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anna charlotte Nov 2014
dagene går og tankerne flyver
dine ord sårer og snitter
du ved hvordan og hvorfor
men du glemmer og foragter det

du tror jeg ville være der og at jeg ville blive
dine dage i mine tanker er talte og er ved slippe op
du mener jeg er et produkt af dig og at jeg aldrig kunne forlade dig
men du ved ikke at jeg ikke er din længere og at jeg ej venter på dig mere.

jeg har nået enden på driften.
det der skete da du forlod mine tanker(som så aldrig rigtig er sket, ****)
enden er nær
enden på vores struktur-givne frihed
jeg har aldrig rigtig været andet end elev
først og fremmest
produktionens indlærte prioritering i min knoglemarv vi knækker uden skemaer over vores hverdag, hver dag er ikke vores
jeg har drømt om sommeren, om varmen og nu er den her den stikker
piskesmældssmil på solskinsform vi sveder
ingen gylden middelvej forude
vi fortsætter af den grå middelvej
slørede gråzoner
v a r m e b ø l g e r
jeg keder mig; jeg er overvældet
alt er for meget og
alt er for lidt
smiler til damen med demens i min gård, tænker på vejarbejdet på støvet
mine lår er klistret fast til stolen jeg føler mig
smaragdgrøn og rislende som en å

vi lukker af for verden de sagde ikke farvel til mig
er det kikset at være ordentlig? kan jeg tillade mig at smile til jer? kan jeg sige godmorgen uden at rødme over min akavethed?

TOLERANT ER IKKE ENSBETYDENDE MED SVAG

VENLIG ER IKKE SYNONYM FOR MINDREVÆRDIG

der ligger så meget forude og jeg kan ikke rigtig begribe det ikke forestille mig mere end det, der skal overkommes

en eller anden gang må det jo komme til mig

det der livsglæde
Natten omslutter os som ringe af stål.
Jeg vil se igennem dine øjne,
transparent hele vejen.
Gennembore dine organer og sprænge rygsøjlen.
Tåget og tung af medicin ser jeg dig.
Mørke og reptiløjne.
Kolde som sne. Kyniske.
Solsystemet danser over jorden af bregner.
Man er forpligtet til at tænke håbefuldt,
men jeg tænker ikke håbefuldt.
- men famler i blinde med kolde hænder.
Isblå negle og blodmangel.
Lad os gå sammen, tænker jeg,
men tier.
Sætter mig i stedet sammen med de andre
og vi klipper huller i hinandens hud.
Septembers fjerne varme sætter lys i mine øjne og
drager mig ud i natten.
Lyset erstattes af kulørt neon og tager pusten fra mig.
Der er en indebrændt stemme i min hals
og for enden af halsen sidder munden.
Tungen slår knuder og jeg kan næsten ikke,
men med sammenbidte tænder, skriger jeg.
Efter hvad aner jeg ikke.
Inhalerer det sidste marv ud af dagen
og hoster den ud med bræk.
Samfundet er dødt,
og jeg vil ikke længere forestille mig livet
med lungerne fyldte af kviksølv.
Jovist har vi været i det grønne. Jovist.
Jeg kom til festen i den sorte nat. Natten af ramaskrig.
Jeg ligger søvnløs i mælkevejen
diffust omsværmet af natteravne og stjerneskud.
Stjernedød.
Jeg lytter til deres stemmer,
ser dem igennem øjnene
og på et tidspunkt går jeg hjem.
Eines kaltes und schwach beleuchtetes Morgens,
wachte ich, oder so ich dachte,
zu nur einem neue unverfängliche Tag.

In Verlauf des Tages
wurde es mir schwer zu unterscheiden
zwischen Wach und Traum.
Eigentlich, jetzt dass ich dran denke,
mir scheinen sie noch die gleiche zu sein...

Die am beide
beginnen und enden
sind grenzlos und begrenzt
sind echt und Illusion
sind ganz und gar im Kopf.

In der Zwischenzeit dieses Traums
hatte ich irgendwie gelernt dass vor allem,
man muss lieben, was macht man froh.

Dann,
als ob 'ne Stimme
von hinten meinem Kopf:
"Mach schon, Junge; mach mehr davon!"

Dieser Morgen war heute Morgen.
Tja, vielleicht nicht wörtlich,
doch wahrlich sinnbildlich;

ich weiß es ist wahr
die Sonne hat noch zu setzen
auf meinem traumähnliche Tag
A familiar Dream

One cold and dimly lit morning,
I woke, or so I thought,
to just another unsuspecting day.

In the course of the day
it became difficult for me to differentiate
between waking and dream.
Actually, now that I think about it,
they still seem to be the same to me...

