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"essex" poems
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes perchance unlike you common goons,  she knows distinction has no comparison to thee Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
0
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 8:00 PM UTC
Mediocrity knows no Distinction.....
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes perchance unlike you common goons,  she knows distinction has no comparison to thee Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
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26
Like some goofy lisp.   Like left over from Surrey to Essex. Lycan, Omish, with some Roudy Rawdy Piper. Like a WWE event, no ropes in the ring and a whole bunch of cheerios.   It sounded like chweer wee ohs.   I got England to laugh out loud. We were all laying on the floor hoping fuhat bassthard would gooh on a diet. Like Van Gogh and his buddy whats his... knuck knuck.  Painting pictures of Marshall Islanders for a vote or veto.  Paul Goin and Vincent Van Gogh sharing a lisp.   Sthounds like..... Ah gawd!   Shut up you sobbing limp noodle. Try writing something we all can laugh at. Humor me Socrates with Albert Einstein.   E equals MC squared.   One part energy, a mass constantly squared.   Cheerio old chaps.
0
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:45 AM UTC
Fire Retardant
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak, well, attire me in slavic myths and i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too for a helium bubble to become a comedian, i know a jittery ******* addiction when i see one... if one thing the catholic schooling system taught me was how to avoid sniffing glue and how to recognise a Freudian apostle - still, with all the hippy **** you'd think sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism prescribed with paracetamol, catholic education just said: no no. **** me it's the late 90s and we're talking post-Chernobyl antics... but that's how i see the left, leftist politics, the right                utilises prefixes and suffixes in the old stance of simple pre- pro-                                     anti-                                             qua-                                                                -so so... the left? oh they're right in there... their prefixes are                                 Marxist- liberal-                                          Hegelian-              whatnot...                                                 they don't use abstract prefixes,                                           their prefixes are concrete,                         they want the porridge in their mouth to ensure a slur that never comes, among a range of onomatopoeias they argue from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd, via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother, ****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method; i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo experimenting, it's called experimenting with thought rather than practising with will, former no chance of footstep evaluation for cult status imitable -                                       the left intellectual has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro - it has to be concrete layered and a shut off perfect architecture without fault - it can't be what it is -                                       con- has to be conservative                                                   pro- has to be socialist                                      you once said legitimate transparency - but you didn't say legislation - well, the left understood it as legislation, the right too wanted legitimate transparency - the green party said we could have neither but could have the replanting of a thousand oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest... b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye - hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's fingernail toothpick! at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes! ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding! *** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
0
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
i don't talk
you can hear the echo via Zizek the Slovak, well, attire me in slavic myths and i'll be mumbling purrs in mud too for a helium bubble to become a comedian, i know a jittery ******* addiction when i see one... if one thing the catholic schooling system taught me was how to avoid sniffing glue and how to recognise a Freudian apostle - still, with all the hippy **** you'd think sniffing glue was what Ukrainian existentialism prescribed with paracetamol, catholic education just said: no no. **** me it's the late 90s and we're talking post-Chernobyl antics... but that's how i see the left, leftist politics, the right                utilises prefixes and suffixes in the old stance of simple pre- pro-                                     anti-                                             qua-                                                                -so so... the left? oh they're right in there... their prefixes are                                 Marxist- liberal-                                          Hegelian-              whatnot...                                                 they don't use abstract prefixes,                                           their prefixes are concrete,                         they want the porridge in their mouth to ensure a slur that never comes, among a range of onomatopoeias they argue from the perspective of the hushed and ushered crowd, via one observation: Stalin clapped after a speech to enjoin with the crowd, a real big brother, ****** never clapped, a sitting-duck method; i'm not advocating, but by a proxy placebo dynamo experimenting, it's called experimenting with thought rather than practising with will, former no chance of footstep evaluation for cult status imitable -                                       the left intellectual has no rubric of thought concerning to and fro - it has to be concrete layered and a shut off perfect architecture without fault - it can't be what it is -                                       con- has to be conservative                                                   pro- has to be socialist                                      you once said legitimate transparency - but you didn't say legislation - well, the left understood it as legislation, the right too wanted legitimate transparency - the green party said we could have neither but could have the replanting of a thousand oak trees with a Robin Hood placard on the first oak tree replanted in Sherwood Forest... b. ~ d. ~... shot ~100 bent arrows into a bullseye - hurrah! hurrah! maid marian lost her virginity too! to a broomstick rather than maradona's fingernail toothpick! at an essex market the cockney shouts (out of place): *** yer courgettes! *** yer courgettes! ta fa a pudding! ta fa a pudding! *** yer cucumbers! tooth firth 'un!
