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Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
.oh, i've seen a muslim woman unveil herself from under a niqab in a street in hackney... it's the moment you see what the band cradle of filth call a: persian nightmare.

it's almostly the most perfected contrast of divergence,
how there is great criticism of the muslim attire,
and a complete lack of by the appropriation
of the sunglasses...
can i mind you that cenobite butterball?
   i find people wearing sunglasses to be
autistic, or at least people a knack at being
terrible at eye-contact...
           i know that the niqab is satan's postbox,
but the sunglasses are the answer,
      of the autistic carousel of eye-wanderings
of autistic children...
are they looking at me, or pretending
to look at copernicus, to argue:
you really don't need a flat earth
to read a map, because you really need
a 3 dimensional something or other....
    niqabs are about as welcome as sunglasses...
either it hides a saudi "princess"
   or an autistic child,
             and both are pretty much alike,
although one above the other,
admonishes a "knowledge" of a, papa.
    which is also called a waving goodbye in
slavic.
           come on though: meeting the niqab
and sunglasses in butterball?!
   that's ******* desperate...

and yes, although i can't believe i've had a note
making session, which, i did call la la land
impromptu
...
yes, they are excerpts of: i wish i was gay
& also a jew, slightly more the jew emerging
from a cosmopolitan culture of constantinople,
even though the turks loved that bit
of ****... elif shafak? do i really need any
more words?! can we at least call it:
an orangutan playing the banjo?!
     do i really need more words than
elif shafak?
            who am i to pay the compliment,
than the compliment itself?
          
the biblical commentary regarding homosexuals;
will homosexuals ever become dodos?
the biblical critique of homosexuality
always seems a bit awry...
    was the bible written in a time when
hetrosexuality was guaranteed a success?
why was homosexuality criticised,
given that hetrosexuality was pretty much
akin to gambling?
      i don't understand why people do not
understand the ancient critique of homosexuality,
with the uncertainty of hetrosexual activity...
mind you, i love ****-eroticism in art,
i find that hetero-eroticism has no part in
crafting an art...
  but i also do not understand why
the biblical critique of homosexuality is so
frowned upon, given that in the times
of the said text being written,
     there was a dodo counter-argument...
there was a real chance of a ******* metaphor,
most gays, akin to the greeks,
were salvaged from the upper-tier class
of aristocracy...
           what's so ****** wrong with
facing reality?
               i don't mind the *******
oddity, but you still require
hetrosexuality to provide you with
two *** lickers!
       i actually can understand the critique
of homosexuality, given the times that abortion
was half the way into conservative dogmatism
established as a:
    sort of luxury;
i can't believe the obnoxiousness of modern
people regarding the ancients...
  please, begin by desecrating graves!
ever wonder how uncircumcised penises look
very much like bloated octopi,
or like an octopus trying to internalise a laugh,
while attempting to **** into an empty whiskey
bottle, with the ******* pinched,
turning into a bladder pouch, expanding?
akin to:
fame -
             or that stamina mingled with the tenacity
to be able, to repeat yourself
(notably in the interview medium)
with the tenacity to appear straight-faced:
seemingly mummified?
   and once you actually do manage to ****
into an empty glass bottle, you start to
admire the bladder...
   it is anything but amazing,
  seeing how your bladder can expand to hold
a litre of *****, without you noticing
the internalised expansion...
and then watching a litre sized bottle of
one present whiskey, begin to fill with
                     the shy of amber liquid...
it's still bothersome,
  this critique of muslim attire,
           notably with the western answer that's
equally disturbing, the sunglasses,
     it's one and the same to me,
the same butterball cenobite quest -
who gives a toss about your ******
contortions,
    as the niqab, they reveal very little to me...
it's almost an autistic revision
of the supposedly empowered
women of islam...
                what i could get behind those
sunglasses, it a darting carousel of
eye-contact...
                chances are i'd probably get
more eye-contact with a gorilla,
while also getting more oral *** with
a ******* oyster behind that curtain.
Shawn Awagu Dec 2019
The restaurant is quiet, relatively, the one that
Maya told you about yesterday at lunch
She and her boyfriend mentioned “Three’s Company”—
No not the show—
And how we should go out there sometime
“Yeah, maybe we should”
You said because you don’t know how to say no

The lighting is warm, like an Olive Garden
But there’s a draft on your neck and your hands are cold because there is no one standing next to you
You wish you were there instead; even though this place looks nice, you don’t know if it actually is
And you start to feel the vibrations

Before you psych out and walk out, you sit down at a table and wait for an underpaid waitress—
There she is—
“Hello, my name is Elif and welcome to Three’s Company. What would you like to order?”
You spot her nametag—
“Excuse me, would you happen to be of Turkish descent?”
Her eyes light up—
“Wow, how’d you know that? Everyone just thinks I’m American.”
Remember, she has to be nice—
“I like exploring languages cultures. I find it fascinating that we’re all the same, yet so radically different in our own way.” This doesn't actually make sense, but it sounds interesting.
Her eyebrows dance. Cute—
“Well Mr. Philosopher, what can our establishment provide for you today?”
Quick, glance at the board—
“American Classic. No pickles”
“Coming right up!”