They both
begin and end
are infinite and finite
are real and illusion
are entirely in the head.

In the meantime of this dream
I had somehow learned that before all else,
one must love what makes one happy.

Then,
as if a voice
in the back of my head:
"Come on, boy; make more of it!"

That morning was this morning,
Well, perhaps not literally,
but certainly symbolically;

I know it is true
the sun has yet to set
upon my dreamlike day.


--
Challenged myself to write in German, this is the result and my translation. Enjoy?
llcb Jul 2015
Vi havde et godt efterår os to. I skyggen af træet gennem enden af sommeren, indtil blade af bronze faldt i hovedet på os. Små kys på mit ansigt mens jeg sov, som fik mig til at drømme hver nat imens du så på mine fregner og små lykkelige, lukkede øjenlåg. Men ungdoms kærlighed er vel lavet af plastik, og nu er plastikken brandt fast på kogepladen i mit køkken af aluminium, og jeg skal rydde det hele op. Og det eneste jeg laver nu er at spekulere på om det enten er for sent til at drikke kaffe eller for tidligt til at drikke mig fuld, og jeg er trist efter dig. Nu spiser jeg ude hele tiden, selvom det er sidst på måneden og de halvtredsere jeg har kan tælles på en hånd, fordi jeg er bange for at brænde mere på i køkkenet. Men en halv pakke smøger,  et par hundrede kroner og en nuddelboks kunne jeg leve af, hvis du ville kysse mine fregner igen.
Victoria Wilhelm Aug 2019
I New York City;

i en afgangshal med himmelrum og stjerner som loft hopper en gruppe asiatiske piger i takt med højtaler announcements på deres side humper en krop forbi iklædt pink handsker og pink sko glaskrystaller i øjnene én enkelt glaskrystal for enden af stokken under det højthængende flag overhaler jakkesæt og mappedyr turister og gamle mennesker og små børn og alle dem der        altid bliver overhalet


I New York City;

på en gade der krydser med en anden ser jeg høje sko på det vinteroptrukne asfalt snefnug sætter sig fast i nyopsatte frisure jeg hører lyden af én enkelt hæl  der fastlåses i sprækkerne mellem fortovskanten og én flise der optræder mønstre i fortovets cement      mon alle på Manhattan bærer høje hæle i vintermånederne?


I New York City;

alle blikkene kører som elevatorer         op og ned
jeg tager trapperne op på perronen og jeg møder flere blikke



altid dette i New York City; (og alle andre steder)

blikke
blikke
øjne der løber op og ned af kroppe

min krop, der er så kold.


I New York City;

*
jeg går og jeg går jeg befinder mig på L, M og F toget jeg er på Union Square    igen  
jeg er på upper East Side køber franske bøger til et fransk-amerikansk oplæsnings-arrangement Rien ne s’oppose à la nuit, og New York City du viger heller ikke for natten ikke for blikke   ikke for nogen.

Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
perhaps i should be more familiar
with black literature... perhaps will alexander
is not enough... oh god: i just stepped into
a reverse psychology faux pas...

  again...

there should be easier ways to buy jazz records...
but clearly there aren't...
for years and years i sat on the tube as it rolled
between leytonstone and leyton...
they now have a grand mount... for the new graves...
prior to... the graveyard stretched...
almost the entire distance from one station
of the central line to the next...

i did plan to go into london before
lying myself to sleep... once upon a time i would
go all the way... into tourist central...
i'd go and do the usual... tate modern...
tate national...
i even dressed myself for the occassion...
well... "dressed"...
does a dog change its fur...
i had to capture the sensation of wearing
the same clothes for long enough...
washing, personal hygiene -
change of t-shirts... of course...
but today i was going to buy myself some
jazz records...

i couldn't just hop on the bus (when was
the last time i used a bus -
rather the centipede of my own legs?
you never forget to swim or ride a bicycle -
when was the the last time
i used the tube?) -  and just head to the shop...

that would be so boring...
and i'm not a female to window-shop either...
what ensured a diversion?
immaculate timing...
   walking up to the bus stop...
a girl... probably 16... sitting and waiting...
bus pulls up... i gesticulate: ladies first...
and she gives me a smile...

that decided... winter! it's winter!
and Freya's daughter took a needle's eye
and brought me before the altar of my original
whim...
jumped on the 66 bus and then on
the central line... newbury park,
gants hill, redbridge, wanstead,
leytonstone... leyton... and onto st. patrick's
roman catholic cemetary...