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70
Given up, deluxe in Essex Cornwall, seaside Fortress Stonehenge, felt the Vortex One Vision, one idle Apex Kiss the Haven Sanctum ****** Diligently Lingers the Finger Remix Vibrate the ring tho Rung Her Nexus Into New Blue , You beg the Context Of seeming NonSense, hum my Edifice I'll give You This, oh humble Tread I've past the Veil, many lives I've Led Memory to Full to sustain, Unfurled This Nomenclature not of this World Do you want Me? Come then, Explore Rich, sweet, then Sour, Drink More Intoxicate, bubbled deep risen the Core She is Ancient, She is bled, of Iron Ore Cleanse your Palette, taste must never Mix, or coagulate, congeal, or Root Fluidic Fauna, Flower Sauna, Resolute Cleanse, release into Her, Ashen Soot Absolute Sanctuary, must enter, Barefoot
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Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 9:34 PM UTC
Temple Gates
There is a certain mystique about Essex County where Wiccan boutiques smite the eyes with linguistic confusion. Salaam reminds me of cold meat and Shalom reminds me of Welsh breakfasts even though the 1700s knew nothing of peace. So, now that we almost reach the threshold of Spring Aequus Nox, I commend Julius Caesar for his respect towards atmospheric refraction. We need to talk. Come on, and let us delve into classical and mythological philosophies where games of death are an aphrodisiac with a sprinkling of risqué.
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Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
Invisible Regions of the Cosmos
mothers of                "β"-males; and the whole world, and all the world,                         ⠃⠇⠊⠝⠙           a civilised world...                                          without a chance to think!                i just think of: mothers of the beta-males...          how sooner i am to relinquish the act of                         impeding death! i die: but also make a relief of having had a mother! as man... loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser loser... the one word mantra starts bugging... loser with that sort of quiff?! twitter addict?! president of the united states of h'america?! now you're ******* joking... you aren't?! no comment. no comment. and? no comment. i like thinking about β-males... in terms of feminism, and in terms of β-males having mothers... by beta, i mean you don't / didn't have a mother... o.k.? now you know the answer my father would give... the d.n.a. ******** ends here! now! you have your little existential tirade about: holding a car-boot boutique in an essex field... you're fine... have it: i'm happy as ego becoming extinct... ******* snow fairies.
0
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:01 PM UTC
mothers of "β"-males: "mothers"
.*but i wasn't obviously going to go far down this "worrisome" route for too long, maybe like ten minutes... i had to think of something relaxing to do... i looked in the mirror: **** the wild-man of Essex! beard, shaggy, the neck barely visible... hair like Mozart composing, or as the Poles say: hair like a wkuriony Chopin ****** off Chopin)... **** better do something about it... ah... there's only one thing that can lighten my mood and this whole, tirade... a visit to the local traditional Turkish barbers... so i ****** off... in went the wild-man of Essex... out came well-groomed human being, not a sign of his werewolf past to be seen on him... ah... this is the 4th time, proper, that i visited the barbers (prior to? long hair... after? a shaved head like a Buddhist monk)... god... just sitting there with closed eyes... i'm starting to think that going to the barbers is better than *** i was never into blocking someone, esp. if someone is liking your stuff, but it happened to me with that poetess on here,        i wanted to know how it feels, to just randomly block someone who really enjoys your stuff...              and then... **** gone, never to be seen again...    Wattpad is basically a fascistic website to boot this thread of thought... who the hell gets booted off a platform for starting a cordial conversation? - but i really did wake up with a moral hangover...    excuses?              irritability...            there's just a certain level of conversation i can take,                               i can't get the pedant out of me... i really can't... i tried and i tried,   notably because when speaking to natives, i see them lazily doing this or that, while i come with an acquisitive perspective, hence the furthered acquisitive impetus to further this acquired language... while the natives are like: blah... it has been given to them from birth...      and conversations, after having completed a...     well for me it was an exhausting poem, the desire to finish it before off the rails with the bourbon instigated a thirst, matched with irritability...                **** i hope i can unblock the guy and apologize... spare of the moment thing...             well... if i can't... i know what it feels like:            not being on the receiving end... so... that's one plus from all of this. p.s. that sort of direct messaging language, aged... 40?              how can i talk to someone who's older than me, on that level... (looks up his profile page)... huh?              so i didn't block him? *Dennis Willis's profile is not visible because they have blocked you.* and i still have the block option handy... mind you... i didn't wake up today recollecting some pretty    trippy ********
0
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 6:33 PM UTC
waking up with a moral hangover: the pedant / at the turkish barbers
