronary... further broadsides of neurotic ambiance filled the cab as the driver, miffed at the prospect of missing snooker night out with the lads, considered charging extra for the additional space Jack's profanity was taking...

     And what part of 'Drive-Carefully', fumed Beamish, did the cabby simply not understand, that pavements were there to be bypassed, 'Nay Circumvented', preferably on the left... and not veered into, wildly on the front axle... an eerie premonition of 'jemais-vu' perched and ready to strike like a disembodied Jiminy Cricket on Jack's left shoulder, looking to stick its own two-penny worth in at the 'Standing-Room-Only' arrangements in the overcrowded cab... and at what further point, Jack shrieked, eyes leaping from his head as he lurched forward, shaking his fist through the sliding glass partition, had the cabbie failed to grasp the importance of the word 'Steering-Wheel...' someone wanted horse whipping, and as far as Beamish was concerned the sole contender was the cab driver...

     In having a somewhat sedate and unruffled disposition it had fallen to Beamish... as befalls all great leaders in times of adversity, to single handedly take the bull by the horns, so to speak and at great personal cost, alert the unwary passing motorist...  Waving his arms about like a man possessed whilst performing acrobatic evolutions in the centre of the road as the cabby changed the wheel came whizzing around the corner at a back breaking 98 on Jack's ever growing list... and why, Jack puzzled, why had they all lowered their side windows and gestured back at him in semaphore..?  Rallying to its aid, Jack's head and shoulders now joined his shaking fist through the sliding glass partition and into the cabby's face, "Who" Beamish screeched with renewed vigour ,"Who Was The Man", Jack wanted to know... *"a
jimmy tee Sep 2013
Ingredients for 6-8 people
• 4 egg whites
• 2 egg yolks
• 100 g (1/2 cup) of sugar or 5 tablespoons of fruit sugar (alter to your own preference)
• 500 g (2 1/2 cups) of mascarpone cheese
• 4 small coffee cups of espresso coffee
• marsala wine (or brandy or cognac)
• 400 g of savoiardi or lady fingers (sponge cake fingers)
• dark chocolate powder
Preparation
1. Make espresso coffee, sweeten, and add the marsala wine (or cognac) to it. Let it cool a bit.
2. Separate the egg yolks and the whites of two eggs in two bowls.
3. Beat sugar into the egg yolks.
4. Beat the mascarpone into the sweetened yolks.
5. Add two more egg whites to the other two and whisk until they form stiff peaks.
6. Fold gently egg whites into mascarpone mixture.
7. Quickly dip both sides of the ladyfingers in the espresso mixture.
8. Layer soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone in a large bowl or pan (start with fingers, finish with mascarpone).
9. Sprinkle dark chocolate powder on top.
10. Refrigerate for one hour.
SøułSurvivør Dec 2015
egg
inspired by
Lidi Minuet
and her poem
"HATCH"


I found an egg of crystal
it had a little crack
though beautiful as opals
integrity it lacked

I asked the Lord to help me
"whatever should I do?"
He told me to go and plant it
when the day was new

and so I looked for soil
but no soft could be found
so I planted my wee egg
in hard, forbidding
ground

I watered it with tears
for others suffering lack
and after a little while
the ground
began to
crack!

a tentative green sprout
pushed up its tender head
it grew up from the rocky ground
I had thought so dead!

I continued watering
I knew naught else to do
and a tulip flower appeared
the lightest
eggshell blue!

I watered then in earnest!
I wanted for to see
that flower strong and healthy
and what it'd bloom to be!

slowly the petals opened
and lo! there fast emerged
a'singing and a'fluttering
a little crystal bird!

out of the light blue flower
the creature dipped and soared
it was then I realized
my hope had been restored!

flying 'round my head
its feathers sent off light
as brilliant as a diamond
shattering the night

it was only then I realized
as the darkness fell apart
the soil was life's hardships
and the
egg
had been my

HEART**


SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/17/2015
I know every trouble i experience
now is nothing compared
to the joy of God.

I must remember that
JOY
is
J esus
O thers
    Y ourself

In just that order.

