Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Michael W Noland Sep 2012
[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero
this is a work in progress
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
don't get me wrong, i believe in competition,
but the neymar conundrum is
slightly bugging me...
    where does actual competition occur,
and where does general inequality begin?
   if you told me that the lie of being
educated was true: i'd laugh it off...
    after all, preceding generations always
valued education as a force for good -
a transition into adept modes of behaviour...
socialism was born from a rift from
the under-appreciation of the so-called
"virtue" of becoming educated...
           evidently only "idiots" gained
the higher economic ground for expressing
the ultimate freedom of "expression"...
   but paying someone one-hundred-and-ninety
pounds, for someone who can kick
a ball is the zenith of western "values"?
  what sort of "competitive" game is being
played out?
a bit like ensuring that mike tyson spars
with a one-handed boxer...
         oh sure... **** me! that's competition!
when will this "idea" of competition spiral
out of control and begin to look ridiculous?
it's, probably, about now...
            footballers' logic would state it
in the most obvious dynamic possible...
                   the individual is worth precisely
what is expected of him:
   the luck of a poker hand... luck!
        in the infinitely random pursuit of
the "individual",
                  there is always the notion of a
shared effort...
             to me, individualism is a fake
construct...
               ask the chinese about an individual...
oh yeah... there was one, a long time ago,
some guy named confucius...
    but these days he's in a sea of a billion
examples...
                i do believe in individualism,
but not when it's over-arching,
spanning 1 - 3 generations,
         it takes centuries, it takes 3+
generations, as it might take to establish
centuries and call them: the victornian era...
but so many "individuals" in a single moment,
where there is no death-debacle, a death-membrane
exclusion parameter? you *******
kidding me?
                 how will people not react to
this injustice of the "competitive" principle?
      so this ****** gets to kick a ball
and gets so much because so many eyes are
peering at him...
   if this isn't post-capitalism, i don't know what it:
capitalism has conquered socialism,
fair enough...
       but it has also showed us a heresy
inherent in itself: within the principle of
competition (which i agree with, given the spartan
dynamic): it has a handicapped person
competing with an ably bodied person -
  the idea of competition has become unfair...
no, not it terms of physical ability,
but in terms of reward!
                      you can't just do
          a humpty-dumpty um? moment...
so why bother schooling kids in the subject
matters of chemistry, history or english,
if some have the ontologia innatus
   (innate nature of being)
   that supports them in excelling in a particular
area of "interest"...
    you know what's actually socialistic
in a capitalistic system? the education system...
education is actually socialistic in capitalism:
it's oppresive!   it doesn't forge
people of skill... it only forges people
   who's sole "skill"? is to pay off debt!
   you're not creating professionals!
                                you're creating debtors!
so why bother:
1. erroding people's memory &
2. + 3. not teaching them a professional
    mechanism, due to bombarding them with
useless theory: airy-fairy *******
  while
        living the lie of reaching 100 mortal
years, and not... not once! not once!
encouraging the stability of future generations
filling those about to retire
                  spots of competence?!
no... this is not capitalism...
          this is capitliasm eating itself...
capitalism was always going to cannibalise itself
given the disappearing outside "threat"
competition...
   it was always going to implode...
                                  it's ouroboros capitalism...
because as of the 1990s... its only competition
is itself...
                      any footballer will tell you:
the neymar conundrum?
    oh, it's there...
                              he's an "individual"
within an advert...
   within a brand?
                but in a football team?
                              he's still only a striker!
i have to say... first the western powers blame
"collectivism", because it's too large to handle...
and then they cherish the idea of
"teams"... team sports, working together...
   at least socialism is a dualism...
   capitalism? nothing but a false serving
dichotomy...
            so this socialistic "grey area"?
                         isn't it bound to capitalism
also? whereby the so-called "individual"
over-shadows the group effort?
                    on the hard-on fans could name
me a few manchester united defenders from 1994 - 1998...
garry pallister? denis irvine?
              such a ****** sort of "individualism"...
who the **** actually came up with the paradox
of shoving individualism up everyone's ***-crack,
while at the same time preaching
                              the "team effort" mantra?
SøułSurvivør Jul 2015
~~~<·>~~~

O, dear Lord, please give to me
the gracious spirit of fruit trees
they share their bounty
with those in need
without regard for
race or creed
spreading dappled
shades of gray
for weary travellers
on their way

~~ · ~~

the courage of a badger
o doughty soul!
a bear is routed from his hole!
he has a faith i do not know
without a Bible to tell him so

~~ · ~~

the wonder of a growing pearl
no such beauty in the world
it gets yet larger with each day
although it has no mouth to pray

~~ · ~~

the gentle nature of deep grass
which bends to allow
Your winds to pass
then stands again
with stately grace
to look again in
Your sun's face

~~ · ~~

the honesty of a sky of blue
the color reflects the truth of You

the freedom of a flock of birds
they have surely heard Your words

the cheerful ways of laughing brooks
passing boulders without looks

the industry of a little bee
the good of others all he sees

the patience of erroding wind
carving beauty in the end

the ferocity of love in bears
mothers die to show their care

the resounding strength
of a mountain range
wind or rain they seldom change

the wisdom of an ocean deep
it's secrets it will ever keep

~~ · ~~

all these things, i do believe,
my spirit will, in time, receive
it is Your will i must accept
as i do the
KINGDOM
You have kept



soulsurvivor
Catherine E Jarvis
(C) 5/27/1989
rewritten
(C) 7/15/2015
I was a heavy drinker
on the edge of alcoholism

After a very difficult time in my life
I went to a treatment center
in a tiny speck of a town
Wilcox, Arizona

I had my first spiritual awakening
in that place. I worked hard there
cooking and cleaning toilets
I don't believe I've ever been
happier in my life

I wrote this poem while there
It still brings tears to my eyes