.*but i wasn't obviously going to go far down this "worrisome" route for too long, maybe like ten minutes... i had to think of something relaxing to do... i looked in the mirror: **** the wild-man of Essex! beard, shaggy, the neck barely visible... hair like Mozart composing, or as the Poles say: hair like a wkuriony Chopin ****** off Chopin)... **** better do something about it... ah... there's only one thing that can lighten my mood and this whole, tirade... a visit to the local traditional Turkish barbers... so i ****** off... in went the wild-man of Essex... out came well-groomed human being, not a sign of his werewolf past to be seen on him... ah... this is the 4th time, proper, that i visited the barbers (prior to? long hair... after? a shaved head like a Buddhist monk)... god... just sitting there with closed eyes... i'm starting to think that going to the barbers is better than *** i was never into blocking someone, esp. if someone is liking your stuff, but it happened to me with that poetess on here,        i wanted to know how it feels, to just randomly block someone who really enjoys your stuff...              and then... **** gone, never to be seen again...    Wattpad is basically a fascistic website to boot this thread of thought... who the hell gets booted off a platform for starting a cordial conversation? - but i really did wake up with a moral hangover...    excuses?              irritability...            there's just a certain level of conversation i can take,                               i can't get the pedant out of me... i really can't... i tried and i tried,   notably because when speaking to natives, i see them lazily doing this or that, while i come with an acquisitive perspective, hence the furthered acquisitive impetus to further this acquired language... while the natives are like: blah... it has been given to them from birth...      and conversations, after having completed a...     well for me it was an exhausting poem, the desire to finish it before off the rails with the bourbon instigated a thirst, matched with irritability...                **** i hope i can unblock the guy and apologize... spare of the moment thing...             well... if i can't... i know what it feels like:            not being on the receiving end... so... that's one plus from all of this. p.s. that sort of direct messaging language, aged... 40?              how can i talk to someone who's older than me, on that level... (looks up his profile page)... huh?              so i didn't block him? *Dennis Willis's profile is not visible because they have blocked you.* and i still have the block option handy... mind you... i didn't wake up today recollecting some pretty    trippy ********
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58
So you pulled again. In Essex, in London, in Leeds, in Weymouth... The list goes on. Why do you always tell me? I'm not jealous. You're just ******* them. But that photo with your arm around her. You ****** her too, I'm sure. Complimentary of toga night you're pretty much semi-naked. It was the two lipstick marks on your bicep that got me. Not one, but two! On your perfectly firm, right bicep. The one I gladly tied a blue ribbon around, whilst my face was turning as pink as my Girl Power bandanna. I hope you'll change back to the changed man you said you would be, after the Fresher's fortnight is done. If not, as opposed to ******** me emotionally,just **** me too. It'll never be enough, but it's better than your smug texts! x
0
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
Casanova
.as i once explained the concept of a seasonal diet to a pair of english pensioners, citing the Essex strawberry harvest, counter the Spanish winter imports... certain graveyards, in winter, can unnecessarily compete with museums, stressed as focal points during summer. who is here, to, expect... comfortable? i sacrifice the aspect of museum, in order, to find a second tier of peace... within the confines of cemeteries' exfoliation of statues...     weathered, slightly hidden...   in guise, of half living, half dead... yet all the more: ever watchful, that persistent...       prosecutor stature... with death... the sole "ambiguity" of a...     jury;          a jury... with a persona non grata?! mon deus!               but one answer: je suis mort! since? it is really hard.. to re-appreciate revisiting museums at this point... whatever the ancient in modern terms focus for the pre-Byzantine marble...       the open air extravaganza of statues in a Slavic cemetery?   weathered, chiseled by a shyness? teased out of existence?                  primordial in a focus of being haunted?!   well... museums have nothing to offer, given this fleshed out excavation.
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Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:32 PM UTC
ditto motto gratis
and now you're singing karaoke... so ha ha and Kyoto. and this is the part where i tell you i love you? it sounds like it's the part where i **** your dog off and laugh; or maybe that's the part where i say i'm scooch-peppery-ish! tangy! mm hmm! solid gold worth's an advert! aha, Elvis just rolled up his sleeves! while Shoon can-can the worthy, sire nigh nigh the knighted made speeches at a royal funeral that made 20 kings abdicate, we all thought of Monaco and Senna... lipstick Helsinki... crisscross Albania and: Waterloo... when Napoleon sniffed glue... oh Waterloo! i too built Stockholm in a day, based on the pop culture of Europe casually so. but indeed Sean, the flowery basin of all that's Essex, Sussex and Kent, i.e. Scottish, show... i'm ashoored it'sh Shcandinavian cartoon or at least halfwit Belgian with the moustache, dumb-flicked Hercules Poirot... authored by a nagging Agatha Christensen.
0
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 11:34 PM UTC
western conquest of communism
only because northern ireland was originally liverpool. yeah... i’m an anglo-slav, he’s an afro-saxon and that guy is a fairy with clover petals for wings - watch him fluster and flatter cheeks turning green into pink! well, nothing really educational in essex, just a barge of the usual escapees from middle class opinions, esp. escaping opinions as if onion tears of the integrating migrants who flawed the first rule: your father purposively forgot your mother’s tongue (but your mother kept it for the earth and her hope for you to till it), you’re ******** with a body and no soul: the irish fairy countered interrupting me - i kept my gaelic in speaking english drunk, **** you! that’s a trinity that i see. and i saw it, spoken across new england and washington state (hey, price up the ***** liquor of thieving a sympathy, i wasn’t going to be nice writing poetry, still me, the remnant of the masculine root liking rugby and the diminishing psychologies of the players of the losing team - watch them applaud loss rather than sing victory prior without listening to a wwe fake warrior entry music they boggled up with dr. dre’s venture into # therearenomotivationalspeakersinthenationalanthem). i kept my masculinity watchings the sports just so i could write poetry and not womanise - now the escorts and arias i hear you claim? no... finding nemo, frozen, brave, no arias and escorts, just enough morals for enough of horn inches and cartoon coloured shoes.