PLEASE
repost this piece if you will
I'm proud of it
it has a great message l think
people should read!

~~~<♡>~~~
Terry Collett Jul 2014
Anne crutched her way
over the grass
from the nursing home
to the white seats on the lawn
and sat down
in one of the chairs
and threw her crutches
to the ground beside her

I sat in a chair
next to her
she had on a blue skirt
and white blouse
her one leg stuck out
from the end
of her skirt

the other kids played
on the swings and slide
or walked around
avoiding being
near Anne

I wonder
if the nuns have periods?
She said suddenly

I don't know
I said

might explain
their crabbiness some days
she said

I nodded my head
unsure of the topic

periods of what?
I asked

she looked at me
sternly for a moment
you don't know?

I shook my head
gazing at her

it's *******
in real terms
she said

none the wiser
I looked at her
hair dark
and almost shiny
where she’d
brushed it so much

do you know that?

no not heard of it
I said

she sighed
and looked at me deeply

do your parents tell
you nothing?

not about
******* anyway
I said
my old man told me
about the Plague of London
in 1665
and rats and stuff

**** the Plague of 1665
she said
this is real stuff
it may come handy
one day to know

I doubted it
but said nothing
I looked back
at the nursing home
for rescue

do you know anything
about the female cycle?
She said

my friend's sister's cycle
didn't have a cross bar
I said
remembering Jim's sister
and the bicycle
I sometimes rode

no no Kid
not that kind of cycle
her body cycle

I noticed as she moved
on the chair
her leg stump
became visible  

when a female
gets to a certain age
her body gets prepared
to put an egg
in a place in her body
ready to be fertilized
ok?

I saw the stump clearly
it looked like the end
of a plump elbow

Kid do you hear
what I am saying?

Yes
I said

good
now if the egg
doesn't get fertilized
by a certain time
her body gets rid of it
in a cycle
and she bleeds
the whole package out
right?

It didn’t sound too good
but I nodded
what kind of egg?
I asked

what do you mean
what kind of egg?
A ****** human egg
what do you think
a ****** hens' egg?
She sighed deeply

and I wondered where
she bought her one shoe

how old are you Kid?

10 nearly 11 years old
I replied
studying her black shoe  
and wondering
what she did
with the other shoe

what's fertilization?
I asked
looking up at her
sitting in the chair
her eyes focused on me

go ask the nuns
they'll know
she said snappily

ok
I said
I will

she reached for her crutches  
and said
right Kid
let's go to the beach
out of the eyes
of the *******
and their reach

and so I walked
beside her
out the back gate
and onto the path
that led
to the sand and sea
blue skies
white clouds
seagulls
and Anne and me.
A BOY AND GIRL IN A NURSING HOME IN 1950S SEASIDE TOWN.
Carl Velasco Nov 2017
The nature of man is one of impulse
and deceit. You can see it in his life
through time. But suppose,
merely suppose,
there was another way to measure
man’s life aside from time. Will his efforts to deceive
be seen as something else?
Will his impulses then come from somewhere else
more defined, less shapeless? Will his colorless workaday
life have overarching purpose?
It felt false the first time,
living life as a series of consequences following another,
like a story development in a newspaper.
It’s not about perspective.
Nor is it about reflection.
I’m looking, I’ve told you already,
for a way to look at life
besides cause and effect, A-B-C;
besides punishment following sin, sin following intent,
intent following motivation, and motivation
following need.

There could be another dimension
where all these, the spent life, make perfect sense.
Where the shapeless nausea of every day
form the pastiche of a more understood self. Where
the ***** nuances of error are highlighted, mingling
with the big abstract things.
But for now time is simply passing by.
Perhaps this is just right.
Perhaps the unknown must stay the unknown.
Because what does an answer give, really?

An average egg is around 40 to 60 grams.
That is the measurement. It is still an egg,
not the result of an egg, not the weight of an egg.
A measured egg, a reflected egg. An observed egg.
Time arrives and turns the egg into something else.
And at that moment, the first measurement suddenly becomes
false.
Alan Maguire Feb 2013
EGG
Life for me began as an egg,  it wasn't really a special egg, just a regular egg shape with some green splotches .So, you were just like the Platypus and the Echidna ?. Exactly like the Echidna and Platypus .Well not quite exactly, those creature are mammals,
I'm more like a lizard, I'm actually part dinosuar.

My mother is a dinosuar like creature known as a Dinosapien, But I'm more human than she was. I'm about 60 percent human , though I do posses Lizard organs , My eyes are ,
My heart and lungs are, So is my ******, my appetite and my tongue

I can taste the air, Just like the snake . Em, but dinosaurs don't do that

How dya know ?, Well because of science and Jurassic park
Yah, I'm sure their both official sources, any way, so how come were having this conversation ?, well that's the one thing about dinosaurs , they were notorious for having one sided conversations with themselves, ya mean they were bonkers ?, no not crazy and once they left the nest ,were pretty much losers, I mean loners.

What about mating?, Well they had wieners ya know, no, not that and what about female dinosaurs ?, well the females didn't care , they just wanted a male for about 3 minutes, if he was lucky maybe 3 and a half, the males were more concerned about ****** contact with the ladies. So, I guess there was a lot of dudes ******* each other then ?
em, I think this conversation is over now
judy smith Jun 2015
4 harmful foods that benefit us too
Maintaining a healthy diet isn't easy as one has to be careful of every morsel of food or sip of drink that they consume. So when research reveals a positive angle to some harmful dietary habits, what should one do?

A recent study in London showed that those who increased their coffee intake by more than a cup a day were less prone to have Type 2 Diabetes. On the other hand, caffeine is known to increase blood pressure and isn't good for the body in the long run. Here is a list of food items that are considered harmful, but benefit us in some ways as well...

WHITE BREAD

Why it's bad: For a while now, white bread has been pushed to the back seat due to the growing notion that it leads to increased blood sugar and can ultimately cause obesity. The grains are processed in such a way that it strips the bread off all nutrients. Scientists at Tufts University in Boston also found that eating white bread increases your waistline, when compared to brown bread. Fitness expert Wanitha Ashok adds, "Eating white bread makes you hungry in an hour or so. When it comes to nutrition, it doesn't get the top slot."

Why it's good: Eating white bread isn't necessarily a bad thing as long as you eat the enriched variety that contains nutrients, especially those that are topped with oats and nuts. Research done by the Irish University Nutrition Alliance showed that white bread contributed as much iron and fibre to an Irish diet as meat or fish. Nutritionist Ryan Fernando says, "The only time we recommend white bread to anyone is after a good workout. Sports athletes, especially, eat white bread as it helps replenish glucose faster and it's beneficial for the muscles."

FROZEN VEGETABLES

Why they're bad: It is believed that fresh vegetables are better than frozen ones because of all the processing that takes place to freeze them and keep them fresh. A study done by the Department of Nutrition and Dietetics in Turkey concluded that thawing frozen veggies before cooking them led to the loss of Vitamin C. "This is just convenience food. Anything you store for a long time begins to lose nutritional value. Also, in India, there are so many electricity fluctuations, so it's better to keep fresh vegetables," says Wanitha Ashok.

Why they're good: Lately, a lot of reports say that frozen veggies are better than the fresh variety because they are picked when they are most ripe and frozen so none of the vitamins are lost.Also,a study done at the University of Chester shows that there was a decline in the nutritional value of fresh veggies when refrigerated com - pared to frozen ones.

EGG YOLK

Why it's bad: It's known to increase cholesterol, which is why people with heart conditions avoid egg yolk. It also contains a lot of fat,which isn't good for people who gain weight easily. A Canadian study says that regularly consuming egg yolks can lead to plaque build-up in blood vessels. Why it's good: "Egg yolk has essential nutrients and vitamins, especially when compared to egg whites, which don't have as much. One or two eggs yolk a day are recommended for children, whereas adults should have one to get their intake of necessary nutrients," says Ryan Fernando. The cholesterol in the yolk is needed for elders and children who have adrenal issues.

CHOCOLATE