~~~<·>~~~
Marcus Logan Jan 2010
The water's calm
serene and beautiful
gently ebbing upon the shore
erroding it away
and giving in return

the clouds roll in
past the mountains
settling atop the water
giving the sunset
the beauty withheld

yesterdays and tomorrows
reflecting off the water
the memories of time
gently drifting off the tide
into the sands

the calm before the storm
the water doesn't budge
nor do i
when nothing remains
and everything stands still
Kirsten Autra Aug 2010
The river bank is erroding,
but the trees stay rooted--
above is the sky, and
beyond is where the
tundra lies.

A life so different, and yet vaguely
familiar.
It is Sunday, and you can find me in
the desert.
My mind cannot identify the differences
in the bodies of water from
my Alaskan
memories,
or the one that is before me.
I am only able to
recognize that there is always
movement.

The current so calm, just like the
beating of my heart, the gliding of
the clouds.
If you could find my hand, would there
be any love left
to give?

I cannot hide in my skin, only
submerge into my
thoughts.

"I beg your pardon Miss, you are not
just carbon,
you have got a purpose."

One day I'll release this pen,
and free all the
fear.
                           I hope to never be found.

This distance, by no means will hold me
captive.
It is time for me to embrace it,
For I worry it is not far enough.
Daejah woolery Apr 2015
I think I fear time
In it you can find nothing sublime
That dpesnt mean i wont stand onnan erroding soapbox with timeless speeches
Maybe that's why I never liked beaches                  
The rocks yearn for the kiss of the sea
And the oceans reach forward in waves with all it can be
But rocks turn into sand
With no lessen  in demand
The grains mix with those of shells
With one word, almist, to describe such hell
And the beach coastline is finally consumed by the waters
And the waves move to another shore with dispersed sand reminiscing it willing slaughter
Time is the sand slipping through my fingers
It moves faster when your hands get bigger, faster when you wish it could Linger.
Time is what I cannot control
And I just want to to take its toll
Hit me with its best shot
Give me all its got
Because I'm tired
Time spent worrying about what has transpired
And tethered to the tick tock clock of all to come
And I sure as hell can't enjoy the present when the addends surpass the 24 hour sum
When I need to calm down I try to focus on the ticks of a clock or beat of my heart
When I get anxious it's all too often. The ticks of a clock that speeds the beat of my heart
I think I fear my fear of time more that I fear time
And that's what I'm afraid of
Jayson Monroe Apr 2015
Hurting isn't working
Emotions erroding and flooding
Tears create havoc
For poetic influence
The pain that I feel
Most people ignore
I'm lookin through the window
Of this double glass door
Shatter this glass
Like u shattered my life
Scattered pieces emptied
No more feeling inside
How could you do that?
Look in my eyes
My soul is crying out
From my solitude life
I had everything
My answer was you
Now my anger and depression
Got the best of me too
Writing with a pen
Bleeding through ink
Heart is pouring out
Reality overcomes dreams