0
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 7:20 PM UTC
scenes in a pub
only because northern ireland was originally liverpool. yeah... i’m an anglo-slav, he’s an afro-saxon and that guy is a fairy with clover petals for wings - watch him fluster and flatter cheeks turning green into pink! well, nothing really educational in essex, just a barge of the usual escapees from middle class opinions, esp. escaping opinions as if onion tears of the integrating migrants who flawed the first rule: your father purposively forgot your mother’s tongue (but your mother kept it for the earth and her hope for you to till it), you’re ******** with a body and no soul: the irish fairy countered interrupting me - i kept my gaelic in speaking english drunk, **** you! that’s a trinity that i see. and i saw it, spoken across new england and washington state (hey, price up the ***** liquor of thieving a sympathy, i wasn’t going to be nice writing poetry, still me, the remnant of the masculine root liking rugby and the diminishing psychologies of the players of the losing team - watch them applaud loss rather than sing victory prior without listening to a wwe fake warrior entry music they boggled up with dr. dre’s venture into # therearenomotivationalspeakersinthenationalanthem). i kept my masculinity watchings the sports just so i could write poetry and not womanise - now the escorts and arias i hear you claim? no... finding nemo, frozen, brave, no arias and escorts, just enough morals for enough of horn inches and cartoon coloured shoes.
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31
Something forgotten for twenty years: though my fathers and mothers came from Cordova and Vitepsk and Caernarvon, and though I am a citizen of the United States and less a stranger here than anywhere else, perhaps, I am Essex-born: Cranbrook Wash called me into its dark tunnel, the little streams of Valentines heard my resolves, Roding held my head above water when I thought it was drowning me; in Hainault only a haze of thin trees stood between the red doubledecker buses and the boar-hunt, the spirit of merciful Phillipa glimmered there. Pergo Park knew me, and Clavering, and Havering-atte-Bower, Stanford Rivers lost me in osier beds, Stapleford Abbots sent me safe home on the dark road after Simeon-quiet evensong, Wanstead drew me over and over into its basic poetry, in its serpentine lake I saw bass-viols among the golden dead leaves, through its trees the ghost of a great house. In Ilford High Road I saw the multitudes passing pale under the light of flaring sundown, seven kings in somber starry robes gathered at Seven Kings the place of law where my birth and marriage are recorded and the death of my father. Woodford Wells where an old house was called The Naked Beauty (a white statue forlorn in its garden) saw the meeting and parting of two sisters, (forgotten? and further away the hill before Thaxted? where peace befell us? not once but many times?). All the Ivans dreaming of their villages all the Marias dreaming of their walled cities, picking up fragments of New World slowly, not knowing how to put them together nor how to join image with image, now I know how it was with you, an old map made long before I was born shows ancient rights of way where I walked when I was ten burning with desire for the world's great splendors, a child who traced voyages indelibly all over the atlas , who now in a far country remembers the first river, the first field, bricks and lumber dumped in it ready for building, that new smell, and remembers the walls of the garden, the first light.
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1.5k
A Map Of The Western Part Of The County Of Essex In England
Something forgotten for twenty years: though my fathers and mothers came from Cordova and Vitepsk and Caernarvon, and though I am a citizen of the United States and less a stranger here than anywhere else, perhaps, I am Essex-born: Cranbrook Wash called me into its dark tunnel, the little streams of Valentines heard my resolves, Roding held my head above water when I thought it was drowning me; in Hainault only a haze of thin trees stood between the red doubledecker buses and the boar-hunt, the spirit of merciful Phillipa glimmered there. Pergo Park knew me, and Clavering, and Havering-atte-Bower, Stanford Rivers lost me in osier beds, Stapleford Abbots sent me safe home on the dark road after Simeon-quiet evensong, Wanstead drew me over and over into its basic poetry, in its serpentine lake I saw bass-viols among the golden dead leaves, through its trees the ghost of a great house. In Ilford High Road I saw the multitudes passing pale under the light of flaring sundown, seven kings in somber starry robes gathered at Seven Kings the place of law where my birth and marriage are recorded and the death of my father. Woodford Wells where an old house was called The Naked Beauty (a white statue forlorn in its garden) saw the meeting and parting of two sisters, (forgotten? and further away the hill before Thaxted? where peace befell us? not once but many times?). All the Ivans dreaming of their villages all the Marias dreaming of their walled cities, picking up fragments of New World slowly, not knowing how to put them together nor how to join image with image, now I know how it was with you, an old map made long before I was born shows ancient rights of way where I walked when I was ten burning with desire for the world's great splendors, a child who traced voyages indelibly all over the atlas , who now in a far country remembers the first river, the first field, bricks and lumber dumped in it ready for building, that new smell, and remembers the walls of the garden, the first light.