Why it's bad: Not only does consumption of chocolate gradually increase one's weight,but people tend to cut down on it because of its caffeine and fat content. "Children get addicted to chocolate when their consumption is not moderated. It's harmful for diabetic people and the sweeteners in it are bad for the teeth," says Nainatara S, a consultant nutritionist. The high oxalates in chocolate are known to cause kidney stones. A study by the American Society of Clinical Nutrition showed that the higher the consumption of chocolate by elders, the more likely they were to be affected by bone disease.

Why it's good: Nutritionist Murali Subramanian says one benefit of eating chocolate is its antioxidant content. A study in the University of Illinois showed that consuming dark chocolate helped lower cholesterol and blood pressure. The antioxidants in the chocolate also help reduce chances of obesity and Type 2 Diabetes.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2015 | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide
s Nov 2018
Egg
you sit on my back
like a chicken on an egg
with a mocking flap,
shuffle and a wiggle
tucked and stacked -
chuckle and a giggle.
both - joke and cuddle
- die as they're written though;
but could I risk to memory -
forgetting that tableau ?
--

as I sit to study
our curiosities -
creating patterns & poems
of contradicting absurdities;
listening to the jugalbandi
of predictability & tease,
instigating the battle
between curiosity & belief,
how we manoeuver differences
with a pursued kind of ease -
love sits quiet,
amused but revealed,
its appetite appeased -
with a wholesome kind of meal.
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
This is not, a time to loosen up
Or nine to five job to give up
Just saddle up the power is in you
Five ladies cafe to dine at five and
drove_* the meter is running
(The Canadian Cup) team versus the
     Taxi Cup
He swooned you in your
Five dreamy but half heart sugars
Come on Baby bloomers
Let's see some boom!!

In your hips men will be men taking
frequent flyer trips temptation 1 2345
We need fewer digs one love teo reasons
World  345  heart flags
We don't have to cross our hearts
Perhaps tattoo heart legs no more strikes
Jumping Jack flash
What a rope in this isn't the Pope

Somehow we all get broke
To court her like your the lasso
stars cosmos hearts like Lassie
Never a change of subject how it
remains in your heart how it hit hard
to react but changed to five cards
Digging too long  lucky 777 like heaven
Heart digs

1-where?
Oh! There

No, I am here
We are always  
In-between
numbers_ I only
have 5 minutes
No I phone have a heart
Oh! where is designed for me
Those five plates

Whats in between them
      *Him

We are opening Live- Five
Strong heart to give the caring
The useful heart is never so daring
My gate* Girls are nail digging
Hugging

Or losing add +

Flirty
*****
Our community
Heftier like Jupiter
Heart to build
the gravity
A big kiss hunch
of five roses

Your getting to bloom
but only have
5 extra movie parts
The front dress mermaid tail
Your heart delicate hands
opened up your emails
I think you hit the
Jackpot

Max to the million shot
No heart of gold
Only more leaders
Scrambling and digging
your fork
Mixing those egg beaters

Five men think they know
there women
like ten
commandments
Turn to five wrong
engagements
There it goes the lucky
five arguments

A plot beating
like a hot-shot
The French Baguette
Bread 9 to 5 firecracker
Five-carat baguette
wedding band in her safe
Heart digs to five hands
Heart neck guilty as a giraffe

The cafe house had only
5 cups left  they sold you out
Only Five Bed and breakfast
stayers
Do detailed with their Ladyfingers
But need more alone time
Be on time get sweet key lime
What is real-time so sublime

That rose- paper cut- origami
Sorcerer of five he was like the
cold cuts of big Sub Salami
Japanese sword samurai
What a Geronimo Oh! no
Jericho
This wasn't a hot potato

Or Gizmo No-Go
Getting a shot for Polio
The gusto songs to the heart play
Maestro the Cosmo's
The five stars to heart his
afterglow
Like a titanic ship but heroics

Five lunatics wedding horns ******
Five two timer Mario gamers
so demonic
DOMINO'S bed five students wed
We dug deeper get-up sleepy-head
Exposed cries location set
Network U- dig cups

Something lip curved
He misplaced my lips
What did he do in exchange
More stocks and hard stone rocks
Like frying pan egg
scrambled words

Crossed heart Rapper so believing
The Fox five sticking tacky glue
His CD Rose lying pants no clue
Painful pointed shoes need R&R
     Robin's *Responsibilities
       The Heart On Replay
The deeper you dig to restart

The healthy organically grown brain
Men on Pause I truly believe nature
takes its course
but another beat to go is that so?
And if so heart digs to five
Feel the good vibe in another tribe
Five times I had to wake you up
I am the love cure reminiscing

Giving me five reasons
Our beautiful change of
heart in season

Studying the fine art heart
Referencing
Never refusing thats life
five-step to strive nothing
Fancy

Robin shoutbox she getting
her point across
Either you're the worker or loner
The heart pleaser the boss
Your heart looks good
on your dress
Whether we win or deep mess
The good heart can change to
a bad start

Recharge your heart count to five
Venus- beauty moved on like a
pathologist digging over staying alive
The hearts what digs this is not the 9-5 workers we are talkers
and long settling in heart walkers come any join me we may actually be alive did I get a live one
K Balachandran Mar 2014
A giant egg of possibilities,
we see from inside, its embrio
yolk and white, like galaxies
this rainbow colored  cosmos,
lay submerged within
the timelss -spaceless state,
unimagianably limitless,
indescribable, incomparable
unfathomable and  know not
what or what not,
inspite all continueing probes.

A matrix of 'multiverse' exist
ignorant of one another
within the cosmic egg.
Inside the egg's one puny little cell
you and I fill an infinitesimal space
why try to break the tender shell
and **** the millions of organisms?

Love can heal, make the shell endure
and expand the possibilities, more and more
till the dice from a mighty invisible hand
falls over the egg , one fateful day
and the play comes to a grinding halt.
may be with a whimper not with a bang.
AiR Sep 2018
Chicken or egg - what came first?
Can't find an answer that will quench my thirst.
“Of course,” said the chicken, “it was me.
Without me, how could the egg ever be?”
This question goes round, and round and round,
But to most, the answer is never found!

For without the chicken can an egg be laid?
“And how could there be a chicken without me?” the egg said.
This question was asked but found no answer for years…
Until a wise man solved the mystery with wisdom and tears.

“Neither was the egg first nor was it the chicken.
The plan for this story was hatched in heaven.
That nothing in this world shall be a creation.
Everything that we see is but a manifestation.”

“What do you mean?” said someone with a scream.
“Nothing is real! Is everything just a dream?”
The wise man answered, ”Yes that is true.
Both appeared together, everything is a myth –nothing is true!”

The next time you are asked the question, “What came first?
Was it the tree or the seed that came first?”
Don't go in circles, round and round.
For the answer to the question will never be found!
Mitchell Duran Jun 2014
The night of the last Monday of October, Rowley Fair was in the back alley of The Purple Panda fist to fist with an Englishman who had told Wan to “get her rice-picking-*** an English beer and not any of that ***** stuff”. Rowley had never understood racism. He was also out of money and knew if he won, Wan would let him drink for free. Rowley was not a hero. He didn’t understand what that was. Rowley reacted, perhaps skimming the surface of the ideal when forced to do the hard thing to get what he wanted, but never on purpose. Also, he liked Wan and drinking. Mostly drinking.
He threw his fist up into Terry’s (the Englishman’s) chin. They both heard a loud crunch – Terry clearer than Rowley. Terry lurched his head back. It fell in between his shoulders, dangling there like a meat-filled apple about to fall from its branch. Rowley tapped Terry’s chest with the toe of his boot and down went Terry onto his back. Cody Horn handed Rowley a shot and a beer. He threw back the brown, finished half of the suds, and poured the rest on Terry’s face. Everyone laughed. Someone shouted, “Give’em another! Put tea time to bed!” Rowley swung his right foot back and brought it up into Terry’s jaw, feeling his bottom teeth smash and split into his top ones. There were a few scattered, lazy claps from the drunken hands that had been watching, but soon the coliseum fell away, leaving only the victor and the defeated. A seagull called out.
“Another round, Wan,” Rowley said, gently touching the crown of his head, “****** punched me on the top of my head. Who does that?” He looked around for Cody. He was talking to K, the local bike. They were leaving.
“Beer and a shot,” Wan said disinterested, placing the drinks in front of him. “You clean up the mess back there?”
Rowley nodded.
“Good.” Wan took a rag from somewhere and cleaned blood off the bar.
"Place slow tonight," Wan noted, "Why?"
Rowley shrugged, "Cold out there."
"How you know?"
"I was just out there fighting that englishmen," Rowley reminded her. He took a sip of his beer and noticed blood leaking into the frothy gold.
