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Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
anyone can be a dritte ***** fetishist... anyone! say one word in german, and the left will deem you adequate for a fist, rather than a lip... or at least that's how speaking german words, with their compound-anti-hyphen "getting together" looks like... the French utilise diacritical marks intended as syllable incissors: but frequently utilise them, unless you're Lacan and say: transcend them... i.e. move them to the side... ensuring that a monopoly on literacy is kept... the only remnants of Saxon in Anglo-Saxon is enclosed in chemical nouns.... the rarity of actually using a hyphen, you literally over-use in everyday sprechen... talk a word of deutsche and you're 1 centimetre away from saluting and to a hymn stating a sieg heil! Germany is originally community building, English, for all it's **** antics, isn't... Germany can have the concept of a zeitgeist tomorrow... German society is as thick as *****... Germans best represent *****... i never lived there, but i have enough instruments to see it... they have a tendency to disregard the individual when the mass is threatened... the Englsih? they don't have that tendecy... they are more into einsgeist than anything else... they are the single ethnic group that cherishes iconoclasm above anything else... i spent 3 weeks in Poland: how many times did i hear the word selfie used? not once, zilch... 0. i know that English is a lingua franca of modern times, but it's so easy to speak, given the fact that so many people speak, that i feel horrid using it... i want it to remain small, the tinniest of tiny in its post-imperial structure... comedy-hysterics prone... debating the question: why are Scots in the Houses of Westminster? making adequate demands? the English will never experience a zeitgiest... they're living in one at the moment, but given the disparity of accents: they''ll never accept it... which is why, whenever i travel to Poland, i have a luxury suite in how i deciphered diacritcal marks... i can't be recognised as a foreigner... but of course the gnat questions in Essex (England) given my Germanic physiogomy... it's self-evident... but why didn't god die in Auschwitz? i believe it to be akin to Jesus having no inkling into the struggle contesting the need to build pyramids... unlike the need for what later became a misinterpretations of Conquistadors seeing the Aztec similitude of Egypt... i.e. the scaffolds... capital punishment... ******* didn't get it... now the entire continent is overrun with them asking for the some obscure demand for a Juan buying them the next round of drinks... the English will never create a zeitgeist... my fascination with the dritte ***** is simply that: to see a zeitgeist... a complete and utter obedient ethnicity... a singular testmanet of a volk... Jews i too could praise, but they're too scattered, too "english" i.e. too individualistic, too disguised... i see them re-owning Israel a bit like some fetish ***** with latex and gimp... what i want to see is the volk, from the mistakes sentenced in Versailles... i want to simply see the volk... well... no can do... i can't see it, history says... it's a natural fetish of history students... American protests don't really do it for me... there's no omni-cohesion akin to a *****-like appropriation of the leader *****... that's the closest i'll ever get with getting to see a theocracy, minus the idiosyncratic psychosis... clear geometry! lines! shapes! regiments! i'm so tempted by it that i can't but lead my narrative with it! the English will never understand this concept... they're too idiosyncratic in their approach... they all think they're unique... or as that motto in school hanged over me echoed, it hanged there in the air like a guillotine, some anonymous dictator spoke to us: you're different... just like everybody else! it was never a concern for keeping a place of origin as ostriches might... ther was always that moral "obligation" surfacing from Hong Kong and king kong... and Timbuktu... which is why i said ω = oo and a pair of ****, or a bottom... and o = +h... or a breath central yielding to an islam of yhwh... versus the need for a macron over the omicron... and indeed the umlaut above the o merely invoked the siamese cut-off of e, so a tongue-curler... but the seeing the volk! we all go mad after a while... i can't see the years according to Adoolf as something worth a romance... it has all the traits of a noumenon about it... but you know why i write this? my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men kleiden im schwarz in my home-town, just before the Russian army came with their youths who preferred to sleep with the animals in equivalent of Bethlehem grottos... he remembered the ᛋᛋ-men, not as kleiden im schwarz: but as.... herrbittebonbon... or should i punctuate that: herr! bitte bonbon! some have a fancy on remembering the romance of the Warsaw Uprising of '44... my only clue into the reality of world war ii was once said by my grandfather... and they gave him sweets... so that he ran home and had to put his hands under the tap, because the sweets were so glue-like, that only water could tear them apart in order that he might clasp something else... it's sad in a way: i ahve no memorial to go to... no need to express a pride... merely fragrant my vocab with a german word or two... to indeed see: that there must have been something human in that ******* embryo at some point... something counter Versailles... i can't feel being touchy about these neurotic spreading their opinions as if their opinions are above the facts that history dictates... and personal memories, however many generations apart... but at least kept... if my grandfather remembers ᛋᛋ-men being herrbittebonbon... i can only wish to have an unlimited amount of ****... given my libido... and the complexity of modern women demanding as they demand: the restrained man, the man not willing to explore easing ******* by having *** while she's in the cyclone... oh well.... thumbs up!

well... looking at it now, i can only see left-politics
without an economic model... or what happened when
communsim was undermined: my grandfather,
a communist party member has a state pension....
so it's not like he's on a 0-hour contract...
   what's missing with the current left-leaning
politics? an economic model...
the left has no economic policy in the west...
it was been weeded out, what with the original
model asserting Marx and Dickens' Oliver Twist
tragedy... the left has absolutely no
economic model, which makes for crude politics:
   once upon a time the workers
in eastern europe celebrated workers
day... and you had absolutely
no protest: i.e. not engagement in
Hegelian dialectics...
    minus: is there really a theological
dialectic? i'm not so sure
given that atheism is populist
in motto, and anti-centrist
and giving up the individual so easily...
i don't trust it...
       so i don't really
respect it, however many intellectuals
take to the pulpit...
   i too ordain myself with a strict rigour
of "religious" akin dynamics:
i drink to excess, daily...
   well... wouldn't you:
given too many wanted you dead...
you'd start to imitate them
and take gambles at your own life,
finally! **** me! they suddenly disappear,
those same people who wanted you dead!
****! gone... blah blah and pa pa much
later...
                i still think i'm more useful
rhyming snipptes i call poetry
and necessarily not rhyme: because i don't
like orthodoxy, whether church or
poetry bound... because it just seems
too much like ping-pong after a while...
   i never knew why rhyme needed rubric, strict,
only identifiable by rhyme...
  never knew why that was the case...
i always thought: impromptu against rhyme...
                  but i'll give Islam
one thing that overpowers the rest...
the fact that "saints'" heads are on fire...
rather than encapsulated in halos...
       i see the item: halo like
the fact that left politics is needy in a care for
anything but a rebellion against an economy...
left-wing politics have no economy to support...
you can't teach people communism
     without being left out in the cold
without Marshall Plan antics of benefits
and left with an idea of Marx...
            the shadow of Hegel looms too heavily
over the attempts...
  the shadow of Hegel is too thick
and coercing... to do otherwise...
                 leftist politics is without an economy:
therefore they have to imitate
  far-right tendencies...
  they have to employ damage...
well: this is coming from someone who's grandfather
was a communist party member...
                        i can't see the left....
i can't see a purpose: an economy as a wanking
hippy commune? really? is that all?
                     smashed windows, is that all?
i always liked the fact that Islamic saints
had their heads set alight... on fire my son,
on fire...
   no halo, akin to the current leftist attempt
at dialectics: by halo i mean: membrane,
i mean: the untouchables... meaning pristine ego...
if only the Sunnis allowed the artists of Persia
to come to their calling, to ease the strain
imposed by Muhammad...
but now... well: if writing is supposedly "holy"
what will the Sunnis ever make
of the iconoclasm of words in adverts?
nothing... are we being temped with a warring spirit,
are we? aren't we?!
   who's waking up the populists?!
you really want germans on the warring path?
of course... let me tell you how *william burroughs