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43
i loath that educational poetry that's intended to address you with scold or searching for a higher tier of morality, there are poems like that out there (rudyard kipling e.g.), with educational / instructional overtones in the way they're written, i always wonder though: did the poet remember the idea of solipsism and writing the poem as if to himself, a note to self, rather than for others to peer into the poem and learn something? that's the thing though, i'm a child of immigrants... actually an immigrant myself... no, wait, let's do what the higher tiers of society call it: i'm an expatriate, a child of expatriates - and they still talk with an accent, me? self-taught english from the age of 8, retained my mother tongue nonetheless, speak none of the two tongues with an accent, unless i want to, a friend of mine introduced me to a greek cypriot, lovingly ridiculed me as posh... and let me tell you, sounding posh in essex is hard to do, i admit it would be harder in scotland or east london, but essex is still a hefty mountain to climb - it's like that crass joke i heard in the edinburgh comedy club i used to haunt once a week... a guy stands up and with a mighty grin announced himself with over-stressed elocution: 'you might recognise my accent (i.e. denoting where he came from, a great conversation starter on these islands)... it's educated', and that really crushed the hazelnut in his **** - well if it was a woman telling the same joke, it would be a crushed hazelnut between the legs - missionaries in positions of ardent prayer and christmas wrapping paper - because a woman's strength in the leg department is like the lips of oysters, or any over shellfish for that matter - insects of the deep blue (exoskeleton).
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Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC
chug chug chimp chuckles / lips of oysters
i loath that educational poetry that's intended to address you with scold or searching for a higher tier of morality, there are poems like that out there (rudyard kipling e.g.), with educational / instructional overtones in the way they're written, i always wonder though: did the poet remember the idea of solipsism and writing the poem as if to himself, a note to self, rather than for others to peer into the poem and learn something? that's the thing though, i'm a child of immigrants... actually an immigrant myself... no, wait, let's do what the higher tiers of society call it: i'm an expatriate, a child of expatriates - and they still talk with an accent, me? self-taught english from the age of 8, retained my mother tongue nonetheless, speak none of the two tongues with an accent, unless i want to, a friend of mine introduced me to a greek cypriot, lovingly ridiculed me as posh... and let me tell you, sounding posh in essex is hard to do, i admit it would be harder in scotland or east london, but essex is still a hefty mountain to climb - it's like that crass joke i heard in the edinburgh comedy club i used to haunt once a week... a guy stands up and with a mighty grin announced himself with over-stressed elocution: 'you might recognise my accent (i.e. denoting where he came from, a great conversation starter on these islands)... it's educated', and that really crushed the hazelnut in his **** - well if it was a woman telling the same joke, it would be a crushed hazelnut between the legs - missionaries in positions of ardent prayer and christmas wrapping paper - because a woman's strength in the leg department is like the lips of oysters, or any over shellfish for that matter - insects of the deep blue (exoskeleton).
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41
i'll let you on a little secret... spaniards are gigolos to the slavs... cheap-shit, chinese rolex beauties, which is why the english are prone to vacate there: oiling up to get a quicker suntan than an essex lass turning orange-brown in the space of a weekend's session at a u.v. parlour. westerners define western slav as cleaner material, if not simply the plumbers and  electricians, got a blocked toilet? get a pole to unblock it. but you see... the thing is... the slavs see the spaniards as euro-trash... cheap-shit-cancerous-suntan... spaniards are cheap **** to the slavs... western european nations (excluding the germans) invokes a sense of self-worth that, like a tapeworm feeds of the slavs migrating without colonising... when the western powers migrated and colonised, never really preparing themselves for jihadis, st. john the decapitating tyrant  spoke to st. george's dragon with a cockney accent: oi bruv bruv up up mate! score us an eight's worth of 20 quid! so while the high tier of europe speaking deutsche anglican rather than deutsche swiss keep time and penny flip: carnal heterosexual or just plain **** the slavs mock the same tier with a choice of holiday resorts exploited... next to the fake suntan... because spaniards are like albanians for the slavs... oiled up cheap-shit material for even cheaper literature of the handsome, blue eyed, dark haired (well oiled) stranger... selling pomegranates... that a fair maiden might succumb to... selling her virginity the fiftieth time.