"Oh yeah," Wan nodded, "I forget. Where he anyway?"
"Who? The englishmen?"
"Yeah," she snapped, "Who the hell you think I talking about?"
"****," Rowley snorted, "Probably still back there. He called you rice-picker."
"I been called worse."
An hour passed and the englishmen still hadn't come back into the bar. The crowd had thinned. It was only Wan, Rowley, and a few college students that looked too soft to be there. Rowley contemplated following them out the bar, down an alleyway, and robbing them, but told himself he'd already had enough blood on his hands for one day. A seagull screeched outside as a distant police siren wailed over a few blowing fog horns from ships bobbing along in the bay. Everything was still and crisp, close and far away, silent and precise.
"One more, Wan," Rowley ordered, putting up his hand, "Another Anchor."
"You put on tab?"
"I thought I was drinking for free?"
"Why you think you drink for me?" she sneered, "Cause' you always ******' here?"
"Cause' of the englishmen, remember?" Rowley was getting tired of reminding her of this.
"I didn't ask you to do nothing," she countered, "Why I gotta' pay for something I don't even want?"
Rowley knew this was going to be an argument he would eventually lose, so he threw up his hands and pushed the stool out away from the bar.
"You leaving?" Wan asked, suddenly desperate.
"I'm broke," he admitted, "I got nothing left on me. Been broke since my first drink."
"Sit down. I get you beer."
Rowley looked towards the door, then down at the bar. He sat down.
"Thanks Wan."
She cracked the beer and put it in front of Rowley. "Don't tell no one. Next thing I know, I got every ******* *** in San Francisco coming here to fight foreigners for free beers."
"Lock and key are safe with me."
"Good." Wan waddled back to the far corner of the bar, slipped on her extra large reading glasses, and re-opened her Chinese newspaper. Rowley read the headline: KIDNAPPING SCARES CHINESE. He couldn't read anything else. It was all in Chinese. He looked down into his beer and watched the bubbles build up and explode. He finished that one, had another, then another with a shot, and then another. After that, Rowley had one more, noticed the college kids were gone and that it was 3AM. Wan was asleep with her bare feet up on the bar. Rowley shook her awake, where she instinctively attacked by swatting for his neck. She caught him in the arm pit and was going for another, but Rowley somehow drunkenly caught her hand and looked her in the eyes.
"******* Wan," Rowley blurted, "It's me!"
"Me who?!" she yelped.
"Rowley you little demon!"
"Oh..." she said, calming down, "I'm sorry. I can't see a thing in these glasses. They only to read."
Rowley let her go slowly, making sure she wasn't faking it, and took a few groggy steps back towards the door. "I'm heading out..." he gasped - He was surprisingly out of breath. "You'll be alright?"
"Huh?" Wan asked, startled, waking up, "Yeah! I be fine! What time is it?" But Rowley was gone, already out onto the streets trying to catch the last 1 bus to the outer sunset, which he caught just in time and rode alone until his stop on 44th. He nodded to the bus driver who sat motionless staring out the windshield, a cigarette dangling between their lips. The fog above was still rolling in thick and heavy as he walked to his apartment and entered. He undressed at the foot of his bed, leaving his clothes strewn on the ground, and climbed in to sleep a few hours before he'd have to get up in the morning to go to work.
The phone rang, startling Rowley out of his sleep. He rose out of bed, blinking into the morning sun that came in through blinds of the window. He looked at his nightstand clock. It read 4:45 AM. That left him with exactly two hours of shut eye. He moaned and rolled over, clapping his one extra pillow over his ear. The ringing stopped, but then, did a very curious thing: it started again. Rowley mumbled something to the affect of motherfugginleftbrainedhalfwitteddonkeylizardblowjobaskinforeski­nwearingcamelbackeddrunkpedderassmangocravingfreeeek out loud as he got up, but just as he reached the phone, it shut off again.
"Are you ******' kiddin'?" he asked out loud. He went to the bathroom to *** and poured himself a glass of water from the kitchen faucet. He lived in an in-law. Everything was conveniently near by.
As he started for his bed he calculated that if he slept one more hour, he could get a good three hours in before work. Sleep was of little importance to Rowley. As long as he got two, two and a half hours, he could do his job without killing anybody. He sat on the edge and started to finish the glass of water he'd poured, but the phone rang again. It startled Rowley so much that his hand shook, pouring water all over himself.
"*******!" he screamed, "WHO THE HELL IS CALLING ME RIGHT NOW!?"
He darted toward the phone and ripped it off the receiver.
"YES?!" he howled into the phone, "WHO IN THE HELL IS IT? I JUST POURED COLD WATER ALL OVER MY ******* MEMBER BECAUSE OF YOU!"
There was silence on the other end of the line.
"HELLO!" Rowley shouted again.
"This is an automated message for Rowley Rubens. If this is Rowley Rubens please press one."
Rowley viciously pounded the one key on the receiver.
"You, Rowley Rubens, are not required to come in to work today. If you have any questions, please contact..." Rowley slammed the phone down on the receiver.
"*******..." he moaned, "Another pass."
And with that, Rowley threw himself on the bed and slept as long as he **** well pleased.
In the morning, Rowley rose at noon and made himself a cup of strong, black coffee. There was a single piece of bread and a single egg in the house. No milk. He couldn't remember the last time he went grocery shopping. He scoured his pantries for some form of food, be it crackers, moldy fruits, or canned goods, but there was nothing but soy sauce packets and half empty bottles of hot sauce. Dust lined the pantries where food should be and the plates he did own already looked *****, though they hadn't been used in weeks. Rowley gingerly took down a cup and placed it near coffee maker. Soon, he told himself.
There was a Splenda packet in the back of his tool drawer which consisted of: a baggy of rusted bobby pins, a tin of very old Pomade hair gel which he pocketed immediately, loose change of nickels and pennies, year old utility bills, old unpaid parking tickets back when he owned the 75' GMC truck (he was forced to sell it to pay rent and has been regretting it ever since), an empty pack of Marlboro Red's, a pocket knife, and various other tools and electrical wiring he picked up on the street thinking he'd use one day, but never did. He ripped open the baby pink Splenda bag and poured its chemically goodness inside.
"Now," he spoke aloud, "For the entrée."
He cracked the single egg on a lightly oiled skillet and tossed the egg shell in the garbage disposal. The single piece of bread sat there on the counter to the side. Rowley watched the egg as it popped and sizzled on the pan underneath the heat. He craftily flipped the egg over with a fork and watched and waited as the other side cooked. Once he believed it was finished, he took the pan off of the heat, turned it down, then placed the piece of bread on the burner. Dark circular burn marks quickly started to form, along with tiny trails of smoke. Rowley flipped the bread, let it sit for no more then 15 seconds, then placed it on a plate. He slid the egg from the pan to the plate and smiled.
"Perfection."
After breakfast, he took a shower to wake himself up and threw on the clothes he had been wearing the night before: a slightly wrinkled plain white t-shirt, loose blue jeans that were two sizes too big, a clean pair of knee high socks, fresh boxer shorts he'd found in the back of his dresser drawers, and his work boots because they were the only pair of shoes he owned. Yet, once Rowley was dressed, he was at a loss of what to do with himself for the day. He checked his wallet. He had five bucks, which would get him lunch and a cup of coffee, but he thought he'd like a drink on his day off, so he remembered to reserve the five for a loaf of bread and a drink. He'd already had coffee today anyway. Anymore and he would get all jumpy.
Rowley walked down the hill to the Sutro Baths. Once a destination for the people of the city to swim and socialize, now it was just another tourist mark and outlook to the great expanse of the Pacific Ocean. There was a great diner on the edge of a cliff that Rowley loved to go, but since he'd already had his breakfast, he passed it by with a wistful indifference, breathing in the ocean air while the sun hit the back of his neck, warming it. He felt good trotting down the hillside toward the ocean, listening to the rumble of the waves and screeches of the seagulls overhead. For a moment, any worry he may have had dissipated like the morning fog and all was clear.