noted the creation of the schutzstaffel
as over-heard:
pet a kitten for month... then gauge its eyes out.
oh i have no care for a romance:
i'm seeing Paris contained in an envelope
citing the address: Hades... arise!
it's not the same Paris i remember, not the Paris
of 2004 or 2005...
       it's really a case of playing with
    an elastic band.... you pull it, stretch it...
but finally it snaps! and yes...
we'll be drinking schnapps in Libya at some point...
i'm thinking: what will ever make a man
relieve himself of using a hammer and a nail
as a carpenter, and take to a machine gun?
there must be an enzyme-point that just festers
in its ability to give momentum...
there must be... perhaps when being global merchants
leaves people too ordained to wait for death
that they start seeking it in the ***** of Mars?
   when utopia nears and merely breathes into
man's ear, and says no word, unlike a god:
that the fatality dynamo begins...
    akin to the fateful comparison of Damocles -
dangling, but at the same time: tickling... teasing...
isn't the Islamic world merely agitating?
  trying to move the Christian world from
fully engrossing the "protestant"-liberal
easy adaptation working from unearthing
the nag hammadi library?
              well... the left is without an economic
model... so it's politics is what it is:
    the original intention of Hegel:
        outlines of the philosophy of right -
what's the genesis of Marx... funny enough
the book is merely a collection of notes on lectures...
      there no thesis involved...
nothing as grand as what could stand alone
akin to the phenomenology of spirit -
they're just notes... just like i'm reading heidegger's
ponderings ii - vi... notes... half-baked scripts...
   so my post-communist inheritence...
just when inflation gripped Polish economy...
and we had the Kantian idea reaching pulpit
1000000zł, i.e. so many denials of a stable 1...
    thus the inner working of modern capitalism...
how certain things are really worth
nothing, as such: £0.000001 -
i can only guess to state, the only class of people
able to experience this counter-inflation    
in western societies are "artists"...
    or artists, in the context of a harold norse
autobiography: memoirs of a ******* angel;
i.e. getting published, giving ****...      
   it would have been easier under Stalin or ******...
at least the chance of martydom
and the holy ghost of censorship...
  at least it would have made sense then...
but the concept of counter-inflation isn't that alien...
it exists for a reason to suggest:
we really don't need so many contestants
in an x-factor show... we don't need so many
artists... counter-inflation is at work already...
   the same sort of inflation that worked its way
to ensure plumbers and carpenters, roofers
from eastern europe at the end of communism
were necessarily exported into western europe...
given the communist work ethic...
    hence the power of money, so inhuman and
akin to an elemental force that man
can contain with pocket-money as a child,
but as a man, can't contain neither forest fire
or tsunami, so too money: with the economic crisis...
money overpowers man, akin to the elements...
the same inflation in poland at work
to shift people is apparent now, but as counter-inflation...
because England can't be known as a nation
of singers... but of nurses and carpenters and
   shopkeepers, hence the counter-inflation:
when a song on Spotify is worth £0.000001 per streaming...
an immigrant plumber from eastern europe is
worth 1000000zł... or how the coordinate (0, 0)
cancels out... and we're left with what's later just
a pedantic fact stated by someone like me: a zzzzzzzz
coordinate...
            we can't control money no more than
we can control seas...
   could we ever not dream of being given enough
money to then not waste them on pointless urges
akin to a lottery win and the easy way, via no
business or syndicate?
   really? there's a reason we live in a time
that's necessarily soulless...
   i can't give it a piquant phrase (only a phrase
as germans put it, chemically, hydrocarbon spelling
akin to zeitgeist - spirit of the times,
and there's nothing holy about it...
   it just moves to the next generation,
and the next poker hand... so **** that trinity
um... person?) - it gets ***** with fashion...
   or as i see it: cannibalism of 20th century trends
as the neo-original basis of fashion in the 21st beginning...
this is the one time i'll get to coin a phrase,
i.e. pick up a penny from the street pavement...
   counter-inflation brought it about...
rather than a zeitgeist where we can share afflictions
and, perhaps succumb to empathy early on...
nein... none of that... let's see what we really see it as:
ebenegeist - or? the levelling spirit...
         ebene-    (level)... ah... even better!
   stufegeist... you hear it all the time!
                         buying a house and getting onto
the property ladder!
                                    stufegeist -
           always that tease, always that ******* carrot
and that donkey... well... that's one way to get
motivational... invert the inflation of Zimbabwe...
  ensure people stop dreaming,
   make a plumber worth £0.000001 in Zimbabwe
and £1000000 in England...
      likewise make an "artist" worth
   £0.000001 per poem / song / painting...
  and likewise make him worth £1000000
in Zimbabwe as a "good" person...
  well... by now completely mentally ill...
   but hey! it's money! look at money like you might
look at water or fire or earth... and it's not
exactly a Monday's edition of the Financial Times...
mind you: given that we're so "advanced",
and given how old the concept of money is...
   is it really not as primitive as it really is
in what it makes people do?
   oh sure, because i'm so not used to it:
i'd rather be paid with the currency of peanuts!
                but then my love for the art is greater
than my ability to buy a brand new kettle...
or a doormat... so... what's the word... m'eh?
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2017
books written by men, for men, while only read by women... that's sexist mon... books written by men should also be read by men, not some sexist housewives... hence the dire need for househusbands, and stopping sexism against these men as bending over and needing a ***** pucker.*

you hear of it: oh ****, so much of woman
in everything pro contra wom-ah...
  she just said it was weird that a guy
wanted to **** her her on her period,
thankfully this time round she mentioned
mr. rubber, and doing  it in the bathroom...
   because, "apparently"
a lot of guys found it
disgusting... then she said: take the rubber
off, let's make a baby! oh right,
heliums around us? no? ****...
     what's become disgusting
is yet another question of: huh?
        you can do unprotected ***,
but when it comes
to some sort of "emotion":
say hello to ms. ****-buddy-****-forever...
ah, but she's a rich *****...
     has a prior boyfriend in the russian
defence etc., and has a st. petersburg
     apartment... it's not like she's poor...
hence me waiting for a bolshevik defence
to hand the **** and ****-loader
unto the guillotine...
        come on, the guillotine is,
to be honest, a rather civilised method
of execution...
       better than hanging...
    with a gamble of: high enough
to break a neck, or low enough to dangle and
choke on the suffocating ooze of state sponsored
monday...
           i never thought
the guillotine was brutal,
    i always thought the guillotine was
humane in comparison to the practice of hanging,
or decapitation with a blunt axe...
  sorry...
    but at least there was some humanity
worth engrossing oneself in a faking of an escape:
to prove the point of the spirit of propagandism,
i.e. default "failure",
           or rather failure via "default" -
at least there was an attempt that required
a failure to prove its success in being a failure...
let's applause!
      shame to see such "loss of interest" in terms
of spelling...
   when so much can be given in
the aggravated form,
some say charlie wished di, the fate current
for ***** and harriet as now prescribed..
                who the hell asks for writing to
be akin to an i.k.e.a. manual?
most probably a pseudo-irishman...
             i can't believe some people want to write
an an i.k.e.a. manual....
                 and never have the imagination
to invoke a chance for nuance, suspicion,
or a "fictional" monochromatic "bias" of
q. vs. a., as is usually the case;
it's rather abhorring to be demanded
             an i.k.e.a.. form of narrative,
without a necessary imperfection that's necessarily
perfected...
                     having a plan breeds actors,
not having a plan breeds characters,
  which also means that by being
discouraging of characters, the narrators can
unshackle himself from the narrative role...
well, sure, great, women first,
i am pro matriarchy, but can i be the first,
officially recognised and respected
house-husband?!
                  no? guess not.
                       that's sexism!
                        why can't i be a househusband?!    
why are you being sexist?! we don't you
like coal-mining?! you're being sexist!
sexist! sexist! why can't men be househusbands?!
******* sexist feminists.
K Balachandran Feb 2016
"Your shapely, bootylicious thighs,
carved columns of lubricious butter,
shouldn't be left without gently caressed,
til covered all over with ruddy marks of desire,
just strawberry goosebumps for ignorant  others"

When she snuggles closer to him, from the seat next,
as the train rocks and they rub,when gathering speed,
she sporting a marvelous mini dress engrossing his libido,
he whispers to her, who was all ears, "But my real object
of focus is the truth, that lurks where your thighs meet"
In a bumpy ride  young hearts (and thighs)rub each other
one thing leads to other, restraint is but just a cover, even  exploration of higher truth becomes essentially sensual...
Lola N Mae Sep 2011
This is who I am and it will always be ILLOGICAL, IRRATIONAL and above all, STUPID.

I miss you.

You don't understand me. Its not feasible. Everything won't work. You won't work. I won't work. We won't work. You can't reason your way out of this. Not enough time. Not enough time for me. Not enough time for us. It would've ended anyways he tells me. I tell myself this over and over. Convince yourself, I AM INDEPENDENT. I will vitalize and intoxicate myself by myself. Thats what people do everyday. The issue being, I am not a genuine person. I persuade and assure myself I can handle this role and it satisfies my craving for normalcy. I'm not a gifted actress. I lose more and more social contacts due to this complication. I must learn from the independent ones so I can stop breaking apart these silly boys limb by limb.

You must stop making them care for you. You are not a whole person and therefore cannot be an authentic concern of others. You are imaginary. You are empty. Two opposite minds, insanity and sanity, fighting over the same body is an immense misadventure. Insanity wants to ******* boys, intently watching the peculiar escape routes they design. She sneers as they try and try, withered by a constant sense of defeat, each of them exhibiting exciting, unique and new qualities. She forces the body's muscles into a terrifying object. Then she denies his superiority complex of its primary function as he realizes that this damsel is in a permanent brand of distress. Sanity, however, is fleeting. Sometimes, she truly gives a **** about others. She is the pure example of meek, anemic and decrepit aftermath. She is selfless for selfish reasons. She wants them to adore her. She will exceed expectations, impresses and astonishes them. The product of this relished humanistic quality, acceptance, nourishes her. She savors boys who tell her she is strong and capable. Lies lies lies lies lies is all they speak. Its been too many years. She's forsaken by insanity.