Are u feeling my hurt?
Or is this just a blurr
Are you sincere or concerned
For this fire that burns
This is it
Fire burning my heart
My life is the end
From my emotions that start

Picture perfect potrait painted
Leaves my memory freshly tainted
Stained from my past and the history of
Relationships failed is the death of us all
Girls and boys become women and men
Now I thank you for not takin' my hand
Finally this man has moved on
Reopened my heart
Im ready to go the distance
It's not really that far....
Allete Ives Oct 2015
People look and stare like I'm crazy
But to be honest I see you all in vertigo
Pulsing in and out of oblivion
Don't any of you care about the truth
Fake.
People ask me why I'm leaving
But I never arrived actually
Just a slate of erroding curiosity
Do any of your pieces fit here
Hate.
People of bloated and dense realities in motion
But I see the potential barricaded within you
Lodged by ego and envy
Don't any of you know love is the best word to describe
Death.
Which is just a means to an end before the next cycle
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2018
on a night like this, when waking spent
almost 24 hours constantly awake,
   with February's ***** pinching the skin,
i find you,
                  almost on a whim,
                                 or rather by chance,
dear lass, where have you been all my life,
to think i made a profanity
                                           of whiskey...
by mixing it the fizz of degreasing
              car engines and erroding
                                 the stomach lining...
as it turns out, you, my dear lass, are
              a millionth shot just shy of the first
that should be called:
                           a cat before a fireplace...
  since who would have thought
that you hid in the following instructions -
a 1:1 ratio of ms. amber & ginger wine...
you have become the nearest i have
           tasted to replace the holy mead...
must hide the fact that you're
     a wine... ms. amber & a ginger witch...
dancing on ice...
             as i once met a man in a liverpool st.
pub who answered my question:
   what you drinking?
             *** & coke...
                ah... that's a ****** name for a drink...
so i inspected him,
               black & bearded:
   immediately a name sprouted:
                          black beard!
         who would have thought of
a whickey mac...
                             doesn't matter,
   at £3.50 a bottle?
                                      it's worth it;
so shut up and have slim one,
    followed by a filling one,
              ending up on the lullaby one.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
the little people: and their grand words...
some within reaching the stasus
of colossus,
       while others groveling like
maggots, come back to the collective
unconscious (memory):
        with a stalled craft to make
the morbid fusion of an impetus...
        the grand people:
          and their concern for the lexicon;
secularism had but one advantage,
the holiness of the subconsciousness
of lingua...
              but, apparently, the communist
didn't teach anyone anything,
other than what needed to be minded:
a reiteration of the winding back
of ******* symbolism,
          back: into the clock-face of
resembling an impeding loss of
a status quo...
                         before the altar of
unmoved pieces of chess,
the current, unfathomability of
a "sudden" move...
                  pawn-broker: pawn-maker,
crude: the collection of
   a tsunami mingling with
the antithesis of the holy ghost within
the shackles of:
                            a zeitgeist...
bounty and beauty bound to
the same curator,
            of the fallen curtain
revealing the androids of future
depictions of kings, raised,
subsequently toppled,
   yet nonetheless kept:
   at a leisure...
                         toad-markings
of the first supposed bite...
like a kiss of the enchanted prince...
who kissess, before
             the other churns a bite?!

i might laugh at attire, but,
all of the fashion industry is
structured around ******-*******...