There was a large boulder, 30 yards wide and 25 yards in length, that sat at the edge of the water in the middle of the beach. The surface was made of jagged rocks and was very difficult to climb. Seagulls and young men stood at the peak of the boulder while Rowley stood looking up from the bottom. Behind him, European tourists snapped photos of their fit children, laughing and flexing with the blue sky with streaks of white clouds behind them. Behind the boulder, loud claps of the ocean slapping against the rock wall echoed across the beach. A dog ran down the length of the beach chasing a tennis ball while a young asian couple nervously asked a man who was walking alone to take their picture with the water behind them. The man begrudgingly snapped their photo, handed their camera back, and continued on to wherever he was going. Rowley watched this exchange and worried he had seen himself in the man in later years. People like me, he told himself, I'll never be a man alone on the beach wondering where to go next.
On the right side of the boulder, he watched a pair of two young boys make their way down along a narrow path. Rowley waited until they were on the beach, then clambered up the steep side from which they had came. There were other ways to go up the boulder, and Rowley had done them all, but this one to Rowley's surprise, was definitely the easiest. He was at the peak gazing out at the great Pacific with the Cliff House restaurant to the right of him in no more than three minutes. It usually took him ten if he went his usual way. Out of shape, he coughed and realized he was out of breath. He found a small rock that doubled as a seat on the edge of the boulder. In front of him was a great drop down to the ocean. He sat down and tried to catch his breath. After a minute or two, he wiped his brow, patted his pants pockets, and was elated to discover he'd remembered his cigarettes and lighter. He took one out and smoked.
He inhaled and exhaled and watched the grey smoke get caught in the wind. The knife edged waves rose and fell with an easy flow. A large oil tanker puttered behind the skipper's line like a great big dumb dog. Rowley thought it funny that sometimes there was such personality in man-made things. Why were they like that? The line connecting the skipper to the tanker looked so thin to Rowley, that he thought it should snap at any minute, but then, he remembered that he was very far away and that the line was much bigger than it appeared from where he was sitting. A "V" of pelicans drifted by Rowley. He followed them until they flew out of sight and out of his mind. His cigarette was nearly finished, so he decided to punch it out on the dry rock where he sat, proceeding to flick the **** out over the side. The cigarette soared from Rowley's hand as if leaping from it and dove down towards the cold ocean. It slid for a moment against the jagged edge of the rock until it finally landed softly onto the surface of the water. For a moment, it rocked back and forth with the ocean waves, but quickly, the filter became water logged, heavy, and sunk to the ocean floor. Rowley, unconscious of what his discarded cigarette **** was doing, looked forward and wondered what time exactly the sun would be setting and if he had enough time to get lunch, take a nap, and get to The Purple Panda before nightfall.
Rowley walked back up the hill to the cafe that overlooked the water. He ordered a coffee with an everything bagel,  butter on the side. As he sipped his coffee, he watched the waitress toast his bagel on the skillet. She wore a simple red dress with a floral pattern and had her hair up in a tight bun. Rowley already knew her name from her name tag, but asked it anyway.
"Nora," she told him, "How's your coffee?"
"Very good," he nodded.
The waitress eyed him, paused, and then asked, "You're that Rowley guy, aren't you?"
He looked down into his cup of coffee, then up into the waitresses eyes. Rowley didn't say anything.
"I've seen you before," she nodded, thinking where, "You live around here?"
"Kinda," he muttered.
A bell dinged. Rowley's food was ready. The waitress swiveled around on her heel and walked to the cook. The cook said something under his breath. The waitress smiled uneasily and shook her head. Rowley could see he wasn't wanted, at least wasn't wanted by the cook. He had no idea why. The waitress arrived back at Rowley's table with his order: a plain hamburger with everything on the side and french fries. She placed it gently in front of Rowley.
"I know where I've seen you," she smiled, "The Purple Panda."
Rowley looked up again at her grinning face, trying to remember it. He noticed how her crows feet on the outer edge of her eyes squeezed together tightly and her bright red cheeks were pushed up into a little ball. He had never seen her before in his life, but she seemed to think he was some kind of celebrity.
"Yeah," she started again, a twinkle in her eye now that she saw that it was him, "You're the guy always getting in fights at that place? Didn't you beat a guy up there just yesterday?"
"Had to," Rowley shrugged, starting to dress his hamburger, "******* called Wan a rice picker."
"Thats terrible!" she gasped.
"Yeah," he said, "I guess it is. I just don't like
Steve Feb 2017
A chicken was laying an egg
While perched on the side of a keg
The egg bounced on the floor
Then it rolled out the door
Where it cracked and out popped a leg

The egg stood up nice and tall
Recovering now from its fall
It walked round the yard
Trying to look really hard
Then it climbed up onto the wall

"That's where we sit"
Said the hens in a fit
"Well I was here first"
The little egg cursed
And that is the truth of it.

© Copyright SE February 2017
The old conundrum
Amy Perry Jun 2014
The eyes have it.
All three of them.
Spreading consciousness.
An egg cracking
With an encouraging moan.
The clash between personalities
To inherit the throne.
Hasty overthrow.
Short-lived lifespan.
Sedated again,
Chemically, internally,
Where did you go?
You're there.
You're inside of me.
Back in your egg,
Calling "come find me.
I'll come out and play,
And give you more meaning,
Daft, sedated you stay,
Until I come out and play."
How many nesting dolls
Does this egg have?
Sid Lollan Aug 2017
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

(Authors of (obligatory)
Redemption: what is true genius if it ain’t dead yet?
Let you, who **** it, not be present for its resurrection.)

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

i had a nightmare:

i opened the door of my ranch-house in the boonies of
southern pa.
out-into the grasses of the old Congo;
There stood the Lion.
20 feet away
i, frozen in the magnitude of his vision;
spirit, dominated by his
completely;
Not even a growl.
i remained
paralyzed—he licked the backs of his paws
and combed a wiry mane...
…a halfa-second was a year if it was a halfa-second now...
but
somewhere in there
i regained my legs and without knowing
pivoted,
grabbed the doorknob. Twist. Open. Step inside.
turn to close the...doorway is gone, the house has vanished
And
HE WAS RIGHT ON TOP OF ME

i was nothing but-a body of plastic fear
molten,
melted and cast into mannequin limbs and head.
i could feel the Lion’s entire, real
spirit crushing spirt
on my hollow caste self.

his breathe stunk of blood that
forced my replicaego into infant curl…
…Finally, the beast roared a canyon
i shivered!
a shiver that shook inside my head
thru the spine to shake
my bones inside the bed.

Thru the constricting red curtain of bloodclot eye
spy the tiny eclipse
of the Black Crow inna massive sheet of african sun;
i must be dead already.
The Lion feels the Crow perched onna cape fig nearby
and his muscles tighten accordingly, his beastly hunger
displaced by boiled-blood anger.

Eye-to-Eye
with the beast
where Fear has reached saturation-point;
it is Nothing if it is Everything…
…the Crow lets out a hiss
like spikes of radio-static, interrupted by series
of whooping-caws…
…stomach vibrated by the Lion’s low,
almost internal growl. For the
first time, his tranquilizing orbs
divert from mine
to capture the Black Crow perched on the dying cape fig.
uncertainty taps my shoulder…then…i feel my body;
the weight releases
and as i motion to rise from the grass and dirt, the Congo dissolves and i’m
sitting up on my mattress with broken springs in the humid
summer slumber of southern pa.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

-What security?
programmed,
under deep-cover;
jungian re-uploads. Them. Resurrected witha blackmarket
medicine a Witch Doctor devolution;
Replicate, regenerate, forever
<01100101 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110100 01100001 01101001 01101100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100111 01110010 01101111 01110111 00100000 01100001 00100000 01101000 01100101 01100001 01100100>
Bottom feeding grave robbers and tomb vandals are all they are!-

-Better check what ya put down here…liable to shape a ghoul,
and you know this haunt is made-up of enough spooks-

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Professors of chaos preach:
O wanderers!
write me the manifesto
walking atop a line of hot coals
-I smell me some burning soles-

(They intend to:
Pour, pure from cold-clear spring-spout
      into muddy-brown-clay, dissolved,
rushing against dried-up bones of gully-walls…
…the Crow just sits above
         and laughs there

Don’t ya see it?)

History
is not about the past,
but
about what the present
can mold the past
into
for the future.
-the marble’s trajectory sure to