Never enough time for this. Nobody has enough time. Who will give me the time? These days the clock shows seamless progressions to worse and worse. Sleepless nights remind me of night after night after night of our restless, unsetting and ineffective dialogues. Lets just go in circles for a little longer. Why not a little longer? Where do I find someone willing to linger with insanity? Just give me more time. I need a few more moments with real people to feel okay. Let me practice my part with you. Coach me. Tell me what to do next. I'm craving a sense of reality. I trusted you with it. Give it back. Give it to me. Let me have it. Feed it to me. Now.

I kid myself. If you get to know me a bit further I might let you peer at my Dali-esque picture of the present. Wonderland has me descending head first down the rabbit hole. Alice found herself stationary, bruised and filthy with temporary madness years ago. I've kept plunging for decades after and suddenly I'm gaining speed. Momentum, its all about physics. They throw ropes, then yarn, then thread to me. Once again the thread brushed my skin and I found possibility. The sensation of active nerve endings engaged my curiosity. I search for the sort of matter that could interrupt this regression. One faint wonder to what could have been is met by pathetic and pointless conclusions.

You are so associated. Everything and everyone is marked by inclinations. What affects you is the fact that you are now aware of it. You recognize that I see something different in you. I see something unusual. I see a habit. Nouns are consistently becoming verbs. You are not beneficial to this at all. I allowed you to be my unhealthy. I linked you to infection. Is that why I need you so badly? Is that why I want you back? You gave me composure from your expectations.You raised questions and I gave you the appropriate answers conjured from my ideals. I store a list of rules that are rarely followed. I let you in on every ***** secret so I had to abide by constructs of sickness. I had no other choice.

Will I ever be able to do this? If this is me and I am me forever who will swallow it? Who will take responsibility for my downfalls? Faults that are too confusing for explanation are menacingly sweet if you hold inquisitiveness, in place of a heart, on your sleeve. I can't understand. You can't understand. There is no more on and off switch somewhere in a dark basement. I'm not twelve anymore. I can't blame mommy and daddy. Its all my fault. I got myself here. It's my transgression. Don't you dare blame them. Recognize my liability. I ****** up this time but I found an oddity; I found perfection in this imperfection. It's something of a conundrum.

Computer science is fruitless thinking. I AM NOT A MACHINE. I am not a computer, not a mechanism, not a problem. I am not a riddle to solve. I am contradiction in every sense of the term. Its broken, shattered and pieces have gone missing. They were outdated and oppressive. They were thrown out, burned, buried, and forgotten. Once treasured, they became cumbersome and then dropped along the way. With them, logic vanished beneath my feet. Its gone now. I'm gone now.

Weightlessness necessitates a higher being than the imperfect human. It requires me to remain underwater, letting go of the compulsion to meet the surface for air. These ancient seas compel me and draw me further down with their loveliness and passion. I am mesmerized by the mania involved. You won't spot me in the engrossing waters. The black surface holds many afflictions.

RUN. FAST.
Valsa George May 2017
Wondering what I should write
and floundering in my own confusion
I thought – why not write about poems
that set me thinking what poems are
A poem could be anything.......!
at best, distilled thoughts put into rhyme
or a moment caught in time
a window glimpse into the world
an engrossing passion’s ardent curl
a snap shot of scenes from Nature- wild
or a slice of life, birth or death
      
sometimes it could be a yearning  
or an image long hung on a pole
a thought turned inside out
or the emptying of a mind about to spill
it could be the liberation of a fancy,
for long held in thralldom
a gnawing pain, long suppressed
or a secret, never divulged
      
As I pondered over the subjects’ enormity
and a poem’s vast scope,
I asked myself- ‘Why hesitate?’
soon I felt a stir inside,
my thoughts broke loose
a terrible block lifted off my head
my silence became audible
I embroidered these thoughts
into the pattern of a poem

Here it is before you, have a look at it
Will it annoy you or will you enjoy!
Recently I have been running short of subjects to write a poem. The writer's block weighs me down. Reading the beautiful poems of my friends here, I long to write something. Finally I thought I should write a poem on a Poem
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
war took mine, i was sold  playing tenchu
on level 6... just before i was to
assassinate this ***, and he practised all
his bow skill in private, then it was made public
by a ninja... i only completed final
fantasy 7
with a walk-through...
i hate the fact that i stuck to
the schooling narrative...
  but hose were the PS1 days,
those days are gone, gone gone gone,
bye bye gone...
                 the **** was that?!
an oscar for best actor at the gladiator premier?!
why isn't more gaming mentioned in poetry?
where is raziel, and the the legacy of cain:
soul reaver, and the story about how he
squashed his brothers:
dumah, melchiah, rahab, and zephon?
oh look: the geek in me!
                 100 years from a youtube video...
i'm bound to do the bristol d'uh and say:
i've never been to south america...
nor ever...
                        me go sort out this avalanche
if that's o.k. with you, hmm?
this is the thrill you get when seeing peoiple
play a reincarnation of gameboy,
i.e. candy-crush saga... if you moved beyond
the PS1 universe you won't get it...
if you remember PS1 games, you'll probably
remember SEGA and sonic,
and age of empires 2, and sim city 3000...
**** me! but you won't probably remember the
weathergirl... who was becky mantin
when this was written...
           odd, that little gray box of saturdays
and sometimes sundays, but definitely
saturday mornings...
                    it gone... and i don't feel like owning
an update of it, because games have become
overtly narrative prone, they only allow thise gameplay
that's too narrated... i switch on the console
and i want mario bros. calculator type of dynamism...
instead i get this really complex story
when i should be reading a book...
   no, really, when did gaming become so
****** engrossing that i try to become distracted by
brick walls?
           when did i or when didn't i take to playing
chess? well... when i started playing dominos
with 6 cigarette stumps and a black hardcover
philosophy book... maybe around then.
books i great, believe me...
but this nook of counter-arcade games?
i woke up at 9am as if about to go to school
and played that japanese fetish for hours...
so much if our culture in nearing the post-20th
century culture was axis... it was almost all japanese...
you can't take that fact out and replace it
concerning: god intervened at Giza and yawned
at chichén itzá...
because you would... still, i thankfully retired
from the gaming experience (when did PS2 come out?
i wanted it for about 2 years and still didn't
get it)...
    1998? 1997?
                      thankfully i get to mention computer
games like novels... SEGA mega drive?
yep, owned that.
                   and yes, i can cite an ATARI,
and ****, **** **** me!
   that original NINTENDO?!
              and that shooting mallard simulation
against a screen of televisions that could
still issue you with van der graaf static
   of "levitating" hair?
(when televisions were still 3D and played
you remnants of the big bang
       in televised black and white khrrr sound,
all dicta fidgety, like looking through the eyes
of a bluebottle fly)... or
    the original prince of persia?
     those two dimensional ferns rotating round and
round when approached in the original tomb raider?
oh forget the cone-****-madonna...
shaid the ish cream van man to shaun shoonery...
cheap ****: said the dead with charlie
at the head of their horde of entertainment's flops.
i retired from the gaming world though,
left it when PS1 expired...
and morphed into PS2...
           i'm half sad and half saying: i can understand
candy crush, because i can understand
the origin: TETRIS.
like i can understand why i can't do crosswords,
my father just said: even i can't do them,
the clues are all a bit of a wanking to comprehend...
it's as if they only based them on the thesaurus...
   we're good on sudoku though, that can be solved
without problems...
        i miss those games though,
i finished final fantasy 7 with a walkthrough
though... tenchu was also fun to complete,
crash bandicoot? anyone remember him?
           now for not faking it...
                                     i'm glad that's over,
i'd hate the gaming experience as i hate interactive
t.v. thesedays... all this pause and rewind?
  thanks to it i sometimes press the STOP
button when listening to the radio and wonder
why it just keeps running... oh right: this isn't
a c.d. transmission... funny though, the gaming experience
translated into t.v. really has made advertising
ultra competative or utterly useless....
   you just end up pausing before a break, and then
scrolling past the advertisers' airtime...
next thing i'll be buying is when they make
an advert for shoepaste.
Mia Oct 2012
In the air

I breathed you in
a deep tantalising fragrance
arousing all my desires
awakening like a new moon
the wet dewdrops on the leafs
the earth after the rain
a seductive scent I find
only with you.

I taste you
in the rich sauce I ate for dinner
the spicy tang on my tongue
the engrossing strong aura
of taste you can feel.