just before spring comes...
to find the absolute nadir of winter -
perhaps autumn is when romance novels
are written about death...
but i much prefer graveyard in winter...
i would have gone further into london:
but those jazz vinyls are not going
to buy themselves...
plus... i find graveyards... well...
hardly morbid... i like them because...
esp. the roman catholic ones...
have statues... and...
well... who wouldn't want to see
a museum of statues: al fresco!

reiteration - because i can't mumble
or metaphor myself or make this succinct...
graveyards are museums al fresco...
whoever was the sculptor... of the crude stone...
the second artist... the weatherer has also
done his bit... coy wind... a splattering
of "paint" with rain...
the... basking in the sun...
the drop in temperature...
i like to see the "other" artist at work...
give me this one life's span a peek into
the deeds of this almost eternal sculpture
baron...

whether god or: death personified...
               the theological god can return to his
origins story... the sun the moon the stars
the: what came first the chicken or the egg...
what came first... the spiderweb or the spider?
pointless hamsterwheel questions:
a priori this... a posteriori that...
museums are stuffy... they might hold
under their roof... in pristine vacuum...
the Elgin marbles... but i want to visit a museum
that breathes! these gravestone statues...
breathe! if you're not careful enough...
you might see a wandering eye...
as if someone transcendent has touched them...

graveyards: museums al fresco...
and in winter? and it's your typical sodden...
overcast... london clepsydra of drool and dire
and the scent of wet dog fair...
and there is no chance to intoxicate yourself
with the decomposition of autumn's fall:
banquet of leaves... and that sickly sweet
botanical scent of decay...
it's winter and raindrops become piercing
needles of sensation...
you wouldn't even dare... to blink.
                    
- of course i had to take a few photographs...
it would be weird if i didn't...
once upon a time even death was due
man's concern for beauty...
in these grave statues... whether it's a 1000th
jesus or some obscure saint...
whatever it was... it was certainly worth...
imitating a ******... getting all wet with
goosebumps on the ******* sack tickling you...
no hard-on... whenever you'd want
to gasp and spew some variation whale
sonar: morse onomatopoeia: coy cooing an ooh...

so back on the tube and to the record store...
****... need to ****...
to the pub and half a pint of guinness...
again: a woman's smile is so up-lifting...
and that surprise as you're only there for half
a pint... up the stairs to the toilet and...
out the pub...

the thing about buying jazz records...
why would i buy a gramaphone...
if i didn't intend to only buy jazz records for it?
why buy, modern vinyl?
the thing about buying jazz records...
you need to know a few names...
you always look at the... "starring"...
i know there's another term for what i'm
looking for... "starring" is easy...
and it's in no way related to the word:
repetroire... but it is french etymologically:
although mutated from: ensemble...

i'm pretty sure there is an english equivalent
to ensemble: which is not "starring"...
accompanied by...
                 that sort of mid-way introductory
statement by the vocalist...
on the piano we have...
on the guitar we have... and each band member
does a little accent impromptu:
accent impromptu: which is not a full-on
hair-metal solo 2 hour slow bbq **** chicken
strutting send-off into the stratosphere...

never mind... can't a white guy just appreciate
jazz... i'm tired of the sycophants of classical music...
including charles bukowski...
the japanese have covered this sycophancy
and elevated it to virtuosity of the drum-kit
monkey... fair play...
but jazz never allows you to... over-think...
anything... a head without thought
and all that sea of feel...
logic is over-rated... i like my cushion of
the antithesis of descartes: res cogitans in that
i find pleasure... in res vanus...
- and classical music is over-thought...
to me at least... it's a falling piano of notes
and no breather... no feel for bass drums or pause...
for an accent of sorts...
no real idiosyncracy - beside the idiosyncracy
of the oeuvre...

jazz says to me: i don't want to over-think:
not-thinking...
it's as simple as that... i hardly think a cat
allows that onomatopoeia: meow...
i hardly think a dog allows that onomatopoeia:
bark / woof... to enter and govern his mind...
this imitation of being: surrounded
by beings with complex prompts and
a car-wreck of sounding verbiage...
hardly a woof or a meow to be "deconstructed"
in those furry-heads of theirs...
how does a sax sound in my head...
when i can't hear a sax outside of it...
i'm not a composer... letters would congest
the sponge... soapy water instead
of live-young evian... pristine cool and crisp...

drums and all their ambience...
when there's the intro by the horn...
before the protagonist sax takes over...
sly little horn...
jazz... i don't like to over-think not-thinking...
classical music?
i tend to over-think not-thinking...
with jazz i can never over-think not-thinking...
because: feelz... and what-not...
it's hardly an armchair of apathy...
it's hardly a sofa of tolerance...
it's a cushion for a head that sometimes
feels like a tonne of lead...
and the air doesn't become water: "magically"
to even wish for a sinking sensation...
blurps of bubbles no...
there's only the almighty fall or an explosion...

feelz... (this will be addressed...
the Z... in german... that i do promise...)