there is still not greater insult
than what other people eat...
and i can't stomach culinary insults...
the omnivore that i am...

how i ate those dried-out fish-snacks
with a St. Petersburg drinker,
and that every-man's orange caviar
i won't even bother to question...
culinary insults... doesn't matter:
can dress the ***,
                   in a king's tug & ware...

culinary insults are the depth upon
which you base making
           fashion "statements"...
    
see... the western concept of the "left"
is Mongolian to me...
                   i, simply, cannot
comprehend it...
                    one would expect:
a rule of thumb;
  instead one receives a conclave
of giving "it": the index finger...

           which isn't even a forfeit of
tipping into narratives of
the current circumstance...    
         in the omnipresent:
membrane - of -
      fragility within the confines
of: being reactant to
whatever enzyme is made
adjusted to thrill,
  or make *******,
             of a future without
                                            a yesterday.

who let the "idiots" in?
mind you: there are no idiots among
pawns, merely sacrificial lambs...
       and who said that grammar
          could be given a religiosity,
and a deconstructionist-dogma-medium
readily stalked, and subsequently
made: unfathomable?
                it could have worked...
    the anti-nationalistic agenda...
         but given the attempts to
puruse a feat of ridiculing the basic
foundation of a, coherent expression
of a coherent acquisition of language,
with not real basis of nation,
  but erroding the prime of
the individual to start a zoology-creep
invigoration?
                
             there are sensibilities than
transcend nationalism...
    as there are sensibilities than make
"transgressions"
      of globalisation...
         grammar is the only orthodoxy
that remains intact from
the segregation of the church and state...

        i already stated that i am,
blissfully unware of a need to take to
engaging in the catholic bureaucracy of
confirmation...
             but a direct attack on grammar
is a self-defeatist mishandling of
secularism...
                             grammar = dogma...

         since can         dada,           truly rule?!

sure, attack grammar,
  with an unconventionality of the use
of language,
   that doesn't assertain a use of language
with the social focus of
    the pleasantries of formalism...
transgress language formalism...
                and, suddenly,
all cobblers become death-aspiring
"artists"...

                  why isn't artist deemed to
by synonymous with gambler?!

      what a bleak picture,
    a fiction that's the fiction of Dicken's
bleak:
                     something or other...

     yet i love being attached to
a current narrative...
          this: culprit conversation
interlude of a people...
                        
               beside the canadian pronoun
incident...
        and using grammar orientated
words...
       can anyone tell me why english
uses so much conjunction-preposition
shrapnel of a bullet to the letter
to the gun with an aimed word?

        papa germanicus uses a lot of
Faustian... conventionality,
of making words into:
  hydrocrabon-length words...
    compounds...
                          without these little
in-between bothersome flies...
        and he is: papa germanicus...
given his:
   well... he's not regarded as
anglo-pomeranian...
            or anglo-bavarian...
aber: ein: schwab!
                     aber: ein anglo-sächsisch...

petulance of a foreign son:
    before an aged, almost non-existent,
father -

gereiztheit von ein fremdsohn,
    vor eine alt, nahezu nicht-gabe,
                     die vater.

zorn: manchmal
            ertriken mein verstand...
  für ein blick von ein herz!

i can't imagine the remants of
Saxon, to be of must gesticulation
in cultural norms,
          when the remains
of the *****,
           are made to stand... schtill.

ęgleesh will not even begin
to bleach me...
           have the globalists and
their tattooed bodies...
           cheap franchise of
a coulrophobia circus...
               now i have a tattoo:
1410!
                                      1918!
apparently eating fungus
         is but one route...
                  of the spider Atlantis-mythos
monkey...
        as became the common practice
of eating
               remnants of
    aquatic genitalia embodied
by oysters:
  ******* poetics,
as in...
                 once you devour the desire
to ****...
               who the **** needs
to paint like a van gogh within
the origins of the trans-African
                      highway toward a today?
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2019
the book the brick
that isn't
the library that
isn't the building
that, somehow becomes
a... sponge:
implosion of
of a building, a library,
a brick, a book:
ergo spongia;

hardly
a compensation
for what
is the
adequate
exfoliation
of a man's
memory bank...