I hear you
in every song I listen to
your voice in the wind
your unique persona in every word
in the paintings hung up
I feel your warmth,touch
your essence and life
you are here.
Kiss me,
So I may drown in this amorous affair,
Savoring the delicious taste,
Of your lips against my own.

Hold me,
Your arms clasped around,
My petite body,
Skin touching skin,
Finding warmth in your blanket,
Of security and adoration,
Burrowing into the flowing fabric,
Of your embrace.

Never let me go,
I yearn to hear the inhales,
And exhales of your breath;
You glance at me,
Chuckling in delight,
As your thoughts turn,
To how enchanting you view me to be.

Caress me,
Allowing your firm hands to explore,
The slight curves,
Of a soft feminine exterior,
Yearning for the stroke,
Of your fingertips upon me.

Does love not knock upon the door,
Of your innermost chamber?!

Listen Please,
Silence your scattered thoughts,
Allowing you to hear,
The lulling seductive melody,
Depicting the presence of Eros,
In the heat of the night.

I shall pray you stay,
With fingers tightly interlacing,
For the fates bestow us,
With a blessing,
Perhaps a curse,
Receiving a bond to unite us.

An illicit connection,
In the eyes of others,
Yet I behold my desire,
For you as a dragonfly,
Mysterious and ancient,
A beautiful creature,
Existing almost as long,
As the sands of time,
Flying among the earth,
To be free.

Breathe me in,
Granting me the chance,
To enter your body,
Mind and soul,
Engrossing our spirits,
To complete the other,
Through gazing into,
The eyes of the other.

Cherish me,
As our lips encounter,
Passionately nibbling,
As they collide in portrayal,
Of our irrevocable love,
Tantalizingly sweet
As the Riesling rests,
Within my wine glass,
Tempting me to consume,
Pleasure through the delicious taste,
Awaiting for me.

Reminding me of the same reasons,
I crave you,
My beloved.
Ma Cherie Jul 2016
We ...
Are The Architects of Our Fate
we build the walls
all these gates
We construct solid walls
they take them down
let them fall
then look around
for Solid Ground
until it's found
I plant my feet

Take a seat
share a story
of honored Glory
My Father was a Carpenter
a Master Builder they would say
And I see his buildings
every day
Arts and craftsman
my kind of build
houses filled
engrossing skill
amazing will
holes were drilled
handhewn milled
beams
intricate details

imparted to me
you can see
by carving
wooden
weathered
leather hands

It's good to admire
though I do not aspire
to live in one now

I miss the farm
in  simple charms
A time exsist my  memories

Queen Abigail of Chelsea
a border collie
she was our dog
Willamina a hog
or the name of a pig
rooting earth she'd happily dig
a silly gig
She never was a meal
Her funny squeal
Saved her life

had a horse  named Cochise
no wool from lamb
that we could fleece
you could not ride
but would stand on hind
legs
and beg
for marshmallows!

I miss the Farm
all the time
it taught me
life is worth living
to keep on giving
what I can.


Cherie Nolan © 2016
Very strange day.... felt terrible this morning had overwhelming day and finally some peace. :)
Matterhorn Jan 2019
I got too close;
I had to take a step back.
Here I stand,
Trying to catch my breath.
There you are,
Looking so wonderful;
Even a Kerouac haiku
Would pale in comparison
To your sparkling smile,
Your huge, engrossing brown eyes,
And your tender words
That put my restless soul at ease.
You spend more time in my mind
Than even my own thoughts;
I miss your touch,
But you do not miss mine.
You don’t know;
How could you?
I never told you.
And you will never know
How much of my heart you have stolen.
You are the most beautiful—
And unwitting—
Of thieves.
There is nothing to do
But stand over here,
Hoping that you somehow understand
Why I can’t meet your gaze
Anymore.
© Ethan M. Pfahning 2019
Simon Soane Apr 2016
There are a lot of important things needed to be happy in life,
that stop the dark rising and save the mind from strife,
like hilarious acts and moments we find funny
and as much as it pains me to say a bit of money
so we can do other fun things like go on a night out,
singing the hours away with a beam and a shout,
or a sweet song that glistens around the head,
or an engrossing book to read in bed,
ordering a take away and gorging can give a thrill
or back to back box sets on a Netflix and chill,
and just as crucial as having a top mate to phone
is having a place that one can call home.
Having an abode to go to when employment is done
or a domain to grab some water to quell the heat of the sun,
a space to collapse when infused with inebriation,
when getting tired of tracks, a warm safe station,
a place to get ready when revving to go out in the mix,
yeah, you were all of the above dear Flat Six.
Yeah, I’ll hold my hands up, you've been a ace place in which to live,
okay you were full of damp and the bathroom wall flimsy enough to give,
and when the verdant Eden outside was chopped down it made me mad
but you were only a short walk from my Mum and Dads.
You had plenty of perks,
fab tree out back and close to work,
a 24 hour garage a stone's throw away,
that sold the ***** at night and day,
you were near a cracking paper shop that had had 2 bottles of wine for six quid a go,
suffice to say, el vino did flow.
Your living room was massive enough to play big with a cat
"always a good time here" etched on your welcome mat.
Under your roof was awesome, you engendered joy with ease,
effortlessly making great, just like the cleanest breeze.
Now although you as a building yourself is a important component in amaze
other factors also make a simply brilliant phase,
Like when friends came round for fun and revelry
after we had left the club just after three,
we'd all pick up the ingredients for a ***** do
and jump, and groove with soothing coo,
the ether resplendent with "I love you!"
finely balanced between boom and cautious,
chatting committed, gabbing voracious,
sunk into fun under your light,
the wonder of spun on Saturday night.
Now, it wasn't just at the weekend when friends came to say okay,
there were some sweet gatherings on a Wednesday,
no women, no, just a range age of men,
it could only be mid week Breadren,
we could be having a conversation about how New York seems most tourable
when a voice pipes up, "by the way bel ami my cousin has cancer and it's incurable."
There could only be one guy who brings such depressing roars
the harbinger of gloom known as Two Doors.
He'll bleat on about how his niece has no womb and is totally barren
and next to him lives a kingpin drug baron
"they are shifting units at a furious pace
and ski in more in more wizz than ******* Scarface."
He'll change the subject in the blink of an eye
and go from talking about love to who's going to die,
he doesn't like most women, thinks they are a squawking flock,
he loves men though, yeah, he really likes ****.
A mate can come out and say sobbing he doesn't want to be with a lass
while Iain does think, "Ross, let me in your ***."
His friend could weep and cry with a whimpering cough
while all Iain thinks, Ross, **** me off!
Never mind Grinder, get on my fleshy old man log."
The third guy Martin is off shooting up in the bog.
Yeah, lots of people talked in your four walls
but you provided the space for those stupendous *****,
you were brill in December, springing in May,
really awesome in September, probs cos that's when Louise came to stay.
You held our pre festival clutter with happy behest
and often covered in bottles on Monday, a big glassy mess,
oh you had everything, simply one of the best.
As I’ve said, Flat Six you as the area were great
But a paramount importance in that was housemate.
You see some people can bond and connect in the hub of a club
but when sharing an address each other up the wrong way they can rub,
although they can go to a gig and have the most divine of laughs
when they abide in the same abode they go together like low ceilings and giraffes,
arguments start over the heating not being turned off
or who hasn’t took the bins out or who’s had some of the others food to scoff,
they bleat that “you shouldn’t have gone out for that night on the *****
And then made noise when you got in as you knew I was trying to snooze!”
or “why did you have that night on the coke, you see more of Charlie than an oompa loompa
and have World War 3 over a borrowed jumper.
So yeah, it's sweet when you find a shared space dweller
and who you think is swell and you get on really well,
as when after a day at the office and you perhaps want to chill alone
when they rap on your door to discuss the day you're glad their home,
skating through conversations with the p of pace
raucous at pontificating and waiting in the listen space,
bringing the talk with dazzling natter,
singeing the fork with frazzling chatter
to ensure the words cooked go down warm,
go down a treat, go down a storm,
discussing that wowing tomorrow is pay day thrill
and who was to blame for the initial breakup of Ross and Rachel,
top gabbing, it was brill!
Someone who when the elephant in the room is sniff
you both realise it quick and score in a jiff!
And never entertain the waste that is a tiff,
not for us the sign of a rift
simply super, a kind of bliss,
see I love Joe Flat Six, I love him to bits!
Although, like you  and your constant mould
he wasn't perfect (like everyone), if the truth be told,
you see if you follow all the biblical teachings you've been taught
you'd think he would have thought,
"I can help myself to the dental care and washing hygiene, it don't matter that I haven't bought,
I can use what I deem, Si's not the selfish sort,
he'd give me the last drop of his shower gel if he could,
he defiantly would,
so do unto others as they'd do unto me
and as I’ve got this human cleaning fluid for free
I’ll leave him some plentiful dollops on the side so he can bathe in a Lynx Africa infused sea
and I can leave some mouth polish laid in the shape of a cleansing leaf
so he can keep the fillings to zero in his teeth
then I can take the rest as I’ve been true to my sacred beliefs."
Yeah, that's what he could have done.
Instead he grew horns and committed a Luciferian act
and thought "I'm taking all of that!",
Sartini, you Devilish ****.
Nar, I bet you didn't even think that at all,
you were too busy imagining going out and having a ball,
beautifully bouncing off every wall,
riding the waves of Wet Dreams with total aplomb,
spinning tunes while high fiving Tom,
cool as ice cream and hot to trot
country hopping and swigging spirits by the tot,
at least Shannon seems to have diminished, that ****** robot!
she had more wires than C3PO's thighs
and glazed over R2D2 eyes
fair dos you digged her metallic allure
but did you really want to make love with the Terminator?
Ahh but who cares about a bit of shower gel and your cyborg fawning
it was great singing along as the day was dawning
And obvs I know every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end
But it’s only natural to miss living with one of your best friends.
So far be it from me to encourage your narcissistic gaze
but Joe you can add top housemate to your list of fortes!
So dear Flat Six to summarise
I’ll miss sitting out your back in summer rise
looking through your big tree with my eyes
at the Saturday sun azure blue skies,
I’ll miss that whatever there is to unfold
won’t happen over your threshold,
I’ll miss coming in your space with loads of beer
And chill with tunes while mates appear,
I’ll miss the midnight moving across your floor,
miss my key going in your door,
miss that it’s not your clock telling my time
miss that you’re not mine when I say “who wants to go mine?”
But now you’ll always be more than an address and a collection of bricks
I’ll always love you,
dear Flat Six!
Zenobia Jan 2016
For I understand, now,
That it was not love:
It was merely my mistempered;
Beshrewed list,
For what is só scarce
In this marred world:

She,
Is oft misused and no one descrys thee engrossing forfullment she gives:
Like a mantle of a paramour,
On a flesh penetrating night...

Marry!
My heart feels tossed on the abstract,
For I was overturned with the conceit
Of being Your Thisbe...
Your Trojan princess...
Your right-hand-lady...

But Sir,
My heart, now
Desires but one thing:
To be announced as one's kindred
And be loved as a kingsman

I am content, in faith!
Let us lief love
With a love, greater than love,
And may we build with flint
On the foundation of vestal love.
Let us be one another's bier
When our bodies brine;
Ghostly anchor...
Pilot in the bailful pestilence;
Crotchet in woe;
Behoveful paramour to tell aught to
Without the conceit of neither being cast by
Nor discreet;
Aqua vitae dram in languish...

When thát day abroach
I shall anon be aught...
Do aught for thy...

When thát day abroach
I shall doff
All inadequasies...
And love you
Invariably!
Alex Hunter Dec 2013
I have let
my lustful mind forget
to administer the worries
that drip from my lips
and onto my hands,
where they seep
through my fingertips
and onto the ground,
which is where
all my vexing words
belonged all along.

And I have let
my little mouth
blabber for hours,
ranting about unrelated subjects
on unfamiliar ground.
These words are equitable in my mind,
but as they rest on my tongue,
I have realized
that they lack the only flavor
that society would be willing
to taste.

I have let
unrelenting consequence 
find me here,
for I am unable to control
what chaos
gushes from my mouth,
and onto my lips,
from which they just
drip.

I have let
myself repeat the most
engrossing words.
So forgive me in advance,
for I have let,
and I will forever let
my mind roam
without a leash.

But then again,
why restrain
what most crave for;
a mind with the ability
to review itself.
Well, no need to crave.
All you need to do is let,

and I have let.
Ruman Hafsa Aug 2016
It saved me from being lonely
It saved me from drowning into darkness
It is the one who hearten me only
I am beholden to it at the times of harshness

My art, my saviour

I tried being alone away from the world
I cried myself to sleep in murk being curled
My agony into anger I channelled
Nothing helped

So I took a pen & held it against a paper
As a thought struck to try one last time
And slowly words formed into sentences
And sentence silhouetted into a rhyme

With trembling hands slowly I began
As scintilla of pain pouring down my mind
Onto an empty piece filling it up with rhyme, my art
Engrossing me into it yielding place to peace in my mind

It saved me from being lonely
It saved me from drowning into darkness
It is the one who hearten me only
I am beholden to it at the times of harshness

My art, my saviour
oguh stanley Dec 2016
If I was to read for you, My queen that glow,
A poem of beauty, as only few words could show.
Like Picasso as a writer, let me paint your body,
A whisper of grace and elegance, without noise of gaudy.

You posses a twin of eyes, an immaculate glitter of beauty,
From which life receives its absolute lenity.
To glow in such light of orchestration, Like a crown on the head of time,
Whence bliss takes its origin and befitting prime.

Your alluring smile, a linger of unstinted comfort,
To the stars in tender darkness of the universe, glumming in discomfort.
Each of which humbles at your engrossing presence,
And glows in congruence to the light of your radiance.

Your arms like shields,protective armoury that gets soul lifted,
Touch of your fingers, ten cradle of breath taking sweetness, heavenly gifted.
Each a perfect blend of liniment and mystic power,such,
To impel dead heart to once last beat at thy touch.

your smooth bottled neck, over your soft shoulders,
Holds a face of coherent beauty, eyed in all beholders.
A beauty indescribable by far, as only few words could tell,
How ethereally lovely it can be ; perpetually graced with the touch of angel.

Your walk of indefinable class, a lucid rawness of orchestrated elegance,
So much elegance that the angels gasp in the wake of your presence.
To dance into ecstasy,from which heaven's purity is formed,
In but of your light of all light, they all are conformed.

Those smooth long legs spread like the wings of a flyer,
Inner thighs speak a truth that would mute a liar.
And drip sweet smelling nectar that excites a man's desires,
Like an addictive drug, that makes him only want to get higher.

Beautiful seasoned lips even angels could not grace,
Like two ***** of icing sugar, leaves me breathless each time our lips come in embrace.
And the pressure they do impart,
Have the power to break the devil's heart.

Your two cupped breast,stretch the stitches of your blouse,
As if swollen with milk and honey, my flame only its water could douse.
The most tender of all cleavage,had touched my palms with finesse,
Which contact makes me frozen; a sweet emblem dancing to impress.

If I was to read for you, My queen that glow,
A poem of beauty, as only few words could show.
Like Picasso as a writer, let me paint your body,
A whisper of grace and elegance, without noise of gaudy.
Nancy Raj Jan 2016
Half of the night
Repines the eyes
It breaks into tears

Half of the day
Spent engrossing oneself
Into an empty fear

Half of the melody
Sung in despair
While the eyes peep out
Hoping that you'd hear

Half of the heart
Beats incautiously for an outlander
Who dwells inside

Half of the mind
Wishes to let go
That has ever or never been mine

Half of me almost
Bereft of life

Other half, around you still lays entwined!
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Jan 2021
Would it not be wonderful if all human beings on Earth came to understand that each is as divine as the other--indeed, that all, all creations in the infinite Cosmos are imbued by their maker with the same indelible divineness of their same maker?

There are an estimated 4,300 "different" religions on Earth, each praying to the same God, but calling their same God different names.

Yet, there can be only one maker of the infinite Cosmos.

Why, therefore, do we continue this false notion, this illusion, through millennia, fighting wars over these illusory differences, killing millions and millions and millions of other human beings because we are unwilling to see truth, let alone embrace it?

These fake differences at best keep all of us on Earth separate, divided, and thus cause us tragically to see those of us with different skin colors, different physical features, using different languages and dialects, having different customs, at best appearing different from ourselves, and at worst, instigating untold killings of "others."

If ever you saw a beautiful painting, no doubt you would have seen in it many differences:  colors, forms, shapes, contours, all of which collectively you might have found at the least interesting, at most beautiful.

But what if you saw only a white canvass with nothing on it?

Would you find that beautiful, engrossing, mesmerizing, even to any extent satisfying?

But this is the canvass racists, neo-Nazis, white supremacists, white nationalists, the KKK, the Proud Boys, and so many others like them, want hanging in their houses.

Hate, unconsciously of themselves because they were never loved, is their religion. And just like their religious forebearers of the Middle Ages, they are now fighting their Crusades against others who appear different from themselves, but ironically and tragically are not.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Mesmed Jausa Apr 2015
red straps across the back
lashes delicately placed across desires -
far too engrossing for the average passerby

draw it in, blow it out, drained
M Dec 2013
If you love me like I'm leaving, I won't go.
If you love me like I'll be here forever, you've already lost me.