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Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
the fiftieth time
i'll let you on a little secret... spaniards are gigolos to the slavs... cheap-shit, chinese rolex beauties, which is why the english are prone to vacate there: oiling up to get a quicker suntan than an essex lass turning orange-brown in the space of a weekend's session at a u.v. parlour. westerners define western slav as cleaner material, if not simply the plumbers and  electricians, got a blocked toilet? get a pole to unblock it. but you see... the thing is... the slavs see the spaniards as euro-trash... cheap-shit-cancerous-suntan... spaniards are cheap **** to the slavs... western european nations (excluding the germans) invokes a sense of self-worth that, like a tapeworm feeds of the slavs migrating without colonising... when the western powers migrated and colonised, never really preparing themselves for jihadis, st. john the decapitating tyrant  spoke to st. george's dragon with a cockney accent: oi bruv bruv up up mate! score us an eight's worth of 20 quid! so while the high tier of europe speaking deutsche anglican rather than deutsche swiss keep time and penny flip: carnal heterosexual or just plain **** the slavs mock the same tier with a choice of holiday resorts exploited... next to the fake suntan... because spaniards are like albanians for the slavs... oiled up cheap-shit material for even cheaper literature of the handsome, blue eyed, dark haired (well oiled) stranger... selling pomegranates... that a fair maiden might succumb to... selling her virginity the fiftieth time.
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28
King James demands a Scottish play and believes in witches three Look close and see they are the fates that set our destiny I can't write about his mother or the ****** of her clerk One whisper about Darnley and we'll all be out of work. After that unhappy business about Essex and the Queen. I won't risk another incident no abdication scene. Keep the text, in time to come it will prove rare like gold I kept it shorter than King Lear your attention span to hold.
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Dec 18, 2011
Dec 18, 2011 at 3:07 PM UTC
Shakespeare replies to Cuthbert Bundy
1321 Elizabeth told Essex That she could not forgive The clemency of Deity However—might survive— That secondary succor We trust that she partook When suing—like her Essex For a reprieving Look—
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972
Elizabeth told Essex
being insulted by someone of a trans-                      status quo classification                          will never be enough to mind, had i the pairing to a higher tier of socialite endeavour - to be debased with a fragrance of a misuse of language on a level of comprehension will always place me steadied with placards of 'hello, my name is Samauel' well hello Samuel.. boiled herrings pan-fried readied for a star wars sequel akin to rocky 7, boxing-catchup K.O. no.31 - an here the champ gives way to a chimpanzees' worth of gurgled laughter - readied speed at a Bronson's uppercut - and we're too the readied ones annex to the molars that might be considered the chewing apparatus should we not have juiced with bites as if a load's worth of hammering was taken place: chewing as if hammering, imagine the cranium gush extract - it would be like porridge if reverse due to diarrhoea! flaky shit-bits and anaconda's suntan to measure up to; well, there was the leather chair to mind in terms of approving leisure activity as coercing a carefree fortitude of futuristic investment - mind you the loss of the Celtic vocabulary, I.R.A. and the instigation of Anglo-Saxon vocabulary to suppress the populace of renegade Catholics or the twin Belfast known as Glasgow - indeed Edinburgh remained as much conservative as St. Andrew's would allow, an extension of England, even with parliament it was a Basildon of northern Essex... scots among the multitude of accents usurped from pole-dancing with kilts! Tartan su doku!
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Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
the misuse of language among the property mafia idiots
being insulted by someone of a trans-                      status quo classification                          will never be enough to mind, had i the pairing to a higher tier of socialite endeavour - to be debased with a fragrance of a misuse of language on a level of comprehension will always place me steadied with placards of 'hello, my name is Samauel' well hello Samuel.. boiled herrings pan-fried readied for a star wars sequel akin to rocky 7, boxing-catchup K.O. no.31 - an here the champ gives way to a chimpanzees' worth of gurgled laughter - readied speed at a Bronson's uppercut - and we're too the readied ones annex to the molars that might be considered the chewing apparatus should we not have juiced with bites as if a load's worth of hammering was taken place: chewing as if hammering, imagine the cranium gush extract - it would be like porridge if reverse due to diarrhoea! flaky shit-bits and anaconda's suntan to measure up to; well, there was the leather chair to mind in terms of approving leisure activity as coercing a carefree fortitude of futuristic investment - mind you the loss of the Celtic vocabulary, I.R.A. and the instigation of Anglo-Saxon vocabulary to suppress the populace of renegade Catholics or the twin Belfast known as Glasgow - indeed Edinburgh remained as much conservative as St. Andrew's would allow, an extension of England, even with parliament it was a Basildon of northern Essex... scots among the multitude of accents usurped from pole-dancing with kilts! Tartan su doku!