flip onnit’s axis d’pending on which record you dig-

(One mistake
can a coward make
or
one accident happen
up-on that a martyr stake’d.
etched in the rut of each separate fate;)


The lion
must roar for his P R I D E
        (or?)
lion wears his hide
as a mascot
Black Crow eats crow egg blues
        black crow spotted me yellow in the bushes
pants down, gun-in-hand
-send your prayers-

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Mitchell Duran Nov 2013
It was 98'.
No, it was 99'.
That was the year.
Yeah, that was the year.

I had just landed abroad and knew no one.
Well, I was there with my girlfriend, Page.

I knew her.

We had to get out of the states.
There was nothing for us there.
We were drowning in that nothingness - that lacking future.

Cookie cutters everywhere.

Everything I saw was like an outline of something that had already happened.
I couldn't sleep.
I couldn't ****.
I could barely call my parents to let them know what I was doing.

Nothing really.

Floating downward like a leaf broken from its stem.
I was scared.
I'll admit it.
I was terrified of the next four years.
Twenty-five seemed so far away and so close, all at the same time.

We had a found an apartment to live in while in the U.S.
We were lucky because people we met later on said it was hell trying to find a place after arriving.
I was never too good at that stuff anyway.
I always felt like people were trying to cheat me or something.

It was small.
You would have said you loved it, but secretly hated it.
One could barely stand in the shower.
Want to spread your arms wide?

Forget about it.

There was a balcony though and you could watch the street traffic from above.
People look so small when your high up.
Down the street, there was a large theatre where they filmed movies.
I rarely saw them shooting, but I could tell it was a good place to.
It was beautiful at night when the lampposts would flicker on, orange spilling on the street.
Everything was damp in the Fall when we first arrived.

"What do you want to do today?" I asked her. She was laying face down on the bed.
Whenever she was hungover, she would do that.
All the covers and pillows over her face, blocking out the world and its light.
I did the same thing, so I couldn't really say much.
We were hungover a lot those first couple months.
Then came the jobs and everything changed...mostly.

She moaned something that I couldn't understand.
I was standing by the window, staring at the pigeons and crows perched on the roof across from us.
They had made a little nest under one of the shingles.
Clever little ******'s.

"Look at those things," I said.
The coffee I was drinking was bitter and made from crystals.
It gave me a headache, but it was cheap and we were broke.
I stepped back to get a better look at their nest and knocked an empty beer bottle around.

She moaned again and rose up from bed, kind of like a stretching kitten or a cat.
Her back was arched like a crescent moon and she stunk of ***** and Sprite.
The blankets were twisted and crumpled and she was tangled in them like a fly in a spiders web.
I went into the kitchen and poured out my coffee, thinking of what to do with the day.

"Breakfast?" she asked me from bed.
My back was to her, but I knew she wanted me to make it.
I put the electric stove on and opened the refrigerator.

"No eggs," I said back to her, "I'll be right back."

She moaned and slithered back into bed.
I threw my jacket and slippers on and made my way downstairs.

"Dobry den," I said to the cashier.
He was a tiny vietnamese man with a extremely high pitched voice.
I struggled to stifle a laugh every time I came in.

"Dobry den," he said back, sounding like air escaping from a balloon.

"Dear God," I thought, "How does his voice box do it?"

I went straight to the eggs, pretending to cough.
All around me were packaged sweets and rotten vegetables and fruit.
There were half loaves of brown, stale bread wrapped lazily in thin plastic.
Canned beans, noodle packets, and cardboard infused orange juice lined the shelves.
Where were the ******* eggs?
We needed milk too.
Trying to drink that crystalized coffee without it was torture.
I don't even know how I did it earlier.
"I must be getting used to the taste..." I thought.

I opened the single refrigerator they had in the place.
It was stocked with loosely packaged cheese, milk, beer, and soda.
There they were, those ******* eggs, right next to the yogurt.
I looked at the expiration date of a small carton of chocolate milk and winced.
"Someone could die here if they weren't careful," I whispered to myself.

"Everyding O.K.?" I heard the cashier squeak behind me.
I turned and nodded and showed him the eggs.
He was suspicious I was stealing something.
It was ironic.
I put the eggs on the counter and handed over what the cash register told me.

"There you go," I said and handed him the 58 crown in exact change.

"Děkuji," he peeped.

His voice sounded like a stuffed animal.
I nodded, smiled, and quickly got the hell out of there.

"You know the guy that works at the shop across the street?" I asked the body still in bed.
Well, she was up now, back up against the wall with her laptop on her lap.
"You mean the guy that has the voice of a little girl?"
"Exactly. I was just in there - getting these eggs - and I nearly laughed in his face."
"That's mean," she frowned, staring at her laptop.
Many of our conversations were with some kind of electronic device in between us.
We needed to work on that.
"I didn't laugh at him directly."
She smiled and nodded and moved down the bed a little more.
Only her head was resting on the pillow.
I cracked two eggs and let them sizzle there in the butter and the salt.

"So, what do you want to do today?" I asked Page, "It's not too cold out. We could go on a walk."
"Where?"
"I don't know. Over the bridge and maybe down by the water."
"It's going to be so cold," she shivered.
"I was just out there in slippers and a t-shirt and I was fine."
"That's because you're so big. I'm tiny. I don't get as much blood flow."

I flipped the two eggs and looked down at them.
Golden and burnt slightly around the edges.
******* perfect.
Now, just gotta wait a little on the other side and make sure to not let the yolk harden.
I hated that more than anything in the world.
Well, that and hearing **** poor excuses like it being too cold.
It was nice out.
She'd be fine.

"Come on," I sighed. I did that a lot. "It'll be fun."
She looked up at me from her computer with a dead look in her eye.
"What?" I asked her.
"You're such a...nerd," she said.
"No I'm not."
"You're so weird. Some of the things you say sometimes..."
"Like what?"
"Let's go on a walk."
She exaggerated the word walk.
I laughed and knew I was being a little too excited about a walk.
"Yeah. So? What are you doing? You're just laying there doing nothing."
"It's my day off," she scoffed, jokingly.

We were unemployed.
Everyday was a day off.
This was not something to bring up.
It was touchy subject.
One had to go about it...delicately.

"We need to find jobs," I stated, "And we can probably ask around or look for signs in windows."

"Oh JESUS," she gagged, coughing and diving back under the covers.

"I'm just thinking ahead so we can stay here. There's got to be something out there we can do."

"Like what?" she asked, her voice muffled by blankets.

"I don't know...something," I mumbled, trailing off as I flipped one of the eggs, "Perfect."

After breakfast, Page finally got out of bed and took a shower.
I tried to sneak in there with her, but, like I said before, one could barely fit themselves in there.
We compromised to have *** on the bed, though I did miss doing it in the shower.
As Page got dressed, I watched her slip those thin black stockings on, half reading a magazine.
I had gotten a subscription to The Review because I was trying to become a writer.
I thought, maybe if I read the stuff getting published - even the bad **** - it'll help.
Later, I realized, this was a terrible idea, but I enjoyed the magazine all the same.
Page finished getting dressed.
I jumped into whatever clothes were on the floor and didn't stink.
Then, we were out the door on Anna Letenske street, looking at the tram, downhill.


"I can see my breath," Page said, "It's cold..."

"Alright," I said as both of us ran across the street, "It's a little cold."

"But it's ok because I'm glad were out of the house."

"If we would have festered there any longer, we would have stayed in there all day."

"And missed this beautiful day," she said mocking me, putting both of her arms in the air.

The sky was gray and overcast and a single black crow flew over us, roof to roof.
No one was out, really.
It was Sunday and no one ever really came out on Sundays.
From the few czech friends I had, they explained to me this was the day to get drunk and cook.

"Far different then what people think in the States to do," I remember telling him.
"What do you do, my friend?" he had asked. He always called me my friend.
It was a nice thing to do since we had only known each other a couple weeks.
"Well," I explained to him, "Some people go to church to pray to God."
He laughed when I said this and said, "HA! God? How many people believe in God there?"
I had heard through the news and some Wikipedia research Prague was mostly atheist.