- again, not again, again... i can't buy the same old
stale **** narrative behind the slave trade...
there's a jack of spades in here somewhere...
no blacks in h'america: no jazz...
it's that simple... god forbid where i'd be at if
i were to still praise the suffocating confines
of classical music...
this is classical music to me...
this is... everything that's suffocating about
Bach's innovative polyphony...
polyphony sure... but what jazz allows and
what classical music doesn't...
it's hardly called a solo if only the piano gets
it... a chopin or a liszt...
any... famous violinists sharing the stage
with the pianists... the piano is the only instrument
that's allowed a solo: proper...
but in jazz... you can get all the instruments
in the ensemble given a fair share...
no africans coming over to h'america...
no jazz... instead:
       pirouettes in corsets and crinolines!
ugh...
               liberated into: chain-smoking
and giggling why pulling an imaginary chain
saying: choo! choo! this train has nowhere
to stop... beside a tomorrow...
and should tomorrow come...
                                      that's still only a gamble!

jazz because there is no singing...
            well... 'my funny valentine'... chet baker...
better known on screen as ethan hawke...
astronaut... thespian... at large chameleon...
dat dere: the disappointment from
having chamelon leather shoes...
that will riddle... should ever a pair be made...
no fluorescence no change in the weather...
just at the time of the killing...
would the pigment remain: "thus desired"?
well... i don't know what the muslims
and the yids have against pork...
i'm pretty sure most standards of belts
and shoes are... made from pork skin...
which is... well... leather...
perhaps they should don the orthodox ***
yom kippur statement of running
into the synagogue wearing sneakers!

just saying... porky pink and whitey sneaked
in with a guitar and a piano...
sonny clark also tip-toed on the black
and white cascade...
                                  interludes from absence...
or the myth of the custard -
               it boils like a voice unearthed from
mud... tinged with surprises of a canary...
gloating glutton of the stove...
               jazz in the kitchen,
jazz in the bedroom... jazz in the living room...
jazz sitting up, jazz sitting down,
jazz drinking a hop-heavy lager...
jazz sober...
                                        it's not jazz:
because i live in new york and i have a feel
for the romance with frank o'hara and all things
gay and otherwise cosmopolitan...
romford is probably like hull...
and i'm the antithesis of phil larkin...
my verse is more scribbles and scrabble than
his neat: your parents ****** you...

jazz is a rebellion akin to 'my parents ****** me'
when they fed me a classical music diet
as a child... rock guns 'n' roses grunge and punk
were minor rebellions: teasing pop...
but nothing to match to the diet of classical music
ingested early on in life...
                          jazz was and is, though...

- when buy a jazz record... you have to look for
the usual suspects...
sometimes you look what the lead protagonist
is playing... after hearing Grachan Moncur III's
avant-garde... i'm not convinced...
but there is a list of the usual suspects...
evolution just reminded me of everything
i didn't like about eric dolphy's out to lunch...
but there's a list of usual suspects...

'i can't believe i almost bought a vinyl of a c.d.
i already own... money jungle by duke ellington...
good that i didn't...'

the usual suspects of an ensemble alternating:
eric dolphy, paul chambers, freddie hubbard,
sonny clark, joe chambers, herbie hancock,
john coltraine, sonny rollins, kenny burnell,
art blakey...            wayne shorter...
what would probably become equivalent to...
sitting through a ****** movie...
but otherwise finding the end-credits more
entertaining... the ******-movie of what's not
remembered as that golden fleece of mid-20th
century nostalgia...
i once placed my nostalgia in h'american
hippy culture... come to think of it...
i guess my nostalgia is: the coming out of
1950s america and no quiet going the full mile
into beatnik poetry recitations with jazz
in the background...
no one would **** the poets:
instead the jazz musicians...
                     somewhere cowering under
an umbrella sown together from moth wings...
assuring himself a lightbulb was
the sun... evidently no formality of language
genesis: dear sir / madam
exodus: yours sincerely / yours faithfully...
and all of this... in between?