If you love me like I'm irreplaceable, I'll take to you with the same respect.
If you love me like you do all the rest, I'll step down so you can make your rounds

If you love me like I'm almost close enough to touch, I'll move in closer.
If you love me with a heavy arm around my shoulders, I'll fall to the weight and sink.

If you love me like I'm all you can see within a 100 mile radius, I'll zoom in on you and won't let your gaze go.
If your eyes wander and roam, I'll do just the same-

For I have no time for anything that isn't breathtaking, capturing, engrossing, daunting, exhilarating or exciting.

I'm not asking for perfection, meticulously crafted love and endless adoration.

I'm asking for a fight, for a consistent effort. I'm asking for you to not give up when you already have me.

If you love me like you don't have me, I'll be yours.
If you love me like you have me, I surely will never be so.
I just read a story about a man who met his future wife at age 17. He went to war and lost touch, but never stopped thinking of her. After the war, he searched for her for 10 years, and never dated. Ironically, once he found her, he realized she had been searching too. She's been gone for 5 years now, but he takes her photo everywhere he goes. He said to always tell your wife you love her, and I want something like that.

I know my age is a factor; I'm too young to have anything that mature or breathtaking. But I find myself disappointed in what I receive sometimes because I want love that lasts and endures. I want something grand and heart wrenching because it's that **** powerful. It's not ideal or realistic but I just want someone out there to look at me like I'm all there is to be seen, and continue to look at me like that forever. To me, that's love. Never giving up, even when you get all you've dreamt of and more. You keep trying for it, fighting. Because love isn't easy, it's not for anyone who isn't willing to try.

Love is daunting, scary, time consuming, laborious, and so much more. But it is SO worth it. I'm just here, waiting for someone that might look for me for 10 years and never stop looking at me after.
Alex Cassidy Oct 2012
Nothing at this point in time,
at this point in my life,
would satisfy me more as to consume another human being.
To open myself like parted seas
then selfishly,
ravenously,
close myself again, engrossing him.
Devouring his flesh in mine.
The longer this yearning desire goes unquenched,
the more painfully hopeless I am of tranquillizing it.
It cries in the night, wishing to be consoled,
I coo to it in vain.
I am entirely alone.
Genevieve Nov 2015
you are nothing
but a nightmare
temporary.
you may be engrossing,
even captivating at times
To Some,
but Everyone has to wake up
from Their slumber
Someday.

you're nothing more than a nightmare
**That I'm going to wake up from.
And this too shall pass.
PJ Poesy Nov 2015
Crawdads have a crazy *** life. There's not  
much to courtship and no real copulation. Boring  
as this may sound, it's somewhat engrossing  
for me. Likely more than any lady crawdad ever  
thought of it. I would think most women might
agree. Sadly, reminiscent of **** really. Males
act like ruffians, catching females like prey,
turning them over, and leaving a sticky deposit
on their undersides. Worm like sperms adhere
to her, which she carries with her until she lays  
eggs. I've seen this while preparing étouffée.

Not the *** act, just the worms.  

Life is a multiplex of convoluted situations.
"Please yes, oh no!" What's going on in those
crusty little heads? It seems such a foreign
lifeform. Still, eerily familiar to what I've found  
at the bathhouse. I think I'll fatten up my tail,  
wear some antennae and pincers this Halloween.

Mmmm... Étouffée.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2012
The Abyss
Pray alone enclosed
You’re speaking beyond what you know
You tremble with awe
Every pore cries flaw
Still you feel awakened
The darkness is engrossing
Primeval calling the voice stalling
Somewhere images rise appalling
Affixed with terror night wings
Dark spirits haunt great fear it brings
Unspoken ghosts drift about unbidden
In their voices secrets revealed that lie hidden
Twist and turns corridors go on into blackness
You can’t see but you follow the way trackless
A spiders web leaves you feeling utterly trapped
Where does the pulse beat a single note of love?
Look not in dungeons but with heart aching look above
Listen for the lion roar today none were tore
A power flashes in the light all are healed that were sore
The master today mends the broken
With thankful tears much in silence is spoken
A highway of holiness
David Flemister Jun 2015
The smudge of ink that is left when a mistake can't be completely erased
Just another failed attempt
Another rough draft
That's what I am
I think that if someone were to finish erasing
I could be rewritten as something much more beautiful
A better version of me
A better choice of words
Maybe if I could erase myself
You could recreate me more beautifully than this first edition
You could create me with the abundance of loveliness that you hold
Where I am "flawed"
You could write me as "fascinating"
Where I feel "ignored"
You could describe me as "engrossing"
Where I am "alone"
You could instead write "loved"
I want you to change me
Mold me
Shape me
Recreate me
Replace me with a better version of myself
Amber S Apr 2012
touches ungainly in the darkness.
breathes entangled in each other's throats.
hands. roaming. traveling. drifting.
the familiarity of your muscles.
tongue. tasting. consuming. savoring.
the orbit of your back.
fingers. soaking. engrossing. immersing.
the blueprint of your slumber.
your slumber. my slumber.
your face nuzzled in my bird nest.
my arm wrapped like a boa constrictor.
your calf easing my calf.
your early rise. my grogginess.
your gentle smile. your hungry kiss.
drift. drift.
back into the wondrous state.
a world where we both reside.
darling, to sleep by your side
every night of every day
of every month of every year.
i dream. i dream.
Moe May 2013
I’ve spent days
Screaming at my shadow
Lurking
In the corners
Of autumns belly
Searching
For those fragments of daylight
That
Shatter
And
Cut
Odd ghosts devour seconds
Days and months
It’s you whom I have whispered in dreams
Stepping into those shadows of days gone
Grasping at
Faint memories
Lost eyes
And slanted smiles
It’s this entire engrossing ****** scene
Which cultivates my mind’s slow moving camera
Spectator
Viewer
Two bodies smeared on asphalt
That’s what the argument
With no reason
Seems to be
Nothing shared
Picture happy moments are developed
To others
All is well
With us
Blood On The Tracks**

It spoke in rhythmic transgressions, lifted from the dotted line. It held. It fell.

Polka dots made up of tiny horizontal lines, intersecting with vertical peers.

Overindulging on the semblance of fact, just to seem like they’d grown up a bit.

Self-engrossing indoctrinations to be preached out and blown over…for the rabble it was.

“When something’s not right, it’s wrong.”

Wide-eyed on sleep craved incognizance. It had all gone on too long.

They tried to force their hand, critiquing structure through the veil of a cabaret roused in the liveliest of their rooms.

Stormy shores swept to sea lit calm as the doorframe shook.

Set for a strut, intent on curbing this freshly acquired sensationalism.

Gravity logs its presence through rain dropped conviction…a steam engine sounds off in the distance...finality.
Mary-Rose H Jul 2017
My life is beginning
to feel like
a patchwork quilt
of deadlines
and tasks.
Even doing nothing
has started to seem
like something to do,
just another thing
to check off my
list,
with a certain amount
of time allotted for it,
and a clear time
to move on to
the next thing,
lest I fall behind.
Weeks,
days,
sometimes even
hours
are divided
and categorized
by what I should be
doing
in them.
I don't allow
any passion projects
too engrossing
or time-consuming
for fear of
losing
              myself
                              in
 ­                                     it
and forgetting my responsibilities.
All I can think
when my heart
nudges me to
read a book
or
write a story
is that I have
no time,
no time,
no time
for such things,
and that I must be
conscientious before, and over, content.
Busyness is beginning to take over.
Rachel Giudici Feb 2014
SEVERITY
sometimes the severity of my emotions is enough

LOVE LETTERS
i don't write love letters
i've never written a love letter
and i will never write a love letter

April 16, 2014 1:15am
desperation is a beautiful emotion because it's need escalated to its highest capacity. and i desperately need you.

march 1,2014 11:09pm-11:14pm
I keep a lyric calendar on my wall composed of newsprint and sharpie to keep from writing the sentences on my body. I had the urge to sit within a locked room naked and start at my toes scribbling nonsense and the words on the tip of my tongue and in the depths of my mind until I ran out of skin. My desire to do this was overwhelming and I found great content and frustration in replaying this fantasy in my head over and over and over and over and over and over and over again...In my insanity I like to write on my skin. manic scribbles and crossed out phrases and words. And i wish they were permanent. That the ink of the sharpie really was permanent. But why wont I get a tattoo if I so carve to carve the words into scars across my skin?

march 1,2014 11:09pm
im writing more than im' speaking so i can do less thinking

march 1, 2014 10:36pm
I just want to die tonight. There's nothing that can distract me from my ceaseless thoughts and this feeling of engrossing sadness demanding my undivided attention to be felt.