"A good amount, I'm pretty sure."
"That's silly," he scoffed, "Silly is word, right?"
"Yep. A word as any other."
"I like that word. What else do they do on Sunday?"
"A lot of people watch football. Not like soccer but with..."
"I know what you talk about," he said, cutting me off, "With the ball shaped like egg?"
I nodded, "Yes, the one with the egg shaped ball. It's popular in the Fall on Sundays."
"And what is Fall?" he asked.
You can see our relationship was really based on questions and answers.
He was a good guy, though I could never pronounce his name right.
There was a specific z in there somewhere where one had to dig their tongue under their teeth.
Lots of breath and vibration that Americans were never asked or trained to do.
Every czech I met said our language was a high contradiction.
Extremely complex in grammar and spelling, but spoken with such sloth.
I don't know if they used the word sloth.
I just like the word.

As we waited for the tram, I noticed the burnt orange and red blood leaves on the ground.
"Where had they come from?" I wondered. There were no trees on the street.
Must be from the park down the block, the one with the big church and the square.
There were lines of trees there used as leaning posts for the bums and junkies as they waited.
What they were waiting for, I never knew.
They just looked to be waiting for something.
I kicked a leaf into the street from the small island platform for the tram.
It swept up into the air a couple inches, and then instantly, was swept away by a passing car.
I watched as it wavered in the air, settling down the block in the middle of the road.

"Where's this trammm," Page complained.
Whenever it was cold out, her complaining level multiplied by a million.
"Should be coming soon. Check the schedule."
"Too cold," she said, "Need to keep my hands in my pockets."
I shook my head and looked at the schedule. It said it would be there at 11:35.
"11:35," I told her, still looking at the schedule. There was a strange cross over the day of Sunday.
"You mad?"
"No," I said turning to her, "I just want to have a nice day and its hard when you're upset."
"I'm not upset," she said, her teeth chattering behind her lips.
"Complaining I mean. We can go back home if it's really too cold. It's right there."
"No," she looked down, "Let's go out for a bit. I just don't know how long I'll last."
"Ok," I shrugged.
I looked up the street and saw our tram coming; number 11.
"There it is," I said.
"Thank God," Page exhaled, "I feel like I'm about to die."

Even the tram was sparse with people.
An empty handle of cheap liquor rattled in the back somewhere.
I heard it rock back and forth against the legs of a metal seat.
"Someone had a night last night," I thought, "Hope that's not mine."
We had gone to some dark bar with a lot of stairs going down - all I really recall.
Beer was so **** cheap there and there was always so much of it, one got very drunk easily.
I couldn't even really remember who we met or why we went there.
When everything's a blur in the morning you have two choices:
Feel guilty about how much you drank, lie around, and do nothing or,
Leave it be, try not to think about it, and try and find your passport and cell phone.

We made our transfer at the 22 and rode downhill.
Page looked like she was going to be sick.
Her sunglasses were solid black and I couldn't see her eyes, but her face was flushed and green.
"You alright?" I asked her.
"I'm fine," she said, "Just need to get off of this tram. Feel like I'm going to be sick."
"You look it."
"Really?" she asked.
"Yeah, a little bit."
"Let's get off at the park with the fountain. I don't want to puke here."
"Ok," I said, smiling, "We'll get off after this stop."

We sat down on one of the benches that circled around the fountain.
It was empty and Page was confused why.
"Maybe to save money?" I suggested.
"What? It's just water."
"Well, you gotta' pump the water up there and then filter it back out. Costs money."
"Costs crown," she corrected me.
"Same thing," I said, putting my arm around her, "There's no one here today."
"I know why," she stated, flatly.
"Why?"
"Because it's collllllllld and it's Sunday and only foreigner's would go out on a day like this."
I scanned the park and noticed that most of the faces there were probably not Czech.
"****," I muttered, "You may be right."
"I know I am," she said, wiggling her chin down into her jacket, "We're...crzzzy."
"We're what?" I asked. I couldn't hear her through her jacket.
She just shook her head back and forth and looked forward, not wanting to move from the warmth.
Dogs were scattered around the brown green grass with their owners.
Some were playing catch with sticks or *****, but others were just following behind their owner's.
I watched as one took a crap in the center of the walkway near the street.
Its owner was typing something on their phone, ignoring what was happening in front of him.
After the dog finished, the owner looked down at the crap, looked around, then slunk off.

"Did you see that?" I asked Page, pointing to where the owner had left the mess.
"Yeah," she nodded, "So gross. That would never fly in the states."
"You'd get shoulder tackled by some park security guard and thrown in jail."
"And be given a fat ticket," she said, coughing a little, "Let's get out of here."
"Yeah," I agreed, "And watch for any **** on the way out of here."

We made our way out of the park and down the street where the 22 continues on to the center.
"Let's not go into the center. Let's walk along the water's edge and maybe up to the bridge."
"Ok," I said, "That's a good idea." I didn't want to get stuck in that mass of tourists.
I could tell Page didn't either. I think she was afraid she might puke on a huddle of them.
We turned down a side street before the large grocery store and avoided a herd of people.
The cobble stones were wet and slick, glistening from a small sliver of sunlight through the clouds.
Page walked ahead.
Sometimes, when we walked downtown in the older parts of Prague, we would walk alone.
Not because we were fighting or anything like that; it was all very natural.
I would walk ahead because I saw something and she would either come with or not.
She would do the same and we both knew that we wouldn't go too far without the other.
I think we both knew that we would be back after seeing what we had wanted to see.
One could call it trust - one could call it a lot of things - but this was not really spoken about.
We knew we would be back after some time and had seen what we had wanted to.
Thinking about this, I watched her look up at the peeling paint of the old buildings.
Her thick black hair waved back and forth behind her plum colored pea coat.
Page would usually bring a camera and take pictures of these things, but she had forgotten it.
I wished she hadn't.
It was turning out to be such a beautiful day.

We made it to the Vlatva river and leaned over the railing, looking down at the water.
Floating there were empty beer bottles and plastic soda jugs.
The water was brown, murky, and looked like someone had dumped a large bag of dirt in there.
There was nothing very romantic about it, which one would think if you saw it in a picture.
"The water looks disgusting," Page said.
"That it does, but look at the bridge. It looks pretty good right
jeffrey robin Oct 2015
.



You may not be a Good Egg..

But

Fer sure !

You ain't a Bad Egg

:::

( & I usually don't go around

Complimenting people ! )

••

••

BROOKLYN BRIDGE AT MIDNIGHT !

                                      is my favorite painting

From a perspective high above the bridge

And inland


We see an empty bridge except for one small boy

Walking across

We see the neon lights  from Brooklyn eerily

Piercing the fog

///

It is very mystical and mysterious


<<

An escape to freedom  !!!

That's what seperates

A Good Egg from a Bad Egg

COURAGE !

)(

So come on !

Are ya gonna just wait till

Yer eaten by Zombies ?!
the chocolate fertilised egg


it is getting close to easter and my friend was wanting to have a baby

right in time, for the big holiday, so i went to the ***** bank and asked them

if i could make a fertilised egg to put in my friends ****** to create life, and it just

so happens that my friend loves chocolate and she wanted her baby to love it too,

so every time the baby kicked, she would eat a block of chocolate, but she had no idea

of why she did that, it just seemed to make her happy i guess,  but it forced the baby

to kick and kick and kick, and when i leaned over to hear the sound of the baby kicking

she would yell out, HEY, LOVE, GIVE ME THE CHOCOLATE, SO IT CAN MAKE MY FUCKEN EGGS

AND CREATE A LIFE WORTH LOVING.  and i gave her a chocolate, and i started thinking

fancy a baby loving chocolate and i hope he or she is born at easter, it could make a superb

birthday present, yeah a chocolate bunny or an egg with smarties in the middle, and this will

be the the right time to fertilise the egg with a nice dose of chocolate, where every easter we will

have many parties to celebrate this wonderful easter.
Hi dudes

I am on the murrays bus heading for Batemans bay and there is only 1 hour
And a half left and I am looking forward to being close to the ocean
You see it's going to be great eating fish