                         shoes shoes...
two jazz records is hardly an extravagance...
these days...
oliver nelson - the blues and the abstract truth...
sonny rollins - the bridge (jim hall on guitar)...
well... because sonny rollins and: colossus...
24 quid...
                why am i supposed to remember
the slave trade... am i a native of these parts?
i thought i was the "dumb ******" industrial n-----
joke? don't shoot the messanger...
do i look like i've just killed your grandma'
by playing a ******* harmonica?
not everyone is going to be listening to rap...
what jazz gave rap... isn't gonna give
that easily for me to ingest... *****-nilly...
sonny rollins... looks like a well attired man...
even if it is 1963... perhaps my own ambitions are lax...
i'm the son that wouldn't become
his father... and he was always the son
that was going to overshadow his father...
and that leaves me with my paternal grandfather...
all that remains to be said...
by my maternal grandfather: we has a hard worker...
well... stick that as an epitaph for
anyone without an epitaph on their grave...
i'm sure those dates will look like
candy dripping from a ******* rainbow
any day soon!

thighs, legs in total, comic sanskirt of the brains
between the gallows of *******....
and hands: all those geisha hands...
are the erotica canvas for my no-thrills
genocide *****-and-tic canvas work of a tissue...
because... even if i "cant get any"...
any is just as plenty...
i shared a moment in a supermarket with
a guy who was buying...
wine and bread... honest to god...
he was buying wine and bread...
i missed the last supper and that magic
of a philosopher's stone of:
the wood of all metaphors...
that great driftwood of history...
the postage stamp of contemp. african
get-togethers in europe...

                       an eric dolphy or an bobby hutcherson
on cymbals... "vibes"
   ("vibes" could also be made synonymous
with a prog rock artifact...
a Hammond E-112 ***** too)
                            could work...
the cymbals or the xylophone or whatever
that elevator muzak attache is...
could work... in synch...
on something like grant green's idle moments...
as forrest gump would have said it...
the gi(t)ar is in symbiosis...
but please no horns no sax...
well... sax ever so slightly...
just below the drums...
most certainly beneath the bass...
keep it clean with the guitar and the piano...
only then... some sort of equilibrium...

otherwise what's 120 quid?
something my hands can touch and the sort
of money that i would never spend:
how much vinyl can a man eat
before he realises... this **** isn't liquorice!
from pocket to pocket...
from hand to hand...
                  i never gave that money 10 quid
short with a box of chocolates or a bunch
of flowers... so i guess...
that's money best swept under the rug
of daily needs... flowers wither and chocolate...
eh... chocolate...
                                it's not the thought
of liquorice when playing a vinyl record on
a gramophone... anise amber anise amber anise...
cinnamon and...
and and and and... the raven hair of
bulgarian prostitutes... fingertips...
if only the tongue could read braille...

       i'd ensure that if i went into a brothel
i'd spend a good ten minutes moving my fingertips
ferocious against a brickwall...
some might say: i wanted to experience
of feeling oysters under my fingertips...
when caressing the otherwise sandpaper of skin...
and time...

beer becomes an elevated circumstance
of some leftover whiskey...
and this... cameo cinema of my memories...
yes... rubbing my fingertips against
a brickwall... before walking into
a brothel...

- the germans have been lying!
they have another "secret" letter in their arsenal...
although they will not outright admit it!
perhaps the ß (eszet) is interchangeable in
younger brother ßaß (saxon) english...
surprise: surpriße!
                
             most of the arabs flock around
the nationalflaggehandelsflaggeparteiflagge...

perhaps there was an S-to-Z-to-S-to-Z
interchange bound to the ß...
aber...

wo alle straßen enden...
                     hört unser weg nicht auf,
wohin wir uns auch wenden,
die Zeit nimmt ihren lauf...

         yep... that german "z"... which is more like...
a "russian" c... a ****** c... most certainly
a wet snare sizzle of... a ... Ц...

   das herц, verbrannt...
                   im schmerц, verbannt...
so цiehen wir verloren durch gas graue
niemandsland.

              then again... that all depends which german
dialect you're talking about...
and that russian spy ц is most certainly missing
upon a: schwarzdeutsche
             richtigerdepflugdeutsche rendition of:
zu...

and that's the compensation dynamic...
i'll reach into the zenith of jazz...
but come into the nadir of german army songs...
i'll squeeze a horn but then
come and drop a stone dipped in honey
into a hornet's nest...

              perhaps i haven't been the best
tourist when it comes to the concentration camps...
but i have visited the mass graves of the germans
from the first world war around Ypres...
and i have been to the graveyards of the allies...
a sparrow or a robin always seems
to sing each individual german soldier's lot
in the graveyards of the sleeping en masse...
the silence always breaks...
seeing how they were piled up...
                 compared to the individual graves
of the allied soldiers?
it's almost like going to see the end product
of the contracetion camps...
              a heap of bodies readied for a mass grave...