march 1, 2014 8:48-9:02
with my feelings about my 19th birthday and birthdays in general why does it hurt so badly that she didn't follow through, that she attempted to care by setting up a banner but failed to be there beneath it when i came home when I knew that that's what would happen. When i'm use to these kind of attempts. Actually its the only thing I've ever known or been given are failed attempts. But I didn't expect anything from her at all. I didn't want anything from her at all except time. My whispered thoughts to myself were "i only want her time". Maybe its because of how much she already makes me into nothing so to half *** attempt to do something for me on my birthday, the day of my existence, is just an ironic but appropriate thing for her to do. She wouldn't think this much into it. She cared but just doesn't care enough and she dosn't have to think about it at all past the action. Dosn't have a reason to think of the effect. Dosn't have to think or know at all the effect. Its just an action to her and my reaction is my own. It was her obligation to do something and she tried. Oh I shouldn't say tried cause that implys that she meant to do more. No no no that's it. Just a banner. A banner to haunt me in my hallways of the time she dosn't have for my life on the day to celebrate the time I've been alive. Maybe its only right then that It makes me feel dead. But its just a banner. Without any emotions or feelings involved it's just a birthday banner and that's it.
(mymuse)

march 1, 2014 8:46pm
i know other people have felt as i feel. I know hat I will end this emotion. but the only emotion i want to feel are hers and that's whats killing me because I've erased myself to feel her nothingness. she feels nothing for me.
(mymuse)

march 1, 2014 8:45pm
i only write sad poetry

---------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------------------
i never thought my love for you could expire even if our relationship did
but lately it feels the other way around
-may 30, 2013 4:45pm
(with you in mind)

don't be so in love with tragedy
-may 30, 2013 4:46pm

i like the little tattoos on your skin
even if theyre visible theyre like whispers of some secret
-June 19th, 2013 9:03pm

in so much pain
so lonely
im so so sad
-June 20th, 2013 10:20pm

i almost noticed the fragmented shatters of your mind
...almost
just, almost...
(what you do to me)

I need someone to live for and right now You’re not enough.
I don’t know if You’ll ever be enough anymore.
I had the thought a while back that I loved You less and less these days.
That scared me but I thought I was strong enough to live on my own.
I want to live on my own
But not without You
It’s obvious that I’m dying without You
But you?
Are you worth living for?
No…no…not at all
It’s my choice only me to blame
But I love You.
Why? You don’t deserve my love.
But I love You all the same
-with you in mind
Ryan Winkler Nov 2011
The bottle followed him around,

Like the sun to the skies.

He spit like no other,

Always giving him lost words.



The man with the lip,

Made it oh so enticing.

But the resulting cancer,

Made it so engrossing.



He would do it every day,

Until he could do it no more.

He made his habit known,

Like the characters of before.



When the boys saw the thing,

They had no clue what to do.

To try it, they say,

Was the best thing to prove.



The history of their fate,

Is told from the man,

So addicted to what he thinks is life,

The rest are lost in the path of lore.



Once addicted, always addicted,

And that’s the way the cards played out,

And that’s the way the world pays out,

Every day a struggle to deny,


The temptations of many, the vice of one
SN Mrax Nov 2014
it's a second body sometimes,
a kind of chandelier of eczema,
tumbling from my shoulders
like a ragged royal robe,
white, shining, drifting scales

and this time I wear it
as a familiar dress,
put on me or
grown on me,
a lifeless moss,
scabs without passion,
drooping, dragging,
not reaching far,
not covering, not enobling

for in the deep sky where my soul lives
I've found an island to touch on,
an island filled with a swirling climbing hole
which is a road in time.

and I keep flying up to the surface,
surface of what I can hardly say,
to feel the wind (or what) buffet
and whip us back and forth
on the edge.

somehow you're there on the island too
yet you're not here, are you?
you don't know that you're there,
you don't know that it's there.
Only I've found its rocks,
that say "Yes" when touched,
the road that flows.

And so I wear this ragged dress,
not quite white,
showing and engrossing all,
and I can't help but stoop.
I slouch around my soul in prayer,
to stay close to it.
and if it hurts, it hurts.
I can bear it.
NeroameeAlucard Mar 2015
You are what you are
no bypassing the issue
And if you force change on someone
the issue is you

we all were created to be something
from the addicts to the presidents
for those that may be wondering
hopeless nerds and the awkward
are who I represent

Me? I'm a hardened cynical writing fiend
inking and abusing pages like schoolly D when he asked, P.S.K. what does it mean
you won't find this engrossing
as I'm prone to bouts of vicious self loathing

You? well clearly you must like what I write
I personally don't see why but hey that's alright
but then you always are your own worst critic
So even though I may think I'm dumber than a post tied to a box of rocks
you may see something different

Bottom line is, we all are something unique and strange
because of this humans should try to engage
the idea of being loving and not war hungry ******
because who know how long we have until the final curtain call
And when the author's pen makes that last click
Lauren Grace Feb 2018
How magnificent it must be to be written about.
Your name replaced by descriptions of the way your pink sumptuous smile looked in the shoddy light of your living room last night.
The people read his paper for entertainment.
So could you call it progress?
Possibly character development.
To read about yourself flourishing into the miscreant you were always destined to be.
How engrossing it must be to gradually watch that pink sumptuous smile turn into nothing but a starless hole.
The critics are bored and dehydrated. On their hands and knees, they beg him to compose more.
That's why he stays in the living room and stares at me.
He waits for me to make one wrong move.
But there is no more life in this room.
Only a pen and a subject.
I don't need you to write anymore.
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2018
when even mark hamill takes a stab at the industry...

