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Andrew Rueter Nov 2017
I rush for love against time
And bleed blood by design
My heart floods for my crimes
When my mud attracts flies

I felt a rush
Through the brush
Of your skin so lush
I turned to mush

My heart began to gush
When I felt your rush
It became too much
And I exploded prematurely
Though it's normal you assured me
Could it be that you had cured me?

We rushed through our adrenaline courtship
While I rushed through your adorable hips
I was ****** in by your surge
Until your love was purged
You grew bored of my rush hour
So you exerted your push power
And I became a fastidious learner
That you were an insidious burner
After I became the sole recipient
Of your attitude that's flippant

The pain is a rush
This pain when you flush
Disdain when you crush
Me to pieces
Between your creases
When you keep talking feces
It's something that never eases
When your rush turns to breezes

You're a rush in my heart
Like the rush when I ****
It's a relief that you're gone
But something seriously stinks
It's a relief you were wrong
Yet I continue to sink
Val Ajdari Nov 2013
Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native poet by poetic luminosity.
A verse in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the poet does not care.
So, take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the poet seeks to hear,
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
This inquisitive writer infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin; abysmal.
Rejecting fables history’s assassins inked true,
The writer seeks fair chroniclers, but wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here.
Land said "not to exist," but its roots still reappear;
Fabricated history most poets cannot fathom,
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
Calling curious minds to ponder this heck of a theory,
First, consider the writer's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent,
Not man-written "guidance" begging cents to repent.
Since Illyria’s rebel ship sailed onto history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Around Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails.
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her Godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
Her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem the native conspirator of ultimate treason.
So,  while the State buries the poet's piercing wits,
The treasonous dog barks, upon foreign command he *****.
The dog's filthy betrayal, painted by his foreign master,
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species,
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces.
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease,
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves (those below made to inspire)
The ***** dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This ****** work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
As today’s political pawns (in corruption they engage),
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage.
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play,
Our minds confined to idiocy as the socialist's prey.
So,  a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a "finger."
Alan Maguire Feb 2013
Stark naked frame standing in her own feces but does it matter ?, I mean, is she important ? the old woman with the thin white hair that grows down to her ***

She's gnawing on a thought, gnawing on raw knuckles
knuckles bleed recieveing no care, just staring, just staring

She moves like the undead toward the female nurse, moving with time as though it mattered

she recieves a cigarette, she recieves a trickling smile though, the cigarette will surely burn longer than she will
Andrew Rueter Oct 2017
I experience solitude
Because I act rude
The effect is compounding
The effect is dumbfounding
I'm stuck in a trend
That will never end
My rudeness they return
So my bridges I burn
My life takes a turn
For connection I yearn
All I feel are the spurs

I live a life sheltered
To avoid being peltered
By the wailing welter
My walls block hate
Which is great
But I also miss love
That travels above

My feet are growing weary from the emptiness I stand
And I can count all of my friends on half of my hand
The half with no fingers
That's a real stinger
Not hearing the ringer
I become a feces flinger
Instead of a beautiful singer
The silence is deafening
My mentality it's threatening
With pain that's resounding
Of the drain I'm rounding
And the lingering loneliness
When I am my only guest
My mind is put to the test
By a solitude that infests
.the English pronounce the Cornish town's name as: nookie... the **** is it, a Green Day album name, or a Limp Bizkit song? perhaps i'm too French in my pronunciation... quail... eggs... quay... qua-a... if i were Welsh i'd write you the name like so... newyddquaa... but no... but no, has to be nookie... like buggering a ******* chimp... quail eggs... see how language becomes mutated? nothing is apparently, certainly, stable... always the permutation of a flux... i must have ingested a little of the French concept of: je ne sais quoi when learning English... come one... nouveaucarrière: new quarry... nouveauquai... nookie?! seriously?! Q, Q... Quail eggs... quay... new... quay... maybe the usage of hyphenating words into compounds needs to be revised in the english sprechen... ******* mutation... nookie... ****** ******, + a ******* wookie, walking carpet ride worth the name Chew-a-Buck-back-up! i'd settle for: new-key... some sort of variant of a maritime honing device for locating ships sending distress signals during storms... but... no... but hey... it's authentically Welsh territory... Cornwall is, after all... a pre modern extension of Wales... nookie this: shotgun my *** while is spew rhetoric concerning the health benefits of applying feces instead of ****** cream for the benefits of: no one.