let's not riddle a liking for folk songs into this...
folk songs are non-negotiable details in all of this...
a black man can call another black man
a n-----... well...
i might as well call another white man...
carelessly and with ridicule... a ****...
sorry... hehe... "oops"... a... naцi...
                                                                a нaци...
         beware the german Z given the ß und Ц...
eh... don't mind the S... it's hardly a caron (š) S...
you'd need to compound -sch- into the whole affair...
and still the east germans would write
ich... их... but... somehow make-out to say:
isch... iś... which is not a caron (š) S...
nor saшa...            it's... somewhere "in between":
                                 š   ś
                     via rammstein's ich will...
well... it's not french... so there's no grave S
          to compliment... so... das ist das... yener...
                    
so much for a friday night...
              before the altar of Moloch...
and his resurrection... busy body demon deity
of the abortion clinic...
and these are the old gods united
under the single Mammon facade of the semites...
Moloch is alive and well...
perhaps the babies sacrificed to him
are not still-born or otherwise...
perhaps the strain of the argument from
the conservatives whispered a retort for me
to utter: that each ******* if a microcosm
genocide... i will not utter the name...
call it an elevated sort of superstition...
or rather... i don't have to say the racial
slur... because... i'm pandering to
                                   porцellanmenшen -
that's two russians "spies" in already...
                                       regarding the иɐzᴉ...
at what point...
                                     under what authority...
it's a **** good metaphor though...
"metaphor"...
          that Moloch is awake once more...
as a deity in his own right -
no longer the "fallen angel" in the pantheon
of semitic gods brought to heed...
before ha-shem.
the
Mikkel Mathiesen Jun 2016
Konstance konstance,
mit hoved ligger i trance
Mister grebet om livets balance,
savner de sidste dages nuance

For Djævlen er så småt,
ved at danse i blåt
Flammernes varme er blot,
falske i enden af livets plot

Vi rejser os for senere at falde,
dog forbliver hanens gjalde
En ny dag vil kalde,
Den må andre dog bifalde

Jeg bladre til den sidste side,
og lader andre leve og blive
I det grønne æble jeg bide,
ikke længere er jeg i live

Træets immortale grønhed,
maler over min dødelighed
Broderen græder sin sidste afsked,
nu ved Gud endelig besked
dansk
Vladimir s Krebs Nov 2015
i hate the way you talk to me like you know every thing
i hate how i even give in to trusting the world
i hate the way society treat us
i hate when you set my anxiety off the levels
i hate how you told me you loved me when you lied to get my over reactions
i hate how you said you loved me when you are just a cheater of silence
i hate you lid to get out of lifes battels
i hate how i hot to be forced to deal with all your ******* mistakes
i hate how i cant scream but you can
i hate how under my skin i scream
i hate you cause you have turned on me
i trusted you but you just stabed me in the back killing me of blind trust.
i hate how you were never honest when i gave every thing to you
i hate you cause you keep liying to your self
i hate you cause i dont know what to even do any more
i hate how you can think its okay to hurt the ones who never even left a scare on you
i hate you when we go in to a fight you cut me across the face with the shiny blade
you left the mistakes and scares running down my face.
i trusted you but i dont even know what to even say about life
you keep reminding me what i have become.
all my scares running down my face with no love left.
i hope you know your just a stupide think i mad a mistake even loving you.
every thing as going well
that day you came to me with a whit lie yousaid you were okay.
i hate you for thinkin you are a **** up.
i have showed you my storiies so why not start your as well.
i cant take hearing that ****** up lies you make when i see you with no one.
i hate to bring this stroie to and end but i only have words of my undivided attention to show you
i wish i could just go on a rampage killing evey one in my way i see you digging your ow grave every day when you keep lieing.
i showed this world to you but you took advantae of what **** you could do.
just like that car accident witch enden to lives with there own souls.
i have a presnt for you . a box of darkness i hope you can see what i mean to you .
i hate to say this but maybe will see echother some day soon.
i hate how life has been playing its cards wrong making every moistake a challang
i hate you cause u kept lying to me when i was trying to reach out to help you.
when i leave you in the empty room i  hope you understand what i ment to you
your life will row cold cause love dosnt mean any thing to you

go **** your self ithought icould trust you but you stabed me only killing me
Souleater Dec 2017
Die Nerven liegen blank,
irgendwo draußen auf der Straße, ein Penner auf der Bank
Schau mich traurig um, alle gehen einfach weiter
sind egoistisch und schauen nur auf ihre Karriereleiter...

Irgendwo anders ein Schüler in der Klasse
er unterscheidet sich in mehr als nur Aussehen und Rasse
Oberflächlichkeit im Vordergrund,
viele Narben, im herzen der wunde Punkt
Egal ob Ignoranz, Brutalität oder Worte
das Messer trotzdem das Herz durchbohrte....