And chips at the boathouse
You see I am having memories of when I went here with my mate Daniel and this
Is my first trip since I stopped ringing him up and I am staying in Mariners on the waterfront and I hope the room is ready when I get there
I have to rehearse my play lines as well
I woke up at 5 am in the morning at my mother's house and I remember walking with Daniel and the bus dropped water on us because it was raining But today iss lovely sunny day and now we have arrived at Braidwood to pick up a box and we are off again
We are entering the windey roads
Of the Clyde mountain and as I look
Out there are roadworks and lovely black cows, cows are beautiful creatures and yes we will be passing
Poo bears corner and dudes there is
Blue sky for miles, and I hope my room
Had fox footy so I can watch the parade I have just arrived in Batemans bay
And I arrived too early for the room at Mariners, so I left my baggage there and
Headed for the take away for an egg and bacon roll with BBQ sauce and hopefully people will be out of the room
When I return to the hotel And the egg and bacon roll was very tasty and after I left chixandstix I headed toward k mart
To buy a coke and wait for the time to tick away so I could enter my room
There are millions of Kids running around and I saw one guy running on
The road, yeah this is going to be a great grand final weekend on the south coast and I hope I get into the room
By 12 so I can see if they have the fox footy channel for the parade
But they didn't But it is a wonderful room with a nice view of the Clyde river
And I wish there was a fox footy but oh well we can't have everything but it is a beautiful view though
The next minute I walked down to the Batemans bay soldiers club and paid them $10 to become a member and I am
Going to
Watch the parade in air conditioned comfort I know I leave monday  but I find it is worth it
I am watching hawthorn and west coast go down the streets either he sun shining nicely in this great spring day and I am sinking coke by coke enjoying the grand final I have just arrived in Batemans bay
And I arrived too early for the room at Mariners, so I left my baggage there and
Headed for the take away for an egg and bacon roll with BBQ sauce and hopefully people will be out of the room
When I return to the hotel And the egg and bacon roll was very tasty and after I left chixandstix I headed toward k mart
To buy a coke and wait for the time to tick away so I could enter my room
There are millions of Kids running around and I saw one guy running on
The road, yeah this is going to be a great grand final weekend on the south coast and I hope I get into the room
By 12 so I can see if they have the fox footy channel for the parade
But they didn't But it is a wonderful room with a nice view of the Clyde river
And I wish there was a fox footy but oh well we can't have everything but it is a beautiful view though
The next minute I walked down to the Batemans bay soldiers club and paid them $10 to become a member and I am
Going to
Watch the parade in air conditioned comfort I know I leave Monday but I find it is worth it
I am watching hawthorn and west coast go down the streets either he sun shining nicely in this great spring day and I am sinking coke by coke enjoying the grand final And after walking home from the club
after watching the parade, I got $50 out
And went back to the hotel and presto
The TV was in better working order but
I don't have fox footy, so I am glad I went to the club and currently I am just
Relaxing in front of the box doing my art
And I saw the end of the rugby league
Grand final show and I am doing my hAlloween tapestryAnd now I am watching alive and cooking waiting for the 3 o'clock news
Bulletin to start and tonight I am going to have fish and chips as well as buying a few supplies to veg out with tonight
In front of the box, the view of the river
Is radically awesome dude and I am looking forward to my fish and chips
Down the coast
I just had fish and chips at the voatshed and yes mr seagull decided to Payne a visit
And you shoul have Heard the racket when I gave up one or two or three
And the fish was so fresh and for drinks I had pub squash and another seagull jumps up to say hello to Me and I said hell mister seagull and after I finished with my dinner I went to woollies to buy some supplied to satisfy my hunger tonight
And as I was walking home  a man said I was shaky he like a jelly on a plate and I said yeah I am a cool writer and artist
And then I went into my room to watch Becker then the news and I am going to spend a relaxing night on the night before west coast hopefully beat hawthorn and will I get fat tonight
Of course I am not going to eat it all tonight
I will concentrate on my creativityYou see I lying on my bed moving
My hand as I do each stitch watching
Neighbours and everybody loves Raymond and then watched the gardeners on better homes and gardens
And whe I was watching that some really cool party people were laughing and having a good time all I'm readiness
For the afl grand final tomorrow
As the song goes
We are the Eagles the west coast Eagles
We're the team to show you how
We are the better birds than the team of hawthorn we are the mighty west coast team but if hawthorn win tomorrow
I will ****** scream and now there is another talk show
Have you been paying attention
Which is a radically awesome show
But I Have turns it over to superman
On channrlll goI got up at 7 am this morning after having a nightmare of James Pederson
Getting his revenge on me after I teased him a bit and then I got up to go to the toilet and took my medication and went back to bed for 2 more hours and after that I had a shower and then breakfast
And got the room ready for the housekeepers to clean and then went on a walk to beautiful batehaven and as I walked down the road, there was this lovely sesbreeze and it was a beautiful
Hot day and I passed the fish and chip shop and the shell museum and bird land animal park and I saw families swimming in the pool and when I reached batehaven I bought myself a coke and say there watching isthe water and there is this water skier having a wow of a time and there was this man taking his dog down to the water and there are heaps of families taking their kids to the water on this nice hot day  
It is wonderful sitting by the beach and onr man is resting his dog
It is a nice day for the beach
And I am enjoying myself relaxing in the shade of this really hot day at the beach
And soon I must go to get some lunch and watch west coast beat hawthirn
Go the EaglesI entered the soldiers club and went straight to the bistro to have a hamburger with egg and bacon and chips and it was superb and then I went to the TV to watch the pre game show
And Elle Goulding and Bryan Adams
Were the entertainers and mike Brady sang up there Cazaly and even if they weren't there felt like singing up there goes Sydney and I chose the TV with a view of the Clyde river and I am still tipping west coast go the Eagles
The Hawks broke away with a lead at quarter time and half time and west coast are in for a record if they can get back from 57-26 down and the Kangaroos runner won the sprint giving money to youth homelessness
And the beach is a cool backdrop for the mighty MCG and I am still going for the eagkes but it will be hard
Go the eagles for what it's worth
Well we are the happy team at hawthorn
Showing the Eagles which birds the best, we fight them off from start to finish
Go the Hawks for the 2015 premiership
And it is a good reason to party on
Saturday night which is party night
Yes the Hawks are superior in this grand final and I am sitting in the batemans bay soldiers club watching the match and I am waiting for the presentation and if the motel has a band tonight
I am going party through frustrations by watching the band
I will probably get a pizza for dinner on the wharf
But the Hawks were the big birds the kings of the big game
Go the Hawks for victorycan hear you laughing. Go
You see you are laughing oh so hard mc cracking jokes celebrating the Cowboys win it was a wonderful win
I am glad the Broncos lost
You see I like people who party
They are my type of people
You see people laugh at each other
And they say go cowboys go
Then around Christmas time
They dress up as Santa and let out
A loud ** ** **
You see they say it very loud
It is like they lost thrift ** ** **
Where can it go go go
Doing the hanky pdnky with your mates
In the gay bar in downtown Sydney
Then we will celebrate a win
Cowboys Cowboys rah rah rah
Got he mighty Cowboys from now till the end of hhf day
Everyone has stopped laughing
Time for bed
Go the Cowboys
shåi Apr 2017
which came first,
the chicken or the egg?
a century old question
with no forthright answer

the chicken,
whose regal presence
defines
the world is his abyss

the egg
in meek stature
remains a gift
to its ceasing world

the chicken stands proud
a surefire bet
the world-
its audience

the egg
afraid of itself
the world-
its personality court

all the world is a stage
every saying- a game
you know how the story goes,
the chicken never gains

(b.d.s.)
happy easter!this poem is drastically different from what i write so leave me comments of how you interpret this poem

— The End —