over 20 years spent living on these isles,
and i never made the connection -
Welsh nationalism could only work
if you included Cornwall -
   given that Cornish is very much:
a southern dialect of Çymru -

    i guess... i'm not sure...
    let's put it to the etymological filter...
beginning with primary words:

black
           du   (Cornish)
      du   (Çymru)

    red
       rudh (Cornish)
      coch (Çymru)

    white
          gwydn (Cornish)
gwyn (Çymru)
      
        i guess that's how etymology works,
a shared origins story...
etymology is best
  examined with primary words,
basic nouns / adjectives...

that was the adjective test...
now for the noun test:

sun
          howl (Cornish)
  haul (Çymru)
      
  moon
   loor (Cornish)
    lloer (Çymru)...

    sky
               ebron (Cornish)
   awyr (Çymru) -
   ah...
      now we see what becomes from
etymological deviation...
the sky has to have more
inherent connotations
of a religiosity as the resting place
of sort...

i'm sure that sea, earth, water,
and fire, are very much akin
or mountain...
but i could be wrong...

sea
    mor (Cornish)
  môr (Çymru)
        
earth
    dor (Cornish)
   ddaear (Çymru)

   water
         dowr (Cornish)
      *dŵr
(Çymru)

fire
          tan (Cornish)
    tân (Çymru)

mountain
   menedh (Cornish)
         mynydd (Çymru) -

ah... well then...
that explains the separatist movement
of Cornwall akin
to the Spanish Basque or
the Catalonia...

  white cross on a black flag...
they're ******* Welsh down
in Cornwall!
   i was eating a Welsh pasty
all along!
           oh... i see...
  
  that's why they're separatists
down there...
but there's one word that's
crucial in all of this,
given the emblem is
on the Welsh flag...

  dragon...
**** me!
       there's an etymological source
for the word in English...
and, it comes from?
Cornish!

   draig (Çymru)
  dragon... in ******* Cornish!
**** me...

what's... snake?
   serpont (Cornish)
    neidr (Çymru)...

   there are similarities though...
blatant ones...
which explains the separatist
sentiment of the Cornish people...
they are like
the Hindu corp
of the Urdu speaking Welsh...
high Welsh and low Welsh...

nice to know...
thank god i didn't make the brash
etymological decision to
find the long lost cousins
of a shared source
akin to "abstract" words,
like...

        gallos-power-gallu...

****!

          g­od?
       DUW | WUD

well... god is a universal word,
and it matches...
  duw is god in Cornish,
and in Çymru...
   as it is also Allah on Malta...
funny as the fact that Malta
and it's Knights Hospitaller
cross of St. John of
                                 1567.

20 ******* years on these isles -
and only now i realize
why the Cornish are separatists...
they're Welsh...
   in disguise,
under the guise of a tourist
hot spot that's "nookie":
                       i.e. Newquay...

come to think of it...
    even though i'm living in England...
i interacted more with
the Welsh, the Irish and the Scots...
than i have with the English...
    i'm starting to think that...
if i don't make my way to
Yorkshire...
  or Newcastle...
then i lived in a country...
where the supposed countrymen
of said name... never existed!
ha!

well, in english you'd never really know
that Cornwall was once part of Wales,
given that Wales, isn't in the name
Cornwall: but that's in English...

in Polonaise?
        well... Wales / Walia (that double-u
  or rather, the double-v,
   since... erm: ωμέγα?)
         ergo?
      Cornwall / Kornwalia...
      probably the most beautiful part of
England you can begin to imagine...

aside...
   the current debate over "the pond" in
h'america... tuition fees, student debt...
as much as the h'americans love to gloat
and boast this that and the other...