Referate, Arbeiten und Praktika stehen an
Angst und Stress gehen mit dir da dran
weißt selbst nicht mehr wo vorne und hinten ist
tust was du kannst, verlierst wer du bist

Wo anders ein Träumer
wohnt bei seiner Großmutter,
sie hat Krebs und reuma
hofft sie lebt noch lange
er gibt ihr zum Abschied immer einen Kuss auf die Wange
eines Tages wird sie gehen
dann wirst du alleine da stehen
doch hab keine Angst vor dem Tag
es gibt da draußen jemand der dich mag

Hinterm Fenster ein alter Mann
fragt sich:"was fang ich nur mit dieser Rente an?"
seine Frau bereits krank,
all seine Hoffnung liegt jetzt bei der Bank
die jedoch dankend ablehnt
und ihm nur den Rücken zudreht
Medikament zu teuer, keine Versicherung gegeben,
er will doch nur gemeinsam mit seiner Frau leben.
Die Möglichkeit zu klauen, um das Leben zu retten
könnte enden im Gefängnis mit Wetten....

Zwischen richtig und falsch entscheiden
lieber daheim sitzen oder reisen ?
Gedanken, Hintergründe und Gefühle verstehen
ist bereit dafür Fehler zu begehen
denn irgendwo zwischen Angst, Stress und Wut
findest du Leute, die Liebe zeigen und das tut gut
Sei stark und du selbst
es ist egal das du nicht jedem gefällst
Elias Knudstrup May 2017
Alting er så flygtigt

Som
Det sidste kys
Der trækkes ud

jointen der forsvinder

byturen der nærmer sig sin ende

nattens dug på min skulder

lyset der brænder
drypper sin stearin på mine fingre
temperaturerne der skifter

sæsoner der begynder
og slutter

den første sommerdag
den sidste sommerdag

jeg vil helst bare holde fast
trække tiderne ud

leve i min verden
leve i mit tempo
bare leve


Følelsen af at føle sig fiktiv
Føles mere jordnær
End
Ideen om at eksistere
I en verden så fuckd som denne

Verden er så ******* fiktiv
Fikseret
kun med sig selv

Jeg findes ikke

Alting er så flygtigt

Det er så fandens svært at få lov til leve
så fandens svært at få lov til at dø

Enden virker nogen gange som et bedre sted at starte

Slutning
er håndterlig i sin uhåndterlighed
Som en bekræftelse af det abstrakte

Til ****
Kan også jeg flyve

Alting
er så flygtigt
anna charlotte Jan 2018
i enden er det alligevel kun ens forventninger der sårer en
dennis drain Apr 2015
past and future mixin in the present
makin everything we do and say more relevant
slippin could mean enden the lives of the innocent
the ones who live side by side by the life but ain't in it
never did the dirt we done but to often there's a crying mother holding her dying son
who was truly too young
never wanted the fight and was afraid of guns
not done
Laura Amstutz Mar 2021
små fisk svømmer rundt i mine æggestokke
de vil ikke fødes endnu
de vil svømme sig stærke
og skiftes til at rutsje ned ad æggelederne
her vil de lande i en pøl med kun én åben dør
og denne dør vil også være åben i modsatte ende
og her vil en lille reje danse sig ind af døren
og følge gangen hen til døren for enden
og lande i pølen og den vil forføre fisken
og fisken vil spise rejen
og de vil vokse sammen og de vil være stærke
nok
og bane sig ud gennem den åbne dør
når de er stærke nok
og så vil de fødes og senere jordes
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2020
today: another sensible no other -
no other day like this towing to and from
as also a too-tomb,

                   on a "horizon" a sunrise
of a toothache -
   come the murky hours circa 4pm
(and if i'm still walking)

i'll debate myself (that reflexive self)
on two words in another tongue
in another soul:

zmrok
                          & zmierzch -

perhaps there is a distinction as in:
one is allocated to the sunset
the other to a sunrise:

        old father english with an 8
year old bumblebee of hope
now: scraps of unused tongue
popping up from time to time...

well... apparently some toys
from the thesaurus: synonym juggling
act...

dusk... twilight...
       either side of the "conundrum":
a twilight...