in what is...
the institutionalized,
purposive:
attack on
the free man's
faculty of memory...

scholastic rubrics
of spelling,
algebra...

hell... if an institution
is to errode the man,
and come the: automaton...

sure... defecate
upon the altar of memory...
no wonder
the anglo-saxon
sought escape in dreams,
armed with a sword
that became...
the Freudian sword
(*****)
and the Freudian
                 flower (******)...

no!
     the anglo-saxons
showed what
becomes of erroding
the faculty of memory of man...

me?
i'm tired of heaping more
sand on the already
apparent sand dune:
which, if i ******
on it...
could become a pyramid!

no...
modern education is
an acid thrown upon man
to: function without memory...
since...
the modern life is...
bombarded by an over-expression
of an imagination
that doesn't materialize...
modern imagination
doesn't materialize
into a technological
output of:
    *** malleus venio clavus...

láter "contra" spongia:
qualis liber?
i.e. in the metaphorical
array of casual phrasings
of English teachers...

   ****!
i can't reingage with
the internet narrative!
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2017
hope to see you in 10 years.*

please remind me to
never have children
and instead aim for
a circus monkey -
****** gotta clap,
gotta clap you little
*******(s):
here, have a ratchet to
boot: give you a bit
more emphasis...
the sort of acid are
these people dropping,
these i.q. memory
erroding circus act
fantasists?
     child genius my ***,
more like:
well hello, advert for
sociopathic parenting.
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2018
western metaphysics aside...

                      there's the hebrew "aesthetic"...

of niqqud niqabs...

   french gluttony of congested
syllables,
        western slavic
                    clarity of orthographic
dicta laughing about
orthographic inability
                  in grafitti art...

    and then there's english:

a language over-ridden with
metaphysical questions,
but no orthographic application:

para-physical placebos:
but no actual ghosts...

               told you,
benzene attachment coordination
is the new: clock...

                what is the fourth dimension?
the alternative to
   para-, ortho-, meta- coordination,
namely the ring itself: tempa-

but there really is a hebrew
                                      orthography...
i am of the ones who've inherited
the idea of the roman empire,
not actually having experienced
its ancient footprint...

    it's simply bemusing that english
would call phoneticism, dyslexia,
a "spelling mistake"...
                given that it's a language
over-ridden with metaphysical
questions,
  and no orthographic application!

get m'ah dwift?
                 exactly, why bother writing
an R if you don't know how
to trill?!
               saved sooner by a surf-board,
yes?
            ******* dread-lock hippy
from newquay: no, not the unravelling
into: new-kee,
             neu-qua -            quay!
                              is it: new-kee?

you can't but not help to reduce
english deviance of surd encoding
into the ugliness that is
the "elephant in the room" of rewriting
english into phonetics...
because what is the study of english
in linguistic terms,
  if the language doesn't apply
         itself to orthographic application?

the same as: latin is a post-mortem;

   imitate jerking off into the air,
relieving yourself by protruding the middle-finger
at the sun...

   that's all i have...

          god, and the dream of faroe islands!

to paraphrase the natives:
    and they are natives to me...
      bewilderment about certain phonetic
encodings, which are at-variant
with how people speak...
                  akin to leisure activities...

two languages, bound within one,
the phonetic ugly,
    and the linguistic pretty...
  the pretty of spelling
   of a metaphor concise with "algebra",
or rather personal memory erroding
             "arithmetic"...

won, 1, one,
           2, two, too, to,
   3, free, three, fee,
   4, four...             flour...
  5, hive, five, i've...
   6...                
                              7, seven, heaven,
heave...
    8, ate, eight, eating...
9, nein, nine, noddy...
10, ten,
                         timothy.

for a language that deviates from
the concept of orthography:
it asks too many metaphysical questions,
i.e. 'what is reality?'
  is hardly, or rather: besides the "point":
coupled with the omni ****
origin story.

— The End —