i'm looking at myself...
    i went to university, studied chemistry,
and history...
   3rd year? 12 hours per week in
the laboratories...
three tiers of chemistry:
a.  physical - i hated physical chemistry,
it's so un-chemical...
   too much physics / mathematical
*******, so obviously i was weak at it...
b. inorganic chemistry...
    something that mingles with
   geology / metallurgy...
   eh... so so... it was o.k. and finally
c. organic chemistry...
   my strongest route, my faustian dream...
and so much like cooking,
so much so that... well: heston blumenthal...
maybe that's why i love cooking
so much, since it reminds me of
organic chemistry...
   anyways, i digress...
      back when i studied...
  and labour was in power with their:
education, education, education mantra?
that's what was still great
                  about britain...
the last stand as it were,
   ****, i still remember tha handing over
of hong kong...
    fee, per year? 1,250 quid...
                      that's it...
student loan, 3,000 quid per year...
   i actually did manage to live
             on the 3,000 with enough money
spare to do weekend away trips to paris,
stockholm, barcelona etc. - and god:
how i loved to travel alone,
bumping into strangers in hostels...
and the best part?
    i don't have to repay my loan until
i earn over 15,000 quid per year...
and since i'm not earning that...
                  the loan will be annuled after
30 years...
   mind you... a really **** year to go
to university and become a british citizen...
since... in scotland... e.u. citizens didn't
pay tuition fees!
      hence the massive surge of the polans
circa 2005...
                                 so: america, **** yeah!

but on a night like this,
esp. in the evening prior to the night itself,
there's that surge in electricity in the air...
you're walking to the supermarket
and the most mediocre magic happens...
sonny rollins' blues in your ears
you pass a street lamp and it gets switched
on by the grid...

                   it's only special because
your're listening to jazz and when you listen
to jazz and promenade...
you might as well be as content as if
walking a yorkshire terrier...
    
   while on the way back, instead of your
usual beer... you buy yourself...
a rowntrees ice lolly...
    and you eat that... smirking, feeling
                                                 like a badass.

p.s. the best thing i received from
the university wasn't even the degree...
a chance to play squash, mountain climbing
(glen coe was a beau)...
         a t-shirt...
since, once i left: a self-teaching discipline.
Crinoline filaments
Rolling over and over
Mid-flight the ochre velvet ribbons sailed to the left
Instead of to the right
Two feet retreating
But with one shoe on

Memory returns
For a few seconds of
the calamity
At that private house in Paris
She’d tumbled down the central staircase
Sailing with legs overhead
until she stopped miraculously with her ***
at the shining leather toes of the footman.
He kept his head up.
She wore a beautiful dress.
Her hair was quite precise and she hoped that that would be a sufficient enough apology towards an empty silence.

But this isn’t that.
I shoved her.
And she went willingly. They all do.
We’re roughly a group of fifty-three.

Gathering in the last few years
Whispering over drinks
of tumors
And vascular difficulties
Of pills and appointments and forgetfulness
They never mentioned that
In those climate controlled rooms with
Blackboards covered in Latin and Trigonometry
Of the body’s failure.
Now there’s no longer any mention made of the kids
or whether or not that husband was worth the bother

Did we notice atop
The balance beam not a peep was mentioned
About the moment when you can no longer walk or stand?
That the brain asks please but the body will not comply?
How cool the marbled floor feels against your cheek while you lay for hours in your own feces?
One can rest comfortably knowing at long last that that wallpaper was the right choice.
Kept one really engaged while waiting and waiting for someone.
And that is just the beginning, right?

Perhaps some assumed that the end would come with a daily circle reviewing the contents of their chamber ***
Grimacing and worn
While they recline in white nightclothes
Something akin to what they saw on the BBC

Perhaps a startled disquiet at the rebuke of their intent and gamely stares from a premiere specialist in Switzerland
an expert in alternative therapies
for what someone dared call
terminal
Anyway, this is quicker.