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41
poetry was hushed or ushered out from being compared with philosophy, well... bye bye systematisation leave you to it... it's hardly an art, given it only uses two extremes that can't be defined as colour, but more or less x-ray vision... i know... so much colour and so much perfumery surrounding me that i wish to not replicate... hence the stance... important dates like the battle of Hastings (1066), or the great fire of London (1666) - such importance goes hand in hand with being up-to-date for a quiz show, alt. to knowledge? quiz or trivia. poetry is that: it's the sole mediator of history and journalism, entry of Darwin on a 10 quid banknote, poetry has to marry someone else, it can't be stuck in a rut with pompous philosophy, and it's too crude to munch off a sharpened flint-stone (Flintstones? Hanna-Barbera?! **** off) of Pythagoras' cubism - cubism, you sure? only cubes herrscht? well hardly, Marilyn Manson is still an introvert anomaly in Essex amongst the zombies... as i heard in a HMV, one of the last strongholds of the mutilated high-street and the death of the postman profession... they're going, those postmen, you hear? among the carrier pigeons shot down dead! unlike Sartre i'm making a claim: evolution precedes adaptability... essence indeed first and existence last... and with regards to poetry, that great mediator of journalism and history... ten sixty six mattered as much as today's article headlined: GAMBLING ADDICT 'DIED OF SHAME'... hmm? it does... you can just immediately pick out the correlation for a national egoism. if it weren't for skin-heads the metal rock enthusiasts would have been called meat-heads for head-banging too much: smooch smooch (x x in slang).
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Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
poetry, journalism, history
poetry was hushed or ushered out from being compared with philosophy, well... bye bye systematisation leave you to it... it's hardly an art, given it only uses two extremes that can't be defined as colour, but more or less x-ray vision... i know... so much colour and so much perfumery surrounding me that i wish to not replicate... hence the stance... important dates like the battle of Hastings (1066), or the great fire of London (1666) - such importance goes hand in hand with being up-to-date for a quiz show, alt. to knowledge? quiz or trivia. poetry is that: it's the sole mediator of history and journalism, entry of Darwin on a 10 quid banknote, poetry has to marry someone else, it can't be stuck in a rut with pompous philosophy, and it's too crude to munch off a sharpened flint-stone (Flintstones? Hanna-Barbera?! **** off) of Pythagoras' cubism - cubism, you sure? only cubes herrscht? well hardly, Marilyn Manson is still an introvert anomaly in Essex amongst the zombies... as i heard in a HMV, one of the last strongholds of the mutilated high-street and the death of the postman profession... they're going, those postmen, you hear? among the carrier pigeons shot down dead! unlike Sartre i'm making a claim: evolution precedes adaptability... essence indeed first and existence last... and with regards to poetry, that great mediator of journalism and history... ten sixty six mattered as much as today's article headlined: GAMBLING ADDICT 'DIED OF SHAME'... hmm? it does... you can just immediately pick out the correlation for a national egoism. if it weren't for skin-heads the metal rock enthusiasts would have been called meat-heads for head-banging too much: smooch smooch (x x in slang).
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44
it begins with saint piran's flag... well, let's just say that, there ought to be two "offending" but classicly marxist, separatists governing bodies in, what's know as geo-politics... upper-class retards think that the people occupying the home county known as essex are, complete idiots... well... hello my "fellow" londoner! nibble on some rat-shit, get a pigeon **** ******* on your top-hat? **** **** off! the northerners can't claim, that i'm a southern fairy... in europe there the north / south and the east / west divide... the southerners seem to prosper, as do easteners... and likewise... essex, and the whole "point" of the south-east... no... cornwall wan't to be indepedent, like the basques in spain... and that flag... may i make a suggestion to counter the cornwallians? revert, allow essex to have a teutonic inspired flag in reverse to yours... i.e. a black crux on a maiden's "body". living in essex, i've started to become, irritated by this county becoming a joke fior the whole nation... like a bunch of indians saying goa in portuguese... sure, i know: northern monkeys... wild antics and bits and bobs... essex has produced snooker champions... the other sort of chess-players... the geometricians... and then the serving geographic is simply quote as: sun-tan orange "quirky" accent; and all, from a megapolis that exterminates rats, but feeds urban pigeons. in essex? we have woodland pigeons, and they look like the very-most pristine theologians, if not priests... and they're fat... blooming... and they have the equivalent of a dog collar... and sure as **** they won't have one their legs, reduced to a stump with all the claws removed... like an urban pigeon might, strutting... well... "strutting"... merely limping.
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May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 11:19 AM UTC
essex imitating cornwall
it begins with saint piran's flag... well, let's just say that, there ought to be two "offending" but classicly marxist, separatists governing bodies in, what's know as geo-politics... upper-class retards think that the people occupying the home county known as essex are, complete idiots... well... hello my "fellow" londoner! nibble on some rat-shit, get a pigeon **** ******* on your top-hat? **** **** off! the northerners can't claim, that i'm a southern fairy... in europe there the north / south and the east / west divide... the southerners seem to prosper, as do easteners... and likewise... essex, and the whole "point" of the south-east... no... cornwall wan't to be indepedent, like the basques in spain... and that flag... may i make a suggestion to counter the cornwallians? revert, allow essex to have a teutonic inspired flag in reverse to yours... i.e. a black crux on a maiden's "body". living in essex, i've started to become, irritated by this county becoming a joke fior the whole nation... like a bunch of indians saying goa in portuguese... sure, i know: northern monkeys... wild antics and bits and bobs... essex has produced snooker champions... the other sort of chess-players... the geometricians... and then the serving geographic is simply quote as: sun-tan orange "quirky" accent; and all, from a megapolis that exterminates rats, but feeds urban pigeons. in essex? we have woodland pigeons, and they look like the very-most pristine theologians, if not priests... and they're fat... blooming... and they have the equivalent of a dog collar... and sure as **** they won't have one their legs, reduced to a stump with all the claws removed... like an urban pigeon might, strutting... well... "strutting"... merely limping.