Her pen damages the atmosphere for a few moments, and then she’s gone
You almost feel like you’re human until you remember she’s underpaid to smile and small talk
And your hands start shaking again; look I’m sorry kid
I like you
But you’re not much company
Sag Jan 2017
December 31st, 2016
Sometime around 10:40pm
On a balcony in the closest thing to a mansion I've ever been in
The weather was the worst weather for a New Years Eve party I'd ever seen and yet, there we both were, on that balcony overlooking a dark and foggy field under electric blue lights shining upon red solo cups.
I first noticed your sweater, where a hypothetical pocket would be, a little girl in a yellow dress holding a purple umbrella, standing in the rain. Salt?
Salt.
I then noticed how you looked European, only to find out you're from Florida, but living in New York. I didn't get that information from you, your cousin filled me on who you were.
At some point, I was in conversation with some friends sitting under the blue lights, with a small plastic pastel pink cup filled with chardonnay, and as you walked past me, you quickly tapped the tip of your beer bottle on the rim of my cup, a tiny toast, without even looking at me, and you just kept walking to wherever you were walking to on the balcony. I'm not sure what about that exact clink intrigued me, but I looked down and smiled at my cup in thought for a few moments. I ended up observing your mannerisms for the rest of night.
You had a cigarette tucked behind your ear, a sinister but pristine set of white teeth behind pink lips. The bags under your eyes complimented the blue in a way that when I looked into them I could see the nights spent awake, probably at a skate park, or some ***** New York alley, smoking *** with girls with septum rings and stiletto nails.
I moved closer to the table to see who was winning the game, like I always do when I don't feel like engaging in small talk with old acquaintances. You mocked me for my black and mild and asked to have a hit. You offered to share your behind-the-ear cigarette with me and I accepted, and lit it with my flannel pocket lighter.
We passed it back and forth while you tossed a ping pong ball back and forth across the table.
At 11:40, I left without saying goodbye to run towards my midnight kiss, and made it just in time. I'm not sure if you got a midnight kiss.
I hope you did, under the fireworks. But something about you makes me feel like you didn't deserve one. You looked like trouble. But I don't know anything about you except that you said you were twenty one which I'm almost sure was a lie, off about five years, give or take.
Our meeting was brief and both pleasant and bizarre.
The fact that we met in Louisiana was a lucky happenstance.
I'm not sure if I'd even say lucky. Our chance meeting has had no true effect on me, except perhaps, maybe next time I pull out the salt from the top shelf of my pantry, I'll think of you and smile in that weird sinister way you do.

January 3rd, 2017
9:05 pm**
I was closing the coffee shop after a long downtempo day. I had almost everything done when my boss texted saying he had some things to do, and that he'd be there soon. He told me he brought a friend, named Elif (which I later secretly googled in the office to learn the origin of) that he would like me to meet. "You'll like her."
And I think I have just laid eyes on possibly the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.
I shielded my irritated pink eye behind my hair, along with rosy cheeks at the sight of her.
There she stood, tanned skin, long brown hair with blonde tips, a soft smile, softer brown eyes, natural thick eyebrows, a septum ring, green socks over stockings with flats, a mustard yellow cardigan, her own handmade crystal beaded bracelets up her arm.
God, where did he find this girl?

He made us lattes, and we talked about my tattoo that she inquired about, but she'd never heard of Shel Silverstein and I was afraid to make a fool of myself and say something dumb so I kept the explanation short and sweet.
She held a peppermint mocha latte with whipped cream up to her lips and inhaled with a soft smile, and I wish I could've captured that moment forever, it was so sweet and heartwarming, to look at her small figure like her core was gravitating up into the cup, her shoulders right below her ears, her fingers wrapped around the red paper mug.
As he pulled a shot of espresso for me, steaming whole milk even though I mentioned I'd rather almond milk ("it's better for latte art"; showoff) he mocked me for always showing up late, but she thanked me because the way things worked out, he was able to leave early to spend more time with her because of my mistake, and I claimed it was what the universe wanted to happen, and she laughed. And that felt nice, to hear how she laughed.
She was so soft, but also genuinely easy to talk to, and thrilled to talk to me, and she was just so cool. so so cool.
She leaves tomorrow morning to return home to Georgia, not Turkey, like I thought, which we both agreed would have been sad.
I wish I did not get introduced to her the night before she leaves, but I am glad that he knows me well enough to know that I would greatly enjoy her presence, even if only for a short while.

I will add that he had little love marks on his throat, I'm sure which were from her, and that makes me very very happy to know that he has found someone that I think is almost as interesting and dynamic as he is.

I hope to see her again. She said she'd make me a crystal bracelet and gave me her email.
Maybe one day I could email her and maybe if I ever happened to end up in Georgia, or her, back here, we could have a cup of coffee together and I could read her The Light in The Attic.

— The End —