So we’ve come together
As sisters
And when the time is right I get the call
We go onto the roof
There’s an elevator now because
Otherwise that wouldn’t work
And one by one
In small batches
They are dispatched
It doesn’t take as long as you would think
We are confident and have agency
We were taught that we could do anything
And they are right.

The ones with a lot of metal can be a bit tricky
They have balance issues
But are always chic and always polite
There was a time when we were forced to be together when we clearly did not want to.
We never thought as one.
Some families are better than others.
But everything is different now

One day it will be my turn and
I wonder who will deliver me?
And what shall I wear?
Will I try to see where I’m going or will I rest comfortably in my finale.

I adore the way the wind catches the cloth.
How the crystalline beads are removed around the neck and handed over
so as not to add to any distraction
Or delay
The pinky coral mouthed “Thank you” and
And the sweet eyes that once were bright and shining say their
Goodbyes
Rippling
twirling
looping
interweaving
cascading
Down.
Andrew Rueter Mar 2018
We speak the explicit language of damage
Whether it's through anguish or famine
It only takes a little while to examine
Until we learn the language well
And eventually become fluent
To create this worldwide hell
Where the warfare is incongruent

We speak this language for many reasons
We speak this language through every season
The dialect varies from country to country
But all that really matters is who's hunting
The end result is the same
For damage done before
We inflict retributive pain
To even the damage score

Damage lowers our health
Damage increases their wealth
Damage puts us on the shelf
Until we damage ourself

The damage is done
So we must run
But at some point we turn around
Planting our feet into the ground
Becoming the damage cause
Doing what we've learned
We attribute this to our flaws
Not caring who gets burned

There is a damage sandwich
Within our damaged land's width
We're caught between being imposed on
And becoming oppressors
You're either forced to keep your clothes on
Or become an undresser
Perceptions of greater and lesser
Further complicate the scenario
We receive them through our stereo
To look down on those of other barrios
All of that damage can be parried though
If we work as a team
Better yet a species
To live in a utopian dream
Instead of our feces
Michael Marchese Oct 2018
The underlings stare
In submissive awestruck
Subjugation in landmine-filled
Landfills, are stuck
In the trenches, the feces
The carcass-strewn muck
Where the vermin-spawn ****
As they're taught how to work
And to fend for themselves
Like the Fall of Dunkirk
As the imminent doomsday device overhead
Incapacitates them
As mere prey to a web
Of a global dominion
Ambition connection
Subconscious hive-mind
Buzzing out the objection
And phobia-spreading
Pandemic misanthropy
Greed in disguise
Subsidizing atrocity
Not for me,

I am
The justified treason
The reason the man-hunters
Close open season
The cease-fire peacekeeper
Proliferation
The water war's rising
Desertification
An MIA runaway
AWOL defector
Still haunting the tombs of detente
Like a specter
With what I assure
Mutually in the end
When I send go-aheads
On the ICBMs
And avenge the dependent expended
Caught in
This crossfire for-profit
Arms race it has been
Lawrence Hall Aug 2018
Kafka and his Giant Insect
                            Which Might Be a Cockroach
                                      But Maybe Not
                We Could go to Das Scloss and ask Mr. K

An insect woke up one morning and realized
He had been transformed into Gregor Samsa

From a life focused on eating hair and grease
Glue, soup, bread, paper, leather
Sewerage, butter, meat (fresh and decayed)
Makeup, cookies, sugar, toothbrush bristles
Cookies, pizza, flour, tacos, apple pie
Dead bodies, feces, and his own species

He now had to deal with the confusion
The sorrow of being Gregor Samsa
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Lost Jul 2019
I’m drowning in ****
Spewing from my own ***
I’m in a fountain of it
I’m the figurehead vomiting
Liquid feces

I’m not rude
I’m not crass
I’m telling the truth

And sometimes
Honesty ******* stinks
Especially when the reality is
That it’s your own ******* fault
Self-sabotage
Bleeding from the walls

I’m drowning in ****
Spewing from my own ***
How long?
How long until you catch
The stifling odor
The aroma of ****
Would you stick around
Would it be worth it?