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43
no talk i was with my mate going to work when i saw the couple on the bus they were young and in their 20s he had mousey hair and she was blond they were taking time out and travelling in the philippines she was finishing her teacher training and he was a soldier between deployments while i was commuting to work in the city to my bpo job we talked in my head not in the real world they were innocent and untouched she wasn't abused by her students he hadn't seen his mates blown up all that was to come should i of warned them? be vigilant and strong but no no no they had to learn for themselves the london couple on the makati bus they reminded me of my old mates when i lived in essex and london years ago... ...3 were soldiers where are they now?
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Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 11:11 AM UTC
no talk
I left for a few minuta detail wrote poetry all the way to essex, my belle the enigma landing and lost all of the words that proved i was commiting treason. and again I left for a minute had no ideas what to write i am the worlds first poet.  Like great with a lower case G.   Any word, 7 or more languages forward or backward. prodigy, prosody, prodisy or is it odeseyus he fell down flat on his back wanting to know who c. reeves tucked in before the C4 explosion.   and I Cobak can tell you that WE are here, in the Star Wars book bith bounty hunting earthworms for fish hooks. i write all day seas less lee.   as praetorian Helmet.   wehttam I love our web page.  Just keep writing.  We will never read all of the poets.
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May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 2:18 PM UTC
A Here Oh
My grandparents once owned the Lincoln Inn, in a junction called Essex, A big old Vermont village house, that's as much as I can remember, but on a shelf in my house next to where the morning sun glints in are a few cranberry tumblers from that hotel that catch the morning light and burst out in a flash of red.
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Jan 9, 2011
Jan 9, 2011 at 5:32 PM UTC
Flash of red
that's the words i hear when i hear European films, esp. in French, Quarus! Dvór! Baganiet Buda! the cat just escaped into the night while i was refilling my glass... i end up feeling so outlandish, so Essex, so ******* caveman, so Darwinism making me feel it only writes English history... so ******* sorry... so ******* whatever... living in England for the past 20 odd years makes me miss continents, it even doesn't make me Icelandic... it just makes me ******* sad... it kinda makes me want to rap... establish the special relationship with America... well... n'ah, forget the biblical McKenzie... sleepers sprout from nowhere, my father played bridge and water-polo... i was caught catching pokemon...                  grew a beard and grew a satchel of fat... **** yeah mickey mouse!                  charcoal cha-cha smear and jokinie in French i want to sink this godforsaken place; every, single, time, i, hear, of America, in, England, i imagine rednecks equivalents in Dorset, never bothered to learn a line of parlez-vous... it eats at me... the laziness... the xenophobic cocksure libido... it ******* chokes me... i just want them to learn French, but they won't... they're sailing all the way toward Mars! i hope they bring back a bacterial meteor back to excavate an extinction... no, next week's Sunday isn't good either, to hold a receptive care for a lunch... ****** die; i'm starting to feel English claustrophobia... which means everyone has to speak English... **** me it feels like itchy honey smears up the **** ugh.
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Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
Quarus! Dvór! Baganiet Buda!
that's the words i hear when i hear European films, esp. in French, Quarus! Dvór! Baganiet Buda! the cat just escaped into the night while i was refilling my glass... i end up feeling so outlandish, so Essex, so ******* caveman, so Darwinism making me feel it only writes English history... so ******* sorry... so ******* whatever... living in England for the past 20 odd years makes me miss continents, it even doesn't make me Icelandic... it just makes me ******* sad... it kinda makes me want to rap... establish the special relationship with America... well... n'ah, forget the biblical McKenzie... sleepers sprout from nowhere, my father played bridge and water-polo... i was caught catching pokemon...                  grew a beard and grew a satchel of fat... **** yeah mickey mouse!                  charcoal cha-cha smear and jokinie in French i want to sink this godforsaken place; every, single, time, i, hear, of America, in, England, i imagine rednecks equivalents in Dorset, never bothered to learn a line of parlez-vous... it eats at me... the laziness... the xenophobic cocksure libido... it ******* chokes me... i just want them to learn French, but they won't... they're sailing all the way toward Mars! i hope they bring back a bacterial meteor back to excavate an extinction... no, next week's Sunday isn't good either, to hold a receptive care for a lunch... ****** die; i'm starting to feel English claustrophobia... which means everyone has to speak English... **** me it feels like itchy honey smears up the **** ugh.
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38