świt                     &              brzask...

words that stick-out almost painfully
like some woad pigment
on dulled-eye grey of traffic...
words that could be
like some borrowed greek
or...    mjumbe in swahili...

closer: baron... some myth of a return
to the:
großartig nicht enden wollend

wie so

der sagt: rauchenbellengeruch und:
                no, not crocodile weather...

                 or at least a pair of legs that
drain the head from all that's thought:
that can, that should that also probably
shouldn't:

not that death is this miraculous veil /
unveiling -
even when peering at a well manicured /
pampered in the face corpse:
as with the shutting of a grave:
as death doubles down and becomes
ultra-materialistic -
            
                             well... to think of life
as governed by this
      automated prefix
                            self-
                          notably: self-reflection
is the expression...
             not that somehow, with due death
one will somehow find the "lesser" /
uncomplicated / the more intrinsic levers
and gauges for: how best to operate
the gut - at the perilous depths of
constipation or     "         heights of
                                            diarrhoea...

a reflection on the cranks and crannies of this
semi-robotic: press A for exhibit Aa... etc.,
such this sometimes bothersome
"self-reflection": automated...
     the thoughts that are necessarily thought
from which only a pause is
source for inspiration...

that death can allow for self-reflection
to become a sought after: the reflective self?

- so, eventually what?
nuances in language: idiosyncratic at best?
my own my own:

/
   by then: i somehow have to return
to some ?, "the universal reader" / the formal-ality
and all manner of courtesy -
pray! not a curtsy!

otherwise... apparently ciphers disallowed,
disallowed:
packed together, bothersome,
like fleas on a dog's comb...
          because it's me-me-not-like-this
or me-me...
                 very much, appreciated...
                                                                      //
an honest opinion - honestly free...
               poem for a pebble, comment for a peanut...
it would have otherwise meant so much...
wasser-unter-die-brücke...
              why be plagued with writing
something so comprehensive?
             so safely: two horses towed
an empty trough through a thought of mine...
apparently this isn't... even english...
it's not even "complicated" english...
t'is... brain-damaged english?
                              whatever it is...
                                          at your own peril. //
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
i have died a thousand times
and that's only before...
i get a chance to fall asleep;

i've been taking twitter accounts
and instagram entries polaroids...
reading Milton doesn't ease
the headaches...

this burden of the wriggling
earthworm that's about
to be pulled out from nibbling
on the clay: london proud...

         sheffield... the artic monkey's:
n'est ce pas?
that field felt grift...
smoking baron and the ashes to
lick up lick to keep...

         my furore!
my hunger my guise my everyday
lost case of slumber...
the death grieving the date of
the lost review...

          bygones be left as bygones
of Navarone...
  crown of pandemic proportions...
still waiting for
ol' lizzie to drop it to a down
of pressure on the ol' ticker...
she'll die and hail!
robert the bruce!
            my ivory of white winding through...

each night i die...
i die because i fall to sleep
and there's no dream
for my sort of licking the altar
of open and salting the wounds...
let them breathe they'd be prone
to implore me of to keep...

if there's no darker loot of black
then perhaps it
will sound more impeding
in: altvaterdeutsche...

schwarz! schwarz!
                   came the lone roman ******:

švarц!
            wo alle straßen enden...
der schlamm ist knöcheltief...
            
schlamm ist eisen:
          wenn skulptur ist:
gegeben "die aufwachen" prompt...

             *******: inselwohnsitzleute!
east of warsaw... or west of kiev?!

fetish peoples unite under the rubric
of the scaling prop-up latex
of *** games that...
wir wurden einst kinder...
         wir benutzt zu spielen...
                  verstecken und suchen!

gamma goblin of the "vierte *****"...
or just a fetish for an old version
of english... this... my exhauasted anglo-sax...
reuters... back toward
the ***** of a fake father i too have...

grenadiers of the horseoperamärц!
lernenzuerst:
                kind-deutsche-unger­ade-leere...

for all the english that is given,
why wouldn't i want to escape into
a prehistoric german...
       old saxon the would-be eager
tourist of exhibitions...

      i would, i somehow still persist
to: versuchen...
                     grief from
a tongue... neither...
otherwise a ****** vater otherwise
a ****** mutter...
             zähne auf eisen...
                      zunge auf austern!
sing-along
in alt ***** german or...
            that subtle brotherhood barrier
of neighbouring love...

very far from "home"...
      home... home... what is home?

god i hope every single word spoken
in german will make me out
to be an unrepenting
                         sturmführer...
trägt schwarz... trägt weiß...
trägt grau...

                           the least opposition...
salz bestreut auf zu öffnen
atmen wunden...
                      
easier for the croat...
or the serb...
                              easier: never mind...
new continent h'america...
and but the breadcrumbs of history...
this 20th century locum
of all that had to happen...

                            if a harry can get away
with donning khaki...
i would love to appear
in schwarz... weiß... und grau...
                   prompt galore!
            brechenöffnen - nach vorne!

      as ever... limitations of residue for
all that ever was:
self-help bollocking of a tickling        
of forever "future" events....

— The End —