Big ******* doubt
You’ll do a 180
And turn right the **** around
Running in the opposite direction
Because you found out
That I’m full
Of
****

Come
And
Sit
Next to me
I’m laying here
Festering
Soiled and soaked
Questioning
When somebody will come along
Without leaving
When my **** stinks
Too much
Sorry if the gross imagery is a little overkill lol. Just had to get this one out. Off all my meds right now and my mind is a messy place to be.
Tracey Nov 2019
Your love was cheap~

Like the prize in a ******* Jack box
highly anticipated but once opened
disappointment ensued.

Massive excuses and the blame game
are the only soul enhancers that enlighten
your facade which cause double vision.

Drifting over and over again into your abyss
left me exhausted for some time like you fed
off of my shine, oh bottom feeder.

Stand inside those many thoughts, many worlds,
lie, cheat and blame and I will be so clear of any
of the feces you flung my way.

Because darling…I’m not breathing for you anymore.
Devon Brock Aug 2019
I used to live downwind of the slaughterhouse,
the one below the high bluff where the state pen towers,
commanding the best view of the marsh lands
and the stink ponds making lime outta ****
for the crops not meant for human consumption;
by the dry grass parks with the broken backboards
and the netless hoops that never slow a ball down.

I used to live downwind of the rendering plant
where the bubbling lard becomes aerosol
and the air reeks of freezerburn bacon and feces,
below the high bluff where the trustees cut grass
in the clean air not meant for the locals
mixing with the immigrants and loser folk
who have knots in their shoelaces that
press against bone when chasing a loose ball.

This town never grew up. Doesn't need to.
There's plenty of ground for the taking.
Plenty of farmers selling out to the downtown club
who cobble the streets in past time fashion,
netting big gains from the professional set
lining the smooth roads annexed to the east.

I used to live downwind of the closing in stink
of renewal, where the cheap rentals and struggle
stores with the marked-up Walmart brands
lining the shelves - expired but still edible -
bide their short time compressed and diced
up like leftovers for dogs.

But this is America. I don't live there anymore.
I got myself a cush gig with a padded ladder
to the top. Did everything I needed to do
for that sure climb out into a cleaner air,
only to find myself bruise-faced and reeling
when the profits didn't match the dream
and the ladders were sold for scrap.
Graff1980 Mar 2019
I live in a world
of flowers falling on
the feces that
fertilizes our lawns.

A world where
the disgusting bares
the most beautiful fruit.

Where children bloom
in the battle wreckage
of the cement and metal
that spirals
out of control.

Where the abused
take the violence
and find a better use
for their anger, and blues.

Like seed pods pulled
from a crushed rose,
these little artists grow,
and show
a different side
of our shared
human life.
Graff1980 Jun 2019
This isn’t the greatest story ever told,
more like a garbage truck of bad luck,
with sad black moments sewn in
a swerving line threaded together
till the end of time
where we will find
the hive minds
dining on swollen swine
sipping blood red wine from the vine,
the one called the treasure of the golden sun,
the one for which we crawled and scrawled
useless scribbles of noisy dribble that dripped down
our sad clown faces, taking bits of chipped paint
and exposing our scarred flesh to the fearful crowed.

It is the way of the dead to lay in their bed
as the red wet stain spreads on wrinkled sheets,
as they excrete the remnants of feces,
dying to meet these
sick rotting expectations,
nature’s exploitation of our degenerating state of decay.

At the end of our life we donate this great feast of flesh
to the earth where we are laid to rest.
This is not some sort of sweet slumber
but how we count to the number
which equals nothing.

The unknown equation that some have guessed
while the fearful rest hang back depressed and obsessed
with buying into the very best excuses
to not do the math that help us see through
the illusion of immortality.

A shadow paints the moon,
a minor fleck falls from the lens of the telescope
to let us know the true scope.
I get by, but others fail to cope
with all that the madness of truth implies.

We will all die, and all the flowery words
cannot cover the stench of **** stained drawers
of unopened doors that lead to an infinite world
of what ifs.