the last movie i ever saw,
or for that will ever see
in a cinema -
             was the last jedi...
given that i didn't
watch the force awakens
prior:
            hell, the title itself...
the only good thing
about the movie was the actual
cinema,  
         a cameo -
   in my home town of
    Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski...
plus it was affordable -
given the exchange rate
hovered above £1 : 5zł...
     i remember times
when the exchange ratio
stood at
       £1 : 8zł or there about...
but now?
   hmm... just shy of
        £1 : 3.99zł...
and thank god the Poles
are leaving these accursed isles...
me?
    ****... been living here
since i was 8 years old...
   i can't, in the words of
Kevin Spacey: just... *******!
it's a life's worth of investment...
perhaps not the people,
but... the language, *the language
.
i'm no polymath,
but i have to keep up teasing
english psychiatrists
about one, curiosity...
well... two...
   the employment of regression
(implanting false memories
by insinuation) -
and... why is a bilingual person,
suddenly, a schizophrenic?
  medically... metaphorically?
of course!
              so i took it up to her...
(dr. moncrieff -
oh she's real,
  she did a BBC interview
for a program about R. D. Laing)...
    i said to hear:
but i also hear "voices" in
Polish?
             a bogus statement,
i had to toy with her...
   by the way...
why was John Allen Muhammad
the only genius killer
among blacks?
       a killing spree for a white
serial killer is simply dumb,
hood violence...
  petty emotional construct...
but John Allen Muhammad?
most definitely stands out...
the only black serial killer i ever
came across in the news...
the rest? whites.
           ****... digressing again...
see... drinking and listening
to political commentary videos
is one thing, sober,
on the crapper -
    but drinking and listening
to these sober concerns?
     that's not the point of drinking,
and not listening to music.
you lose the rhythm...
   you lose your orientation
in the face of the blank canvas,
awaiting your mosaic composition.
yeah...
   i don't think that cinema was
killed by television, per se...
  two factors, perhaps three killed it...
televised series have
  better music strategists...
   more music, basically,
and better researched...
come on - thor: Ragnarok?
led zeppelin's immigrant song?
that's it?
      sure... some of the classical
music theme are great...
Schindler's List's whining Jewish
violin tearjerker
  (gets me sometimes...
   i cry at beauty -
because beauty is worth crying
over... after sitting with my family
at the wake of my great-grandmother
having passed,
i sat alone in the kitchen,
put a red rose just near but also
just far away from the candle flame...
and managed to transform cardinal red
of the petals, into bishop's purple...
and then i grit and grinding my
teeth together, enlarging the ferocity
of my bite to feel a chip of
a tooth come off one of the bottom
incisors)...
compare that to sharp objects's
opening song from episode 2...
    jeffrey brodsky's
glance backwards...
           come on...
   the genius of a horror movie,
or the genius of a thriller?
  it's always been the music -
   nothing invigorates the horror genre
like the music,
  the visual props are secondary,
and always will be!
        but that's not 2nd reason for
the downfall of cinema...
merely the 3rd...
    an attache, whimsical observation...
the time allowance...
that stretches... far far beyond
   the *** break between such behemoth
movies like ben hur
    or gone with the wind...
    plus in t.v. you can play with
more juxtapositions...
vague interpolating time reference,
very much akin to sharp objects...
which... is, quality wise?
on par with the quality of Versailles...
in my humble opinion...
              plus?
   the once old gigantic necessity of
crafting extras?
  ****! gone!
                     big but nonetheless
cut budgets of CGI?
       not as much fun...
you can still spot the cut off points...
where the canvas of extras
meets Shogun: Total War CGI...
           and this is reason no. 2...
but reason numero uno?
  you can't binge on cinema...
  but sure as **** you can binge
on engrossing television drama...
             unlike some soap opera
omnibus on a Sunday?
   you have to wait...
say... 10 weeks...
                    before letting the beast out...
and then you sit up all night...
and watch the whole ******* season
back to back...
   no one has ever made a 10 hour movie,
and never will...
               binging on television
killed cinema,
  notably the kind of television
that allows you the freedom to record,
and watch back...
                   people always loved
binging on something,
now they've been plated an alternative
to food...
    pure optics...
                       and given the extortion
of cinema ticket prices?
    by the way...
            i couldn't be bothered
to go and watch the last jedi with
the subscripts...
         i'm pretty sure the version i watched
in dubbing could have saved my
initial impressions...
  nice cinema though...
              3. ****** soundtracks
    2. hmm... what was point no. 2?
  1. people love to binge,
   and cinema?
   no matter what movie franchise,
star wars...
     rocky... whatever...
          eh... not with the new star wars...
the only franchise that allowed
itself to mesh together,
like a t.v. show?
back to the future...
   you can't exactly watch one...
and not subsequently watch the other 2...
sorry... i tried...
ended up spending the night
watching the trilogy.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2017
so i situate my ego on an equilibrium,
i decided to rekindle the old sketch,
engrossing the legs to walk,
while the hands turned purple-numb
   in my care to exhaust parts of my
body: to no relevant pursuit...
well: that's called
the ego situated between the equator
of legs versus hands,
  as the old saying goes:
  the devil makes work of idle hands...
or should i rephrase that:
   better take to walking
for the prime source of inspiration;
and truly,
    if my life was a dream,
a fairy tale, an account of living
in north korea... i'd be more glad
working in a sewer...
              but i stick to the maxim:
my life is so boring,
  i decided to write about it.
that's 9... nine (not nein) years
as a quasi-celibate...
     what between the odd
south african teacher with dry
genitals that i deemed to call
the equivalent of ****...
    and the several romanian prostitutes
who taught me how
the madonna-***** complex is real
in women when they began *******
by smearing cream into
          their vaginas for added lubrication
at the end of the day...
        and i thought that the worst
thing imaginable was me jerking off,
starting from age 7 / 8...
   women have much more imagination
in the realm of genitals...
  anyway...
   or that Thai girl i picked up in a park
drinking beer, a rush of sudden conversation,
took her home, ****** her in
the garden and ******* into my arm...
      so it's not like i wasn't aware of
being sensible about how or where i
plotted those flowery-***** sprouts...
  i haven't been circumcised
so i know what a quasi-circumcision
looks like, i know from ****
how i am better off rolling it back
so my "lack" matches up to her floral patten
of the *****...
    ******* once circumcised
makes no sense... absolutely none...
       the ******* exists for the sole purpose
of allowing a ****** "*******"
prior to the zenith of your brain's completely
development... early 20s is a time
when your brain is fully developed...
    which makes abortions, a tad bit
excessive, riddled with protestant
predestination arguments...
   you can't **** anything
  that isn't exsaxtly human form...
let alone fully developed (minding the brain)
prior to the age of mid-20s...
    the only thing that's killed is a potential...
stacked in the what if universe alongside
the Nazis conquering Britian...
      which is why, i guess,
people source the cogito genesis within
the brain, or should i just call it Brian?
       i'm not saying go for it!
  i'm saying, under the circumstances,
i first ****** her with a ******,
     she said take it off,
so i asked her: please take the pill...
so she took it...
    then she "forgot" to take it...
   she even chose the engagement ring...
    then i finished my "studies"
in edinburgh, went back to london
to start a new degree and work part-time
as a roofer...
         and then all hell broke loose!
  thankfully i am not writing like a Don Juan
might write...
  if my life was as colourful as the exploits of
Don Juan... i wouldn't be writing about it...
   i'd sit idle and watch the movies
provided in the memory-cinema...
   getting a hard-on ever so often
and completely disregarding *****...
       but i'm not...
   so here goes...
                     but you know what's scary?
she told me this, the one i "forcefully"
impregnated and can't stop thinking about?
she told me in her sacred heart of intimacy
that she was abducted as an early sprout of
teen due to her family being well off in Russia
and kept prisoner... and sexually exploited...
   as a kid...
                   now that i think about it:
like i already mentioned,
  i don't have a rhino's horn needing ****
in terms of ******* into a tissue or a ****...
i don't have this urge to be an arsonist
to plop a **** into a woman's womb...
maybe losing my virginity to a third year
exchange student of psychology from
Grenòble / due to the accent on O
   it's actually Grenòbl -
    what, you think i lost it to a *******?
no, *** starved spent a year and a half at uni
i decided to have a poke with one
   when i went to Poland to visit my
grandparents... told you: a total ******* of a story.
yes, she was Ukranian,
  she had one gold tooth...
   and we drank ***** and i ****** her for
two hours...
   after which she was like: you done?
then we lay in an embrace and i kissed her
forehead and cheeks...
  and she said: you're a good person...
apparently not!
     ****!
            the worst is that the brain is so late
in registering all this *******...
   if we're talking we're genital prone
from, literally the word go...
and the brain only catches up to the body
once you pass being aged 20+...
who's to do what when they engage
in a relationship who tells you
they've been abducted, and evidently
*****, and then they twist and turn
   your care to provide, but bypass it
and tell you: it'll be fine, **** me,
impregnate me, and we'll work it out
after...
               i was about to sit my final exams
and get a job in Scotland at some chemical
plant! what the ****, what the ****
am i doing living a sordid life,
paitning my face to a clown
   and "partying" at Halloween?
   now i'm saying what she said to me:
life is ****...
         well... it trully is right now...
the greatest joy i have is: walking, drinking
4 cans of beer...
    passing a winter tree,
the sky hazy with cloud, and a scythe of a moon
looked from under a tree, bald and synapse filled,
scattering it's twiggy centipede arms...
   and i say:
      it's not exactly a scene from a poet
in graveyard,
   more like a drunk in suburbia: but i get the picture.
all i meant to say, is that after the very brief
relationship... i didn't do anything stupid
as to impregnate someone...
     i don't even know if i did...
     but as Nietzsche once said:
no one really tells me anything these days...
and so, the last news i heard concerning
me was my father saying:
   don't you think there's a shaman in your family?
if that isn't a pleasant surprise
much congested with huh?!, i don't know what is.
i said it already:
Thai bisexual girl, picked her up in a park,
she was drinking alone,
took her home, played her some jazz,
then switched to playing her
  michael greilsammer, and we ****** in the garden,
i ******* into my hand rather
than... rather than? this ain't *****-land,
what, her face?! sicko.
             then i walked her home,
put on her a jacket of mine which she drowned in,
and just outside her home
   she gave me a necklace with a ring
attached to it... that changed colour.
              so you want tartar (i.e. raw) poetry?
well... this is it...
         i can't be as systematic as de Sade...
but i can recount a memory or two...
               oh, ** **, don't get all *****
on me... it's a sad sad (insert snigger) tale...
          have i ever ****** a black girl?
yeah... picked her up in a Stratford pub,
this plump middle-aged beauty...
she takes me to her flat...
                two kids in it...
   she throww Hanzel and Gretyl off the bed
and tells me to aim at her squeezed tighs rather
than her ******... i do about two strokes
and then say to her... i can't...
   i remain in her bed, when i wake up
little nergo Hanzel is standing beside the bed
looking at me,
   completely naked i take him up
   and lay him onto my chest where he falls asleep...
  gently stroking his frizz / afro /
scortched keratin...
     and as i endlessly say:
   there no imagination in this, only experience...
if there was any to begin with...
i'd be Colonel Mc-******* Disney
(you know what's scary...
   i'm writing this and there's complete silence
around me... akin to that ancient Polish
proverb: cicha woda, brzegi rwie...
    i.e. silent water, tears away the shores,
tea tie tare tear tears tares... she picks
sea-shells on the sea-shore...
  that's gagging for the tetragrammaton to appear,
if not the already stated arguments
bound elsewhere).
Sophie Mitchell Mar 2014
besides
engrossing myself
in every
curve,
crevice,
angle
of your being,
i was
determined,
no,
steadfast
on learning
the miles
and miles
of ridges and lines
covering your
fingertips
and palms
as if
i already knew
it would not be
too long before
those same fingertips
would be
out
of my
grasp

— The End —