The cosmos never forgets
because it never knew one inch of us
and gave the same measurement
of caring intent about our meaningless existence.
Two of the greatest emcees equals one of me
So turn off ya tv and envision prophecy
Mics i clutch with a smooth j dilla touch clutch
Victory slashin' like Nike hypes me call me Mikey
Swarm the storm into a charm out goes harm
She feeling good in the neighborhood
torch the blackwood in the back of the woods
Bon fire souls desire crackling woods
Dry bake see the fire flakes drift into the lakes
My styles similiar to Brooks Christopher
Cant use the name of biggie if ya jiggy blunts spiffy
Packed all around me like a forest scenery
Light back stay black keep the fist on the hat
I aint pro black but I'm for my blacks reverse that
They'll say it means the same thing naw
This aint a diamond or gem that blings sings
Only to the open ears silent the deaf spears
scared to let they mind's glow rebirth or cycle
Same patterns everyday either way we came to slay welcome to slaves pay where we chasing away


Groundhog day see the sun moon display
It aint a different day just another way
To phase out the pain wickedness
Sick of this birth of pain nemisis this
Is the last of the puzzle pieces feces
Left on the streets off the souls who weap
Seekin' for sympathy but i can't ignore thee
He just as bored as me reaching easily
Hands out see them take out money no foods
Up to no good I can't believe they would
Waste money on poison bad choices
Never dreamed of rolls royces noises
Of the wind teases my mental pinnacle
Of success gives me much finesse stress
Never see me endeavor over my enemies
Easily down this is a show down clowns
Only got **** to say when they far away
So let my wings take me away now say
A prey from the pastor's giveaway lay
false images taken for percentages
Hustle schemes devil and god on the same team
Just a game we can't see another vintage
Pure lyricist keep it authentic risk it
Keep my mask lift after I craft and find exodus
Out the earth plants seed to the sky to rebirth
Papa Killu Sep 2019
Every note bleak here
Not a one is real
Each new mirror eviler
Dead end looking superior
Each and every day
With each new form learned
I get sleepier, more weary of the earth
A place where life is weepier
And death is just a church
No answers giving, no people neither
Negatives in all but me
Surrounded by the unclean
Cloaked in many toilettes
No end but waste,
To breathe is an offense
To God and to taste
And God Himself a waste
Of breath on the tongue
In the heart or the mind
An empty vessel
Just like his sheep
All've been fleeced
And everyone's a thieve
The only answer is in me
The rest of you are feces
It's obvious before our face
You've never did a **** thing
Real or lasting for the race
All you have is stink and smoke
And all the things you've killed
Pretending to love
Feigning to weep
You have no heart
Just gametes and cheeks
Like an animal farm
You deserve your pen
I'll never love you
Not again
That lesson I've learned
Of my own accord
No thanks to you
I've cut the cord
We don't thank vermin
For the pain they've given
The difference between devils
And angels is we're forgiven
What was the point
Of giving all this blood
To a world of pigs without love
But to self-reflect and -respect
And to learn a few rhymes
And how to butcher
And be immune to
Every unclean thing
Under the sun
My Father isnt solid
He was never really there
I am the son
I created him
I found me
I farted you out
And I'll flush you soon
With rains, with tornadoes
Fire and fear
What use are you now?
When all your lessons were what not to be
Oh inverted souls
My ******* is more reliable than you
No, let's change that, it's something I can count on
I won't mention you again
Give glory to what's good in me instead
Focus on what's right and real
Not the nots that are not to mention
Nothing to me now
The truest accomplishment
To give up on what is nothing
To focus on what's real
Something everlasting
Something that doesn't steal
I only need me
And eternity
She's my girl now
The only real girl
And im the only one she's inviting in
The only one who's real
If you wanted punctuation, you could have given me a computer.
If you wanted niceties, you could've given me love.
Thus is Truth embedded within Art.
Every "mistake" in grammar or spelling is also intended, for the sake of Perfection.

— The End —